In Response to Two Weeks

Real time for a minute...just 2 weeks shy of 2 years since Elise's death and NOPE not even close to "getting over" "my loss".

I mean I guess I am "functioning".  I never wasn't.  I couldn't.  I had 3 other children that needed me.  Now I have 4.  Yes, it is a little easier to get out of bed each morning and go about my daily tasks with some focus and purpose.  I don't break down nearly as often as I did 2 years ago, and the pain isn't as sharp and raw, but don't be fooled, it's still there. 

EVERY DAY 

I think of Elise many times throughout each and every single day.  I miss her as much now as I did then...maybe even more, for now I am not AS consumed with grief, but rather more focused in reality and the reality is that Elise is not here.  She is not participating in our family in a physical way.  She is most definitely a part of us all daily in an emotional and spiritual way.

Having Ella also changed things.  A lot.  Watching her mature from a baby into a little person really reminds me that Elise would (should) be a little person too.  Age 1-2 is one of my favorite times in a child's life.  The growth and change of a child is just so pronounced during this year.  It's not fair, I shouldn't be wondering what Elise would sound like...what kind of disposition she would have...how she gets along with her siblings...how tall she is...how much she weighs....what her favorite things are.  SHE SHOULD BE HERE, Damn it!

But, alas, if she was here, Ella wouldn't be here...and neither would I...not here blogging and taking part in all that I have over the last 2 years concerning infant and pregnancy loss.

I could go on for days, and I'm sure I will at some point, but for now, my intent is to get "caught up" in posting my writings, so I will digress...for two weeks anyway...

Two Weeks

Monday, April 20, 2009

I wish I was a writer, I would love to be able to put words together to express my feelings and have them not only make sense, but sound "good". But, alas, I know I'm not. I might be a good BSer, but that's different and what I'm feeling can't be BSed.
So, I hope the true owners of these words do not take offense, but rather, if they ever find out I used their blogging, feel something good (see, not the word I want!) knowing their words exactly express my thoughts and feelings. I apologize for not giving credit, but I go a lot of places and read a lot of things and never remember to copy and paste the owner's name...

Today Elise would have been two weeks old. How can two weeks have passed? How can it feel like an eternity and yet like yesterday, all at once? It's been two weeks since I held her and kissed her. Just two weeks since the dreams of our last baby were born and died all on the same day.
Two weeks gone. I don't know how I've managed to get here. And I have no idea how to get through the next minute, the next hour, let alone the next day, the next week, the next year... the rest of my life... without her. I don't know how I'm doing it. It defies all logic and reason.
Addicts say recovery is one day at a time. Grief isn't like that. It's more immediate. It's one breath at a time. And every single one is like sucking in razor blades.
According to the stats, people get over a loss outside of their own immediate family within two weeks. And even when the loss does involve immediate family, people get back to functioning after about 1-2 months. When the loss involves the death of a child? That period of time is extended... to 18-24 months.
Are you kidding me? Two years. I can't do this for two years. I can't go around unable to think, speak, function... how do people do this? How?



More words that are not my own, but these were meant for my sweet Elise on this oh so yucky day...

"Wow, I cannot believe it's been two weeks. It's feels like everyday of this has dragged on endlessly. How did the years we planned turn into seconds we didn't get?
Without knowing you, you quickly became one of the most important people in my life. I imagine you running with my boys in the months to come. Maybe a birthday party with my son in the years ahead. I was hoping you'd make your appearance on that day, because you were so special to me I wanted to share something I had with you!
I feel like this isn't fair, why didn't I even get to meet you? I was so looking forward to your arrival. I find this to be harsh and unfair. Why not someone else? I know that's not the right thing to think or say, but it's exactly how I feel today.
I have stuff for you, that I wanted to give you! I was going to bring it to you in the hospital once you arrived, but now... What now...
Are you sure it's been two weeks? Of course you're not, you're a baby and you can't tell time! Let me tell you, it feels longer and shorter at the same time? I'm going to see your mommy today, give me the guidance on what to say or what not to say!
Thanks Elise, for allowing me to love you. It was a great gift and a powerful lesson."

My New Normal

This is now what "normal" is...

Normal is having tears waiting behind every smile when you realize someone important is missing from all the important events in your family's life.

Normal is feeling like you can't sit another minute without getting up and screaming, because you just don't like to sit through anything.

Normal is not sleeping very well because a thousand "what if's" & "why didn't I's" go through your head constantly.

Normal is reliving that day continuously through your eyes and mind, holding your head to make it go away.

Normal is having the TV on the minute I walk into the house to have noise, because the silence is deafening.

Normal is staring at every baby who looks like he is my baby's age. And then thinking of the age they would be now and not being able to imagine it. Then wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it will never happen.

Normal is every happy event in my life always being backed up with sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart.

Normal is telling the story of your child's death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone's eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of my "normal".

Normal is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your child's memory and their birthday and survive these days. And trying to find the balloon or flag that fit's the occasion. Happy Birthday? Not really.

Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special my baby could have or would have loved, but how she is not here to enjoy it.

Normal is having some people afraid to mention my babie's name.

Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives, but we continue to grieve our loss forever.

Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse sometimes, not better.

Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to this loss, unless they too have lost a child. NOTHING. Even if your child is in the remotest part of the earth away from you - it doesn't compare. Losing a parent is horrible, but having to bury your own child is unnatural.

Normal is taking pills, and trying not to cry all day, because I know my mental health depends on it.

Normal is realizing I do cry everyday.

