It's just after midnight and the whole house is sleeping. But I am sitting in my family room, wide awake with my mind whirling. I have lots of things to worry about these days. Like why is Indiana still allowed to be a state after this week? And what if people actually vote for Scott Walker in a Presidental election? (I mean really, political associations aside, if he can't handle a simple 4 years of college how the hell does he think he can handle 4 years of a presidency?) But the biggest issue weighing on my mind is that of the Worst Funeral Home in the history of funeral homes.
When the hospital asked to choose a funeral home we were still in shock. Staring at each other over the silent body of our beautiful daughter, we had to start making decisions that no parent should ever have to make. Brent gave them the name of the first funeral home that came to mind, and I won't mention any names, but it was a terrible experience from beginning to end.
**cough* Laird Funeral Home in Elgin IL **cough**
At least I am assuming it will be horrible until we are done dealing with them. 5 months later we are still dealing with them and I still want to punch them all in their slimy, mouth breathing throats.
My mom was the one who actually made the first call to them for us. She set up our appointment with them the day after I was released from the hospital. She explained to them that we were still very much in shock and needed someone sensitive to handle Hannah's arrangements. They promptly assigned us to Douche. No, no that's not right. Let's call him Super Douche. Because he was Super Douchey.
We walked in and he greeting us with a giant smile and an enthusiastic "Nice to meet ya!" I started to wonder if he knew who we were. Should I explain to him that we were there to plan our daughter's funeral and not shovel snow? Was he confused?
Oh no, he wasn't. Asking us to follow him to his office, he started throwing out prices like "A coffin for a baby will run ya about $350 bucks." Say what? Did that really just come out of Super Douche's mouth? Sure did, and it was about to get worse.
We filled out the death certificate information while he mouth breathed and snorted (what the hell?) and kept running into his boss' office to ask questions. By this point everything this guy did was annoying the ever-loving shit out of me and his douchiness was only getting started.
We started to discuss service dates. He announced to us that Hannah's service would be that Friday from 9-11am. We said no thanks. We explained that we have family coming in from out of town and we need a weekend and we would actually prefer the next weekend since I was recovering from surgery. He said he'd see if that would work. I just kept thinking "WTF? Make it work!" Finally, after yet another trip to the boss' office (also a douche) he said the Saturday of that week would work from 2-4. So we repeated AGAIN that we needed to wait another week since I was still recovering.
He waved his douchy little hand in air and laughed. "Ah, we have chairs you can sit in!"
Let's just pause for a moment to be thankful that I was unable to move at this point. Otherwise I would be in jail right now. Let's just leave it at that.
After I got done bursting into tears he agreed on the date we wanted and the drama continued to unfold. He argued with us about the dates in the program. He wanted to list Hannah's birth and death dates while I explained to him more than once that they were the same date. What the fuckety fuck? We just filled out the death certificate paperwork. How does he not understand this? Then we had to haggle over urns. He gave us 3 options by pointing over our shoulders to a shelf in the back of the room with 3 of the ugliest urns I've ever seen. So I had to ask for more options. He said they didn't have any. I didn't believe him. Another trip to his boss' office and what do you know? An entire catalogue full of urn options magically appeared. Funny how that worked out. At this point I was in tears because THIS ASSHOLE IS HANDLING MY DAUGHTER'S FINAL ARRANGEMENTS OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE WE DONE!
Before I could scream, I asked him to show us the chapel where her service would be (he showed us the wrong one) and then we had to wait while he got his business card (did not even have his name on it) from his boss' office (what the hell?) and then had a conversation with his boss about some convention while we stood there awkwardly waiting for his stupid card and being ignored by both of them. Finally Super Douche gives us his card and closes the meeting with a hearty "Have a great afternoon!"
I thought about kicking him but I was afraid of busting a stitch.
The service itself went smoothly, but Super Douche had the night off and the nice man taking his place left me alone. Thank God. But we still aren't done dealing with them. We still haven't received Hannah's death certificate. So Tues morning, I sucked it up and called them. The gentleman (and I use the term loosely) that answered told me he couldn't look for it because they didn't open for another 15 minutes. I sat there in silence. He finally agree to give a look around their office and call me back. Guess what never happened.
That's right. So I called back again yesterday, was transferred a few times before Super Douche came on the line. He said the county never sent it (I'm guessing they never requested it) and he could get it by the next day. That day has passed and nothing. So Monday morning I will be making yet another phone call to Super Douche to try and straighten this all out.
