Fears

I'm away from my baby for the first time since she was born. She's 14 months old, weaned, toddling, and signing, so it's not as if she NEEDS ME. Her father, the nanny, and others can take care of her at this point. And I'm not afraid that something will happen because I'm gone. I've learned that even if I'm there, I can't necessarily prevent things from happening.

What I fear is that something will happen to her, and unlike my other daughter, I won't be around to say goodbye. I know of other parents who've experienced that. I know that for me, losing my other daughter is the only thing that could be worse than what's already happened.

In the book Survivor's Club (which I just started reading), it seems many of the people survived incredible situations because they had someone to survive for. My baby girl is my reason. But when I think that she doesn't need me, I guess it gets that much harder to hold on. My daughter died and the world didn't stop. It kept right on moving. And because of my baby, I decided to keep moving with it, to keep her moving. Without her, it's really tough.

My husband suggested I bring her and the nanny, but I didn't want to do that to either of them. I know now it probably would have given me some peace. Someday though, I have to let go. I might as well start now.

What the Body Remembers

I think this is a title of a book. It's come to mind many times in the past few months. Initially, everything reminded me of my daughter and her death, and everything upset me. After a while, it was the predictable things that upset me--a pair of her shoes that hadn't been put out of sight, seeing a mother with two girls--and then I got used to those. I was able to brace myself.

Now, I don't always know what will upset me, what will remind me of her or her death. I do know that it's not limited to one sense--sight, sound, etc. I was at the therapist's office a couple of months ago. The therapist had me doing a relaxation exercise where I tensed up each area of my body and then released it several times. When I tensed up my neck and shoulders, I suddenly remembered that the day she died, my neck got really stiff. And suddenly, I was back at the moment when that happened.

I almost stopped and said, I can't do this. But I wanted to try, so I stuck with it, tried to focus on the instructions, and it passed. Now I know that even though I felt numb at the time, I experienced her death, that day, everything with all of my senses. And that explains why I can be doing almost anything and suddenly burst into tears. A sight, a sound, a smell, the way the air feels on a cool day can remind me of her or that day.

I've gotten one piece of great advice from my counselor to help pull myself out of those memories. Focus on the present, by reciting facts like my name, the date, my address, and if possible, touch something and concentrate on that texture. It really helps.

What I still haven't figured out is whether I'm supposed to keep pulling myself out of the memories. Sometimes I do let myself go with them, until I feel such despair that I fear if I don't stop remembering, I will literally go insane. I do at least know that it's not always conscious. I have to live my life, and I can't avoid anything I fear might bring up memories. I don't even know what all of those things are.

The good news--my body also remembers holding my girl, when she was a baby, a toddler, and a big girl I had to hoist above my pregnant belly which held her little sister. Sometimes I forget those things too, but pictures and video of her help. And at times, even that makes me sad, but holding on to her in these ways is never a bad thing.

Go easy on yourself (AKA Responsibility)

I've been trying to figure out how to go easy on myself. My counselor told me I'm hard on myself, which is true. I have high expectations of myself and this probably spreads to my expectations for others. It's really tiring. I've been trying to figure out how to go easy on myself.

I think it comes down to me not taking so much responsibility. I generally take responsibility for everything, even things that probably aren't my responsibility. I pay my bills on my time, I went to school (lots of school) like I was supposed to (according to my family, society, etc.), I teach my children manners, I recycle...on and on. To me, these are all signs of responsibility.

Responsibility is exhausting. Specific to this blog, I keep thinking of the responsibilities I have in relation to my daughter's death. A therapist once told me that you can't change something you don't take responsibility for. If I take responsibility for it, I can convince myself that I could have changed something, done something just a little differently. As I said, this is exhausting.

With respect to other things/situations, it's the same. If you take responsibility and think you can change someone or something, you exhaust yourself trying to make things better.

So for now, I've decided to back off on taking responsibility. For everything, anyway. I'm going to work on letting go of things I can't control. My plan is to take this to the semi-extreme, at least for the weekend. So far, just thinking about this has made me feel a little better. This should be the practice of focusing on myself, listening to my needs. I did this in the extreme after my daughter's death. It gets easier to be hard on yourself once you're out of crisis mode.

