New normal?

My fingernails are long again. This is truly amazing--I bit them from childhood (as far back as I can remember) until I was 23. I stopped when I was training to be a teacher and a woman in my class told me her daughters were picking up the habit from her. After my daughter died, I started biting them again. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't stop. It's really the only bad habit I have--I've never smoked, drank excessively, overeaten, etc. I managed to start exercising again, cook, sleep well, and so on, but I just couldn't stop biting my nails. Most of the time I wasn't even aware I was doing it. I tend to bite them when I watch TV, or drive, and my mind is preoccupied.

Suddenly the other day I noticed my nails are long again. I mean REALLY long, as in, I'm having trouble typing.

I also noticed it's May 18, three days after my birthday and 3 days before the 3rd anniversary of my daughter's death.

How can both be true? How is it that I'm not dreading it this year? I've been busy with a new baby. And May is now the month between my daughter and son's birthdays, not just the month I lost my eldest. I do find myself thinking about her more often than I have the past few months but there isn't the despair I felt the past two years. I honestly can't explain it. I feel like I should feel horrible, almost feel guilty that I don't.

I do believe that we are meant to survive, to be able to live. I remember the pastor who performed my daughter's service saying that the memorial was for the living, for us to remember her and give us hope in the face of something so bad it was almost impossible to imagine life after it. All I can think is that this is the point where I've again started living, not just surviving. The first two years, there are so many things I barely remember. I know I nursed my daughter after her sister was gone, and I remember my tears falling on her. But it doesn't feel like months and months of nursing (she never would take a bottle), it seems like one day I was nursing her and the next she was maybe 18 months old. There's a huge gap in my life where I was trying every day to just get up and get going. I don't think I do that now.

And ugh, again, it's both a good thing and a bad thing. Three years, really? It only took 3 years to feel better after her death? But did I want to have flashbacks and break down crying longer than that? Oh, I'm not saying that never happens, only that I can at least say it doesn't happen often or regularly. At first it happened every day, then maybe every other day. That's not the case anymore. And as someone told me I would, I do feel as though it means I'm forgetting her. But I'm not, I'm actually forgetting her death and trying to remember her life. Honestly, even that's tough. I'd like to tell other parents you'll never forget every moment of your child's life, but humans just aren't capable of that type of memory. I do remember her, what she looked like, phrases she spoke, the sound of her laugh. But remembering her is more like watching a movie. And I'm so relieved to say that even memories of the day she died are more movie-like now than real life.

When I started to feel bad for not wanting to remember her death, I think of something else another bereaved parent told me. What would she want? Would she want me to remember her the way she was that day? Probably not. Would she want me to cry every day, while taking care of her brother and sister? Probably not. I'm trying to live my life the way she would want. And I guess maybe she wouldn't want me to bite my nails.

The Power of AND

Someone once pointed out to me (not too long ago) that using the word "but" in a sentence generally negates all the words that came before it. I like you, BUT. Thanks for helping me, BUT. I'm happy to be here, BUT. I try my best not to use that word, BUT it's a habit. I don't think most people realize that it really does undo the good things you say sometimes.

My daughter turned 3 this week. She's reached a whole new level that her sister never did or will. Her little brother is 10 months old, and they are each other's biggest fans. I so wish I could have seen my girls together. I wish my second could have had a big sister, she really seems to want one. And I wish my oldest and youngest had met.

I love the children that are here with me, AND I miss my girl who isn't. I'm excited to watch my children grow, AND I wish their sister could be here too. I'm looking forward to my children's future, AND grieving for the future I'll never get with their sister.

In talking to my friend who lost her son, I sometimes feel as though being relentlessly cheerful got me through that first year, maybe two, after my daughter died. That's not true. I am not cheerful. If anything, I'm quiet, somewhat reserved, I rarely shout in excitement, if I were to win a million dollars, I'd probably say, Great! and move on to whatever it was I was planning to do next.

So when my daughter died, I didn't think "I have to stay happy to get through this." I did know it would just take time. At first, I thought it would be like a cut-eventually it closes up and you're left with a scar. It's actually more like getting your arm cut off. The area does heal, in a way, but you will always be missing something. You adapt, learn to work around it, and try to move on.

That's the power of AND. It's both this and that, good and bad, sad and happy. By "it" I suppose I mean life. I realized this sometime last year, when one of the friends who came to my house immediately after my daughter left mentioned that her best friend's birthday is on my daughter's death anniversary. One doesn't make the other better or worse, and they are forced to coexist side-by-side forever.

It's only recently that I remembered that thinking of these as AND rather than BUT would change the way I thought of them. I'm not cheerful, but I would like to think I'm strong, stronger than I ever imagined I could be. AND gives me strength, while BUT weakens me.

