Happy 5th Birthday

Yesterday was my big girl's 5th birthday. I spent most of the day trying not to think much about it. When I did, it made me angry. I couldn't stop thinking about what we should have been doing--celebrating with her sister and brother, maybe going out to dinner, planning a party with her friends--and instead, here we were, having a regular old dinner, doing nothing special.

I feel like I haven't really been angry yet. At first, I was consumed with taking care of things--my baby, memorial arrangements--and then later, moving, working, and so on. I've spent 2 years busy and sad. Now, when I start to think of her, I'm always angry. Angry that she was taken from me, angry about all the things she missed, angry when I see other children her age and wonder what she'd be like, angry her sister didn't get to know her, angry she never met her brother. It goes on and on.

As always, no one from my family contacted us. My brother-in-law called my husband, and I got text messages and a couple of voicemails from my friends. For anyone reading this, know that if you know someone who's lost a child (or anyone, really) any mention of them is welcome. It shows that you care, that you remember that person and think of them even years after they're gone. The lack of any contact from my family was yet another thing that made me angry.

By the end of the day, my neck/shoulder had stiffened up. My husband tried to massage the knots out, and asked how I sit at my desk because I'm always tight in the same place. I told him the day our daughter died, that same area tightened up and now every time I'm stressed, it affects the same area. It's like this physical manifestation of the event, and I hate it.

So I made it through the day. And this morning, I realized it was over. I vowed never to be sad about my daughter's death on her birthday. When I was a teacher, I would tell my very young students that a birthday wasn't just about treats and presents, it was the day for you to tell your friend that you were happy they were born and in your life. I don't feel like I did that yesterday. I thought about sending balloons to her, doing something special, and didn't.

I created a virtual memorial online for my daughter in the months after her death. I haven't really told everyone about it, but a Google search of her name turns it up, so many people have found it. It's also visited by strangers, and others who've lost loved ones and created memories on the same site. Yesterday there were several new messages in the guest book. One was from a father whose 13 year old son was killed in a car accident. He quoted a priest, I assume one who performed his son's service, and said (names removed to protect privacy):

"...the biggest mistake we make when reflecting on a young life cut short in its "Spring-bud", is to speak of that young life as if everything of importance still "lay ahead," in a future that will never now be realized! But, to do that is to make a tragic error! Because [E] LIVED A LIFE! And, even though it was only thirteen short years; [E] achieved a great deal and crammed a lot of living in those years."

That really affected me because I've been so focused on what my daughter didn't get to do. Like this 13-year old, she did a lot in her two-and-a-half short years. And yesterday, I didn't celebrate that.

What did she do? Here's the horrible thing--I'm having a hard time remembering. Last year, I posted a list about her. This year, I'm mostly thinking about those same things. I suppose with only 2 years on this earth, there's only so much to say.

And now I'm so sad. I'm so sorry my girl, that I didn't celebrate you, having you in my life. I promise to do better next year.

Tired Tears

The memorial for my friend's son was two days ago. I had such a feeling of dread leading up to it. Partially because it's such a horrible thing to have to go to, and partially because she asked me to read during it. I agreed, initially thinking she wanted me to read a poem or something. Instead, she told me she wanted to read what she'd written about him. A few of my friends were very concerned, didn't think I should put myself through that. And they had a point--so many things about my friend losing her son have put me back 2.5 years to losing my daughter.

But as I always say, reading her message wouldn't be the hardest thing I'd ever done. So I did, started crying about halfway through and tried to maintain enough composure to remain coherent. Then I went back to my seat and completely broke down crying, literally on a friend's shoulder (my husband went up after me to read the dad's message). I doubt many people realized but I was reading those words to my girl. How could I do anything else?

Afterward, many people came up and told me what a great job I did. I think most of them were unaware how truly difficult it was. I had no idea what to say, other than thank you, and I only read what was given to me, I hope I did it justice. I thought this was the strangest thing. I was being complimented on...I don't even know what. Some people did say it was good of me to do this for my friend. Honestly, I found that odd also.

The strangest thing, however, is how I feel now. I've been getting to bed late because my 5-month old is teething and we're having trouble getting him to stay asleep. So I was in bed a bit late Sunday, had a big cup of coffee yesterday, and by 11 AM could barely keep my eyes open. I thought it was from being up with the baby so much, until my husband came home and asked if I was exhausted. Then I realized it was from the experience of the memorial, the same buildup and release as all the dates associated with my daughter, her birthday, her death, and so on.

This morning, I was so tired I just couldn't get up to do my planned workout. Most mornings, I'm up with the baby around 5 AM and then debate with myself at 6:30 whether a half hour workout or half hour of sleep would be better for me. The workouts usually win out, but today the sleep did. And I'm STILL tired. I suppose I need to come up with something else. There's something about our brains and bodies (some of us, anyway) that makes us sleepy when faced with hard situations. And even once we get through them, we're still sleepy. I don't know if this is depression, some sort of protective reflex, or just exhaustion from the emotional daily grind.

Whatever the cause, I absolutely hate feeling this way and am hoping I find some way to at least reduce it. I need to check in with my friend as I'm wondering whether she's feeling the same exhaustion.

I Want To Feel

Watching my friend grieve the loss of her son is bringing me back to the early days after losing my daughter. One thing I remember clearly now is wishing someone would come drug me, shoot me up with something that would take away all the pain and anger. I wondered for months and months why no one did that. Why wasn't it like the movies, when the mother crumples to the floor, overcome with grief (that did actually happen) and someone rushes over and injects her with something that makes her go slack, stop screaming? I fell down, but I didn't scream, I didn't cry, and at the time, no one came to my rescue.

I mentioned this to a friend months ago, and she said someone did actually give me a sedative. But I refused to take it--I was breastfeeding and the pharmacist had specifically said this drug couldn't be taken while nursing a baby. Of course, I could have given my daughter formula, but somehow, that seemed harder to me. My daughter is stubborn as I am, and almost never took bottles, even of expressed breastmilk.

But it's more than that. Even as she got older, and I struggled with daily life through the grief, my therapist and friends suggested I try antidepressants or antianxiety medication. And again, I refused. As a friend reminded me this week, I said I wanted to feel. At first, it was an obsessive need--I imagined my daughter's death, the parts I witnessed and the parts I didn't--over and over again. Maybe I was trying to undo it, or make it real to me. I can't even describe how horrible it felt, count how many times I broken down screaming and crying, thinking I would go crazy at this unbelievable thing that I had lived through.

