Kindness and Community

We did it! We survived our first Kindness Walk to support the MISS Foundation. I first heard about the MISS Foundation when we first lost Hannah. I won't got into all that they do, but it's good and there are a lot of people that depend on them. They are amazing.

My first thought was "What a fun way to support a good cause!" My second thought was "It's too soon. I can't face it yet." So I was all set to avoid it. Then last week I changed my mind. I realized that I would never  "feel" like facing this and it was time to step out from the comfort zone of my house (and my computer) and do something that actually makes a difference.  We fell just shy of our fundraising goal, but considering  we only had a week to plan, I'm proud and grateful for every penny that we did raise.

For me, the two best parts were the memory table where parents and friends and family could share pictures or mementos of the children they lost. My other favorite part was at the end of the walk. There were signs with a foot print and the name of all the children. It was beautifully heartbreaking. All those children, all the heartbreak, all the love. So many families just here in our local community.

It was heartwarming to see the way we all came together, united by grief and loss. It was terribly sad but terribly comforting to see the compassion and support in action. We are not alone. Our children are not forgotten. They were here for however brief a moment in time, and they will always matter.

It's not to late to donate if you are so inclined. Here is the link to the Team Hannah page.

http://www.firstgiving.com/team/297083

Well Meaning Face Slaps

I have several things running through my brain today and I started to message a friend about them but then I realized that I do not have the patience to type it all out on my phone so I am going to write it out here and hopefully she'll read it and know that she is not alone.

First off, the other day a well meaning someone told me that she admires me for the way I have "bounced back" from all this. Ok, I get that she was trying to be supportive, but let me assure you, I have not and will not ever "bounce back from this. This is not bounce back-able. You don't just get over your child dying. You don't become whole again, life is not ever complete again, I will never be the same person again. Yes, I still get up and move thru the days (some days get more movement than others) but do not mistake this for "bouncing back." It's like that song I posted on Facebook the other day. "I Will Never Let You Know" from Nashville. (Shut up. I love that show) "I burned to ashes, split down the middle, if anyone asks it hurts just a little, I died inside the day I let you go. I will never let you know."

Just because I (and my other grief warrior friends) don't walk around wailing or silent or give up and stay in bed, does not mean we bounced back. It means we found the strength to put one foot in front of the other. You would not believe how hard that can be some days. Damn near impossible. But we have not bounced back. We push forward, some days counting the minutes until we can crawl into bed. We do yoga, we take anti-depressants, we journal and we go to therapy. But we have not bounced back. Saying we have "bounced back" is insulting and it's like saying our children and our children's deaths did not matter. I wanted to scream "Shut your face!" but I was at work and also didn't want to get fired. So I said "Not the case, read my blog."

I also have a sweet friend struggling with fertility issues right now. And she's doing the right thing by trying to reach out for support. It's hard for her because people don't get it. They are trying to make her see the "bright side." But when you want to have children and when you deserve to have a family full of children, there is not bright side to knowing that may not happen the way she dreamed of it happening. It very well could happen, but it won't be the journey she dreamed of and wished for. That's a whole grieving process and in and of it's self. People don't get that.

I guess what I am getting at after all this rambling, is be careful with your words. What was meant to be well intentioned can wound. Words have power. They can wound and sting and burn just like a physical blow. And they cannot be taken back once they are out there. If you have a friend who is struggling, give them a hug, tell them it sucks and it's not fair and that you love them. Don't make it about you, don't push the bright side and dear God do NOT put a timeline on their pain. Until you've walked that proverbial mile in their shoes, you can't get it but you do have the power to make it much, much worse.

The Silent Ones

I've been hesitant to write this post. This has been weighing on my mind for a long time, but I hesitated because there is a strongly likelihood that this is going to cause drama. So far I have been baring it all and documenting the authentic, if sometimes ugly, parts of this journey, so to leave this part out just feels wrong. It has had a huge impact on me and on Brent so I  need to just write it out and let the chips fall where they may.

