Stuck

School for my three oldest girls is right around the corner and is just one of the things that will break me out of this rut that I'm stuck in.  I need to rearrange (metaphorically) and that is hard to do with four girls buzzing and sometimes screaming in and out of the house all day long.  Me and the little one will figure things out soon.

I've spent my summer running, running and running some more.  I kicked it off with a 10k amidst beautiful scenery and ever since I have been amping up my mileage to tackle a 10 mile race in a few weeks which is going to be followed (fingers crossed) by a half marathon two weeks after that.  These are kind of bucket list things for me.  When I find myself doing the same thing over and over I get bored.  I'm sure that's a good bit of human nature.  While I have eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches almost every Wednesday at lunch for the past six years or more and I'm okay with that, I can't stick with the same hairstyle for long, the same furniture arrangement, etc.  Some things are easier to change than others.  Nothing I do will bring Wyatt and Eli back and nothing I do will make me truly okay with the fact that they're gone.  That's a tough one.

But running I can do.  I've now pushed myself to distances that I never dreamed I could do.  I have running on my bucket list and I'm just ticking those items off like wildfire.  Every time I accomplish a new distance or speed it feels good.  I feel strong.  Even at my weakest after a hard run or race, I bask in that sense of accomplishment.  It helps that I can remind myself at the most trying moments that nothing compares to the pain of watching my child die or putting him in the ground and it makes things a little easier.

Moral of the story: grow and challenge, seek and embrace change.  Cultivate and build strength within yourself.  I find it's so easy to play the victim and expect someone else to help me change or fix me but that true healing is better achieved within because I know myself better than anyone and those things I think I can't do are just things that I'm scared to do.

Does One Bad Seed Spoil the Apple?

I find myself waking to a country song repeating in my head and while I can't relate to a lot of them in many ways (though I thoroughly enjoy them nonetheless) there is one that I can extrapolate on.  Two Black Cadillacs.  Now if you know this song, you may be saying, wait a minute!  I'll put you at ease quickly - my husband has not had an affair and I have not plotted to or succeeded in killing him.  Now that we have that settled....

The lyrics say something like "[t]he preacher said he was a good man and his brother said he was a good friend but the women in the two black veils didn't bother to cry".  Of course my first thought was what a dirt bag this guy was, how could there be anything good to say about him?  But then once I started thinking a little deeper it occurred to me that perhaps he was a good friend.  If he was a father, he could have even been a good father.  Obviously he was a lousy husband and a lousy boyfriend but the question then becomes ...

    Does a bad deed, even a very bad deed, make a bad person?

I struggle with this question because my instinct says yes.  My relation to this song comes from some interpersonal relationships and judgments that I have made in those relationships based on the other parties' behaviors.  I have deemed these behaviors bad and so I have attached that label.  Once that label is stuck on, goodness gracious do I find it hard to peel back.  The fact that I have made these judgments in the first place pains me and is a different topic for perhaps a different day but I've done it so we'll move on.

Could I be wrong?  Absolutely!  Have I ever made bad choices?  Absolutely!  So why am I throwing stones?  Short answer - weeding my garden.  Wyatt and Eli have brought great introspection to my life and how I lead it as well as who I let grow in my garden.  I've come to realize that some people can act as weeds in my garden.  Their negative energy, words and actions can threaten to overtake the beauty which I carefully guard within.  I've learned that a weed is a weed and no matter how nicely you treat it, a weed will grow all over your flowers, veggies and fruit and make absolutely no apologies.  My weed removal method of choice is to pull them very slowly from the ground taking care to remove the entire root system if at all possible.  As an aside, it is also really fun to burn them with a handheld torch until they shrivel and die!

Yet all of this still leaves me speechless.  I don't have the answer.  Perhaps there is goodness.  Honestly I want there to be goodness but I have yet to find it.  So I will leave you to ponder and maybe even contribute to this discussion.  Does badness eclipse goodness?  Can they coexist?