I said the same thing at the time that I say now--I want to feel. I didn't want medication because I wanted to know that what I felt was real. I didn't want to wonder whether I was feeling something because of what I'd been through or because of the medication I was taking. I was afraid that if I took anything to change the way I felt or reacted, that someday, when I stopped taking it, I would return to that level of emotion because I'd never experienced it. Or worse yet, that I'd never be able to stop taking it. I'm always wary of something that's not part of me--even the weight I gain while pregnant and the changes my body goes through seem so foreign. It's even worse to me to have my mind be affected by something like that.

I believe our bodies, minds, and hearts are designed to feel, that this feeling is what makes us human and eventually helps us heal. This doesn't mean I don't think anyone should take medication. We are all different--our bodies, minds, experiences--and all need different things to make it through each day. But I do think that if you don't let yourself feel it all--sadness, anger, and despair--you really can't ever move forward. As I described previously, that puts you on a particular path. Is it the path you want to be on? Only you can really answer that.

The Four Paths

I spoke to my friend today. Someone from the funeral home brought her son's ashes to her. I'm trying to do as my blog says--be the living art created to help others. I told her that she has to choose her path. At the time, I told her she has three choices, but after thinking a bit, I believe there are actually four paths that a grieving parent (person?) can choose.

The first is to live in grief. You can lock yourself up in your child's room with her belongings, trying to relive every memory. This can unfortunately mean that you will also live in the past, and with the dead rather than the living.

The second path is down the middle of the road. You live neither in grief nor do you move forward, but rather tread the line, unable to let go of the past and unable to open your eyes to the future. I would tend to think that many grieving parents choose this path. In most cases, you have no choice but to participate in some parts of life. You go to work, see your friends, raise your children, but live in the shadow of grief. It hangs over you, making everything dark and cold.

The third path is, I believe, the one I've chosen, the one I chose within days of losing my daughter. Someone around me said that everything would always be sad because I would always be missing my daughter, through every milestone and happy occasion. This upset me--I didn't want my daughter (and now my son) to ever feel the shadow that was weighing on me at the time. I decided then and there to do my best to never let the shadow cover her. Over the past two years, I think I've finally found my way out from under the shadow as well.

The fourth path is, surprisingly, the scariest to me. On this road, you run away from the shadow. You give away your child's clothing, toys, and anything else that might remind you of her. You stop talking about her, don't let yourself cry, and try to live as though nothing ever happened. I don't personally know anyone who's chosen this path, but I have heard that a lot of grandparents do some of these things. Maybe they think it's easier on their children if they pretend the grandchild never died? Maybe they're trying to be strong by not thinking about it? I don't know, but I would tend to believe that these people have serious problems later on, having never allowed themselves to grieve, and carrying all the bottled up feelings and memories around with them forever.

As I've said before, I do believe the path you walk is a choice. But what makes a person choose one path over another can vary. Who do you have around you? What's happened to you before now? When tragedy knocks you down, do you look up or do you sit there in shock? I personally feel that if I hadn't had people around me constantly telling me to get up, that I was strong and could get through this, I might have chosen the 2nd path.

The other thing I think has been helpful is realizing that life is messy, it's a series of opposites that live beside each other. Dark and light, happy and sad, good and evil are all with us. Some of us don't experience them in extremes, but we have to accept that life isn't just all one or the other.

If you are a grieving parent, know you're not alone. There are others walking on the path (whichever you choose) ahead of you and you can do it too. Sometimes it's just one step a day, sometimes it's two steps back, but if you stay on the path you will eventually move forward.

Not again

A longtime friend of my dad's sent me a card after my daughter passed away. With it, he enclosed a story about a woman whose son dies. Enveloped in grief, she asks Buddha to bring him back. He tells her that if she can bring him a grain of rice from a household who has not lost a loved one, he will help her. She goes from house to house, but cannot find anyone who hasn't lost a loved one.

The story, like this blog, is, I assume, meant to reassure those of us who've lost loved ones that we're not alone. It's been running through my head for the past few days. On Wednesday evening, October 12, one of my best friends called to tell me her family had been in an accident and she'd lost her son. This woman was the 2nd one at my house (would've been first if she lived closer) and has been there for me every minute of every day since then.

Today, she is at the hospital where her daughter is recovering. I know when she comes home, she'll be hit with her son's death full force. I'm trying to be there for her as much as I can. After 5 days, I'm completely exhausted. I wonder if I'm more exhausted than the others who are here to help. Seeing her, talking to her does bring back lots of memories I wanted to leave behind. At times, I put myself back in time so I can remember how I felt and know what to say to her. I think that must be taking its toll, probably differently for me than for the others who are with us.

The one good thing I can say is that it's been enough time that I can be there. Until recently, I don't know that I could have gone to the hospital, sat with her daughter while she left the room for a while, held her hand while she cried, or even seen her tired, sad eyes. Somehow, I'm able to remember just enough and then stop.

I remember the pastor who performed my daughter's service saying it's not God's will that a child die, that God's will is in those who come to help. To my dear friend, I can only hope I'm carrying out God's will in some way that helps you.

Another Milestone

Tomorrow my girl will be one day older than her sister. Every day she lives after that is an age that her sister never got to be.

I've had this date on my mind for quite a while, but I didn't realize the nasty feeling it would create in the pit of my stomach. Anticipation again, wreaking havoc on my body.

I think about my daughter and realize once again that she saved me. I was lucky in some ways that I had a baby who needed me. I didn't wake up the day after my daughter died wondering whether I was still a mother, as I've heard some women do when they lose their only child. I didn't have an older child to explain things to, or console.

My baby girl literally gave me a reason to get out of bed day after day in those early weeks and months after her sister died. I've breastfed all three of my children, and while the oldest and youngest both took/take bottles, the middle one never did. She would rather not eat than take a bottle. And while I'm sure she wouldn't have starved herself if I'd been unable to nurse her, knowing how stubborn she was made me decide to try to keep nursing her. It gave me a reason to eat.

