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.
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Monday, August 8, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Milestones
I made it, made it through the week that resembled that other week. I was so relieved, and then I took a deep breath, looked around, and realized I'm surrounded by my own self-made milestones. I find myself sometimes thinking, only X weeks until...but there is nothing to count down to, I hope. I didn't know when my daughter was born that I was counting down to her older sister's death.
My little man is 5 weeks old today. When my daughter was 5 weeks and 4 days old, her sister died. The day after that was my postpartum checkup. I was going to have my checkup at 4 weeks this time but had to reschedule. Next Thursday will be 6 weeks and 2 days after the baby was born and that's when I'm having my checkup. I think once I get through that, I'll breathe another sigh of relief.
My daughter is still sleeping in a crib, and the baby sleeps in our room. After my daughter died, her sister stayed in our room rather than going to the crib at 2 months as we'd planned. And she stayed in a portable crib until she was about 9 months old. In our old house, she was right beside me and honestly it made me crazy. All the little baby noises and fearing that I would wake her if I got up to go to the bathroom made me frustrated and exhausted. Once we moved to this house, she slept just outside our door in a little loft area. It was insane--we didn't yet have a new baby monitor and I couldn't see her, but somehow I felt she was safe there.
I've already bought a second video monitor like the one I finally found for my daughter's room. And my daughter has new furniture in the bedroom that until now was mostly unused. Her sister's remaining clothing and toys are in the closet. The closet was once filled with plastic bins filled with my daughter's things. Now we're down to about 5 boxes, two of them very small. It makes me a bit sad that there's so little left, but also makes me feel a bit better that her sister has been able to use so many of her things.
Moving my daughter to her new room will be a milestone reached, but before that I have to be able to move her sister's remaining items out of that closet. Those bins will probably go into my home office. Another milestone there--admitting that instead of being a museum or shrine of sorts, the room will actually be used as a bedroom.
When will I finally get past all these milestones? Losing my firstborn was like having time stop and restart. I have to get my daughter past those same ages and stages. Will I feel this way as my son gets older? I want to stop feeling like every time I kiss her it's closer to the end, to some horrible end I'm envisioning.
In mid-September, my second child will be older than her older sister. In my mind, that's the last milestone, but realistically, I don't know. I've already thought about (and sort of dread) my daughter's birthday in December. She would have been 5, an age I was really looking forward to. Can I stop creating milestones? Maybe that's what's really happening here.
On a positive note, a friend of mine told me this weekend that I finally sound better, more like myself. I asked her how I sounded before, and she couldn't really say, but something about having to turn my attention to a new baby has changed. All I can think is that now I'm truly focusing on life rather than being dragged along by death.
My little man is 5 weeks old today. When my daughter was 5 weeks and 4 days old, her sister died. The day after that was my postpartum checkup. I was going to have my checkup at 4 weeks this time but had to reschedule. Next Thursday will be 6 weeks and 2 days after the baby was born and that's when I'm having my checkup. I think once I get through that, I'll breathe another sigh of relief.
My daughter is still sleeping in a crib, and the baby sleeps in our room. After my daughter died, her sister stayed in our room rather than going to the crib at 2 months as we'd planned. And she stayed in a portable crib until she was about 9 months old. In our old house, she was right beside me and honestly it made me crazy. All the little baby noises and fearing that I would wake her if I got up to go to the bathroom made me frustrated and exhausted. Once we moved to this house, she slept just outside our door in a little loft area. It was insane--we didn't yet have a new baby monitor and I couldn't see her, but somehow I felt she was safe there.
I've already bought a second video monitor like the one I finally found for my daughter's room. And my daughter has new furniture in the bedroom that until now was mostly unused. Her sister's remaining clothing and toys are in the closet. The closet was once filled with plastic bins filled with my daughter's things. Now we're down to about 5 boxes, two of them very small. It makes me a bit sad that there's so little left, but also makes me feel a bit better that her sister has been able to use so many of her things.
Moving my daughter to her new room will be a milestone reached, but before that I have to be able to move her sister's remaining items out of that closet. Those bins will probably go into my home office. Another milestone there--admitting that instead of being a museum or shrine of sorts, the room will actually be used as a bedroom.
When will I finally get past all these milestones? Losing my firstborn was like having time stop and restart. I have to get my daughter past those same ages and stages. Will I feel this way as my son gets older? I want to stop feeling like every time I kiss her it's closer to the end, to some horrible end I'm envisioning.
In mid-September, my second child will be older than her older sister. In my mind, that's the last milestone, but realistically, I don't know. I've already thought about (and sort of dread) my daughter's birthday in December. She would have been 5, an age I was really looking forward to. Can I stop creating milestones? Maybe that's what's really happening here.
