I Woke Up a Mother

Three years ago I woke up a mother. With a carefree four year old and a healthy daughter on the way. Three years ago I believed that the miscarriage we had suffered 11 months before was the worst thing that could happen to us. I believed good things were to come.

Three years ago the nursery was all set. The sheets were on the crib, the tiny clothes folded and in the drawers. The car seat installed.

I was excited about the future then. I believed that good things happen to good people (or people who try their best to be good anyway). I believed that our future was blessed. I believed in God and mercy and the power of positivity and prayer.

Three years ago, I woke up excited about the future. Then the rug was pulled out from underneath me.

My world was shattered and while we've managed to haphazardly glue the pieces back together the cracks still show. The tears seep through them now and again. The fissures and breaking points are always there, just underneath the surface. You can see them when you look closely enough, they are there in the extra wrinkles and gray hair. In the haunted eyes that don't quire smile the way they used to. They are there in laughter cut short out of guilt, in walls surrounding our fragile hearts. Like a phantom friend, always tagging along.

Three years ago I woke up as a mother. By nightfall I was a grieving mother.



** Side note** There is no word for a parent that lost a child. That's how against nature it is to bury your daughter or son. If you lose a spouse you are a widow/widower. If you lose your parents you are an orphan. If you lose a child you are without description.

When the Rainbow Fades

We should have looked at our two little boys and just felt grateful. We should have looked at them and just counted our blessings. We should have just been thankful to have these wonderful, smart, sweet, adorable boys in our lives.

But we got greedy.

"One more!" we said. "Look how great these boys are. Lets just try for one more!" "What if we have a girl this time! A daughter would be amazing!" "What if we have a third boy! We make the best boys!"

2 months later, 2 positive pregnancy tests confirmed the newest addition was on the way. Due in May! A spring baby. The best time to have a baby. Good weather, I'll be home with Charlie all summer. It will be perfect. Everything will be perfect. Of course, it never ends that way. It's never just that easy.

First came the blood. Then the pain. The frantic, middle of the night call to the Doctor. And then it's over. Just like that. After 9 weeks of hoping and praying and pleading with fate, we are left once again to pick up the pieces and figure out our next move.

It's never just that easy.

The Hardest Lesson

I've learned so much in the last few years. I've learned to lean on my village, I've learned that grief is messy and ugly and natural, I've learned that friends aren't always friends, I've learned that I am stronger than I ever imagined. I've experienced a desperate search for answers that don't exist and I've experienced arms so empty they ache. Most importantly, I've learned to deal with my own emotions.

I've never been a person that is comfortable with "feelings." Especially the negative ones. Growing up my dad always acted like my highs were too high and my lows were too low so I learned to hold all emotion in and mask how I was feeling. I never had a bad day. I was fine. I was always fine. Then Hannah died and nothing was fine. I was falling apart and I couldn't deal with that. Not at all. So I began my quest for the answers that I was sure would bring closure.

And quite the quest it was. I blew through therapist after therapist. I spoke with ministers (PS: My God doesn't kill babies so telling me this was His plan was less than helpful). I looked to Buddhism (What do you mean nothing is permanent? Not helpful Mr. Monk). I even spoke with a Medium (actually pretty comforting). Ironically what was the most helpful came from the person I liked the least. A therapist that I had zero connection with. I couldn't stand my time with her. But something she said did stick with me. She told me sometimes people just aren't ready to heal. That we can't rush the process. We have to be in the right space emotionally. Your head and your heart have to be ready and she didn't think I was there yet.

Pfffft, I was ready. I was so ready. I walked out of her office needing to be ready. I needed to fix it, I needed to fix it now! I had to heal so I could get pregnant again so we could get past this. I needed to move on.

So much was wrong with this thought process. A) You don't move on from the death of your child. Moving on is not a thing in this situation. You learn to pull yourself together. You learn to move forward. But you never move on. B) You can't fix this type of situation. You slowly learn to live with it and carry it forward, but you never "fix" it.

So months after that fateful and uncomfortable session in the therapists office (and a year after saying goodbye to Hannah) it dawned on me that she was right. I wasn't ready to heal. I was ready to cry, I was ready to grieve. But I was not ready to heal. And so I changed my course of action and I learned to just sit with my emotion. I learned how to exist with my grief, without trying to change it or alter it or fix it. I learned to just be.