Also unlike my other two, my middle child slept 8 hours in a row consistently from about 8 weeks old until this very day. Today I sit here, sleepy, mildly confused, having woken up at midnight and 4 AM with my baby boy. And I realize that I probably would have broken down if I'd gotten this little sleep after losing my daughter. Somehow, her little sister was different in a way I needed her to be.

My daughter has also been unlucky, with a weight on her shoulders she probably doesn't even know exists. She had to get me through that time so I'd be here for her for years to come. I sometimes hovered over her, sometimes handed her off to friends for hours on end, compared her to her sister, and probably denied her some time and attention she would have gotten, had I been more mentally and emotionally stable in her first few months or life. My husband says she is very attached to me, sensitive to my moods. I tend to agree with him though I hate to think of that burden on my 2-year old.

Tomorrow will be a relief--she made it past that age. Not that I'm done worrying--just knowing what losing a child feels like has made me more sensitive to possible dangers, probably more so than most parents. But I'm not worried in the same way for my son. It's as if I feel he's safe because he wasn't around when his sister died. It's sad too, because she never saw him, and I honestly don't know if she knows he exists.

Think of me tomorrow, and my now-big girl, older than her sister forever onwards.

One Day at a Time

My baby boy is 12 weeks old today. That means my maternity leave has come to an end and tomorrow I return to work. I can't believe how quickly the time has passed. It's such a contrast to the two years before, when I couldn't believe I'd gone one day, one week, a month, and then 2 years without my daughter. I kept looking back at yesterday, the big yesterday I wished I could live over again. I feared tomorrow, the months and years without her. The phrase "one day at a time" has taken on new meaning for me in the past few weeks.

Soon after my daughter died, I found myself reliving that day over and over again, the parts I'd actually experienced, and the parts (events leading up to her death) that I never saw and have no confirmation of. I felt as though I could either make it more real or unreal if I played the film in my head enough times. Then the day came where I tried to stop the movie from playing. The deep shock passed, and when I remembered anything, I had horrible flashbacks that left me sobbing, screaming, scared, and then exhausted. The only way I could make them stop was to focus on the immediate present--I would recite facts such as the date, my name, address, and run my fingers along the fabric of my pants or chair to have a physical sensation to focus on.

This lurching back and forth from dwelling in the past and worrying about the future had the odd effect of making the present go by without my ever really experiencing it. There are events, feelings, so many things that I can't remember. I'm sure the shock made it so I couldn't fully feel, but even things that I thought I was present for are tough to recall.

A few weeks ago, I found myself back in that week, remembering something about my daughter's memorial service. Rather than letting myself think about it, I forcefully dragged myself back to the present. I didn't want to remember, to be taken back to that period. I realize in some way I have compartmentalized my memories of my daughter. The good memories are allowed to come up and relived as fully as possible, while the bad ones (mostly her actual death and the week after) I make a conscious effort to avoid.

I don't think this is unhealthy--I don't try to pretend she's still alive, I don't live in the past, and if I feel sad, then I go ahead and cry. But I'm not dwelling in that past anymore. I also find that I'm not looking at the future as often either. I'm not worrying about what will happen on the day my children realize what happened to their big sister. I don't try to figure out how I'll get through the rest of this life without her.

A friend told me recently that I sound better now than I have in the past two years. My only explanation for this is my son. I told her my baby girl saved me--she forced me to fight--and my baby boy has brought me peace. Maybe I've stopped running--running away from the past and the future--and am finally sitting right here on today.

I've posted this before, but it bears repeating. Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow is a nice little verse that I think most people can relate to. Thinking only about today may be the sanest way to live (why worry about things we can't change or even imagine?) but it certainly doesn't come easy. My dreaded tomorrow right now involves going back to work. I just don't want to. I'm not saying I don't want to work, I just don't feel like going back to the same job I've had for nearly 8 years. But that's literally only tomorrow I'm thinking of, not next week, month, or year. I've come a long way in controlling my future-tripping tendencies. It is definitely something that requires effort.

The milestones I was afraid of, most of them have now passed and I haven't worried about any of them in a while. The two that remain are the day my daughter moves out of her crib and into her bed (actually, her big sister's former bed) and September 28, the day my baby girl will finally be older than her big sister ever was. Just reading that sentence makes my stomach turn over.

So tomorrow, I will be back at work, doing my best to stay in the present, and live just one day at a time.

An Open Heart

A couple of weeks ago, during one of my many late-night risings with my now 8-week old baby boy, I sat holding him and thinking about how much I loved him. And then of course I thought of my daughters, and thinking of my oldest brought the usual tears to my eyes. The tears this time were due to the idea that I was loving her sister and brother with a broken heart. How awful! Is that all they get? I swore after her death to never give them only part of myself, to never let losing her steal me away from them. I've tried as hard as I can to live fully with them as I did with her. But my broken heart, is that all I have to offer?

Then I remembered a book a read recently. I've read many, many books and magazines thanks to my time in the hospital after my c-section and time spent with a breastpump. The book wasn't great, I can't even remember the title. But in it a character describes having a door in your heart open each time you love someone new. I like that idea--that each person opens a door to a room that I have never before visited. I think we sometimes lock doors, but that's up to us, not anyone else. I'm sure I have some locked doors--old loves, old friends who've betrayed me, mostly people who weren't meant to have my love. I don't think I've locked the door that belonged to my firstborn. And losing my daughter doesn't mean that the door has closed or the room is gone. It's all there, just maybe redecorated. Or maybe I sit there by myself, rather than with her, but I can still go in, still open the door and visit the room whenever I want. It's harder some days than others but I can't imagine not loving her.

So my heart is open, open to new loves, to new doors and rooms for each new person. And I love my baby, his older sisters, friends and family with my open heart.

Milestones

I made it, made it through the week that resembled that other week. I was so relieved, and then I took a deep breath, looked around, and realized I'm surrounded by my own self-made milestones. I find myself sometimes thinking, only X weeks until...but there is nothing to count down to, I hope. I didn't know when my daughter was born that I was counting down to her older sister's death.

My little man is 5 weeks old today. When my daughter was 5 weeks and 4 days old, her sister died. The day after that was my postpartum checkup. I was going to have my checkup at 4 weeks this time but had to reschedule. Next Thursday will be 6 weeks and 2 days after the baby was born and that's when I'm having my checkup. I think once I get through that, I'll breathe another sigh of relief.