On a positive note, a friend of mine told me this weekend that I finally sound better, more like myself. I asked her how I sounded before, and she couldn't really say, but something about having to turn my attention to a new baby has changed. All I can think is that now I'm truly focusing on life rather than being dragged along by death.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Deja Vu
No, I didn't fall off the face of the earth. Nor did I decide to stop blogging. I made it through The Month, which I've decided now to think of as half good half bad, like many things in life. First half of May--Mother's Day and my birthday. Second half--my daughter's death and my time to tell the story of her death. Made it through both intact. Learned about a new kind of tired then, which I'll briefly explain.
Stress has always messed with my stomach. I do sometimes have trouble sleeping, but for the most part, stress exhausts me and makes me lose weight like crazy. In the days after my daughter died, I lost around 5 lbs. in two days (while breastfeeding, no less) but slept like a log, at least 8 hours a night. I welcomed that tiredness, because it allowed me to escape.
The week I told my daughter's story, my husband and I both got sick. Nothing major, just colds, but since I was very pregnant at the time, all I could do was take some mild decongestants and cough syrup, so I was pretty miserable. And between the cold and having to relive her death via the retelling, I was utterly exhausted. For the first time in ages, I hated it. I didn't want to be exhausted. Like last year, I feared the anniversary somehow bringing some sort of other tragedy and wanted to be as rested and alert as possible. I would spend my days trying to figure out how to feel better--what could I overcome first? The cold? Pregnancy fatigue? Or the exhaustion of her death annivesary?
Eventually I got better. Then suddenly on June 14, I got up from my desk to get my lunch and felt a tiny trickle of fluid. I went to the bathroom and saw a bigger trickle. Called my doctor's office and was told to go to the hospital. With my other two pregnancies, my water broke at 39.5 weeks and that was that. On June 14, I was only 35 weeks along. But I know what amniotic fluid looks like and what it feels like when your water breaks. So that night, Baby Boy was born, about 6 hours after I left for the hospital.
Like my daughters, he was delivered via emergency c-section. So much for planning ahead! I hadn't packed anything, pulled out baby clothes, assembled a bassinet...obviously I wasn't prepared. But my husband and nanny pulled together everything we needed and took care of my daughter. Baby Boy spent 10 days in the neonatal intensive care unit because initially he had some trouble breathing and couldn't feed well. Fortunately, he was one of the biggest, healthiest NICU babies and was never hooked up to anything to help him breathe, never needed treatment for jaundice or any other condition.
I'll skip the gory details (most of which involve very little sleep) and fast forward to today. Baby Boy will be 3 weeks old 3 days from today. I'm tired still, that newborn up all night kind of tired. Which is OK. But now I come to the title of this post.
The day my daughter died, my husband was in class, my nanny was on vacation, and I was supposed to finally spend some time with my big girl. This morning, the nanny left on vacation. Tuesday my husband goes back to class for the first time since baby boy arrived. My mother-in-law is here helping out, whereas last time my grandma was here. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid of how much this week will resemble that day. It was a Thursday, so I'm specifically dreading Thursday.
What's getting me through is focusing on the differences. We're in a different house, my daughter still sleeps in a crib (her sister was in a bed and therefore free to move around), I am stronger now than I was 3 weeks after my previous delivery (thanks to conscious attempts at getting stronger), and I have one of the best video baby monitors money can buy. OK, there's nothing here that's necessarily completely reassuring, but I have to start somewhere.
Think of me this week. As I've told my daughter since just after her sister died, "Mommy strong!" I convinced her and to some extent myself, and hopefully that belief holds up this week.
Stress has always messed with my stomach. I do sometimes have trouble sleeping, but for the most part, stress exhausts me and makes me lose weight like crazy. In the days after my daughter died, I lost around 5 lbs. in two days (while breastfeeding, no less) but slept like a log, at least 8 hours a night. I welcomed that tiredness, because it allowed me to escape.
The week I told my daughter's story, my husband and I both got sick. Nothing major, just colds, but since I was very pregnant at the time, all I could do was take some mild decongestants and cough syrup, so I was pretty miserable. And between the cold and having to relive her death via the retelling, I was utterly exhausted. For the first time in ages, I hated it. I didn't want to be exhausted. Like last year, I feared the anniversary somehow bringing some sort of other tragedy and wanted to be as rested and alert as possible. I would spend my days trying to figure out how to feel better--what could I overcome first? The cold? Pregnancy fatigue? Or the exhaustion of her death annivesary?
Eventually I got better. Then suddenly on June 14, I got up from my desk to get my lunch and felt a tiny trickle of fluid. I went to the bathroom and saw a bigger trickle. Called my doctor's office and was told to go to the hospital. With my other two pregnancies, my water broke at 39.5 weeks and that was that. On June 14, I was only 35 weeks along. But I know what amniotic fluid looks like and what it feels like when your water breaks. So that night, Baby Boy was born, about 6 hours after I left for the hospital.
