Approaching Her Birthday

[Alli's birthday comes again; source]

 Alli would have been 15 next month. She could have been studying to get her learner's permit. She could have been thinking of a crush, hoping for a date. She would have been a fully-formed human looking forward to adulthood. Instead, she's our angel, the first of many. All of the others didn't even make it to birth. She's still fully formed; we just can't see her. We lost her at just shy of four months. For almost 15 years, we have been members of the Empty Arms Club. It's a disconcertingly large club. It's always nice to be understood by fellow members, but I don't wish it on anyone. The dues are too high. I'm thankful to understand how to show empathy and understanding. I know that's one good thing that has come out of the worst time of my life. I just wish I could say that fifteen years have brought true healing. 

[The state of my shattered heart; source]

I truly don't know what healing looks like. I took a course on trauma writing, so I know writing can help. I've read about the five stages of grief, but I've also heard there is no reliable research to back them up. I can pass through most days without feeling the agony of loss, but I'm not sure if this is what's called healing. This is what fifteen years have granted me. When I really face the pain, it almost feels like no time has passed, and I'm in agony again. After watching me break down, my psychiatric healthcare nurse friend recently pointed out I could still use therapy for real healing. She also said the combination of a childhood of abuse, the loss of 18+ babies including Alli, dealing with the fallout of losing Alli--including DCSF attempting to frame us for negligent homicide--and all the other things I've suffered have left me with depression and PTSD. Yeah, pretty sure I'm just surviving instead of actually healing. But therapy costs money. It's never fit in the budget. Maybe one day. But I've always been the most fully functional of all of us. Everyone else's therapy always felt like a higher priority. 

[Research; source]

I did some research early on to find out what real healing is supposed to look like. I read books of child loss for the faithful, but none of them quite encompassed the kind of loss wherein a thought of the child also drummed up months of trauma at the hands of the state nor years of futile striving for a rainbow baby that would never come. I've heard you can tell you've healed when you can reflect on the joys and forget the pain when you look at the person's picture. I'm nowhere near that. Alli's pictures are still hard for me to look at and can even be a trigger. I usually do a pretty good job of not thinking of the gaping, bleeding hole in my chest. However, slight references to child loss or even babies have set me off more than usual recently. Maybe it is because the anniversary is coming up. The anniversaries and birthdays are always the worst days of the year. Maybe it's lack of sleep or an excess of stress. Little things also remind me of my late dad, who died a year ago this month, and my brother, who died the month before my baby did. But worst of all is when something reminds me of my baby.

[Source of Healing; source]

 I also know healing, true healing, comes from the Lord. I've sought that, and I feel like searching the scriptures and prayer have helped a lot. I've sought to understand what brings peace and what brings joy, and it all comes back to a relationship with the Lord. That is a work in process. Maybe one day, all of this will come together to truly heal my soul. In the meantime, I will continue to trudge through life, ignoring the gaping hole in my life and heart, hoping for a healing that may not come until I hold Alli in my arms again. 

Triggers and Snakes

[My angel]

I've been blogging about all kinds of losses. This one may seem trivial to most, but it so profoundly rocked my child's world that it shook all of us and brought up all kinds of memories and feelings about loss. I don't think my child ever recovered from losing a beloved baby sister. They were so close that when my baby died a few months after Cedar turned three, Cedar was devastated. Cedar was the first to tell us a sister was coming, the day before we found out we were pregnant and months before we found out for sure we were having a girl. After the baby died, Cedar told us how it happened because Alli came back and told Cedar. It was always clear they had a special bond that transcended the veil. We had not told our three-year-old how the baby had died., but the knowledge was there, as with Alli's coming. Cedar's whole life was about that baby sister, so the loss was devastating. 

[Three-way tummy time--a moment that would never happen again.]

We got a counselor for my kids, but the counselor's full agenda seemed to be ferreting out information against us that DCSF could use to destroy us. That counselor rarely even looked at little Cedar and talked little more to Alexander, mostly banter. And we didn't know how to help Cedar sort through such huge emotions for a little child. Everything I read said little ones bounce back quickly, but it's been 14 years. I don't think Cedar ever bounced, even as the big 18th birthday approaches. Our terrible experience with a counselor meant it took years, until Cedar's middle school years, to seek out another. It helped some but not as much as we'd hoped. The loss of a baby sister formed the foundation for the rest of Cedar's life. I would not doubt that depression, anxiety, and a host of other physical and emotional ailments all relate to that critical event. I'm sure all of those emotions were stirred up and triggered a short time ago when Cedar found out a beloved snake had frozen due to the failing of a breaker. 