Lessons from My Garden

When I was growing up my parents gardened - alot.  Flowers, veggies, you name it and they probably planted it.  I was often dragged along on long shopping trips to nursery after nursery looking for the perfect plants.  So, naturally, it was then and there that I decided I would never have a grassy yard, much less a garden.  Yes, I pledged to have a concrete yard which I would have painted green in order to please my neighbors with simulated grass.  Brilliant.

Fast forward many years to the purchase of our first (and expected only) house.  We house shopped while I was pregnant with Wyatt and against my will.  My husband pushed me to do it even though shopping for a house was the last thing I wanted to do while waiting for my baby to die - but I am forever grateful that we did.  We moved in just one month after Wyatt was born and haven't looked back since.  Shortly after moving in we decided to plant a tree for Wyatt.  Thus, the weeping willow.  Just a tree wasn't good enough, I wanted to create a baby garden in his memory which would be filled with baby-named or friendly plants like lamb's ear, baby's breath, snapdragons, tiger lilies and bleeding hearts.  True to my nature, I dove right in with little knowledge or skill.  Plants grew and flowers bloomed.

The next spring, much to my dismay, plants and flowers grew, but not all came back.  In a way it was fitting, neither did my son.  It was just a reminder of another season passed without him and how life goes on, but it is changed. A stinging reminder of death's presence. So I planted again and seeded my hopes of new life, that something beautiful could grow in the absence of something beautiful that had been before.

In those moments I have learned so much.  I have learned that the best laid plans don't always work out.  I can plant the most beautiful flowers, water them, feed them, protect and nurture them, and sometimes they won't come back the next spring.  Sometimes, I find that they have moved to an unexpected place, which can be a lovely surprise or a frustrating exercise in relocation.  I can do everything right, the right zone, right amount of sunshine, right amount of water and sometimes it just doesn't work out.  Other times I can dig a hole and then do absolutely nothing else while nature takes care of itself and I am rewarded with beauty and fragrance.  My time in the garden has been invaluable, especially considering that I am definitely a type A, control freak, personality.  It has taught me to let go.  It has taught me that I don't always know what's best. It has taught me to appreciate the little surprises and find joy in the smallest living things.  I am more carefree, or reckless, (depending on your perspective) than ever in my garden.  I now have a good feel for plants and I know perennials well enough to divide and attempt to conquer - which basically means that I freely dig up plants and stick them in the ground in semi-random locations to see what will happen.

Over the last almost nine years since I planted Wyatt's garden it has changed much.  Thankfully many of the original plants are still thriving.  He enjoys the fragrance of baby's breath each summer, the poignant reminder of pink bleeding hearts, the fun and enormously tall tiger lilies, ever-so-soft lamb's ear which his sisters & I love to touch, little snapdragons that talk to us and new additions of purple dianthus, blue columbine, blue/purple Jacob's ladder, yellow coreopsis, many baby roses and special purple irises which have been in our family since I was a child.  There are also little volunteer Johnny jump ups and beautiful California poppies that fill in most of the empty space with color and whimsy.  Last year we added on Eli's garden which has many of the same plants but now also beautiful yellow daffodils and a sweet little hydrangea tree.

Every single one of those nine years the garden has changed, whether I have touched it or not.  It is a work in progress, like myself.  It is also one of my greatest teachers.

Resilient Like the Hair Band

"Resilience" is defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as 

"an ability to recover from or adjust easily to misfortune or change."

I am resilient like a hair band.  Not the kind that sang "UnSkinny Bop" or "Welcome to the Jungle".  No, the kind of elastic band for holding hair.  In our household there are three of us girls with hair long enough for ponytails (not me) which results in, oh, about a couple hundred elastic hairbands floating around the house and cars at any given time.  They are all shapes and sizes, every color under the rainbow.  Some have ribbons, others spirals, some have glossy balls at the ends but those aren't me.  

