Some nights, I sit and cry and press your urn to my heart to try to be whole again.
I relive your last moments instead of your first; I sob until your ship is dripping with tears.
Sail across the sweet salt sea, my love. My tears bring you home.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Three years?
Three years. Some (disjointed, emotional, crying-while-typing) thoughts.
Next week is Eleanor's birthday. One year with our 'rainbow' - my sweet little girl. I've been able to talk more about losing Henry. Not in volume, but more content.
I remember more. Some days I remember nothing but the fear and anxiety looming behind the sedation.
When they don't expect your child to survive, they give you really good drugs for the cesarean. I was pretty impressed after having a routine cesarean with Eleanor. They did NOT load me up with the relaxing anti-anxieties and whatnot. I didn't expect that when she was born - I had to actually be brave, rather than float away on that mind-numbing cloud.
I remember the terror once he left us. His skin lost the blotching. His complexion became perfect. His toes alabaster, the dark shadows leaving. Once he was gone, I wanted him to be taken away. I wish I hadn't. I wish I held him all night. This year was the first time I realized this. I'm so ashamed that I let my fear get in the way. I'm so proud that Jason didn't have that fear. He embraced him when I couldn't. He held our son as he took his last breaths, and long after. He walked him down to the surgery unit. He gave him his final good-bye kiss. I don't say this enough -- my husband is my hero and my inspiration.
My girls are with my mom, and I'm cleaning - and crying. It's therapy. Cleaning the house while cleaning out my emotions -- emptying my cup of grief until it fills again. And now, standing alone in my kitchen, I find myself in tears. Anything and everything brings me back to those hours before, during, and after. The days, months either way. Today's trigger was Hamilton -- I freaking LOVE this musical. But Eliza after losing Phillip.. and It's Quiet Uptown. It undoes me. (Listen here)
It's leaning into the knife. Sometimes you need to push it in to feel and acknowledge your emotions. Sometimes you need to grieve, and not just push everything away. I've been pushing it all away and find myself being short with my (amazing) kids. I get so angry at myself when I yell - it's a vicious cycle.
My advice for the grieving? Know that you have this same 'cup' - and that it's okay. Some days it'll fill within minutes. Some days it'll slowly fill over days, months, years. Tend to it, tend to yourself. Take care of yourself, so that you can enjoy your life ahead of you.
I've also realized that I don't have enough time. So, I don't have time for anything but what I want and need for my family. I don't have time for pettiness and ugliness. I don't have time to bring darkness to the world. I don't have time for drama. I will always do what is best for my family and myself. For my girls. For my son, and his memory.
-----
There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
The moments when you’re in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down
Next week is Eleanor's birthday. One year with our 'rainbow' - my sweet little girl. I've been able to talk more about losing Henry. Not in volume, but more content.
I remember more. Some days I remember nothing but the fear and anxiety looming behind the sedation.
When they don't expect your child to survive, they give you really good drugs for the cesarean. I was pretty impressed after having a routine cesarean with Eleanor. They did NOT load me up with the relaxing anti-anxieties and whatnot. I didn't expect that when she was born - I had to actually be brave, rather than float away on that mind-numbing cloud.
I remember the terror once he left us. His skin lost the blotching. His complexion became perfect. His toes alabaster, the dark shadows leaving. Once he was gone, I wanted him to be taken away. I wish I hadn't. I wish I held him all night. This year was the first time I realized this. I'm so ashamed that I let my fear get in the way. I'm so proud that Jason didn't have that fear. He embraced him when I couldn't. He held our son as he took his last breaths, and long after. He walked him down to the surgery unit. He gave him his final good-bye kiss. I don't say this enough -- my husband is my hero and my inspiration.
My girls are with my mom, and I'm cleaning - and crying. It's therapy. Cleaning the house while cleaning out my emotions -- emptying my cup of grief until it fills again. And now, standing alone in my kitchen, I find myself in tears. Anything and everything brings me back to those hours before, during, and after. The days, months either way. Today's trigger was Hamilton -- I freaking LOVE this musical. But Eliza after losing Phillip.. and It's Quiet Uptown. It undoes me. (Listen here)
It's leaning into the knife. Sometimes you need to push it in to feel and acknowledge your emotions. Sometimes you need to grieve, and not just push everything away. I've been pushing it all away and find myself being short with my (amazing) kids. I get so angry at myself when I yell - it's a vicious cycle.
My advice for the grieving? Know that you have this same 'cup' - and that it's okay. Some days it'll fill within minutes. Some days it'll slowly fill over days, months, years. Tend to it, tend to yourself. Take care of yourself, so that you can enjoy your life ahead of you.
I've also realized that I don't have enough time. So, I don't have time for anything but what I want and need for my family. I don't have time for pettiness and ugliness. I don't have time to bring darkness to the world. I don't have time for drama. I will always do what is best for my family and myself. For my girls. For my son, and his memory.
