The Second Year

I've heard from other parents who've lost children that the second year is sometimes harder than the first. I thought it was mostly because the shock wears off and you start to feel everything more intensely. I'm not sure that's it though.

I thought I'd be relieved at getting through the anniversary of my daughter's death. Like it was a milestone of accomplishment. Instead I feel worn out. I think back to all of the things I've gone through in the past year--losing my daughter, planning her memorial, moving, traveling, other things I don't care to share--and all while nursing and caring for an infant. It's exhausting. More than I did in the 5 years before.

How on earth do you recover from that? By recover, I mean get your strength back. I feel like I had the strength to get through the past year. Where do I find the strength for the next one?

To forget

I realized today that neither my parents nor my in-laws called, sent cards, or even mentioned the anniversary of my daughter's death. My brother-in-law did call, as did many of my friends. All I can think is that it's easier for them to not think about it. As I wrote previously, what I wanted was for my daughter to be remembered. It's painful to think that they don't want to remember her. I know for my mother-in-law, the memories lead more to the painful ones for now than the joyous ones.

And I think maybe that's what grief is for. If you can grieve, a little at a time, in whatever way works for you, eventually you can come around to those good memories and try to put those into their own suitcase. I believe that's what therapy and the company and understanding of my friends is doing for me. My mother-in-law put away all of the pictures of my daughter after her death. She doesn't like to even hear her name because it makes her sad.

It makes me sad to think about pretending she never existed. I'm not going to force our families to talk about her. They are of the generation (and perhaps cultures) that don't believe in talking about things. Just hide it and move on. But that's not me. So I'll let it go. Friends are the family you choose. My chosen family did call, did talk, and for now, they're the ones I'll remember her with.

The day after

A couple of people asked me what was the worst thing that could happen on the one-year anniversary of my daughter's death. Initially, I would say reliving the event. Then I realized that I actually fear something else bad happening on the same day. I have another child, and my worst fear now is losing her.

The night before, I had trouble sleeping. I wasn't upset, and didn't have trouble falling asleep. I woke up at the slightest sound, however, and couldn't fall back asleep. Oddly enough, I wasn't exhausted in the morning.

On the first anniversary of my daughter's death, I got tons of phone calls and emails. During the day, my daughter was here, along with the nanny and her boyfriend. When they left in the afternoon, I did feel a bit strange, but phone calls kept me company. When my daughter woke up, we left the house. In the evening, friends brought dinner over and kept us company until bedtime.

I thought I would want to pretend it was just any other day and hope it passed quickly. My worst fear was that I would remember all of the things that happened a year ago and in the weeks that followed.

On that day, I realized my worst fear was that no one would remember all that had happened. I want my daughter to be remembered, and I guess I want others to remember all we went through (together). For me, that means she will never be forgotten.

Thank you to everyone who called, emailed, and thought about us yesterday. We made it, and I couldn't have done it without you.

Anticipation and anniversaries

On the anniversary of a happy occasion, you remember the occasion, try to recreate the feelings, and are excited to be celebrating again. On the anniversary of an unhappy occasion, well, I suppose you mostly try to pretend it's not that day.

Objectively, I know nothing will happen on the one-year anniversary of my daughter's death, May 21, 2010. But subjectively, I'm anxious, and I find myself remembering the events of that day and the week or so afterward, when I was just trying to get through each day without losing my mind. And as I've said before, this time I'm doing it without the cushion of shock.

I had a session with my counselor today. She asked me to revisit some of those memories, to just let things come up. It was horrible--I was right back there, reliving everything. When I think about my daughter, remember things she said and did, places I took her to, I'm watching it all like a movie. The good thing is, my counselor had me envision the events as though I were watching them on a stage, and I was able to remove myself.

That doesn't take away the memories or change what happened, but as she's told me before, it helps make them more like a black and white movie instead of color. I still have the feelings, but they're not quite as intense.

I have to get through the next two days, and then it will be May 22. I will be safe.

Tired

One of the grief books I read said that a parent who loses a child requires so much energy to just get out of bed in the morning and remember that the child is gone, that everything else is exhausting. I've found this is true for me. But maybe I'm not as exhausted as some, or maybe in a different way.

Getting out of bed was a struggle for a long time. If I stayed in bed, I could almost convince myself that she was still in her room asleep. After moving out of that house though, it was impossible to think that. I do still wake up every morning and remember that she's gone, though it's not always the first thing I think of.

And I am tired. Not so tired that I can't work. I had to go back to work last July. The first few months were really tough. I couldn't concentrate, and I hated still being in that house all day (I work full-time from home). But then we moved, and I got more into what I was doing, and working got a little easier.

There are still days when it gets tough. Like today--I'm having trouble concentrating, keep thinking about my birthday tomorrow and the anniversary of her death a week from today. Sadness and anger really wear me out. So I think I'll try some yoga, and sleep in, and maybe curl up somewhere and read a book.

That, I think is part of recovery. Giving your body, mind, and heart time to rest.

Breakeven

I've been hearing this song on the radio a lot. It is, like many others, about a romantic breakup. But parts of it really speak to me, so I'm pasting them here. The song is Breakeven, by Script.