I am the hairband that is stretched a little thin in the middle.  The one that is no longer symmetrical.  The one that shows signs of weakness to the point where it's questionable whether it will just snap in two one day while twisting around the hair.  Yet it's still in one piece.  I have resilience, the ability to recover from or adjust to misfortune or change.  But that ability does not come easy.  The easy way is not to recover, to avoid making any adjustment for change.    Some changes are much easier than others - when it snows you wear a parka and gloves or mittens, when the sun is too bright you wear a hat and or sunglasses.  When your child or children dies the answers are not so obvious and the solutions are not so obtainable.

But the ability - the resilience - is there.  Just like that hairband, which is a little stretched out and a little thin in the middle, I too am a little different but we're both still capable of not just holding on but being functional and pretty.

Out With the Old, In With the ?

Happy (almost) New Year's to all. I care not to reflect too much on the past 364 days so instead I am keeping my eyes towards the new year, one day at a time. Each day is a new opportunity. An opportunity to mend bridges, an opportunity to say "I'm sorry", an opportunity to do better than the day before, an opportunity to smile.

I don't know what the new year has in store for our family and that is what will make it worthwhile. Living each day without knowing, being able to make it into something memorable and if it's not, letting it exist in the past and moving on to tomorrow. I no longer make resolutions that involve my exterior. There is nothing I can promise to do or change that will be more effective than examination of my own heart. When my heart is okay everything else falls into place. That's the funny thing I think, we all know the right things to do but too often we do the wrong things for the worst of reasons. There is no diet alone that can truly fix a weight problem, no desk ornament that can fix dissatisfaction with an occupation, no expensive token that can fix a crumbling relationship. So my everyday resolution is to open my heart to my mistakes and allow myself to learn from them and to open my heart to the possibilities that occur in life and not just the ones I try to create.

Of course the new year will bring new things for our family, this time in the form of a baby girl. My fourth daughter and anticipated last child after burying two sons. This carries with it a lot of heavy emotions, which as we enter the new year I will share.

Until then I wish everyone can step into the new year and feel the empowerment of newness and the promise of change.

My October Is Different

I found my first online community for parents who have lost children during or after pregnancy eight years and three months ago. That community of people was a lifeline for me just one month after Wyatt died. It was a safe place to share scary feelings that didn't seem acceptable and probably wouldn't have been accepted among those who had not lived through similar tragedies as mine. In that place I found families who had lost babies to Potter's Syndrome as I did, women who had carried their babies to term knowing that the child would not survive. I also encountered families who had suffered miscarriage, some suffering a heartbreaking number of miscarriages. I met families who had suffered stillbirths and losses due to SIDS. Families with babies diagnosed with chromosome disorders or organ defects. Those were just the ones with names, and only a fraction of them. There were so many more without explanation, almost without words to describe the tragic loss. It was in that place that we all worked through whatever stage we were in. I witnessed anger, extreme sadness, jealousy, the immediate whirlwind after loss and the relative calm that comes years after. I also witnessed the births of many many rainbow babies and the shattered trust which happened when those rainbow pregnancies were sometimes lost as well. I will never forget the mother who literally died of heartbreak after her daughter's death and her devastated husband's words to let us know that her suffering had come to an end.

I remember how important October of that year became to me. I wore ribbons of pink and blue and gave them to family members. It was important to me to not only have Wyatt recognized, but to have my husband and my suffering recognized too and to be able to share that suffering with a larger group. October of this year, even though we lost our second son Eli just seven months ago, is different. Things have changed and it didn't just happen this year. October 15th of each year, a day of remembrance for pregnancy and infant loss, is always a special day for me. But I chose to write this on October 17th for a reason. To illustrate where I am in my grief and how things can change. I no longer wear awareness pins during October or ever for that matter, I honestly haven't for years. Instead I wear a men's silver tungsten wedding band which is engraved, on the outside, with the names of all of my children.

I am fiercely proud and fiercely private about my children. For a long time I wondered if my sister-in-law even knew that we had a son named Wyatt.