Like my daughters, he was delivered via emergency c-section. So much for planning ahead! I hadn't packed anything, pulled out baby clothes, assembled a bassinet...obviously I wasn't prepared. But my husband and nanny pulled together everything we needed and took care of my daughter. Baby Boy spent 10 days in the neonatal intensive care unit because initially he had some trouble breathing and couldn't feed well. Fortunately, he was one of the biggest, healthiest NICU babies and was never hooked up to anything to help him breathe, never needed treatment for jaundice or any other condition.
I'll skip the gory details (most of which involve very little sleep) and fast forward to today. Baby Boy will be 3 weeks old 3 days from today. I'm tired still, that newborn up all night kind of tired. Which is OK. But now I come to the title of this post.
The day my daughter died, my husband was in class, my nanny was on vacation, and I was supposed to finally spend some time with my big girl. This morning, the nanny left on vacation. Tuesday my husband goes back to class for the first time since baby boy arrived. My mother-in-law is here helping out, whereas last time my grandma was here. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid of how much this week will resemble that day. It was a Thursday, so I'm specifically dreading Thursday.
What's getting me through is focusing on the differences. We're in a different house, my daughter still sleeps in a crib (her sister was in a bed and therefore free to move around), I am stronger now than I was 3 weeks after my previous delivery (thanks to conscious attempts at getting stronger), and I have one of the best video baby monitors money can buy. OK, there's nothing here that's necessarily completely reassuring, but I have to start somewhere.
Think of me this week. As I've told my daughter since just after her sister died, "Mommy strong!" I convinced her and to some extent myself, and hopefully that belief holds up this week.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Two Years Tomorrow
In about an hour, it will have been two years since I saw my daughter alive for the last time. I put her to bed and a little while later, she asked for some water. She was so calm, so peaceful, not running around, playing in her room or making noise as she usually did. At about 4 AM, I heard her voice. I wasn't sure whether she had just woken up (and my husband was on his way to her) or whether he'd already been there and she was chattering herself to sleep. It was 6 weeks after my c-section, 6 weeks of waking up with a new baby. The next time I saw her, I knew her beautiful little soul had left us.
I can't remember what I was doing last year on May 20. I know that on May 21, I woke up, exercised, and worked. In the evening, some friends of ours came over and kept us company as the day ran out. Tonight I'm here with just my daughter for a few hours, until my husband comes home. I can't help thinking about everything that started on that night two years ago. One life ended. In two months, I will meet the new person growing in my belly. I left the house I thought I'd spend a few more years in. I suddenly became a mommy of one again (to all those who see me), though in my mind and heart I am always a mommy of two.
Most of the time, I don't think about her death. I consciously avoid that part of my mind and heart. I do remember the funny, cute, exciting, and other things she did. I suppose after two years I've managed to separate the two somehow.
Will May always be such a hard month? Mother's Day is always in May. My husband made me chocolate waffles this year, a rare treat. The following weekend, he took me out for what turned out to be a surprise birthday party at a restaurant with all of my friends. I had no idea that he'd planned it, and it's so unlike him to plan anything. Everyone was there, and it completely lifted my mood. When I asked him why he did it, he immediately said that it was because he knew it'd be a tough year.
Last year, I dragged myself, chin up, through absolutely everything because I knew if I let my head hang for even a minute I might not be able to pick it up again. Next year, things might be a bit easier. My husband will be out of school and hopefully working, I'll be busy taking care of a ten-month old, and another year will have passed.
This year, today, I am 38 years old, almost 32 weeks pregnant, and it's been two years since I saw my firstborn. I miss her. I'm angry. I don't think that will ever change.
I can't remember what I was doing last year on May 20. I know that on May 21, I woke up, exercised, and worked. In the evening, some friends of ours came over and kept us company as the day ran out. Tonight I'm here with just my daughter for a few hours, until my husband comes home. I can't help thinking about everything that started on that night two years ago. One life ended. In two months, I will meet the new person growing in my belly. I left the house I thought I'd spend a few more years in. I suddenly became a mommy of one again (to all those who see me), though in my mind and heart I am always a mommy of two.
Most of the time, I don't think about her death. I consciously avoid that part of my mind and heart. I do remember the funny, cute, exciting, and other things she did. I suppose after two years I've managed to separate the two somehow.
Will May always be such a hard month? Mother's Day is always in May. My husband made me chocolate waffles this year, a rare treat. The following weekend, he took me out for what turned out to be a surprise birthday party at a restaurant with all of my friends. I had no idea that he'd planned it, and it's so unlike him to plan anything. Everyone was there, and it completely lifted my mood. When I asked him why he did it, he immediately said that it was because he knew it'd be a tough year.
Last year, I dragged myself, chin up, through absolutely everything because I knew if I let my head hang for even a minute I might not be able to pick it up again. Next year, things might be a bit easier. My husband will be out of school and hopefully working, I'll be busy taking care of a ten-month old, and another year will have passed.
This year, today, I am 38 years old, almost 32 weeks pregnant, and it's been two years since I saw my firstborn. I miss her. I'm angry. I don't think that will ever change.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
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.
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