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. 

A January of Loss

[Loss in threes.]

What is it about losses coming in threes? Not all of them are mine, just ones that have affected my life in some way, however mild. The first one came on New Years Day. This was the loss that affected me most personally, but it wasn't the last. 

[Dodger fades.]

We were told three and a half years ago that Dodger, the purebred Pomeranian I bought 12 years ago, was dying. They didn't really expect him to survive the year. As he kept chugging along, inflated heart, clogged lungs, and collapsing trachea and all. When he first came to me, he was a strapping young guy, full of life. But I got him just after I'd lost my baby. The day I got him, I set him down to go potty, and he took off into the night. We were sure he was a goner because we lived on the highway, but we found him two miles down a different road, happily settled with a population of cats. I had a dream around that time in which he was a were baby, switching back and forth from female baby to Pomeranian. The translation is pretty transparent. He was the first dog I ever had to make it into my heart. And here we were, 3 1/2 years after we were told he was dying, feeling like we'd have him forever. Then, suddenly, I'm pretty sure that burdened heart gave out. Over two days, leading up to New Year's Day, he faded away. He breathed his last in my husband's arms. The house has felt emptier without him. 

[Foreshadowing; source.]

A week or two later, we had a scare. My dad fell four times in one day and started to refuse food there in his care center. He was fairly unresponsive, just like Dodger at the end. I even put family members on alert, in case this was the end. It made me want to reach out more to his first family, his first set of kids with the hopes of building bridges. We don't know them well, so it seems like the time to change that. It wasn't the end. He came back. But he has lost his will to live. I don't expect him to be here much longer. When he does breathe his last, I will write about him. But for now, he is still chugging. He's not one of the three. 

[Saying goodbye; source]

Just after that, Theresa, my good buddy of 16 years and next-door neighbor, lost her beloved grandma. She, too, had been expecting that loss. But expected loss has its trials, just like unexpected loss. Even when you know it's coming, it still hurts. She went to a funeral in each of two areas to be with family. I watched her loss from a distance, but I felt her pain. I was there for her. Each person's voyage is different, but loss gives us an understanding on some level of the pain of loss. 

[Her time came; source]

Two days ago, I received news that Ree, my best buddy from my early undergrad days, lost her battle with cancer. I'd watched with growing concern the reports of one treatment after another, one day after another that brought new pain, new hardship to her and her family. I watched from a distance, praying for them, but I feel like I should have reached out toward the end, should have reforged that connection we once had. But it didn't seem possible it was the end. I'd had a lot of friends and family survive cancer. This seemed like it would be one of those. Vibrant, exciting Ree who brought sunlight into my lonely, solitary existence of my freshman year of college at Vassar couldn't die. But she did. She's gone, and her husband, also a friend from that time, is so bereft. They were best friends until the end, and he is a lost soul without her. 

[Loss is individual; source]

Each person's voyage of loss is so different. I turn to the Lord in the face of loss, but not everyone does. Whether loss is expected or not, it tends to be hard, sometimes life-changing. It can be destructive or constructive and everything in between. Some people seek to be busy. Some seek out others. Some just want quiet to just feel or just be. Some people fall apart. It's easy to think that life as we know it is the norm. But change, loss, and pain are such a part of that. As they say, tomorrow is not promised. The best we can do is be there for each other, especially in loss, to not judge or tell someone how to grieve, how to face loss. Tell me about something someone has said to you that has helped you in the face of loss. How did it help you?