I also hesitated to write this because I know some people are going to take this as whining. And I do not mean it as whining. It's an unpleasant part of the process, but overall I am glad for it. Let me explain...

I've spent a good deal of time writing about all the people I am grateful for. The people who's support has been like a life boat in this storm. People who came over, who sent meals, who still to this day call or text or message just to check in  and check on us. People who say they are thinking of Hannah. People who acknowledge that she existed, that we loved her and that while her life was way too brief, acknowledge that she mattered and had a profound impact us. I know who you are and I am forever grateful. You are all amazing.

But there is a flip side to this coin.  The people who refuse to acknowledge her. They let holidays and other milestones go by without acknowledging her. They have never used her name or sincerely offered condolences. These people rolled in and out of her service, making it clear in both demeanor and lack of emotion that they didn't want to be there, didn't understand the fuss and certainly were not sorry about the loss. They let the holiday season go by without even a simple "I know this has to be tough." They didn't recognize her due date, or Mother's Day. These people, who are supposed to be family - FAMILY - made it clear with their silence that her loss didn't touch them in even the smallest way. They go about their business like she never happened, completely absorbed in themselves and shutting us out. The refuse to use her name.

It's hurtful because these are people that we have always supported. When they faced their own type of loss we were there offering support and distractions. I expected the same in return. and I was let down. I expected to be treated as if we mattered and as if Hannah mattered and that didn't happen. It's disappointing and hurtful and it makes me irate. It's unfair and unjust and awful and really I shouldn't be surprised because that's how it's always been with that crowd. But as I move through the initial shock of grief I find myself focusing on my anger at this particular crowd and that's not healthy for me. What I need to focus on is all the good that we are surrounded by, because the people that love us far, far outnumber the people that couldn't care less. And that is the silver lining of this cloud.

But every now and again, I will let myself remember who made the hurt worse and who's careless attitude spoke louder than their words ever could. They are showing their authentic selves and that is something that it's best to not forget.

Surviving Mother's Day

It's almost over. I've almost survived my first Mother's Day without Hannah. And it wasn't easy.

I woke up to Charlie giggling and climbing in bed with us, all tickles and cartoons. The trouble started when he wanted breakfast. As usual, Brent didn't want to get with him right away and was trying to delay the process. Then when he finally agreed to bring him downstairs, Charlie said he wanted to bring me breakfast in bed. Letting out a huge sigh and making it clear this was the last thing he wanted to do (I'm sure he was planning on setting Charlie up with food and falling back asleep on the couch) Brent asked what I wanted him to pick up for breakfast. He could not have been less enthusiastic. Thanks big guy, don't worry about all the meals I cook for you. Don't bother scrambling an egg for me. Wouldn't want ya to break a sweat. So I told him I wasn't hungry and just waited form them to go downstairs so I could be alone.

And that's when I could feel myself shutting down. I just shut down. I felt like a zombie. I couldn't figure out what I wanted to do with myself, but I knew I had to get out of the house. So I threw on some clothes and went to Target by myself. I wandered the aisles for over an hour, in a daze. Not really seeing anything or needing much other than cat food. But I just couldn't deal with being at home. Finally I headed out and went home. Brent was tired and crabby, Charlie was sassy and crabby and everything just felt out of sync. I grabbed a book and went to read for a while, but Charlie just followed up and continued to be sassy pants. Finally Brent took Charlie and went out to get the grocery shopping done.

Finally I had the peace and quiet I was craving but now the silence felt too loud, to oppressive. So I got a bunch of work done in the garden. Brent was still crabby, Charlie was still sassy. Nothing was as it should be. Nothing. I need this stupid day to be over already.

I did get lots of sweet messages from friends, hoping we were mudding through alright. To those sweet friends, thank you. You were the only thing going right today. Once again, I am grateful because you kept my head above water and kept me moving.

The Mother of All Days

It's Friday. Under normal circumstances this would make me happy. Brent and I ordered Chinese, we'll watch some Madam Secretary and maybe Good Wife if I can stay awake long enough. I'm already in my pajama pants with my feet up. By all accounts I should be happy.