It was not something that I was comfortable with at all. It was almost an impossible lesson but it's a lesson I am grateful to have learned. Now when emotional issues pop up, I am able to process and react more calmly. But most importantly it's helped me hold Hannah close. She is not a part of my heart to avoid any longer. She is a part of my heart that I hold dear, that I love and cherish and grieve and celebrate. And this is how I learned to put one foot in front of the other and continue to live.

Critics and Critiques

It's been almost a year since I published "An Open Letter to My Critic" and so much has happened in that time. I'd like to say fences were mended and bridges weren't burned, but that's not the reality of the situation. The reality is that the situation got much uglier than I originally knew and certainly more than I thought possible. That's why I have been as quiet as possible.

It turns out that it wasn't one "friend" tired of my grief and ready for it to be over. Out of four women in that conversation that night, after many drinks and of course, after I had left, only one said this isn't right. Only one said the conversation needs to stop. The other three continued.

No one will tell me exactly what has said. Either too much time has passed to remember exactly or maybe they are ashamed. It's probably better if I don't know anyway. What I do know is it broke my heart all over again. And now friendships that I thought would last until we were old and gray are shaky now at best and it makes me sick to think of it.

I'm trying to forgive. I'm trying to move forward. But it's hard, its just so hard.

The cold truth of the situation now is that all have apologized - and almost all were sincere. But the blame now lies with me. They see it as my inability to automatically drop their betrayal and act like nothing ever happened as what is truly damaging the group. I see their inability to understand the level of hurt they caused as culprit. As you can see, this leaves a wide chasm that some how needs to be gapped. But can it?

That's what I don't know and I am trying to figure out. Meanwhile the silence, as they say, is deafening. They don't seem to be in a hurry for answers. Maybe they are over this too. Or maybe they are giving me a wide berth to figure all this out. I just don't know. I do know they are frustrated. They have asked once or twice, "How can I be your friend? I don't know how to be your friend anymore. Tell me how to be your friend." And the only answer I have "Just don't be an asshole" isn't giving enough direction. Maybe I should say, "Start by not putting the entire future of our friendship solely on my shoulders. It's a lot to carry alone." Because it is a lot to carry alone. Not only do I have to get myself and my husband and my two young children through this, now I have to get our friendship through this too? It's somehow my job and my job alone? That doesn't seem fair.

Then again, there was nothing fair about this situation from the very start.

2 Years

My sweet girl, I can't believe it's been 2 years since we said hello and goodbye. Two years since we held you and had to give you back. Two years since the tearful nurse took you silently from the room and our lives.

So much has happened since then it's hard to recognize life now. You have a new brother, but you already know that. I know you got him here safely and watch over him. Your room is now his room. Gone are the ballet sheets and butterfly mobile; replaced with yellow giraffes.

But the biggest change is how people have moved on. How some people expect me to have moved on. I haven't - I won't. But others have to. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. The harsh reality is that the world keeps moving. That's the thing about grief. It's so intense that it's hard to fathom the fact that everyone's world wasn't completely rocked on that day. My life was so completely upended that I can't  understand that it was only my life and not everyone's. But that's how it works, right? And we carry on. We find our people that remember and love and support us. And we put one foot in front of the other and we carry on.

But I promise you this my sweet girl. I will never forget. I will always honor you and remember you and speak about you every chance that I get. You will live on with me, a part of me always.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- ee cummings

An Open Letter to My Critic

Ok, I realize that working out my frustrations here instead of face to face with you could be considered cowardly or childish. I agree in part. But the same could be said about you when you chose to say what you said to everyone but me. More importantly, I cannot be in the same room as you right now. If I was, I would say things I can't take back. The fire would override my common sense and I would turn into a crazy, table flipping, Real Housewife type. I don't want to be that person. And I certainly don't want to give you the satisfaction of turning me into that person. However, I still need to work through your betrayal. So here were are.

First and foremost I want to say to you that the idea that any parent ever "moves on" from the death of their child is ridiculous. It just never happens. We pull ourselves up, we get out of bed, we parent our other children and we move forward. But we never, NEVER move on. I carry Hannah with me everywhere I go in the only way I can; in my heart. That is the only comment I will address specifically here. You know what you said, and it makes me sick to repeat it.

