At Arms' Length

In the days and weeks after my daughter died, I took care of her baby sister in a fog. I was breastfeeding, and my baby girl refused to take bottles, so all throughout each day, someone would bring her to me so I could nurse her. Then that person or someone else would take her back. Oddly, at first I didn't want her near me. I felt somehow like I'd done something to cause my daughter's death and didn't want to put her sister in danger. I know now every parent feels that way no matter how her child dies. Still, I just couldn't wake myself up enough to take care of someone else at first. I remember even telling a friend one day that I was fine with her watching the baby because she couldn't f__ up any worse than I had. She seemed horrified and told me I hadn't done anything.

There eventually came a point where I wanted my daughter with me. And she was, constantly. She was such an easy baby--slept well, nursed like a champ, was content and liked being around all kinds of people--that we took her everywhere. I came to realize that I didn't want her away from me. I heard about a mother who lost her son the same way I lost my daughter, but she wasn't there when the accident happened. She was on vacation with her husband and her son was staying with grandparents. I often think about that mother, how it must have been to arrive afterward, knowing you were already too late. The truth is, I felt the same way even though I went through various motions (calling 911, CPR, etc.) of trying to help.

So for years, I've kept my daughter at arm's length. Literally. I wanted to be able to snatch her out of harm's way if I should need to. And if I wasn't, I wanted my husband to, but never told him about at arm's length. So I'd just yell at him if he let her go past that boundary.

My son was born 5 weeks early and spent 10 days in the neonatal intensive care. I immediately had to let go, with no choice or say in the matter. In a way, it was freeing to have the decision made for me. Once he came home, he was in our room for the first couple of months, just like our girls were. His older sister was still in the crib and I wasn't ready for her to be out of it yet. But eventually I was very ready, and they both made the transition relatively easily. And still I worried about her. I've never worried about him the same way. I keep thinking that because he wasn't there, because he was born after the darkness surrounded us, I don't need to worry. I had such a sense of dread from the moment my first daughter was born, I was always afraid for her. And because her sister was there when she died, I worried about her too.

A few weeks ago, both my children went to daycare for the first time. It was really hard--I've never really had someone else take care of them, other than the nanny and occasionally a close friend. But I was good. As a former preschool teacher myself, I know a hovering parent makes things worse for the child. So I dropped them off, and called to check in the first week. They've done pretty well.

But I'll admit it, I still think about what might happen. If something should happen to them, I won't be there, won't get any chance to try to help, to save them. And worse yet, no chance to say goodbye. By the time I saw my daughter that morning, she wasn't speaking, wasn't breathing, and I don't know if she even knew I was there. I am grateful that I did see her, because I wouldn't have believed it was all real if I hadn't (I assume).

Letting go, no longer at arm's length.

Moving On, Moving Forward, Moving Away

Soon, too soon, after my daughter passed away, some (completely insensitive) people used the phrase "move on." As in, one day you'll be able to move on. It immediately made me upset and angry, though at the time I couldn't say why. It didn't take long to figure out that I didn't want to move on. Moving on is what you do after you leave a bad job or horrible boyfriend. You want to be able to say to your friends, "Yes, I've moved on." This means that horrible thing isn't bothering you anymore, doesn't take up space in your head or play a part in your life. Obviously not what I wanted.

So for the past few years, I've talked about moving forward. That is what I felt I had to do. To me, this had a feel of gathering up all the bits and pieces I could salvage from the wreckage of my daughter's accident and death (including my husband and baby girl) and continuing to walk in whatever direction I could. This to me felt like moving away from the accident and horrible feelings associated with it in an attempt to create a new reality for my baby. I didn't want her to be trapped in the tragedy, nor did I ever want to forget my firstborn.

Several months ago, the day came when my daughter had been gone longer than she was on this earth. Then I started thinking of myself as moving away from her life. Hate this one. But it IS what's happening. She was with me for such a short time, it's bittersweet to think that her younger sister is now older than she will ever be. And she has a younger brother she never got to meet in this world and in this life.

The one thing all this movement has made me realize is something I've always known--life goes on, without or without you, and it's up to you to decide whether to get up and go or sit where you are and watch it go by. Sitting is something I couldn't do to my second daughter, and definitely not to my young son.

I do still picture myself with my children under each arm, somehow dragging my husband along with all of our possessions, including those of my older daughter, walking uphill slowly but surely. A close friend of mine who lost her husband very suddenly when my firstborn was just 3 months old often said to me she kept putting one foot in front of the other. That's what I believe I have to do. I never know where I'm going and don't always move in a straight line. And I have on occasion been picked up by a tornado and dumped somewhere, I can't always tell where. But I pick everything up again, and keep moving.

Exhausting, I know, but isn't that what life is all about? It's tiring, messy, funny, noisy, happy, and, if you're lucky, full. All you can do is keep moving.

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.