[Sweet little boy]

A year ago a little before Christmas, Cedar expressed interest in a banana morph ball python. Cedar has always loved animals, especially baby animals. When Cedar loves is deeply loved, even without outward signs of that. Christmas morning came, and Santa had brought a 3-month-old banana ball. To say Cedar was ecstatic would be an understatement. Cedar had eyes only for that baby and very carefully raised little Sol with care and tenderness, feeding him little frozen rats when none of the rest of us could. With all the knowledge gained from Zoology classes in high school and all the enthusiasm of an aspiring zoologist, Cedar tenderly assembled a bioactive cage. 

[We had a ball]

Fast forward almost a year from that Christmas morning, and Cedar's struggles with school and life crowded out conscientious care of the cage and the snake. The plants failed one after another. The rest of the cage was safe, sealed, and spacious. Sol became a nipper. We're not sure why, but when we put our fingers near the entrance to his hide, he'd snap. Possibly, he thought we were offering a rat. Possibly, he just had a nervous disposition. Still, Cedar faithfully fed him first every week then, after he became a year old, fed him every other week, which seemed to be about as often as he wanted to eat. But it meant that the most attention the snake got was right around feeding time. 

[The culprit: source.]

One night, Sol seemed agitated, moving from one place to another. I figured he was excited feeding time was coming up or that he decided he wanted to explore his cage. A day or so later, Cedar expressed concern over the heater. I mentioned it to my husband, who is usually our tech guy. None of us checked right away, expecting someone else to do it. None of us was unduly concerned. But Cedar checked on him a couple of nights later, and it turned out the breaker had failed, and the snake had gotten too cold. He had died. We all felt bad we had failed him. We all could have paid closer attention to the heater, but no one did because everyone expected someone else to do it or didn't fully grasp the danger. 

[mourning: source]

Cedar was devastated and riddled with guilt to the point that sound sleep didn't happen that night. We all felt tortured, filled with empathy for the snake's last hours and for Cedar. At first, Cedar wanted to wait and work through mourning. Sobs wracked Cedar's frame, though Cedar isn't much of a crier. Mourning and pain are usually felt deeply, under a logical, businesslike exterior. Cedar spent the morning also brainstorming about how to improve conditions and begged us to haul off both snake and cage. Then, in a quick search, I found the perfect snake, an older one that would be more durable than the baby we got a year ago, yet another banana morph python called Minion. When I mentioned him, Cedar expressed hope for the first time since we had discovered the snake the night before. The tears dried up. That didn't mean the tears stopped for good. Cedar has had several bouts of remorse and sadness since. But hope was definitely present. Though my mental health nurse friend said she, herself, would need time to heal, I knew Cedar would do better with this snake. 

[Much bigger boy; source]

My heart dropped when I found out someone else was going to come look at Minion the Banana that night we were looking at snakes, the day after we discovered Sol's loss. I found backup plans in the form of other snakes now that Cedar was eager to try again, but most were either too far, too expensive, too young, or problematic (ate live prey that could harm the snake). We were poised to drive farther to pick up a young snake that ate frozen prey when I got a text that there may still be hope for Minion. After about more than an hour of indecision in Minion's prospective buyer, we got the text we'd been waiting for...Minion was still available. We went to the seller and found that he was an expert breeder with 26 snakes he was paring down. We watched his huge snakes slither through the house and even held an 11-foot giant yellow one. He gave us more techniques to keep Minion safe and offered his services as a resource if we had future questions. It was love at first sight for Cedar. Minion is now happily settled in, and Cedar is fully committed to making sure he's the happiest, safest snake and set an alarm to make sure they spend bonding time daily, so Minion gets to come out of the cage and explore the room. 

