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.

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.