My daughter is still sleeping in a crib, and the baby sleeps in our room. After my daughter died, her sister stayed in our room rather than going to the crib at 2 months as we'd planned. And she stayed in a portable crib until she was about 9 months old. In our old house, she was right beside me and honestly it made me crazy. All the little baby noises and fearing that I would wake her if I got up to go to the bathroom made me frustrated and exhausted. Once we moved to this house, she slept just outside our door in a little loft area. It was insane--we didn't yet have a new baby monitor and I couldn't see her, but somehow I felt she was safe there.

I've already bought a second video monitor like the one I finally found for my daughter's room. And my daughter has new furniture in the bedroom that until now was mostly unused. Her sister's remaining clothing and toys are in the closet. The closet was once filled with plastic bins filled with my daughter's things. Now we're down to about 5 boxes, two of them very small. It makes me a bit sad that there's so little left, but also makes me feel a bit better that her sister has been able to use so many of her things.

Moving my daughter to her new room will be a milestone reached, but before that I have to be able to move her sister's remaining items out of that closet. Those bins will probably go into my home office. Another milestone there--admitting that instead of being a museum or shrine of sorts, the room will actually be used as a bedroom.

When will I finally get past all these milestones? Losing my firstborn was like having time stop and restart. I have to get my daughter past those same ages and stages. Will I feel this way as my son gets older? I want to stop feeling like every time I kiss her it's closer to the end, to some horrible end I'm envisioning.

In mid-September, my second child will be older than her older sister. In my mind, that's the last milestone, but realistically, I don't know. I've already thought about (and sort of dread) my daughter's birthday in December. She would have been 5, an age I was really looking forward to. Can I stop creating milestones? Maybe that's what's really happening here.

On a positive note, a friend of mine told me this weekend that I finally sound better, more like myself. I asked her how I sounded before, and she couldn't really say, but something about having to turn my attention to a new baby has changed. All I can think is that now I'm truly focusing on life rather than being dragged along by death.

Deja Vu

No, I didn't fall off the face of the earth. Nor did I decide to stop blogging. I made it through The Month, which I've decided now to think of as half good half bad, like many things in life. First half of May--Mother's Day and my birthday. Second half--my daughter's death and my time to tell the story of her death. Made it through both intact. Learned about a new kind of tired then, which I'll briefly explain.

Stress has always messed with my stomach. I do sometimes have trouble sleeping, but for the most part, stress exhausts me and makes me lose weight like crazy. In the days after my daughter died, I lost around 5 lbs. in two days (while breastfeeding, no less) but slept like a log, at least 8 hours a night. I welcomed that tiredness, because it allowed me to escape.

The week I told my daughter's story, my husband and I both got sick. Nothing major, just colds, but since I was very pregnant at the time, all I could do was take some mild decongestants and cough syrup, so I was pretty miserable. And between the cold and having to relive her death via the retelling, I was utterly exhausted. For the first time in ages, I hated it. I didn't want to be exhausted. Like last year, I feared the anniversary somehow bringing some sort of other tragedy and wanted to be as rested and alert as possible. I would spend my days trying to figure out how to feel better--what could I overcome first? The cold? Pregnancy fatigue? Or the exhaustion of her death annivesary?

Eventually I got better. Then suddenly on June 14, I got up from my desk to get my lunch and felt a tiny trickle of fluid. I went to the bathroom and saw a bigger trickle. Called my doctor's office and was told to go to the hospital. With my other two pregnancies, my water broke at 39.5 weeks and that was that. On June 14, I was only 35 weeks along. But I know what amniotic fluid looks like and what it feels like when your water breaks. So that night, Baby Boy was born, about 6 hours after I left for the hospital.

Like my daughters, he was delivered via emergency c-section. So much for planning ahead! I hadn't packed anything, pulled out baby clothes, assembled a bassinet...obviously I wasn't prepared. But my husband and nanny pulled together everything we needed and took care of my daughter. Baby Boy spent 10 days in the neonatal intensive care unit because initially he had some trouble breathing and couldn't feed well. Fortunately, he was one of the biggest, healthiest NICU babies and was never hooked up to anything to help him breathe, never needed treatment for jaundice or any other condition.

I'll skip the gory details (most of which involve very little sleep) and fast forward to today. Baby Boy will be 3 weeks old 3 days from today. I'm tired still, that newborn up all night kind of tired. Which is OK. But now I come to the title of this post.

The day my daughter died, my husband was in class, my nanny was on vacation, and I was supposed to finally spend some time with my big girl. This morning, the nanny left on vacation. Tuesday my husband goes back to class for the first time since baby boy arrived. My mother-in-law is here helping out, whereas last time my grandma was here. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid of how much this week will resemble that day. It was a Thursday, so I'm specifically dreading Thursday.

What's getting me through is focusing on the differences. We're in a different house, my daughter still sleeps in a crib (her sister was in a bed and therefore free to move around), I am stronger now than I was 3 weeks after my previous delivery (thanks to conscious attempts at getting stronger), and I have one of the best video baby monitors money can buy. OK, there's nothing here that's necessarily completely reassuring, but I have to start somewhere.

Think of me this week. As I've told my daughter since just after her sister died, "Mommy strong!" I convinced her and to some extent myself, and hopefully that belief holds up this week.

Two Years Tomorrow

In about an hour, it will have been two years since I saw my daughter alive for the last time. I put her to bed and a little while later, she asked for some water. She was so calm, so peaceful, not running around, playing in her room or making noise as she usually did. At about 4 AM, I heard her voice. I wasn't sure whether she had just woken up (and my husband was on his way to her) or whether he'd already been there and she was chattering herself to sleep. It was 6 weeks after my c-section, 6 weeks of waking up with a new baby. The next time I saw her, I knew her beautiful little soul had left us.

I can't remember what I was doing last year on May 20. I know that on May 21, I woke up, exercised, and worked. In the evening, some friends of ours came over and kept us company as the day ran out. Tonight I'm here with just my daughter for a few hours, until my husband comes home. I can't help thinking about everything that started on that night two years ago. One life ended. In two months, I will meet the new person growing in my belly. I left the house I thought I'd spend a few more years in. I suddenly became a mommy of one again (to all those who see me), though in my mind and heart I am always a mommy of two.