And now that I worked out my anger here, I might be able to finally write a letter to them detailing why they are the worst. But I doubt they'll read it. They'll probably just throw it down on the desk next to countless other "missing" death certificates that they promise to search for just as soon as they open for the day.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Her Things
Today I gave Hannah's car seat away. It went to the family of someone that we love and someone that needs it. So it's in good hands. But I had no idea how hard it was going to be to let it go. I cried for the entire 30 drive there and the entire 30 minute drive home.
Confession, I haven't done anything in Hannah's nursery yet. It's still sitting there, all put together like it's still waiting for her to come home. So going in there this morning, taking the car seat out and giving it away really brought home the fact that she's not coming home. She's not going to wake up in her beautiful crib, or wear any of her cute little clothes. Her shoes, her blankets, her rocking chair will all go unused.
It's the movement of taking something that should have been hers and making it not hers that knocked me down today. Getting rid of her car seat was the first move I have made towards clearing out her things. It's the unavoidable beginning of not only saying good bye to her but saying good bye to what was hers. I love being surrounded by her things because it reminds me that while her life was brief, it was still a life, she was still loved. She was mine and she will always be mine. I may hate the fact that the only place I can carry her now is in my heart, but I will cling tightly to that at the same time. My sweet girl.
Confession, I haven't done anything in Hannah's nursery yet. It's still sitting there, all put together like it's still waiting for her to come home. So going in there this morning, taking the car seat out and giving it away really brought home the fact that she's not coming home. She's not going to wake up in her beautiful crib, or wear any of her cute little clothes. Her shoes, her blankets, her rocking chair will all go unused.
It's the movement of taking something that should have been hers and making it not hers that knocked me down today. Getting rid of her car seat was the first move I have made towards clearing out her things. It's the unavoidable beginning of not only saying good bye to her but saying good bye to what was hers. I love being surrounded by her things because it reminds me that while her life was brief, it was still a life, she was still loved. She was mine and she will always be mine. I may hate the fact that the only place I can carry her now is in my heart, but I will cling tightly to that at the same time. My sweet girl.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Balancing Act
Just when I think we are getting better, just when I think we are learning to deal with our new reality, there is another milestone missed, another memory not made, and we are right back where we started.
If all had gone according to plan, today would have been a very hard day. Today I would have been returning to work after maternity leave if the worst hadn't happed. But the worst did happen and instead of tearfully dropping Hannah off at daycare, I am spending the day lost in what could have been. I wonder what cute little outfit she would have worn, how she would have adjusted to our wonderful daycare teacher, Miss Beth. I wonder if I would have cut out of work 5 minutes early because those last 5 minutes seemed like an eternity before I could see them again. I wonder how Charlie would have done with Hannah in his space at Beth's. I wonder how I would have balanced two baths and two bedtime routines while making dinner and staying sane.
The worst part is that I'll never know. All of those memories were stolen from us back in November and there is nothing we can do about it. No matter how deep our sorrow runs or how furious our anger gets. No matter how many friends surround us with love and want to make it better, it won't be get any better. These memories and countless others will always be missing from our lives.
So now, instead of learning to balance career with two kids, I find myself learning to balance grief with all my other life roles. Grief can be extremely overwhelming and it can take over everything. So my initial reaction is to try to ignore it. But it can't be ignored, it has to be dealt with. My new challenge is how to take my grief and balance it with being a wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, employee etc etc. How do I take this and move forward without dropping all the roles I have to play? It's a really delicate balancing act and I know I don't have it down yet. Instead, I am dropping the ball right and left and letting everyone around me down. I can't wait until I can pull it together and succeed at this! It's so frustrating to feel like I'm failing at everything at once.
If all had gone according to plan, today would have been a very hard day. Today I would have been returning to work after maternity leave if the worst hadn't happed. But the worst did happen and instead of tearfully dropping Hannah off at daycare, I am spending the day lost in what could have been. I wonder what cute little outfit she would have worn, how she would have adjusted to our wonderful daycare teacher, Miss Beth. I wonder if I would have cut out of work 5 minutes early because those last 5 minutes seemed like an eternity before I could see them again. I wonder how Charlie would have done with Hannah in his space at Beth's. I wonder how I would have balanced two baths and two bedtime routines while making dinner and staying sane.
The worst part is that I'll never know. All of those memories were stolen from us back in November and there is nothing we can do about it. No matter how deep our sorrow runs or how furious our anger gets. No matter how many friends surround us with love and want to make it better, it won't be get any better. These memories and countless others will always be missing from our lives.