[Loss; source]

Loss has been such a part of Cedar's life since near the beginning and runs deeply. Cedar has lost multiple pets over the years. I've been through miscarriage after miscarriage since, which, for my kids, has meant that the kids would get their hopes up for a baby sibling only to have those hopes dashed. That means Cedar endured the loss of hope for another baby sister slowly over the course of multiple years. Caretaking and parental instincts have only strengthened in Cedar. Minion did not replace Sol, but Cedar, I think, sees this as a chance at redemption from mistakes of the past. I'm thankful Cedar gets this opportunity. I know, as with kittens and other pets of the past, I feel like this is my angel Alli fulfilling Cedar's needs, for which I will forever be grateful. 

What May Seem Trivial

[Painting out the Heart; source]

Recently, I was invited to an art exercise to work through traumas and dramas of the birthing process. I was reluctant. I felt like it was a waste of time. When I got there, the meditation-style pencil meanderings leading to random sketching and then coloring seemed kind of silly and trivial. Several of those in the class drew lovely art, brightly colored and vivid, only meaning something to the person who painted. It was supposed to be all about the delivery process and healing therefrom. At first, the aimlessness of the process of the art seemed silly, trivial. We were to select colors in reaction to each of the negative emotions in a list. It all stayed on the outside of my head and heart. 

[Dark Days of Death; source]

Then, one of the songs, Evanescence's "My Immortal," cracked me wide open because it's one of the two songs that automatically send me into a pain spiral. That song and Josh Groban's "A Breath Away" automatically drag me back to the dark days after my four-month-old baby rolled into a pillow and suffocated. Back to the days a DCSF agent and her sheriff crony trashed our house and tried to frame us for negligent homicide. Back to the days of terror and pain, when the two children I had were threatened by those who purported to protect them. Back to the days of miscarriage after miscarriage when hopes for a rainbow baby faded into darkness. When Christmas songs about babies and birth and angels ended in tears. Back to the days when anyone joking about or lightly sharing their ultrasounds triggered thoughts of pain and yet more loss. 

[A portrait of pain.]

That's when my art process that day went from trivial to dark, stark, and painful. I meant it to be lovely, displayable. Instead, black bubbles were shot through with seeping blood red, infectious greens, and tragic blues. There was no light or joy in this painting. When they passed around a color chart to help us translate, I didn't need that much help to realize it was a tribute to 14-year-old unhealed pain. A few of us shared our pain. The other two families who shared had pain much fresher, pains of loss but also the joys of holding babies that brought trials. My heart bled for them. It was good to talk out my pain. My friend who dragged me there insisted I still very much need therapy. It hadn't been quite so obvious to me as it became that day. Usually, I'm fine. I can trudge through my life and be the strong one for everyone else. But it's clear that it's more of a cover for pain that is still very real and present. 

[Reflections on Death: Source]

 I teach a class online. I don't create the curriculum. One of the assignments seems trivial to most. It's to write your own obituary. It doesn't seem like a big deal to the vast majority of students But to her, in her culture, in the place she's in, with her past traumas, it stirred up her heart and became an impassible boundary. She advocated for herself and told me what a hardship this was. And I could only empathize. I've been there, in a place where people throw around images, words, songs, and such without thought, these things can act as a trigger, can feel like a gut punch to those of us who have been through trauma. I hear that because after a year of death after death, my husband's father's, my brother's, and my baby's, funerals became unbearable torture. Things that seem like little to nothing to most can knock the wind out one's sails.

[Holding the candle for someone else; source]

What, to most, seems trivial can end up being a trigger to memories of the trauma beneath what seems like a healthy, happy surface. The best thing we can do is be understanding when others need to work through their trauma. To avoid judging when someone else's mourning process looks different than ours. To listen to others when they need to share about their pain. And above all, to avoid trivializing others' pain. 

Not My Baby

[My friend loved her Yorkie mix: source]

Several months ago, a friend of mine and I went to pick up a puppy for her. We both bonded with this little one on our trip. Her youngest human child is a teenager. This puppy, for her, was her warm and fuzzy comfort. Even as she struggled with the trials of carrying her family's burdens, working full time, being there for everyone, her puppy, Kiki, was there for her. She faithfully followed my friend around and lay her head on my friend's feet. 