These days, I'm feeling very strong. I don't burst into tears every day, week, or month. I don't have flashbacks too often. I can honestly say that I enjoy the parts of life I should, at least most of the time. There is always that thought "she should be here." I want to try to use AND to keep me moving forward, and not let BUT drag me back into sadness and despair.

Open Your Eyes

Yes, I'm still here. It's February 21, exactly 3 months before the 3 year anniversary of my daughter's death. And as I mentioned, I'm not dreading it this time. I'm not counting the days in anticipation of something horrible happening, or at least feeling horrible. I am thinking of her a bit more these days than a month or two ago, but I think it's largely because her younger sister will be 3 (an age N never reached) in a couple of months. She's talking so much, though her sister talked more at a younger age. I can't help but wonder what they'd be like together.

I had another one of those unexpected moments that completely blindsided me. I was watching the movie Contagion with my husband. I hadn't wanted to watch it, because I thought it would be too much like Outbreak. Well, it was worse. It's grim, gray, and I'm not entirely sure why I did watch it. But we almost had to stop. Towards the beginning, a woman dies (lots of people die, if you know what the movie is about, this is not a spoiler) and the doctor is trying to tell her husband. While watching the scene, I kept thinking, wow, they really don't know what to say. The police officer who told me said "Your daughter has died." No "I'm sorry, " or "Maybe you should sit down," nothing. I fell to the ground, dropping the plastic water pitcher I held in my hand. It broke and I was sitting in a giant puddle, though I don't remember getting wet.

In the movie, after telling the man his wife is gone, he starts asking if there's someone he can call. Watching that, I was slowly and then suddenly taken back. I was sitting in my house with people asking if there was someone they could call, and telling them over and over again that no, we didn't have any family in town. I burst into tears, and told my husband I didn't want to watch the movie. I told him that was what they said to me, that I was there again.

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears streaming, and saying something, I can't remember what. He was in the kitchen, but rushed over and said, "Open your eyes, open your eyes. Look at me, look at my big nose." His nose isn't all that big, but hearing that gave me something to focus on and I did open my eyes. He talked to me, was basically talking me back to the moment.

I thought it was strange that at first, flashbacks would take over and I'd close my eyes to escape them. Now, I have to open my eyes. I have to let the memories go. I've been thinking about it, and while grief is and always will be with me, the trauma is what I have been letting go. I can't remember every single thing about that day. Talking about it, reliving it over and over in my mind, and using various therapeutic techniques to face moments of it have helped me let it go. Maybe in some way, letting go of the trauma has helped with the grief. I don't know, I still grieve having lost my daughter, still think of all the things she'll never get to do, have memories of her (new ones still surface occasionally), but I don't have the horrible flashbacks of the day she died.

And for that, I'm glad. Opening my eyes keeps me here, and as always, it's a choice to do so.

One good, one bad

It happened again, two days ago. I was at Costco with my family and was suddenly struck by grief. I mean that literally--I suddenly had a memory of being there with my daughter and my parents, and was so saddened by it I literally couldn't move. My husband could tell immediately, I'm not sure if it was the look on my face or something else, but apparently it was obvious to him that I'd suddenly gone somewhere else. And I had the hardest time pulling myself away from it. I recovered from the tidal wave that took me down while still in the store. But the rest of the day, I started remembering more about the day she died, and that made me sadder and sadder until I found myself crying in my car (alone, which is unusual), parked in the garage after running some errands.

What surprised me the most was not how intensely and suddenly the grief came on, but how much it exhausted me. The rest of the day, I could barely think. I found myself just sitting on the sofa wanting to go to sleep by early evening. And then magically, the next morning I felt fine, despite having gotten less sleep than the night before.

I wanted to write about it that day, but literally couldn't summon up the energy to. And I thought about posting about it the following day, but honestly I didn't want to. I suppose it's part of my choosing to be in the grief or not. I guess this means I'm past the point of feeling guilty when I'm not grieving.

And here's the strangest thing--the day before this, I realized that for the first time since losing my daughter, I'm not fearing May and the anniversary of her death. May has now become the month in between my two younger children's birthdays. I was so relieved to realize that it's already January and I'm not fearfully counting down to May. But maybe it was this realization that caused the wave of grief to hit me the next day, as though my body was reminding me I should still grieve. I'm sure I'll still be sad when May arrives, and ambivalent about my birthday and Mother's Day, but at least now that feeling isn't beginning months in advance.

Riding the waves, good or bad. I don't know when grief will hit but I do know I can ride it out now. That wasn't the case in the early days (weeks, months, years) when I'd have a flashback and fear I'd lose my mind during it. The grief is...more contained, or maybe I just know better how to contain it. I don't want you to think that I'M contained, controlling it, because I don't think that's ever the case. Instead it's a matter of accepting what comes--happiness, sadness, good memories and bad--because that's actually easier than trying to control your mind and heart.

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.