Most of the time, I don't think about her death. I consciously avoid that part of my mind and heart. I do remember the funny, cute, exciting, and other things she did. I suppose after two years I've managed to separate the two somehow.

Will May always be such a hard month? Mother's Day is always in May. My husband made me chocolate waffles this year, a rare treat. The following weekend, he took me out for what turned out to be a surprise birthday party at a restaurant with all of my friends. I had no idea that he'd planned it, and it's so unlike him to plan anything. Everyone was there, and it completely lifted my mood. When I asked him why he did it, he immediately said that it was because he knew it'd be a tough year.

Last year, I dragged myself, chin up, through absolutely everything because I knew if I let my head hang for even a minute I might not be able to pick it up again. Next year, things might be a bit easier. My husband will be out of school and hopefully working, I'll be busy taking care of a ten-month old, and another year will have passed.

This year, today, I am 38 years old, almost 32 weeks pregnant, and it's been two years since I saw my firstborn. I miss her. I'm angry. I don't think that will ever change.

The Butterfly Effect

That Month is upon me. The month that feels like a downhill slide towards The Day. It starts out with Mother's Day (which I thankfully already made it through), my birthday (this weekend), and the anniversary of my daughter's death (following weekend). Like last year, I'm relatively certain nothing will happen on the same date this year. If nothing else, it just reminds me of the horrible thing that happened two years ago.

And once again, no mention of it (yet?) by either my parents or my husband's. Small side note here--I have had just enough of my controlling father who just doesn't listen to me (or anyone else) and hasn't been supportive through all of this. So for now, we're not speaking. And I'm good with that.

Last year, I got more and more tense until the date arrived, but the actual day wasn't that bad. This year, I had a couple of tough weeks towards the end of April but am feeling a bit better now. The flashbacks seem to have started up again, and I find myself re-experiencing the day she died.

I'm now 30 weeks pregnant, and with my husband putting in long hours at school, I'm alone a lot with my daughter. This seems to have resulted in two things. First, at just over 2 years of ago, she seems unusually tuned in to my emotions. We'll be in the car, me driving, her in the carseat in the back. I'll get sad, sometimes won't even be crying or anything, and she'll start to yell "Mama! Mama!" until I respond.

The other thing is, I find myself wondering how life would be different if my daughter hadn't died. I've thought about this often over time, but had kind of stopped for a while. Something about the anniversary has brought it back. And I don't just think about her life, or our family's, I think about how her death may have changed the lives of everyone I know. Would my friend's house have caught fire last year, if the year before she hadn't been at my house making sure I ate the day after my daughter died? Would my other friend have lost her house if she hadn't been there taking care of the baby when I went to the hospital to say goodbye to my daughter?

There are no obvious connections, obviously. It's more of a butterfly effect--the tiny things that happen somewhere, to someone, that somehow affect us, change the courses of our lives in ways we can never imagine. I can think of a million big things that would be different--we'd still live in our old house, my husband might already be done with school, I might not be pregnant now. I wonder about some of the others--would my younger daughter be talking more? Would she be easier to potty train since she'd see her sister doing it?

Oddly enough, I can tell you I probably would still be talking to my dad right now if my daughter had survived. Losing her was so...life-changing. It's the straw that broke the camel's back. Initially I was timid, afraid to leave my house or be around anyone other than the few people who helped us at the time. As time goes on, I become less willing to put up with anyone who won't listen to me, ridiculous demands, or anything that's basically a giant drag. I do think I've managed to avoid becoming completely obnoxious. In fact, I think I may have become even better at being tactful when necessary and direct if the situation demands it.

The butterfly effect. What will happen to change my life today?

I Can't Imagine

Today is my baby girl's 2nd birthday. Two, she's only two, but it's so filled with significance I can barely stand it. It means that in 4 months and 16 days she will forever be older than her older sister. It must mean something to my friends, because several of them called or emailed. And I confess, I can barely remember their birthdays, let alone their childrens'. I wonder if it's that my daughter died so soon after her sister's birthday that everyone remembers. For me it's that downhill slide to The Day. The Day on which something happened that never again can, yet the fear of What Happened will always linger.

So many people say "I can't imagine." They mean they can't imagine what I've been through, can't imagine living with the death of their child, can't imagine getting out of bed day after day face with that fact. Most times I find the expression rather strange. I wonder, why would anyone try to imagine? And therein lies the reason they can't. It's not something most parents can fully let themselves consider. But I realized earlier today that even worse are those who don't say it, those who I know don't even realize that I live through something they would never let themselves imagine.

There are those who care enough to at least know that the grief is there every day, the trauma of having lived through the events surrounding her death. There are others, those you hear of and hope you'll never encounter, who think you should be "over it."

A friend sent me an article recently about a family who lost a son. In the article, a friend explains that this isn't a wound that heals. It's more like losing an arm which you never get back and learning to live without it. I've thought of both expressions many times--healing and losing a limb--because I guess I was hoping that when I somehow healed there would only be a scar. But the other is more true--there's a giant hole that will never be filled. And only some people dare to even wonder what it's like.

To those who do and those who don't, I say I hope none of you ever get beyond imagining what this is like. To those who at least tell me they try, thank you. To those who don't, well, I don't believe in swearing in print so I'll refrain, but I must say my personal encounters with these people has, oddly enough, made me stronger. I gain strength in defense of my experience, my right to feel whatever comes up. And in all that, I still live my life. I work, I raise my child, I plan for the baby to arrive in a few months.

Happy Birthday baby girl! May it be the first of dozens.

God's Grace - final thoughts?

The movie City of Angels describes angels not as humans who have died but as unique non-mortal creatures who always are and always have been around. They don't make things happen, or keep things from happening, they try to help humans get through whatever life brings.

In an early scene, a convenience store is robbed. One angel stands beside the robber, another beside the cashier, and somehow they get through it. I've always found that scene comforting. And I realized recently that it perfectly demonstrates my idea of grace. There are so many moments, days, weeks in life when I've needed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

As a friend once told me, life is imperfect because this is life, not heaven. While I don't believe in the usual Christian idea of heaven, I do agree with the view in all religions that this life, our human world, isn't perfect. I've come to like the idea that free will is what we are given, and that while it makes is human, it always makes this world imperfect, and dangerous, and not controlled by us or any divine being.