[The highway claims another victim: source]

Then, one day, a family member let Kiki out but didn't make sure she came back in. They live on a highway, and they'd seen her play there before. So they always had to make sure that Kiki came back. One day, That family member didn't see Kiki come back but also didn't tell anyone else Kiki didn't come back. The next morning, they found little Kiki dead on the highway. 

[Gateway to loss: source]

It reminded me of my Harmoni. We live near her on the same highway. When we first moved into our house, we had a dog get hit on the road. After that, we built a security fence around the backyard to make sure no other dogs followed suit. But one day, we forgot to make sure the gate latched. It didn't, and Harmoni led another dog of ours on a merry chase onto the Highway. The only way I survived was through turning to prayer and listening to spiritual music. It was hard. 

[How to mourn with compassion; source]

But the compassion I learned from losing my little, gray puppy to the highway prepared me to be there for my friend when she did the same. I just listened to her talk and gave her a shoulder to cry on without judging, criticizing, or blaming. Kiki's loss hurt my heart for my sake, but more than that, for her. She was able to get through with my help but also with the help of foster puppies she took in soon after her loss. She very carefully avoided ranting at the family member whose actions led to Kiki's death. She set an example for me of how to mourn with grace and kindness even as she was hurting so badly inside. I'll have to remember to follow her lead if ever it happens to me again. I pray I nedver have to follow her example. 

Grief Delayed

 

[Vernal=Dinosaurs: source]

As I said last time, the fourteenth anniversary of my baby's death came and went at the end of June. We went to Vernal to be anywhere but home on that day because both of my living kids dig dinosaurs, and Vernal is a monument to the dinosaurs found there. It was a four-hour drive. Last year, the day passed by because we were so busy that it didn't even dawn on me that it was that dreadful day until the night came. I thought we were passing through the 28th, when it was really the 29th. This year, I knew it was the 29th, but my mind and heart were still numb. I cried a few tears over the signs on the wall in our lovely Air BnB three-bedroom house we were staying in that mentioned reunions and missing those we love. 

[Baby book; source]

But I had forgotten the baby book that punches through my numb haze of the day every year. The next day, I brought it out and shared it will child 2.0 and my husband. Child 2.0 usually passes on being there, but it was good, even if there was no response except in me. I cried, as I usually do. 

[Empty cribs; source]

But the real cleansing tears didn't strike me until the next day when a friend told me about someone she met who had just lost a baby under somewhat similar circumstances. My friend is what we call "a member of the club," the empty arms club. She has had two miscarriages.  

[Chasing the baby at the end of the rainbow; source]

The story really struck her because it made her contemplate what it would be to lose a child she had once held. She told me about her experience with something I haven't been through like she has. I had about 17 miscarriages (give or take--I've lost track), one before and the rest after my baby died. Alli was the only rainbow baby I ever had, the only baby I've carried to term after a loss. But she'd given up on hope. She was sure, even after the baby was born and had started to grow, that she was going to lose her at any time. That daughter has recently hit her 21st birthday, and most of that time, my friend was sure she'd lose her. It took me several more losses to accept when I was expecting, I was expecting a loss, not a baby. After my first miscarriage, I was confident my next baby would be born. She was. But Alli was the last one, and I lost her, too. My friend taught me that there's another level of loss I hadn't endured on that level. And it was good to cry together. 

[Grief; source]

Loss takes several faces and has several effects on one's life and one's heart. I used to embrace the five stages of grief, a comforting uniformity of what one can expect after loss. But my own experience shows me otherwise. There is no uniformity, no predictable stages of grief. One can experience multiple emotions at once, or one can experience them in any order or skip several of them. There's no right or wrong way to experience grief, and it can be hurtful to try to force our own expectations on others' emotional responses. Grief is a nightmare, a pain, a wild and uncontrolled ride that takes us out of our regular path and leaves us feeling things we can't predict or expect. All we can do is be there for others and embrace those who are there for us. 

Alli's Angelversary Sneaking upon Us Again

[Her angelversary's coming.]

'Tis the season to dread the end of the month. Alli would be 14 now had she lived. We'd be sending her to high school in the fall. Wow, that's depressing. Instead, we're once again planning the trip to be anywhere but home on the 14th anniversary of her death. This time, we're planning a trip to Vernal because both of my living kids love dinosaurs. We'll be leaving for that brief trip in a few days. 

