Right after I lost my daughter, I remember saying over and over that I didn't want to be "that woman, the one who lost her daughter." I know I literally meant I didn't want to be a woman who lost her daughter, I wanted to be the woman who had all the children she'd given birth to, alive, healthy, and one day, grown-up. A friend of mine looked at it another way, a way that I didn't consciously consider at the time but probably did already have in mind. I didn't want to forever be looked as that poor woman whose daughter died. I've lived my life to be so much more and felt so reduced to that.
But then, how could I not? How could this one event not weigh upon every thought, action, feeling, moment of my life forever onward? My friend said that this would define me, but that I could choose in what way it defined me, and to what extent.
I don't know that I have chosen it, other than that I made the choice in those first hellish days to get out of bed and get through each moment as best I could. Forget one day at a time, I lived 10 minutes, or even a moment at a time. There were moments when I couldn't escape the memories of her death, and all the events that followed.
As time has passed, the times when I am haunted by those memories have become fewer and further between. Other parents who'd lost children told me I would one day feel guilty about that. And of course they were right. I feel disloyal--as though not feeling horrible is somehow a betrayal of my daughter. It's no longer something I try all day to escape from. It has changed--it's this strange nagging feeling, like a pebble in my shoe that I can put out of my mind when I'm otherwise occupied. But then I get up and am walking around on that pebble, and am thrown back into all the realities of her death. I see her again, see the EMTs trying to save her, see the funeral home...
I am thankful that those memories have faded somewhat while at the same time that I have lost some connection to my daughter. Her birthday is coming up. Last year, my husband and I invited lots of people to a park where we used to take her. We did a balloon release there, and then most of the people came back to the house. It was almost like a real birthday party.
This year, we're thinking we might just have a couple of families, the ones who knew her best, over and have a belated Thanksgiving feast/birthday celebration. I was reading another blog (http://thebigpicturelawyman.blogspot.com/2010_11_01_archive.html) in which a mother talked about not wanting to mark her daughter's birthday or death anniversary the same way as time passed. I'm beginning to feel the same way, and it's definitely affecting my identity.
Thus far, all I know is that my identity continues to shift. Someone who never saw me when my daughter was alive probably wouldn't think I was all that different from when we last spoke. So in some ways, I have come back to myself. The people who were with me and continue to be here for me know that I'll never be the same.
As always, I do believe that I have a choice in the matter. My identity is a combination of what's happened to me and what I decide to do with that. I wish sometimes I didn't have to make those choices, or work so hard. I have to believe it's all worth it, especially when I look at my daughter, who rode to her sister's memorial service in the back of a limo with me but seems completely normal.
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Saturday, November 27, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Baby Born and the Waves That Keep Crashing Over Me
Baby born in winter's sleep
Snowflakes fall, snuggle deep
Baby love, a year old today
Up with the sun, ready to play.
These are the first and last pages of a book I read to my daughter. I bought it when I had my first daughter. It tracks a baby born in winter through her first year. I hadn't read it for a while, because it always made me cry. I tried tonight, and found that the last page still makes me cry.
It's a fact, my daughter is gone. Daily life doesn't bring despair. I am, as I thought I would be, used to her death. It's horrible and yet a relief. I almost have to convince myself that she really was alive, that I really did live through that horrible day when she died. But I am relieved that I can't feel every moment of that day, and can't feel the way I did then.
The past week has been tough. Two days after I found out about my mother's breast cancer returning, my dad went to the hospital. He fell a couple of months ago and didn't tell anyone he'd hit his head. His speech was slurred, he was sleeping a lot, having memory problems, and even started dragging his foot. My mother finally convinced him to go to the hospital. Turned out he had a massive blood clot. They operated twice and he finally returned home two days ago.
I spent several days in limbo, trying to find out whether I needed to fly out right away or not. My brother, single and living much closer to our family, flew out the next morning. For me it was of course a matter of trying to figure out what to do with my daughter, whether my husband could be out of school for a couple of days, and whether we could even get a ticket for the day we needed it.
So Sunday night, we'll be flying out to see my parents. I am so relieved my dad isn't in the hospital. I hate hospitals. When I was 17, my mother was in a very bad car accident, and I suppose the trauma of seeing her there stuck with me. About 6 years ago, a friend of mine was in a bad accident, and while our husbands convinced me to go see her, they were both stunned when I burst into tears waiting to be let into the ICU.
I said goodbye to my daughter in the hospital. My friend (the one in the accident) tells me that doesn't even count as a hospital visit, really. But the mere thought of walking into a hospital makes me very anxious. So I am grateful I likely won't have to do that.