I heard this idea in another unlikely place recently--the Kevin Smith movie Dogma. The fallen angel played by Ben Affleck is upset and angry because while angels existed first, he claims humans are God's favorite, because they were given free will. The thought actually brought tears to my eyes--that the gift of free will is also what makes us so full of sorrow at times. I used to imagine that comforting hand on my shoulder when I needed it.

After my daughter's death, the shock kept me from thinking about much of anything other than that I should just keep moving, that if enough time passed, I would feel better. And for the most part, I do. But there are times when I completely, utterly break down (like yesterday in the parking lot of a store I was taking my daughter to). And when this first started happening, people were still around watching over me, or calling regularly to make sure I was OK. And after that, I swear I felt my daughter near for a little while.

Neither is the case now. But recently, I remembered what the man (pastor? priest? I have no idea what to call him) who performed the services at my daughter's memorial service told me when I asked him what he thought of the idea that it was God's will that I lose my child so young. He told me that God doesn't want bad things to happen any more than we do, and that God's will didn't kill her. God's will wasn't in that, but it was in the people who came to us after she died, the ones who made sure we ate, and slept, and who took care of my baby girl.

God's will is still with me, in the friend who sends me magazine articles that speak to her and to me, in the mother who lost her son soon after my daughter died and sent me gifts for the new baby boy, in the friend who remembers my daughter every time her daughter (2 months older tha mine) hits a milestone. The grace of God is in all those who remember her, who listen to me talk about her, who think about her, and send love my way.

On the issue of whether I believe it was God's plan that my daughter die young, I think I can say a firm NO. God--whatever you believe he/she/it is--isn't here to punish or make us suffer. Our free will does that, and it also allows us to learn, to love, and to live as human beings. God's grace (as seen through the acts of others) is what helps us through.

Unconscious Grief

I haven't posted in a while, obviously, even though I've had plenty of time and actually have plenty to say. Those thoughts are all rattling around though, not piercing through like previous posts. Until last night. Suddenly something shattered through and inspired me to write this post. I rarely dream about real life, it seems. I often dream about places and things from my past, and even people, but not the people I see the most often. I have had a few dreams about my daughter since she passed away and of course each one is like a blissful opportunity to spend a little more time with her. I haven't had one of those in a while. But until last night, it was almost like my unconscious mind wasn't quite convinced that she really is gone. In most of the dreams I've had about her, she's obviously alive, but somehow I'm aware that she shouldn't be with me. Last night, I dreamt that I was attending a meeting of some sort of grief group, maybe for parents who've lost children. I did attend one real meeting like that a few months after losing my daughter, but haven't been back since. Nothing about it comforted me and I didn't feel a connection to anyone there. So the meeting I dreamt about was purely fictional. All I remember is that at this meeting, we were reading something from a book. And like many such things these days, what I read made me cry. It made me so, so sad. This woke me up, somehow. And I realized I was actually crying. My pillow was wet, so I had apparently been crying for a while. Initially, I thought maybe I just haven't taken the time to grieve enough, or to do comforting things for myself. Later today, I realized maybe it's my unconscious mind finally realizing that she's gone and grieving. My unconscious mind seems to be doing something these days. Last week, I went away for a few days to a conference. It required a 4-hour flight there and 5 hours back. On the way back, I started to doze off and suddenly found myself back in the car being driven home from the hospital after saying goodbye to my daughter. I can't remember the actual drive at all--can't remember the car, the route, anything that happened or that we talked about along the way. My husband's bosses at the time picked us up. I'd never met them before and I have absolutely no memory of them other than just initially seeing them in the hospital. In my half-asleep dream, I was in the car and screaming to be let out. I was completely falling apart, insisting that I couldn't leave her there. I've said that out loud many times, that maybe if I hadn't let them take her to the hospital, or hadn't left her there, maybe I could have done something. I was finally acting on that in my dream, but it wasn't a good feeling and I woke up almost in a panic. And then I spent the next 15 minutes or so pulling myself together so I wouldn't burst into tears there on the plane. As I said, it seems my unconscious mind is doing some processing that it hadn't done before. I think I really need to get in to see my therapist again. I believe it's been about 6 months--she doesn't even know I'm pregnant. I feel OK about both of these experiences, I am just sort of baffled at how unique they were.

Another Look at Comfort

I've been thinking more about comfort. I know when I'm at the absolutely depths, or at least as close to them as I can get without actually being back to the day my daughter died, I just can't comfort myself. I suppose that's why my house was filled with people for days on end. They knew I couldn't find comfort, could barely find the bathroom in the morning, so they came to make sure that at least I ate and drank.

Anyway, I was able to think of a few things. As one of the comments mentioned, my younger daughter does continue to be a source of comfort for me. As she gets older, she's no longer completely dependent on me. She asks for and is comfortable with other peopleother people, and even asks to see particular people. But that doesn't mean we aren't connected anymore. After my last post, I was completely down for a couple of days. I honestly couldn't figure out what would bring me out of it.

Then one night, I was home alone after putting my daughter to bed. She was in her crib for 5 or 10 minutes, then stood up absolutely distraught. She sometimes does fuss, and it almost always means she has a wet diaper. Other times, I'll sing her one more song and she's fine. But that night, nothing I did seemed to help. I kept asking her what she wanted and she just kept getting upset. After a while, I put her back in the crib, which seemed OK, but then I started to leave and she again started crying. I never did figure it out, but I did eventually leave her there and she fell asleep.

The next day, she was with the nanny all day. When the nanny left, she told me that even though another little boy was with them, my daughter had been uncharacteristically quiet all day. It occurred to me that she might somehow be reflecting my feelings. I hadn't been talking much either for 3 days by then. So I pulled myself out of it. I still can't stand the idea that I might negatively affect her.

And I started thinking of other comforts. After my daughter's memorial, our house was quiet. My brother stayed a few days after everyone left, and then we escaped to a vacation house owned by friends. At some point, we found ourselves back in the now-quiet house with just a small baby who slept a lot. But all the debris of the people who'd been there was left behind, so we started cleaning. We cleaned and cleaned. Then a friend of mine visited for a week. After she left, we cleaned some more. The cleaning went on until I went back to work, I believe, except for about a week when we flew across the country to visit my parents.