Every day, every milestone, every moment my other children experience Hannah is there. But then again she isn't, is she? Do you remember the first time you looked into your daughter's eyes? I don't. I didn't get that moment. How about your daughter's first laugh, first steps. How about dance recitals and sporting events. What about graduations? I don't get those moments. They were stolen from me. When the day comes and Pachelbel starts playing and you turn anxiously to see your daughter floating down the aisle, dressed in white and holding your husband's arm, think of me and think of your words about Hannah. How will you feel? Embarrassed? Ashamed? Regretful? Good.

And I want to take a minute to let you know that despite what you think, I am proud of myself. I have been to Hell and back and I am still standing. Yes, it took therapy and medication and meditation, but here I am, facing my demons and fighting on. I'm cutting out toxic people and surrounding myself with those that shine a more positive light. My journey over the last year and a half has made me a better person. Broken, sure. But more grounded overall. While your words cut, they will not knock me down. I was surviving before you said what you said and I will survive long afterwards.

There is no excuse for your selfish behavior. It was ignorant and hurtful and the fact that you argued when people tried to set you straight is maddening. You are a smart girl, you should know better. We have been friends for so long we were like family. But you shit all over that didn't you? That speaks volumes.

As I mentioned earlier, I have zero interest in hashing this out with you right now. I need to let my emotions cool down. But I will say this. Don't even think about apologizing to me. I am not interested hearing you. Not yet anyway. Instead, do something good with your life. You are surrounded by family and friends so dedicated and loving that you don't deserve them. Change that. Like I tell my 5 year old all the time "Change your behavior." Get over yourself and go out and do some good in the world. Start being a person that deserves what she has instead of a person who constantly thinks she never has enough. Get over labels and paychecks and who has what and your judgements of others. Learn to be a peace with yourself and the world around you. Say you are sorry by being a better person. Let your actions speak for you. They certainly did before.

Dear Charlie

Dear Charlie,

Today was a rough one, wasn't it? Fits were thrown, toys were tossed, punishments were doled out. I saw the regret on your face at bedtime. I heard it in your voice when you told me your Sad for the day was getting in trouble. I know you think you disappointed me. I know you think that and it breaks my heart. Because the truth is, as frustrated as I was with you today, I get it. And I am not disappointed.

You have been through so much in your five short years. Surgeries and leg braces. Helmets and physical therapy. Hospital stays and too many ER visits to count. And just when things finally started to settle down in your world, we announced that you are getting a little sister. You were so excited to meet her! It was the sweetest thing to see. You helped fold her clothes and pick out her toys and happily told anyone that would listen that you were getting a sister and her name is Hannah and you were going to finally be a Big Brother

Then you watched that dream get ripped away. Stolen by two parents who were struggling so much with their own grief that it took us a week to even tell you what happened. You were there when we found out, you just didn't know what was going on. All you knew is the room went quiet until I screamed for them to get you out of there. All I wanted to do was hold you close, but I couldn't let you see my heart breaking in two. I will never forget the look on your face or the sound of your voice when Papa arrived to take you home. You cried and reached for me as he physically pulled you from the room. You knew something was wrong, but you didn't know what. All you knew is I was sending you away. All I knew is everything was different and scary and uncertain all of the sudden and I just wanted to scoop you up and hold you close. Could you feel that? Or did  you just feel pushed away? I'll always wonder about the damage that day may have done to you and I will always wish I handled it differently.

You got a mom back after a few days, but you didn't get your mom back did you? You got a zombie. A mom who wandered through the days in a daze, crying constantly and clinging to you. A mom who slept 20 hours a day for the next couple of months. A mom who was sad and lost and standing on unstable ground.

But you never lost faith in me.

Just when we pulled ourselves together again, we told you that you were getting a baby brother. You were so excited! But as time wore on, as we got closer to Teddy's arrival, I could see your fear too. You asked if he was coming home with us or going to Heaven with Hannah. You asked over and over to reassure yourself. You cried every time I went to the hospital because you think only bad things happen there. To you, it is a place of loss and not a place where life begins. You began to worry, it was written on your little face and I could hear it in your bedtime prayers.

But you still never lost faith in me. You knew, no matter what, I would come home.

Now Teddy is here and I am constantly amazed at what a kind and loving kid you are. You gave him half of your books and half of your stuffed animals. You call him Blue Eyes and ask to hold him and feed him. You tell him about his sister Hannah who lives in Heaven and watches over us all. You read him books and make sure he always has his paci and his lovey. The depths of your heart amaze me. I am so incredibly proud of the little person you are becoming. Your sweet, sensitive soul, so easily wounded but always so ready to give. I am so proud to be your Mom.