And yet I am still wondering, how often are the waves going to come crashing over my head? How many more times? I learned years ago to never say things can't get any worse, because they always can. They have been even worse (at times) in the past 18 months than I've written here.
I am still here though, still plugging along, and I guess that's all that matters. And if the only thing that has brought me to tears recently is Baby Born, then I guess I should consider myself fortunate.
Snowflakes fall, snuggle deep
Baby love, a year old today
Up with the sun, ready to play.
These are the first and last pages of a book I read to my daughter. I bought it when I had my first daughter. It tracks a baby born in winter through her first year. I hadn't read it for a while, because it always made me cry. I tried tonight, and found that the last page still makes me cry.
It's a fact, my daughter is gone. Daily life doesn't bring despair. I am, as I thought I would be, used to her death. It's horrible and yet a relief. I almost have to convince myself that she really was alive, that I really did live through that horrible day when she died. But I am relieved that I can't feel every moment of that day, and can't feel the way I did then.
The past week has been tough. Two days after I found out about my mother's breast cancer returning, my dad went to the hospital. He fell a couple of months ago and didn't tell anyone he'd hit his head. His speech was slurred, he was sleeping a lot, having memory problems, and even started dragging his foot. My mother finally convinced him to go to the hospital. Turned out he had a massive blood clot. They operated twice and he finally returned home two days ago.
I spent several days in limbo, trying to find out whether I needed to fly out right away or not. My brother, single and living much closer to our family, flew out the next morning. For me it was of course a matter of trying to figure out what to do with my daughter, whether my husband could be out of school for a couple of days, and whether we could even get a ticket for the day we needed it.
So Sunday night, we'll be flying out to see my parents. I am so relieved my dad isn't in the hospital. I hate hospitals. When I was 17, my mother was in a very bad car accident, and I suppose the trauma of seeing her there stuck with me. About 6 years ago, a friend of mine was in a bad accident, and while our husbands convinced me to go see her, they were both stunned when I burst into tears waiting to be let into the ICU.
I said goodbye to my daughter in the hospital. My friend (the one in the accident) tells me that doesn't even count as a hospital visit, really. But the mere thought of walking into a hospital makes me very anxious. So I am grateful I likely won't have to do that.
And yet I am still wondering, how often are the waves going to come crashing over my head? How many more times? I learned years ago to never say things can't get any worse, because they always can. They have been even worse (at times) in the past 18 months than I've written here.
I am still here though, still plugging along, and I guess that's all that matters. And if the only thing that has brought me to tears recently is Baby Born, then I guess I should consider myself fortunate.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Learned Helplessness
Yesterday morning I ran a 5K, my second, both in support of the Susan G. Komen foundation that funds breast cancer research. Last night, I learned that my mother's breast cancer is back. Tonight I talked to her and she's supposed to have a mastectomy. She wants to have both breasts removed, but my father is against that.
She had breast cancer 10 years ago and thought it was all over. She wants a bilateral to avoid all those fears, all those possibilities that it could come back. My father doesn't want her to do this. Both times, the lumps were small, and the first time, she had radiation, a lumpectomy, and more radiation. Her youngest sister also had it, but her case was much worse. It required chemotherapy, mastectomy, and more chemotherapy.
My first thoughts were of that race. I ran in their honor, and to help raise money so my daughter and I never have to face these types of decisions. When I run, I feel positive, energized, like I'm doing something strong and positive.
Hearing her news, I felt weakened. I remember reading about psychology experiments on subjects who couldn't control their lives and environments. A quick Google search shows that Seligman is apparently the big name in learned helpnessness.
I used to say, things have to get better because they couldn't get any worse. But I learned over and over again that that wasn't the case. Not only can things get worse, they usually get worse in ways you would never imagine.
Now all I can wonder is, how many times will circumstance, biology, accident, chance attack me? How many times can I get steamrolled before I finally decide to just stay on the ground?
Caffeine and running. For now, those are my antidepressants. Those and other people. I foresee needing lots of all three in the near future.
She had breast cancer 10 years ago and thought it was all over. She wants a bilateral to avoid all those fears, all those possibilities that it could come back. My father doesn't want her to do this. Both times, the lumps were small, and the first time, she had radiation, a lumpectomy, and more radiation. Her youngest sister also had it, but her case was much worse. It required chemotherapy, mastectomy, and more chemotherapy.
My first thoughts were of that race. I ran in their honor, and to help raise money so my daughter and I never have to face these types of decisions. When I run, I feel positive, energized, like I'm doing something strong and positive.
