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?