They say bad things happen for a reason
But no wise words gonna stop the bleeding
Cos she's moved on while I'm still grieving
And when a heart breaks no it don't breakeven even... no

What am I gonna to do when the best part of me was always you,
And what am I supposed to say when I'm all choked up that you're ok
I'm falling to pieces, yeah,
I'm falling to pieces, yeah,
I'm falling to pieces
(One still in love while the other ones leaving)
I'm falling to pieces
(Cos when a heart breaks no it don't breakeven)

Guilt

Several months ago, a man who'd lost his teenage son told me that one day, I would feel guilty for not thinking about my daughter. He's right. On the rare occasion when I find myself doing something mundane and not feeling the intense pain, I suddenly feel bad. I also feel bad sometimes having fun with my baby. After all, how can we have fun when we're missing someone so important, and lived through something so horrible?

The other reason I feel guilty is because I fear she'll be forgotten. I've already forgotten her. Not the little things she did or said, not the way she looked or sounded, but the true essence of her. After she died, we tried to keep the smell on her clothes, in her sheets, but it eventually went away. It's the same with her essence--who she really was, what it felt like to hold her--I remember these things, but can no longer conjure up the feelings at will.

How do you get rid of the guilt? Well, the man told me one other thing, probably because he realized that I would one day need to know. If my child could talk to me, she would tell me not to feel this way. She wouldn't want me to feel bad at all (she actually cried when she thought I was sad) and she wouldn't want me to keep from having fun with her little sister.

I'm human, and I can't help feeling sad or guilty. I do try to picture my daughter talking to me, and I'm pretty sure she would try to make me smile. And I do, as much as I can.

It takes a village

It takes a village to raise a child, according to an old African proverb. It's true--raising a child is much easier when you have help. I learned this when family and friends came to my aid the day my firstborn died. I still had a baby to care for. I had mostly taken care of her on my own, with the help of my husband and a nanny, since all our family lives out of state.

That day, I could barely take care of myself. Both my girls were breastfed, and the younger was even more resistant to a bottle (even of expressed breastmilk) than her older sister. So I kept nursing her. When she'd get hungry, whoever had her would bring her to me. I'd nurse her, then hand her off. She'd sleep happily in the arms of a female friend or family member, or nestled against the chest of a man.

I felt bad for not being there for her for many days, but grateful for all the help. With that, I realized that it's taken a village to raise me, too. Well, not raise me, exactly, but to get me through the day.

Keeping busy has helped me keep going. And I kept busy by talking to other people--on the phone, in person--we were driving and flying all over the place for the remaining weeks of my maternity leave. Once it was over and I went back to work, I still needed others to get me through the day. I couldn't travel, but was still on the phone, got emails, and visited people often.

Now, nearly a year later, I still think it takes a village. To raise a child, and to get through life. It's harder to say we need that unless we're faced with crisis. But once you are, if you can ask for and accept help, I think your chances are that much better of getting through the tough days.

A friend told me early on that I should just let others know that I needed to be told what to do. Initially, that was completely true. I had to be told to get dressed, to eat, to drive somewhere. And now, as I approach my daughter's death anniversary, I'm feeling that need again. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. It's odd for someone who's so self-directed, independent, and capable to ask others to tell her what to do, but I'm fine with it and even looking forward to it in some ways.

My baggage

I've been thinking more about what I wrote in my previous post about my baggage, the suitcase I can choose to open or not. I know there are times when I can't think about my daughter at all, almost any memory causes pain. But I don't want to associate her life with her death forever. Thinking about her death IS bad, it was a horrible event, with a tragic, unchangeable result. Her life, on the other hand, was beautiful and special and I shouldn't necessarily associate it with her death or want to avoid it.

So now I'm thinking I've got not one but two suitcases. Maybe even several. But two that relate to my daughter. One carries her life, the other the events surrounding her death. And I can choose to open one, both, or neither.

I've done this literally--in my closet, I have two boxes containing her stuff. One is full of clothes, books, toys and other things that are so HER that I know I'll never let my other daughter use them. The other contains items related to her death--the shorts she was wearing, the cards from her memorial, the clothes I wore to her memorial. I never open that box, and I don't think I ever will. But someday, when my other daughter asks about it, at least it's there for her to see if she wants.

I guess that's the purpose of everyone's baggage--it has to go with you so you don't forget. It's part of your experience, who you are, how you respond to life. But you don't have to open it up and use the things within it all the time. I suppose this goes back to what I've said about choices. This is one of my choices, and choosing to keep one or both of my suitcases closed sometimes helps me get through a day.

Faith

As I approach the one-year anniversary of my daughter's death, I find myself again considering questions of faith and a higher power. I'm not religious, though I do consider myself spiritual. There were times in my life when I thought for sure there was a higher power watching over me. At the same time, I believe the idea of "Thy will be done," as opposed to "My will be done," the idea that things are happening as they should, not necessarily how us humans want them to be.

I guess I'm at a point where I need someone to lean on, and I don't believe there is a god there for me. I'm scared--it's tough to keep busy these days, my mind goes back to the day I lost my girl. And I'm not sure I can bear the memories of that day and some of the days that followed.

I try to keep busy. That's always been my approach. Someone told me recently that the loss of my daughter is my baggage and that like a literal suitcase, I can choose when I open it. I think that's what I've always done, and honestly I'm relieved that I've been given the permission to do so. I sometimes feel bad for choosing not to remember that day. It seems as though I'm choosing not to remember her.

So faith, I guess you have to have faith in something, or someone. It's so hard to do when everything you thought was real has been yanked out from under you. I guess for the next month or so I'll be trying to figure out what to have faith in.