-----
There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
The moments when you’re in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down
Three years?
Three years. Some thoughts.
Next week is Eleanor's birthday. One year with our 'rainbow' - my sweet little girl. I've been able to talk more about losing Henry. Not in volume, but more content.
I remember more. Some days I remember nothing but the fear and anxiety looming behind the sedation.
When they don't expect your child to survive, they give you really good drugs for the cesarean. I was pretty impressed after having a routine cesarean with Eleanor. They did NOT load me up with the relaxing anti-anxieties and whatnot. I didn't expect that when she was born - I had to actually be brave, rather than float away on that mind-numbing cloud.
I remember the terror once he left us. His skin lost the blotching. His complexion became perfect. His toes alabaster, the dark shadows leaving. Once he was gone, I wanted him to be taken away. I wish I hadn't. I wish I held him all night. This year was the first time I realized this. I'm so ashamed that I let my fear get in the way. I'm so proud that Jason didn't have that fear. He embraced him when I couldn't. He held our son as he took his last breaths, and long after. He walked him down to the surgery unit. He gave him his final good-bye kiss. I don't say this enough -- my husband is my hero and my inspiration.
My girls are with my mom, and I'm cleaning - and crying. It's therapy. Cleaning the house while cleaning out my emotions -- emptying my cup of grief until it fills again. And now, standing alone in my kitchen, I find myself in tears. Anything and everything brings me back to those hours before, during, and after. The days, months either way. Today's trigger was Hamilton -- I freaking LOVE this musical. But Eliza after losing Phillip.. and It's Quiet Uptown. It undoes me. (Listen here)
It's leaning into the knife. Sometimes you need to push it in to feel and acknowledge your emotions. Sometimes you need to grieve, and not just push everything away. I've been pushing it all away and find myself being short with my (amazing) kids. I get so angry at myself when I yell - it's a vicious cycle.
My advice for the grieving? Know that you have this same 'cup' - and that it's okay. Some days it'll fill within minutes. Some days it'll slowly fill over days, months, years. Tend to it, tend to yourself. Take care of yourself, so that you can enjoy your life ahead of you.
I've also realized that I don't have enough time. So, I don't have time for anything but what I want and need for my family. I don't have time for pettiness and ugliness. I don't have time to bring darkness to the world. I don't have time for drama. I will always do what is best for my family and myself. For my girls. For my son, and his memory.
-----
There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
The moments when you’re in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down
Next week is Eleanor's birthday. One year with our 'rainbow' - my sweet little girl. I've been able to talk more about losing Henry. Not in volume, but more content.
I remember more. Some days I remember nothing but the fear and anxiety looming behind the sedation.
When they don't expect your child to survive, they give you really good drugs for the cesarean. I was pretty impressed after having a routine cesarean with Eleanor. They did NOT load me up with the relaxing anti-anxieties and whatnot. I didn't expect that when she was born - I had to actually be brave, rather than float away on that mind-numbing cloud.
I remember the terror once he left us. His skin lost the blotching. His complexion became perfect. His toes alabaster, the dark shadows leaving. Once he was gone, I wanted him to be taken away. I wish I hadn't. I wish I held him all night. This year was the first time I realized this. I'm so ashamed that I let my fear get in the way. I'm so proud that Jason didn't have that fear. He embraced him when I couldn't. He held our son as he took his last breaths, and long after. He walked him down to the surgery unit. He gave him his final good-bye kiss. I don't say this enough -- my husband is my hero and my inspiration.
My girls are with my mom, and I'm cleaning - and crying. It's therapy. Cleaning the house while cleaning out my emotions -- emptying my cup of grief until it fills again. And now, standing alone in my kitchen, I find myself in tears. Anything and everything brings me back to those hours before, during, and after. The days, months either way. Today's trigger was Hamilton -- I freaking LOVE this musical. But Eliza after losing Phillip.. and It's Quiet Uptown. It undoes me. (Listen here)
It's leaning into the knife. Sometimes you need to push it in to feel and acknowledge your emotions. Sometimes you need to grieve, and not just push everything away. I've been pushing it all away and find myself being short with my (amazing) kids. I get so angry at myself when I yell - it's a vicious cycle.
My advice for the grieving? Know that you have this same 'cup' - and that it's okay. Some days it'll fill within minutes. Some days it'll slowly fill over days, months, years. Tend to it, tend to yourself. Take care of yourself, so that you can enjoy your life ahead of you.
I've also realized that I don't have enough time. So, I don't have time for anything but what I want and need for my family. I don't have time for pettiness and ugliness. I don't have time to bring darkness to the world. I don't have time for drama. I will always do what is best for my family and myself. For my girls. For my son, and his memory.
-----
There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
The moments when you’re in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down
Monday, May 9, 2016
Another Mother's Day
I was really irritable towards the end of last week. Even more so on Saturday. I kept on breaking down. I'm so used to the random crying spells now.