Another thing I did a lot was watch TV. I don't watch much TV, especially during the day. But at that time, I watched a LOT. I tried renting movies, but you never know what you might see in a movie, and I didn't know what would upset me. So I started watching HGTV--Home and Garden TV, along with cooking shows. That's about as inocuous (and in many ways, irrelevant) as you can get. I watched people remodel homes, shopping for homes, shopping for their first homes, getting homes ready to sell.

So these are two things I've done a bit of recently--excessive cleaning and watching cooking shows. It's funny how they numb and soothe my mind.

Here's one other thing I find oddly comforting. I bought my daughter this toy in early November. I honestly find it cute and hilarious. It's even funnier when she dances around with it.

It's the little things, I suppose. Other people just can't always be there for you. Life gets in the way of some of the things that provide us comfort. I'm hoping that posting these things, I might remember then when I really need them.

No Comfort

Comfort. What does that mean? I remember hearing it so many times in the days, months, and weeks after my daughter's death. It was often part of a sympathy card or email from someone, hoping I'd find comfort in whatever. I suppose peace is completely out of reach. Was? No, still is. How can I be peaceful when my mind and heart won't stop thrashing?

So what is comfort? The first thing that comes to my mind is a blue blanket. Here's why. Sometime during the days between my daughter's death and her memorial service, I remember sitting on a sofa in my house, surrounded by the people that kept us company during that time. It was May, but because it had rained, not as warm as it normally is here during that time of year. My friend looked at me and asked if I wanted a blanket. I think I asked her why, because I remember her saying something like, "I don't know, just seems like it'd be nice and cozy." And she put this fuzzy blue blanket over me. I'd bought it for guests to use and I don't think it had actually been used yet.

Oddly enough, when I think of those days, what I remember is sitting on the sofa, day after day, with the blanket over me, watching my friends eat and talk and worry. The truth is, I spent the better part of 2 days in my office planning the memorial service, and one day at the funeral home. I remember that too, but the sofa and blanket are the first things that come to mind. Maybe they were the only things that did give me comfort at the time.

The word has been spinning around in my head this week. I can't seem to find comfort. I miss my girl, every other thought in my head is of her. I feel alone and lost. She used to ask, "Mommy sad?" and would be truly devastated if the answer was yes. I feel as though the only person who truly cared that I was sad is gone and now the reason for my sadness.

Two friends gave me maternity clothes. It was very kind for a couple of reasons. First, because it's tough to find maternity clothes in smaller sizes for a short woman. Second, I sold many of my maternity clothes just before my daughter's death, thinking I was done being pregnant. It's turned out to be a blessing in an unexpected way, because the few items that were left remind me of being pregnant with my now nearly two year old daughter, and wearing the clothes around my daughter who, if she had lived, would be 4.

I suddenly remembered last night, the shirt I was wearing the day she died, the nursing tank top I wore to bed the night before we found her. I wore it until I went to the hospital to say goodbye and I can picture myself sitting on the sofa (same sofa, same spot) nursing my 5-week old in it. My husband tells me I should get rid of it, but here's the thing--I wore the same shirt to nurse my firstborn. In some way I bought it for her.

I've been having trouble falling asleep. And I wake up every night between 2 and 4 AM. Sometimes it's because I hear my daughter. Other times I'm not sure what wakes me, but being pregnant, I almost always get up and go to the bathroom. When I get back, I'm determined to fall asleep but it just doesn't happen. And as the week has passed, I find myself lying there becoming sadder and more anxious. In the morning, I'm exhausted.

So back to comfort. What gives me comfort? I thought of two things and right now I can only remember one. Hot showers. I like a nice, hot shower. It seems to be the one way I can lose myself. Is that really all I've got? I'm only 18 weeks pregnant, so I have at least 21 weeks to go. What will give me comfort for the next 5 months?

Overprotective

After my daughter died, another mother who'd lost her daughter told me that even now, 8 years after her daughter's death, she gets anxious when her now-teenaged oldest child is riding her bike around the neighborhood. I knew then that I had to be wary of being overprotective of my younger daughter. So far I think I've done well.

A few days ago, I had a dream all about my daughter's crib and her room. Since my older daughter died in her room, essentially overnight, it's easy to understand why I'm anxious about this. With a new baby due in July, I've been trying to figure out what to do as far as sleeping arrangements. My older daughter was on a twin mattress and boxspring and her younger sister was to share the room with her, sleeping in her old crib. That never happened. My younger child was in a portable crib until she was 10 months old, when we finally got a video monitor I was comfortable with, and we then put her in the crib.

Now, at 22 months, she's never tried to climb out of the crib and isn't yet too big for it. So I want to keep her in a crib. However, the original nursery furniture was pretty expensive as I thought it'd be the only set we ever bought. I've been looking at cribs and am freaked out at how flimsy some of them are. My daughter actually jumps in her crib like a trampoline, so I need something that's not going to shake, rattle, or roll. I also want to be able to convert it to a toddler bed so I don't have to go buy one when she finally is tall enough.

Basically, I want my daughter and her sibling trapped in cribs until they're 4 years old if at all possible. This seems OK though. A couple of friends have told me I should do whatever I'm comfortable with and screw the rest of the world and its opinion. Sounds good to me.

But, and this is a big but, my father was always what I considered overprotective. My brother and I were never left home alone until I was oh, in my 20s. The rest of my class went on a graduation trip while I stayed home. As a child, I never went on a trip with a friend, or attended any teenage drinking beer-in-the-woods parties. And I admit, I resented a lot of that overprotection. And of course I sometimes told white lies to be able to get to do what I wanted to do. I don't want my children to have to do that.

So ugh, yet another struggle. And I'm not sure exactly when my child will start struggling against me. Right now, my plan is to move my daughter to an unused bedroom in which we'll place a new crib. I'm not sure how she'll do. But she's a toddler, so I figure she can only protest so much and in so many ways. What happens when she's a teenager? Am I one day going to be arguing with her about my overprotectiveness because she thinks I'm acting out of fear? I try not to ever act out of fear.