So now, instead of learning to balance career with two kids, I find myself learning to balance grief with all my other life roles. Grief can be extremely overwhelming and it can take over everything. So my initial reaction is to try to ignore it. But it can't be ignored, it has to be dealt with. My new challenge is how to take my grief and balance it with being a wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, employee etc etc. How do I take this and move forward without dropping all the roles I have to play? It's a really delicate balancing act and I know I don't have it down yet. Instead, I am dropping the ball right and left and letting everyone around me down. I can't wait until I can pull it together and succeed at this! It's so frustrating to feel like I'm failing at everything at once.
Monday, March 2, 2015
The March Towards Someday
It seems like every time I turn around we are faced with another milestone or event. Another reminder of what is lost, of what we'll never have. Today Hannah should have turned 4 months old. Had she been born on her due date, today would start my last week of maternity leave. It feels like there is always something to remind us of what is missing in our lives.
I know that someday it won't feel so raw. Someday the tears won't be right on the verge.
Someday I will walk into the office without the fear that someone won't ask me how she is.
Someday I won't have to avoid the baby aisle at Target. Or cry on my way to yoga because the studio and the prenatal classes were so important to me when I was pregnant with Hannah.
Someday I won't be worried about making her the perfect memorial garden, or finding the perfect way to celebrate what should have been her 1st birthday.
Maybe someday I'll even be able to remember what it was like to not carry this grief around with me wherever I go. Someday I will be able to be truly 100% happy for friends that are pregnant, instead half happy, half heartbroken.
Someday I will be less bitter, less angry.
I'm not there yet, but someday I will be.
I know that someday it won't feel so raw. Someday the tears won't be right on the verge.
Someday I will walk into the office without the fear that someone won't ask me how she is.
Someday I won't have to avoid the baby aisle at Target. Or cry on my way to yoga because the studio and the prenatal classes were so important to me when I was pregnant with Hannah.
Someday I won't be worried about making her the perfect memorial garden, or finding the perfect way to celebrate what should have been her 1st birthday.
Maybe someday I'll even be able to remember what it was like to not carry this grief around with me wherever I go. Someday I will be able to be truly 100% happy for friends that are pregnant, instead half happy, half heartbroken.
Someday I will be less bitter, less angry.
I'm not there yet, but someday I will be.
Monday, February 23, 2015
Ranting
Today was a rough day emotionally and I just need to scream. There is a real list of things that make missing Hannah even worse for me. I've been tracking it in my head, but I need to vent it, just like I need to vent everything else.
1. People telling me that "This is God's plan." First of all, don't presume to think you know God's plan. You don't. It's just that simple.
2. People asking me how I'm doing and then giving me The Look. The Aw Poor Little Puppy Are You Going to Cry Now Look.
3. Therapy. I have no idea what to say. I can't verbalize my feelings at all. But I still go because someday I'm sure it will all come flooding out.
4. Everyday life. It's too hard.
5. People calling Hannah an angel. She shouldn't be an angel, she should be a living, breathing baby. Stop acting like Angel Hannah is a good thing
6. God - I'm still really angry at Him.
7. People who act like her death was didn't matter. (giving my in-laws the side eye here)
8. Christmas (it used to be my favorite, now I can't stand it)
9. That the door to Hannah's nursery stays closed. I also hate it when it's open and I can see the beautiful room, put together with love and going unused.
10. Myself for letting this all happen. For not being able to stop it. For losing her when Brent, Charlie and I loved her so, so much.
1. People telling me that "This is God's plan." First of all, don't presume to think you know God's plan. You don't. It's just that simple.
2. People asking me how I'm doing and then giving me The Look. The Aw Poor Little Puppy Are You Going to Cry Now Look.
3. Therapy. I have no idea what to say. I can't verbalize my feelings at all. But I still go because someday I'm sure it will all come flooding out.
4. Everyday life. It's too hard.
5. People calling Hannah an angel. She shouldn't be an angel, she should be a living, breathing baby. Stop acting like Angel Hannah is a good thing
6. God - I'm still really angry at Him.
7. People who act like her death was didn't matter. (giving my in-laws the side eye here)
8. Christmas (it used to be my favorite, now I can't stand it)
9. That the door to Hannah's nursery stays closed. I also hate it when it's open and I can see the beautiful room, put together with love and going unused.
10. Myself for letting this all happen. For not being able to stop it. For losing her when Brent, Charlie and I loved her so, so much.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
The Truth is...
I try to smile my way through the day. I'm not feeling it, I'm never feeling it, but I make myself do it because maybe, eventually it will be true. It has to eventually be true, doesn't it? It can't always feel like this. It has to get better.