[Ghost Town, Montana: sourcesource]

Last year, we went to Montana. It was a fun trip except that one of my kids forgot meds, which resulted in insomnia and a total emotional breakdown just as we arrived in the ghost town, our destination. It's also hard when our two kids have to sleep in the same room since one snores, and one is a light sleeper. The trip was fun otherwise, especially the stay in the cabin. I even got the days mixed up and wasn't aware the day had passed until it was over. So it was a mixed bag of a trip.  

[Fossils: source.]

This year, that same child is on better meds, and we're in an Air BNB with enough rooms for everyone. Plus, you know, dinosaurs. So, I'm hoping the distraction kind of trip may help. As long as I don't think too much, I should be okay. Sadly, on days like the angelversary, I almost always think too much. 

A New Death Overshadows My Angel's Birthday

 

[Dreading my angel's birthday.]

I was dreading the approach of my angel Alli's 14th birthday on March 2nd. It often comes with heartbreak and pain that even time and distance don't remove. We look at a baby book of my sweet Alli. It takes us through her four-month life, through the pregnancy with ultrasound images of her, of the kids kissing my belly, of her new, 5 lb 13 ounce, gosling-honking newborn form. Those bright, glorious pictures of her tiny, blue-eyed form take us through our adventures with her, her siblings laying on tummy time with her, her older sister bonding with her, her parents and grandparents holding her with joyful faces. The day at three months when the neighbor taught her to smile. 

[Newborn Alli.]

The pictures didn't show the pain and the heartache we went through with a miscarriage before she finally came. The pictures don't show how much we worked to bring her here alive, with trips every 1-2 weeks from 17 weeks to a hospital 45 minutes away to have a flurry of ultrasounds done to make sure the Kell antibody that plagued the pregnancy didn't suck her dry, as it could have. There's so much of her short time here that the pictures don't show, but they do end with her face frozen in death, her too-tiny casket lying in the ground. They do end with warm letters of condolences. My soul always grows cold when we get to that point. I end our visit with Alli in sobs every time. Then, we eat angel food cake to celebrate her birth. We did that this year, but I just felt numb for all of it. Maybe because it was already in the shadow of a more recent loss. In four more months, we will commemorate her death. 

[Jurassic Park; source]

As we often do, we planned to go somewhere for one of her significant dates. I hate to be in my own head on those days. We planned to celebrate our other second child's birthday by heading to a dinosaur museum with friends. A snowstorm made that impossible, which devastated my teenager. The loss of that anticipated event overshadowed Alli's birthday. We were at least able to watch "Jurassic Park" together, which was something. It's been a long time since we all watched any kind of movie together. 

[My dad when I was a kid.]

But a bigger shadow still overcast the whole thing. Thursday morning, we got the call we knew was coming, My father had passed away. We've seen it coming. He was diagnosed with dementia 10 years ago. Over that time, he went from being a strong, confident man who led his family with an iron fist to a jolly lump on the sofa. He went from being stressed and angry about the burden of adulthood to smiling at everyone, having no idea who they even were but loving them anyway. 

[The jolly lump and his dog.]

As he shed the weight of his memory, he shed his anger, his fear, his worry and was just happy to be fed, given Dr. Pepper, snuggled by his dog, taken care of my mother, and entertained by his TV shows. He just wanted comfort. At the very end of his life, my mother could no longer care for him as she had, so we put him in a care facility. He wasn't happy about it, but we didn't have any other choice. And that's where he passed away, a full ten years after dementia set in. He was always difficult, whether the tyrant or the jolly lump, but now, my mom is kind of a lost soul. He gave her purpose, even if the purpose made her miserable most of the time, but now, she's alone. 

[Carrying the weight of death: source]

All of these things have made this last week so difficult. But at the same time, I don't feel it all acutely. Maybe I'm in shock or just burned out from life, but I don't feel any of this as deeply as I'd expect. As anyone would expect. I feel bad for not feeling worse about losing my father. I feel bad about not fully getting to commemorate Alli's birthday and not really feeling what I did. I know these are irrational emotions, but emotion is usually irrational. It is what it is. I do know families can be together forever. That helps with all of this loss. Maybe the upcoming funeral will make me feel anything other than numb.