As one of my followers said, anxiety is worry about tomorrow. Living for today is one way to avoid anxiety. I find myself reminding myself "one day at a time" an awful lot lately. Tough to do when you're trying to plan for a new baby, but really, I can only do something today, right?

Brave

Brave. Verb or adjective, I can be brave, or I can brave something. I never considered myself brave. I remember being dropped off at the local mall as a tween and being too shy to ask a stranger for the time, while at the same time fearing that I'd be late meeting whichever parent was supposed to pick me up. My mother would often tell me to "be bold" and just do whatever. More than 20 years later, I realize that she was bold herself, at times, but overall I don't think I'd describe her as brave.

I know I was brave the day my daughter died and for at least 15 months afterward. There was so much to do to get through each day that it required what I considered a more or less obvious act of bravery. I'm not sure though, whether I'd consider myself brave overall. Sometimes, isn't it just easier to sit back and not be brave, in any situation? Like anything else, being strong, being assertive, being brave all become tiring eventually.

I find myself in a position requiring bravery. I promised over a year ago to tell my daughter's story in a situation that might help others. At the time, I was reliving her death in my head every day, multiple times a day, and couldn't imagine not ever doing that. But now, I've managed to turn it off, to not think about it either on accident or wilfully every single day. I've managed somewhat to separate memories of her life from the memories of her death. And I fear that having to talk about it will take me back. A friend of mine told me that telling the story of her trauma was cathartic. She had to do that within a year of the experience. By the time I tell my story, at least 21 months will have passed and I'll be approaching the 2-year anniversary of her death.

Honestly, just writing this and imagining having to tell the story make me anxious, nauseous, and upset. I wish I'd never agreed to do it. It's been so long now, I don't know that catharsis in that context is what I need.

I often remind myself, when facing something difficult, that this is not the hardest thing I've ever had to do nor is it the worst day of my life. In comparison to the day I lost my child, almost nothing can ever compare. I also realize that I am brave every night, when I go to bed knowing that I'll once again wake up and realize she's gone. I am brave every morning when I get out of bed anyway and live my life. I am brave now for (as a follower commented) risking my heart in having another child.

So I can do this, I can be brave for her one more time, and tell her story, answer questions, risk feeling it all again in front of people who may or may not care. Brave. I am brave, I will brave this.

Four steps forward, three back?

First, I want to respond to the last comment from the previous post, about whether I believe I'll see my daughter (or anyone else who's passed on) again someday. I spent days, weeks, and months trying to figure that out, as well as trying to understand why she died in the first place. Did I do something wrong? Did she? Did we do something right? Did God (who and whatever exactly he/she/that is for me) actually intend for me to have this beautiful child in my life for only 2 years and suffer through her horrible passing?

In the end, all I realized was that I don't know the answer. Maybe I'm not spiritually evolved or in touch enough. I do believe there is more to this world than we can know, detect, or prove. But it doesn't matter to me if someone can prove that I will one day be with her again. I wanted to be with her here, for the rest of my life, to see her grow up. It's kind of like not getting to go on a trip to the beach one summer, and then in the winter you go to the mountains. It's nice, but just not what you had in mind. I suppose the end result is that I am at some sort of peace with at least myself.

I had made some tentative moves back into the groups I had been avoiding for so long. I went to brunch with a group of women, then hosted a park playdate with many of the same women and our children. Now, the women whose children (girls my daughter's age) it pains me the most to see weren't there, but I am proud of myself for finally taking my daughter to a group event. At 20 months, she's too young to really play WITH anyone, but she really enjoyed being there. I found that those two outings were actually refreshing, and I felt energized after spending some time with my friends.

Two of the women I saw passed on several boxes of maternity clothes to me. Which was a relief, because I was oddly dreading going through my leftover maternity stuff. Unfortunately, after going through all their things, I decided I would still need to open my boxes, mostly to look for maternity pajamas. So last night, I opened what turned out to be 2 relatively small boxes. One contained bottoms (all pants, which I won't really need since I'll mostly be big in hot weather) and the other contained tops. Surprisingly, most of the tops were summery, which IS what I'll need.

However, there were no pajamas in either box. Initially I was disappointed, and then upset. I remembered the woman who bought most of my clothes and felt angry, was telling my husband that this woman had taken my things. Which isn't true--I sold them to her willingly, thinking I would never need them again. But it was such a memorable experience. My older daughter was utterly fascinated with this woman, kept chatting with her and even asked me if she was going to stay for dinner (she didn't). I can't help but think that the woman's child must now be over a year old, and my daughter will never be any older than 29 months, 15 days old.

After getting a little upset, I ate dinner. Then I realized there must be another box somewhere. I had a pretty decent collection of maternity workout clothes. I exercise about 6 days a week, even when pregnant, and believe me, comfortable workout clothing is a MUST towards the end of my pregnancy. I had sold that too, in an online auction which ended right around the day my daughter died. In the end, I kept it all. And now I can't find it. And that made me REALLY upset. And this has kind of snowballed into just being upset in general.

I know I'm tired. My in-laws were here last week, and while they're relatively low-maintenance, having extra people around always wears me out. I had a migraine Friday and of course couldn't take anything at all for it. And of course I'm just plain ol' pregnant, so of course I'm exhausted. My defenses are down. But honestly, today I can't stop all the random emotion. I'm angry (at my husband and in-laws, for reasons that I couldn't have come up with a week ago and probably couldn't summon a week from now), I'm upset that I can't find my clothes, I'm perturbed that I never planned a third pregnancy (but will of course love my baby just as I loved his/her sisters.

Oh, and a friend I haven't heard from in many years recently contacted me. She found me on Facebook. Initially, she sent a message telling me my girls (pictured in my profile photo) are beautiful. Then after reading some of the posts on my wall, sent another message apologizing for not realizing my daughter had passed away. I can't explain why, but the whole sequence of events upsets me. I remember receiving a card announcing her daughter's graduation. It arrived just after my daughter died. I felt as though someone was stabbing me in the heart all over again. Yet another thing she would never do.

So tonight, my goal is to rest. Rest my brain, rest my heart, rest my body. That seems to cure all ills, somehow, or at least to help enough that hopefully I can think semi-clearly again.