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.