For a weekend, I can pretend I'm in crisis mode and let go of responsibility.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw a man I work with who lost his son just before Thanksgiving. He's always been a strong personality, in the middle of everything (as his job dictates), loud and in charge. But when I saw him this time, I noticed a change. He looked...quieter. Subdued. I don't know if someone can LOOK quieter, but that's the word that comes to mind.

And I wondered if I look quieter. I know I am quieter--don't participate in discussions (with friends or collagues) as readily. Even if I have something to say, I'll wait and see if anyone else says it, and then speak only if I feel the thought really needs to be expressed.

It's as if losing my daughter has led me to measure my words, movements, even thoughts. Or maybe there's so much going on under the surface that I try my best to keep the outside under control.

I wonder too, whether I seem so different to people who know me. Losing my daughter changed who I am, just as having her changed me. My one hope is that it didn't make me a lesser person, somehow. I fear my younger daughter getting a lesser version of me. As always, I believe some of that is up to me, is a choice I can make. The experience of losing my daughter has affected me in some immeasurable, unchangeable way though. I wonder if anyone can see or hear that.

The Second Year

I've heard from other parents who've lost children that the second year is sometimes harder than the first. I thought it was mostly because the shock wears off and you start to feel everything more intensely. I'm not sure that's it though.

I thought I'd be relieved at getting through the anniversary of my daughter's death. Like it was a milestone of accomplishment. Instead I feel worn out. I think back to all of the things I've gone through in the past year--losing my daughter, planning her memorial, moving, traveling, other things I don't care to share--and all while nursing and caring for an infant. It's exhausting. More than I did in the 5 years before.

How on earth do you recover from that? By recover, I mean get your strength back. I feel like I had the strength to get through the past year. Where do I find the strength for the next one?

To forget

I realized today that neither my parents nor my in-laws called, sent cards, or even mentioned the anniversary of my daughter's death. My brother-in-law did call, as did many of my friends. All I can think is that it's easier for them to not think about it. As I wrote previously, what I wanted was for my daughter to be remembered. It's painful to think that they don't want to remember her. I know for my mother-in-law, the memories lead more to the painful ones for now than the joyous ones.

And I think maybe that's what grief is for. If you can grieve, a little at a time, in whatever way works for you, eventually you can come around to those good memories and try to put those into their own suitcase. I believe that's what therapy and the company and understanding of my friends is doing for me. My mother-in-law put away all of the pictures of my daughter after her death. She doesn't like to even hear her name because it makes her sad.

It makes me sad to think about pretending she never existed. I'm not going to force our families to talk about her. They are of the generation (and perhaps cultures) that don't believe in talking about things. Just hide it and move on. But that's not me. So I'll let it go. Friends are the family you choose. My chosen family did call, did talk, and for now, they're the ones I'll remember her with.

The day after

A couple of people asked me what was the worst thing that could happen on the one-year anniversary of my daughter's death. Initially, I would say reliving the event. Then I realized that I actually fear something else bad happening on the same day. I have another child, and my worst fear now is losing her.

The night before, I had trouble sleeping. I wasn't upset, and didn't have trouble falling asleep. I woke up at the slightest sound, however, and couldn't fall back asleep. Oddly enough, I wasn't exhausted in the morning.

On the first anniversary of my daughter's death, I got tons of phone calls and emails. During the day, my daughter was here, along with the nanny and her boyfriend. When they left in the afternoon, I did feel a bit strange, but phone calls kept me company. When my daughter woke up, we left the house. In the evening, friends brought dinner over and kept us company until bedtime.

I thought I would want to pretend it was just any other day and hope it passed quickly. My worst fear was that I would remember all of the things that happened a year ago and in the weeks that followed.

On that day, I realized my worst fear was that no one would remember all that had happened. I want my daughter to be remembered, and I guess I want others to remember all we went through (together). For me, that means she will never be forgotten.

Thank you to everyone who called, emailed, and thought about us yesterday. We made it, and I couldn't have done it without you.