I miss my son. I'm so thankful for my daughters, but I miss my son and everything he could have done.
It's hard to grieve, especially after a "rainbow baby" -- people think that when you have another child, that child will take the place of the one that you've lost. So you can 'get over it'. Your lost child become a distant memory to those close to you, and completely forgotten by some in your circles.
My throat is closing as I'm writing this. Because that's the pain in my soul. Henry's forgotten. My job as his mother, now, is to keep a part of him alive. I feel like I'm failing in that respect. The lack of participation in our fundraiser is compounding that failure.
'No one cares, get over it. You haven't lost as much as others.'
Yes. Yes, I know. But it still hurts. That gaping, sucking chest wound is a slow burn. All day, every day. I can trace the circle that aches.
I miss my son. I'm so thankful for my daughters, but I miss my son and everything he could have done.
It's hard to grieve, especially after a "rainbow baby" -- people think that when you have another child, that child will take the place of the one that you've lost. So you can 'get over it'. Your lost child become a distant memory to those close to you, and completely forgotten by some in your circles.
My throat is closing as I'm writing this. Because that's the pain in my soul. Henry's forgotten. My job as his mother, now, is to keep a part of him alive. I feel like I'm failing in that respect. The lack of participation in our fundraiser is compounding that failure.
'No one cares, get over it. You haven't lost as much as others.'
Yes. Yes, I know. But it still hurts. That gaping, sucking chest wound is a slow burn. All day, every day. I can trace the circle that aches.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
Diagnosis #3.
There are just some days where you need to get everything out.
It's one of those days. Today is Diagnosis Day, the day that I first felt my world shatter into pieces. The first time I screamed and raged against God for doing this to my baby, to my family. The first time I felt so completely broken that I couldn't see beyond the death of my child.
It's also Eleanor's six month birthday. My rainbow baby.
I remember the anguish. The feeling of my heart being ripped out from my chest.
This balance, between extreme happiness and extreme pain, is so difficult to walk sometimes. I sobbed this morning, after my babies left for daycare. Because while I'm celebrating my daughter's half-birthday, I'm also mourning the day we found out our little boy would die.
I hate this club. I wish I had a silly little two year old to chase around, who pokes at both of his sisters and whips off his diaper at a moment's notice.
It feels like reality shifted that day, it feels like the day that everything in life really started to go wrong. Our blessed life took the wrong path, and it led to disease and loss and heartbreak.
I'm just heartbroken still, I guess. I don't think I'll recover. I don't think that I'm meant to recover from this at all. I think that the joy that I feel exists in the whole pieces that are left - the cracks are there to remind me to embrace the joy and the love.
I'm still angry with God. I don't even know if He exists anymore. Sometimes, I feel like I can see his presense in life.. but then I feel that ache. The hoarseness in my throat from screaming in agony and denial, the ache in my pregnant knees as I knelt in a chapel and begged God to spare her life and just let her PLEASE WAKE UP, the betrayal that I felt when another diagnosis came on my son's birth/death date.
I feel like it's all connected, in a macabre fashion. I don't know - I'll never know. I just need to get it out. I need to cry and look at my life in the reflection of my tears and remember that, no matter what, we've been blessed.
It's one of those days. Today is Diagnosis Day, the day that I first felt my world shatter into pieces. The first time I screamed and raged against God for doing this to my baby, to my family. The first time I felt so completely broken that I couldn't see beyond the death of my child.
It's also Eleanor's six month birthday. My rainbow baby.
I remember the anguish. The feeling of my heart being ripped out from my chest.
This balance, between extreme happiness and extreme pain, is so difficult to walk sometimes. I sobbed this morning, after my babies left for daycare. Because while I'm celebrating my daughter's half-birthday, I'm also mourning the day we found out our little boy would die.
I hate this club. I wish I had a silly little two year old to chase around, who pokes at both of his sisters and whips off his diaper at a moment's notice.
It feels like reality shifted that day, it feels like the day that everything in life really started to go wrong. Our blessed life took the wrong path, and it led to disease and loss and heartbreak.
I'm just heartbroken still, I guess. I don't think I'll recover. I don't think that I'm meant to recover from this at all. I think that the joy that I feel exists in the whole pieces that are left - the cracks are there to remind me to embrace the joy and the love.
I'm still angry with God. I don't even know if He exists anymore. Sometimes, I feel like I can see his presense in life.. but then I feel that ache. The hoarseness in my throat from screaming in agony and denial, the ache in my pregnant knees as I knelt in a chapel and begged God to spare her life and just let her PLEASE WAKE UP, the betrayal that I felt when another diagnosis came on my son's birth/death date.
I feel like it's all connected, in a macabre fashion. I don't know - I'll never know. I just need to get it out. I need to cry and look at my life in the reflection of my tears and remember that, no matter what, we've been blessed.
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