But the truth is it won't ever get better. I will always have a gaping tear in my soul where Hannah should be. It will always hurt. It will always be a sore spot. Like a pulled muscle, I'll be walking along just fine and then suddenly I'll turn a certain way and waves of pain will wash over me. That's when it comes rushing back. It hurts. It hurts now and it will hurt always. This isn't something that will ever heal.
It kills me that I still have to function in everyday life. The world wasn't affected the way I was affected. How can my tiny girl leave this world and life still goes on? Everyone can still smile and enjoy the world around them. I have lost that ability. Maybe over time I will regain some of it, but it will never truly be the same. I'll never be able to have a blind faith that good things are coming. That our struggles were enough and now we get the reward. That faith is gone, stripped away in a quiet hospital room, in a quiet delivery room, in the middle of a dark night, holding my sweet girl and crying because that was the only night I'd spending holding her. What wouldn't I give for sleepless nights with my Hannah right now.
When people ask, I always say, "I'm fine" or "Just taking it day by day." But the truth is I'm not. And I won't ever be. How could I when I am missing part of my soul. I wish people would just stop asking how I am. I want to ask back "How the hell do you think I am. How would you be?" And I feel like I am expected not just to say I'm fine, but to actually be fine. Because grief is tedious and ugly and well, it's sad and no one wants to deal with it if they don't have to. And they are tired of looking at the grieving mother, with the missing smile, the fine lines around the eyes that scream "Sadness lives here!"
So I say I'm fine and hold it together until I'm alone, until I'm somewhere where I can cry and remember. Because unless you've been through this you can never understand how it feels, you'll never grasp the truth of it. It's beyond any imagination.
But the truth is it won't ever get better. I will always have a gaping tear in my soul where Hannah should be. It will always hurt. It will always be a sore spot. Like a pulled muscle, I'll be walking along just fine and then suddenly I'll turn a certain way and waves of pain will wash over me. That's when it comes rushing back. It hurts. It hurts now and it will hurt always. This isn't something that will ever heal.
It kills me that I still have to function in everyday life. The world wasn't affected the way I was affected. How can my tiny girl leave this world and life still goes on? Everyone can still smile and enjoy the world around them. I have lost that ability. Maybe over time I will regain some of it, but it will never truly be the same. I'll never be able to have a blind faith that good things are coming. That our struggles were enough and now we get the reward. That faith is gone, stripped away in a quiet hospital room, in a quiet delivery room, in the middle of a dark night, holding my sweet girl and crying because that was the only night I'd spending holding her. What wouldn't I give for sleepless nights with my Hannah right now.
When people ask, I always say, "I'm fine" or "Just taking it day by day." But the truth is I'm not. And I won't ever be. How could I when I am missing part of my soul. I wish people would just stop asking how I am. I want to ask back "How the hell do you think I am. How would you be?" And I feel like I am expected not just to say I'm fine, but to actually be fine. Because grief is tedious and ugly and well, it's sad and no one wants to deal with it if they don't have to. And they are tired of looking at the grieving mother, with the missing smile, the fine lines around the eyes that scream "Sadness lives here!"
So I say I'm fine and hold it together until I'm alone, until I'm somewhere where I can cry and remember. Because unless you've been through this you can never understand how it feels, you'll never grasp the truth of it. It's beyond any imagination.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
The Quiet Moments
It was in a quiet room, surrounded by silence, that the doctor told us we lost H. So it only makes sense that it's in the quiet moments that it all comes rushing back and any sense of peace that I thought I had found is shattered.
It comes rushing in the dark, early morning hours, when I'm alone in my car and soft music is playing. Walking down a long hallway at the office, in the shower, when I'm falling asleep, when I'm watching C play. Especially when I am watching C play. It hits me all at once that there is one where there should be two. That there will be a hole in our family forever. That all the love and laughter in the world can keep us from falling into the pit, but they will never fill it up. We will always grieve. We will always have that hole and we'll just learn to dance around it. Tentatively and slowly, but someday we will learn to dance around it.
It comes rushing in the dark, early morning hours, when I'm alone in my car and soft music is playing. Walking down a long hallway at the office, in the shower, when I'm falling asleep, when I'm watching C play. Especially when I am watching C play. It hits me all at once that there is one where there should be two. That there will be a hole in our family forever. That all the love and laughter in the world can keep us from falling into the pit, but they will never fill it up. We will always grieve. We will always have that hole and we'll just learn to dance around it. Tentatively and slowly, but someday we will learn to dance around it.
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