He is so loved that his name is never far from my lips but his memory is closely guarded. If you visited our home you would see over sixty portraits of our children, all of our children, hung lovingly on our living room wall. It is a statement without words and perfectly describes our family.

I understand why Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness is lost in a sea of pink Breast Cancer Awareness ribbons this month. Breast cancer is specific. It is about the health of one or both breasts which is being attacked by a specific disease, or strain within, which scientists can isolate, study and attempt to cure and effectively treat. Pregnancy and Infant Loss is everything that breast cancer isn't. It doesn't have hopeful survival rates or survivors to run races or wear pink for the cause. It has mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents who had survived without a baby - that pink and blue ribbon was created and is displayed because a baby, or babies, died. The pregnancies and infants lost are due to so many different causes: clotting disorders, hormone imbalances, pregnancy reactions, cord accidents, complications of existing conditions, organ defects, lack of oxygen, slowed intrauterine growth, premature birth, diseases contracted during pregnancy and/or labor, labor accidents, medical malpractice, chromosome disorders, syndromes and the list goes on ... and ... on ... and .... on. There is no one enemy to fight here, no one banner to wave, no one cause to throw money and research at. It is instead a celebration of survival in the saddest of circumstances. A recognition that even though parents are not supposed to outlive their children that too often they do and that those parents are left to live without them. That is where October has changed for me. In the last eight years I have accepted Wyatt's death and made my survival without him a part of me. For me it no longer warrants recognition, I no longer need, but always appreciate nonetheless, the recognition that I'm a survivor, that I have two sons. Two sons who are loved more than the moon loves the stars.

"There is not enough darkness in all the world to put out the light of even one small candle.” Robert Alden.

I am that small candle and even if I am the only one who remembers, they still live on. For me this October, that's enough.

Constructive or Destructive?

Suffering. Sadness. Bitterness. Anger. Isolation. Mood swings. Tears. Defiance. Jealousy. Denial. Regret.

What are things associated with grief and loss?

Ding-ding-ding

Right answer, but now what?

What do you do with these things? And what if you are not the person experiencing them but rather the person watching the person you love experience them? Then what?

I don't have the answers so I invite discussion on this blog or your own. I can only share what I know from what I've experienced and witnessed through my losses. I have witnessed grief that has been constructive and inspirational. Parents who have turned their own pain and heartbreak into efforts to create or assist charities or ministries for others suffering similarly or even just causes close to their hearts. I have witnessed grief that has been destructive and at best, ugly. The kind that can transform a person into the gnarled witch who gives Snow White her poisoned apple. I have witnessed grief that falls in between and sometimes see-saws between extremes. I don't believe there is a right way or wrong way to grieve, it is a continuum unique to each individual.

But I have found that there is a limit. More so for those around us than for us, the bereaved. And....it was shocking when I first admitted this to myself...but I believe that limit is necessary. Unless we are able to grieve in a vacuum, we are surrounded by those we love and who love us and it is very painful to watch those we love suffer. But that doesn't mean we have to flip a switch and one day stop grieving. Impossible. However, we all have our limits and while I think living through the death of my children has certainly pushed me above and beyond any limit I could have ever imagined in my life, I can only imagine what it would feel like for my husband to lose his wife to it too, or my children their mother or my parents their daughter or even my siblings their sister. I am not the me I used to be but I'm here and I'm alive and there is nothing that I can do to change what has happened to me. What I can change is how I grieve - constructively, destructively or somewhere in between?

I know grief and I know that it has no time limit and no end so I have searched for custom and practice as a guideline, what is traditionally referred to as mourning. Wikipedia included this in its description of mourning: "Those most affected by the loss of a loved one often observe a period of grieving, marked by withdrawal from social events and quiet, respectful behavior." My research into mourning revealed that widows mourning the loss of a husband appear to be given the greatest latitudes throughout history. It was once customary for widows to wear special mourning clothes, often black or dark colored and it was expected that they would be donned for one to two years and it was even acceptable for a widow to dress that way for the rest of her life. The mourning period for siblings was six months and parents were allowed to remain in mourning for their children "as long as they feel so disposed". By the twentieth century the fairly strict rules of mourning were relaxed and black became a fashion statement rather than an expression of grief.