Hearing her news, I felt weakened. I remember reading about psychology experiments on subjects who couldn't control their lives and environments. A quick Google search shows that Seligman is apparently the big name in learned helpnessness.
I used to say, things have to get better because they couldn't get any worse. But I learned over and over again that that wasn't the case. Not only can things get worse, they usually get worse in ways you would never imagine.
Now all I can wonder is, how many times will circumstance, biology, accident, chance attack me? How many times can I get steamrolled before I finally decide to just stay on the ground?
Caffeine and running. For now, those are my antidepressants. Those and other people. I foresee needing lots of all three in the near future.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
In My Daughter's Eyes
When I was pregnant for the first time, I was considering staying home with my child after s/he was born. After 3 weeks of not working, I realized that wasn't something I was cut out for. I remember sitting on the sofa, holding my tiny baby and crying. I apologized to her for not being able to stay home with her, and wondering aloud what I would do. I didn't want to put her in daycare. I returned to work when she was 3 months old, and as I told my husband, I just couldn't imagine handing her over to some person, saying "Here's my tiny, defenseless person," and then having her be in one crib out of four or more 8 hours a day, 5 days a week.
In the end, we hired a nanny. I got to work from home and spent nearly every day of my daughter's (and her sister's) life with her. I am so grateful for that.
During those days when my girl and I were home alone, me recovering from an unexpected c-section with no family nearby and my husband working long hours, I would sometimes hold her and dance. A CD I often played was one by Martina McBride.
When my daughter passed away, I put one of the songs from that CD (She's a Butterfly) on the DVD played at her memorial. It contained pictures of her from throughout her life, and that song is the first one that plays. At the memorial, I was happy to see those pictures, and the songs I'd chosen fit so well. In the weeks that followed, we showed friends and family who weren't at the memorial that video and others.
After a while, I couldn't stand to see the memorial DVD, or any other videos of her. I also couldn't listen to that CD. I haven't listened to it since she passed away even though I liked most of the songs on it. It just reminds me so much of her, and of us dancing together, first with her in my arms, and then both of us standing in the old house together.
Last week, I heard a song from that CD, In My Daughter's Eyes, on the radio. I immediately wanted to change the station, but held strong and listened. And the first thing I thought of was my toddler. Somehow, I suddenly realized that the line "She was sent to rescue me" was about her, not my older daughter.
Well, it could be about either. They have both rescued me, from myself, and from other things. But in this case, my younger daughter has rescued me from the numbness, the shock, anything about her older sister's death that might have kept me from living. For her, I get up and don't just survive, I live. I run, I fight, I'm here writing. The whole song, suddenly made me think of her.
And it made me cry. I cried because I missed my big girl. I cried because I sometimes fear the weight of the world is on my baby girl's shoulders. And I cried because I felt as though suddenly life was what came to me first, before the death that has seemed to surround and drag me down for the past 18 months.
In the end, we hired a nanny. I got to work from home and spent nearly every day of my daughter's (and her sister's) life with her. I am so grateful for that.
During those days when my girl and I were home alone, me recovering from an unexpected c-section with no family nearby and my husband working long hours, I would sometimes hold her and dance. A CD I often played was one by Martina McBride.
When my daughter passed away, I put one of the songs from that CD (She's a Butterfly) on the DVD played at her memorial. It contained pictures of her from throughout her life, and that song is the first one that plays. At the memorial, I was happy to see those pictures, and the songs I'd chosen fit so well. In the weeks that followed, we showed friends and family who weren't at the memorial that video and others.
After a while, I couldn't stand to see the memorial DVD, or any other videos of her. I also couldn't listen to that CD. I haven't listened to it since she passed away even though I liked most of the songs on it. It just reminds me so much of her, and of us dancing together, first with her in my arms, and then both of us standing in the old house together.
Last week, I heard a song from that CD, In My Daughter's Eyes, on the radio. I immediately wanted to change the station, but held strong and listened. And the first thing I thought of was my toddler. Somehow, I suddenly realized that the line "She was sent to rescue me" was about her, not my older daughter.
Well, it could be about either. They have both rescued me, from myself, and from other things. But in this case, my younger daughter has rescued me from the numbness, the shock, anything about her older sister's death that might have kept me from living. For her, I get up and don't just survive, I live. I run, I fight, I'm here writing. The whole song, suddenly made me think of her.
And it made me cry. I cried because I missed my big girl. I cried because I sometimes fear the weight of the world is on my baby girl's shoulders. And I cried because I felt as though suddenly life was what came to me first, before the death that has seemed to surround and drag me down for the past 18 months.
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