But I'm not. Instead I am sitting here dreading the next two days. Terrified of them. You see, it's already begun. It started at work today. "Have a great Mother's Day! Do you have any fun plans?" And it's only going to get worse tomorrow and the day after.

Under normal circumstances I would be excited. Mother's Day means presents! Sleeping In! Controlling the remote! And a fun outing like the zoo or Lake Geneva! But this year, it's just another milestone to push though. Another painful reminder of what we lost. Another day without my daughter.

What I want to do is stay in bed all day and cry. Maybe read a book or watch a Lifetime Movie. What I want is to spend the day wallowing and crying and feeling sorry for myself. Because I've earned that right dammit! I carry the scars and the pain every day. So just one day, this particular day, I've earned the right to lose it just a little. Not for a week and not forever. Just one day to let go and stop being strong and feel all the feelings.

But what does that say about my son. What does that say about the kind of mother I am to him. How would it make him feel if I gave in to my grief and didn't leave my bed. Would the message to him be that he doesn't matter? Because nothing could be further from the truth. He is absolutely the reason I keep moving right now. When I think I've lost the strength to put one foot in front of the other, it's his face I picture and I forge ahead. He deserves a mom who is whole and present. And even if I don't feel that way anymore, I refuse to let him see that. He matters.

So I'll get out of bed, put one foot in front of the other and push through the day.

But what does that say about my daughter? That she doesn't matter? That she stopped breathing and therefore stopped counting? That she is out of sight and out of mind? That she's not missed or loved. That Charlie means more than Hannah to us because he is here, he didn't leave. That I don't mother her simply because she died?

How does one spend Mother's Day when one child is gone and one is here? How do we honor one and celebrate another? How do we make this day whole and not painful. It's not like there is a middle ground here. There is no easy answer. Much like everything else in this process, I struggle for answers and find simply more questions and an aching heart.

6 Months and Counting

I can't believe it's been 6 months since we lost Hannah. Let me rephrase that. I can't believe it's only been 6 months since we lost Hannah. I feel like her loss is a weight that I've always carried. I can't remember what it was like to not feel her missing every day. Missing her has become such a profound part of our every day that I can't even remember what it was like not to feel that. Not to have that twinge of guilt with every laugh and just to enjoy a relaxed or happy moment freely. Her loss still colors our every movement. Will it always be that way? I don't know. It's certainly gotten easier to carry her loss. It's stopped being extra baggage and just become a part of who I am now. I don't get up every morning and put on my grief like I used to. I used to wake and lay there peacefully for a moment before the memory of her hit me and shredded that peace. Now I just wake up with her loss. It's nothing new. Its a part of who I am, much like my arm or my face or my sarcastic sense of humor. I can't take it off, I can't put it down. It's just there, a part of me.

Honestly, I am glad it's there. It's all I have left and I don't want to lose it. Here's the thing that they don't tell you when your baby dies. There is nothing to sooth you. I can't look back on happy memories or remember the good times, because weren't allowed to experience them. When a grandparent, parent, sibling or friend dies the grief slowly gives way to happy memories. While you will never, ever stop loving them and missing them terribly, eventually you reach a place where you can relieve a funny story or happy memory and smile. We didn't get that chance with Hannah. I can't walk into her room and pick up the blanket she was swaddled in at the hospital and remember the first time I looked into her eyes because that never happened. Instead I pick up that blanket and remember saying goodbye to my sweet girl.

I don't mean to infer that infant loss is worse than other loss. That's simply not true. No loss is easy and it's certainly not a competition. What I mean to say is that it's different than other types of loss. The journey through grief and healing is different. And when grief is all you have of someone it's hard, if not impossible to really let it go.

So I carry this weight with me always. And I'm ok with that. Missing Hannah is the only relationship I was given with her. Instead of cursing fate (which I've done) or God (which I've also done) I carry her loss with me. For better or for worse it's who I am now and I'm slowing coming to terms with that because it means that I carry Hannah with me and that is something that I cherish.