I am in no way advocating smothering, suppressing or suddenly ceasing to grieve. I am talking about active grieving. Asking for help and telling others how they can help. Listening to what others have to say in relation to ourselves even though those things may be unpleasant and even hurtful. Being open to suggestions intended to help. Being willing to act. Whether that action is speaking with a trusted friend or family about our true feelings, pushing ourselves to do something a little bit out of our comfort zone in order to facilitate healing, exercising to stimulate endorphin release and a positive mental attitude about our bodies and ourselves, speaking to a professional counselor or joining a grief group, and even exploring medical treatment if necessary. Grieving does not take place in a vacuum. No other person on earth feels our losses like we do, but those around us have also experienced loss - they have lost a grandchild, niece, nephew, sister, brother, child and if our grief is destructive they may also lose us, the bereaved, too.

It's Easy to Be, Hard to Be Good

It's easy to simply be, but hardly simple to be good. It's easy to sit on the couch and lament about the pounds or flab that just won't go away but hard to get up and move enough to really sweat and then add insult by depriving ourselves of the food we too often use to comfort. It's easy to say inappropriate things but hard to swallow our pride and apologize. It's easy to just give up when the going gets hard and choose the well trod path but hard to blaze ahead in less than ideal conditions with no promise that things will get easier or even turn out in the end. It's easy to say "this is me" but hard to say "I can do better". It's easy to breathe but harder to breathe with purpose. It's easy to be, but hard to be good. Lately it's almost been hard to even be, but I'm going to be better.

I'm Still Broken

At the back of our cupboard sits a coffee mug. To the untrained eye it will appear as is, a nice large Italian looking coffee mug. My husband and I are the only ones who know about the cracked handle which is the reason for its placement. Not cracked enough to repair or throw away but cracked enough to be benched and used in emergencies only.

I too am broken like that. To the untrained eye I have a beautiful family, a very handsome husband along with three beautiful little long haired girls who trail me pretty much everywhere. I appear just as I am. Most will never know there should be two little boys. Boys which I carried nine months and was not even granted nine hours on earth. That is my crack. Hidden from most if not all. Yesterday I realized that I am that mug and that just like that mug, no one has tried to fix me.

That's not entirely true I guess. I have made amazing strides at repairing the damage I can see. Since Eli's birth I can now run faster and farther than ever before. I have toned muscles and am stronger than I have ever been. My fair skin is now golden. Fixing these things has given me purpose. During Eli's pregnancy I had a clear purpose, to protect him and bring him to term and prepare for that inevitable day. When he was born and died so did that purpose. I then purposely chose to heal my body.

It's what I can't see that's broken. I don't even know how badly right now. Which as any fixer can tell you is a pretty big problem. We're fixers you see. I am great at fixing broken toys with glue, sewing patches to clothing and mending holes. My husband has amazing technical and creative abilities and can fix almost anything that I can't. Almost. I am not fixed yet.

I am that coffee mug, hiding in plain sight, able to hold two good cups of coffee but capable of shattering at any moment.

The Things We Haven't Done

In the last almost four months there are some things yet that we haven't done and, to be honest, things I am not yet ready to do. The mylar balloons which we had brought to the hospital for Eli's birthday still float lazily in our living room. Actually, one out of three is floating above the carpet while the other two lounge beneath it. Since that day we have celebrated three other birthdays in our small family, one at the cemetery and two at home. Still, those balloons remain a daily decoration. I suppose someday soon I will have to find them a different home, one where the vacuum cleaner doesn't prey upon their existence, but not today. The other thing is actually a whole pile of things in our bedroom. The pile consists of everything Eli, things from the hospital, the clothes he wore, blankets, etc. all carefully protected in sealed bags alongside pictures, newspapers from the day he was born, cards we received, things from the funeral. It just sits there. I only look enough to know its there and just like most things these too have faded into the background and are hardly noticed. But I do know they're there and that they won't always be there. Just not today.