Normal is sitting at the computer crying, sharing how you feel with chat buddies who have also lost a child.

Normal is feeling a common bond with friends on the computer in England, Australia, Canada, the Netherlands and all over the USA, but yet never having met any of them face to face.

Normal is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying together over our children and our new lives.

Normal is not listening to people make excuses for God. "God may have done this because..." I love God, I know that my baby is in heaven, but hearing people trying to think up excuses as to why healthy babies were taken from this earth is not appreciated and makes absolutely no sense to this grieving mother.

Normal is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did laundry or if there is any food.

Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have four children or three, because you will never see this person again and it is not worth explaining that one of my babies is in heaven. And yet when you say you have 3 children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your baby.

Normal is asking God why he took your child's life instead of yours and asking if there even is a God.

Normal is knowing I will never get over this loss, in a day or a million years.And last of all,

Normal is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for you to feel, so that everyone around you will think that you are  "normal".   

posted Thursday, April 16, 2009 

My Wish List

1. I wish my baby hadn't died. I wish I had her back.

2. I wish you wouldn't tell me I could have another baby. The truth is I want the baby I lost and no other baby can replace her. Babies aren't interchangeable. Please don’t ask me if I will try to have another baby, I can’t answer that yet.

3. I wish you wouldn't be afraid to speak my baby's name. She lived and is very important to me. I need to hear that she is important to you also.

4. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my baby, I wish you knew it isn't because you have hurt me. My baby's death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my baby, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both. The truth is I need to cry and talk about my baby with you. Crying and emotional outbursts help me heal.

5. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn't shy away from me. I need you now more than ever. By staying away you make me feel isolated, confused and like it is my fault.

6. I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my baby, my favorite topic of the day. The truth is I love her and need to talk about it.

7. I know you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my baby's death pains you too. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card or note, or a real big hug.
Please don’t think that you'll keep away because others will be there for me. The truth is, everyone thinks the same thing and I am often left with no one.

8. I wish you wouldn't judge me because I'm not acting the way you think I should be. The truth is grief is a very personal thing and we are all different people who deal with things differently.
My grief will not be over in a few weeks or months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. The truth is it may get easier with time but I will never be "over" this. I will suffer the death of my baby until the day I die.

9. I am working very hard on my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my baby, and I will always grieve that she is dead. Please don’t think if I have a good day I'm "over it" or if I have a bad day I am being unreasonable because you think I should be over it. The truth is there is no "normal" way for me to act.

10. I wish you wouldn't expect me "not to think about it" or to "be happy." Neither will happen for a very long time, so don't frustrate yourself.

11. I wish you wouldn't think what has happened is one big bad memory for me. The truth is the memory of my baby, the love I feel for my baby, the dreams I had and the memories I have created for my baby are all loving memories. Yes there are bad memories too but please understand that it's not all like that.

12. I don't want to have a "pity party," but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal.

13. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I am feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you. Losing my baby has changed me. The truth is I am not the same person I was before and will never be that person again.

14. When I say, "I'm doing okay," I wish you could understand that I don't "feel" okay and that I struggle daily.

15. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I'm having are very normal. Depression, anger, frustration, hopelessness, and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So, please excuse me when I'm quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.

16. Your advice to "take one day at a time" is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I'm doing good to handle an hour at a time.

17. Please excuse me if I seem rude, certainly it is not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes too fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend time alone.

18. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my baby died, a big part of me died with her. I am not the same person I was before my baby died, and will never be that person again.

19. I wish you would remember the father. The truth is he is suffering too.

20. I wish very much that you could understand - understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain BUT, I pray that you will never understand.

21. I wish you don't think bad of me for posting this list. The truth is it needed to be said.

~Author Unknown~

Monday, April 13, 2009

Strength and Courage

Author: Sylvia Kelly

It takes strength to be certain,
It takes courage to have doubts.

It takes strength to fit in,
It takes courage to stand out.

It takes strength to share a friend's pain,
It takes courage to feel your own pain.

It takes strength to hide your own pain,
It takes courage to show it and deal with it.

It takes strength to stand guard,
It takes courage to let down your guard.

It takes strength to conquer,
It takes courage to surrender.

It takes strength to stand alone,
It takes courage to lean on a friend.

It takes strength to love,
It takes courage to be loved.

It takes strength to survive,
It takes courage to live.


I hope I am able to remember this, and so are you!

A Lament for My Baby

I never got to see you smile
you never saw me cry
didn't get a chance to say "Hello"
you never said "Goodbye"

I didn't think that I could feel
so sad, lost and forlorn.
I never knew God chose his Angels
before some of them were born.

Your life was short yet special
I shared it all exclusively
I felt you breathe, I felt you kick.
You were alive inside of me.

Every baby is an Angel
and every angel is divine
God needed one in heaven
He came down and took mine

And although we are not together
we're not really apart
for you'll always occupy a space
deep within my heart.

Anonymous Author 

(published to my Facebook Saturday, April 11, 2009)

Glory Baby

Friday, April 10, 2009

This song was shown to me by the pastor who baptized Elise at the hospital and spoke at her service today. It is absolutely perfect and will make you cry everytime. (grab a tissue!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FobeElssLCs&feature=related

http://www.mtv.com/lyrics/watermark/glory_baby/12504008/lyrics.jhtml

http://new.music.yahoo.com/watermark/tracks/

I used it in this montage that I created for Elise

http://www.onetruemedia.com/shared?p=ab0835966301fb393e4da5&skin_id=701&utm_source=otm&utm_medium=text_url