The New Me

Before getting pregnant with Wyatt I was not a great person. I can realistically liken myself to the Grinch, green and hairy on the inside with a tiny little heart tucked way inside. Few knew their way to that place. I was not forthcoming with directions. Instead what I offered was sarcasm, anger, jealousy and judgment - all disguised as opinions, strength, and assertiveness. My heart grew as Wyatt grew within me. I had finally come to know that word. I buried some of that new heart in the ground with my firstborn sun on a bright June day almost eight years ago. I'd love to say that the part I buried was the ugly twisted and bitter part but it wasn't. That part somehow grew in the months that followed. The good part grew again as our first daughter grew within me. It grew to the point of pain almost, after her birth. I believed that Wyatt's death finally meant something because it had changed me, it had made me better.

In so many ways I did change for the better. I learned that my anger hurt me the most. I learned to let things go, something which I thought I had already learned by letting go of the most precious thing in my life. I stopped looking for the down side, stopped listing all of the things that could go wrong, that would go wrong. I didn't assume the worst in situations, or in people. I tried to be less judgmental and more accepting. I made conscious efforts to change my heart instead of letting it be changed unconsciously. I was a better person.

Of course, things change and then came Eli. During Eli's pregnancy I held fast to my faith and to who I was. I know how quickly things can change. I can see it already. I am different again. It is not what I expected. I am not burdened by waves of anger or jealousy. Tidal waves of pain hit me hard, but I've navigated those before. These changes are subtle but to me profound. I am present. I'm not just one step ahead, worried about meals, laundry, shopping and cleaning. I'm not as mechanical as I used to be. I'm breathing right now in this moment. My children's laughter sounds brighter than it ever has, their eyes reflect more color. Their voices have never been so easy to hear. I love it when they catch me staring at them. My husband has never smelled so good, his touch has never felt so warm. The gray hair at his temples was never there before, yet he's never looked so handsome. Sometimes I notice my eyes have never looked so sad.

There really isn't an ending to this because it's really just another beginning, so I'll leave it at this.

Change

Outside my window, just as within my own heart, things are changing. Every day our ground becomes less white and more brown. There are even tiny sprouts of green here and there. It's April, it's time. However, for me it feels too soon. It feels too soon to change. I'm not ready.

I am healing. My body has all but erased any trace of Eli's presence. My outer scar from the c-section is now just a thin jagged line. The milk has dried up. Even my headaches, which had become a daily occurrence I contribute to grieving, have lessened. My heart, just four weeks ago shattered, seems to be gluing itself together. Tears fall fewer and farther between. I hear the sound of laughter, my laughter. I left the house by myself this week, twice.

Just as the ground outside, unable to escape the sun's warm rays, cannot hold onto its cool white blanket, I cannot stay wrapped in my own blanket of grief. Change is inevitable. The only constant in life is change and I am now caught within its tides.

I Don't Want to Forget

I realized today that part of my reason for blogging this is so that I don't forget. It's what I don't forget that I hadn't completely sorted out prior to today. I wanted to document the pain, the difficulty, the ordinarily mundane things that become completely overwhelming when facing the death of your child. What I forgot that I didn't want to forget is really what this is all about. It's about me. The me that I am right now.

This me is a different me than I was eight years ago before losing Wyatt. This me is a different me than I was three months ago before finding out about this little one's Potter's Syndrome. She doesn't have a name, just a voice. This is my chance to capture what photographs can't before she is gone again. Because I anticipate that this me will no longer exist in four weeks.

Today I am strong. I am competent. I am a mother. The sun shines brightly outside, the air is warm and the winds blow change into our lives. A warm air that we have not felt for some time, the promise of spring and of new life.