Trauma in a Box

 

[Box o' Trauma: source]

One of the things my therapist has suggested is to envision a box in which to contain my trauma when I can't look at it. This came pretty naturally because I usually bottle up my trauma. That's how I survive. I put my childhood trauma (neglect, physical, emotional, environmental, etc.) in the same box with the trauma that came from losing a child, 17+ miscarriages, nearly losing Alli in the womb to the Kell antibody, dealing with the emotional terrorism that came with the attempted framing for negligent homicide by the state, and all the other things I've suffered. It's a lot, and it would be easy to be overwhelmed. That box saved me long before I ever created an image of it in my mind. I don't like to think about boxes because that leads me to the obvious box, the little white coffin into which my waxen-faced angel was placed just over 15 years ago. But I'm thankful for this invisible box. But there's more to healing that keeping the trauma in a box. 

                                      

[Unpacking the box--one leads to another: source]

The hard part is pulling out that trauma and taking a hard look. I mentioned this last blog, the one from a couple of months ago. Unpacking it can be painful, sometimes, resulting in tears. It involves looking at how my trauma affects others and vice versa. The therapist gives me strategies to try to avoid sharing my trauma in unhealthy ways, namely, by breathing through it and grounding myself in physical senses. It's hard to remember to do it in the moment. It's a work in progress. She's also referred us to a family therapist to try to work on all of this together. I guess we'll see how that works. 

[Jack-in-the-box, when the contents of the box can jump out at any time: source]

And you'd think I could just unpack the pain once and be done, but it's still there. I still lost my babies. I still dealt with abuse by the state. I still have years, decades, of unresolved trauma at the hands of family, neighbors, governmental figures, and more. And I will never get an apology. I have to find a way to come to terms with my pain for my sake, to forgive and let go not for anyone else's benefit but to release the poison I don't need in my heart. The goal is to be able to be able to look at her pictures without the pain, to be able to cherish the memories without the anger at the people who have intentionally attempted to steal the things from me that were most precious. It's hard to discern how close I am to that goal. 

[How the box sometimes feels, but without the fun; source] 

Just after we lost Alli and started attending loss groups, the experts in charge laid out the five stages of grief, and I took comfort that the pain would be gone once I got to that last stage. I'd learned about stages of childhood development, and they were (more or less) orderly(ish) and predictable(ish). Then, through hard experience and reading further, I learned there is no scientific basis for those stages. They were created by Kubler-Ross to help people deal with their own impending deaths and had no basis in studies. There is no actual formula for pain. I could go through numbness, angst, anger, peace, etc. and countless other emotions all at once, one at a time, or in triggers that could shoot off unpredictably. Even a rollercoaster is too pat and planned for the experience of grief. Grief is an untamed bronco that could go any which way at any given time. Even that is misleading because there's a way off a bronco. Once a person is on the grief train, it's always part of life to varying degrees. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but that, too, is a lie. I have acquired a scab that can fall off at any time. As long as I keep the trauma in the box, I can generally exist day to day. But can I do more than exist? Who knows? I'm not there yet.  

[The Box's true identity: source]

The box is lurking in my heart and mind. It's always there. It sometimes chokes me and makes it seem impossible to sense the sun or see a way forward. Sometimes, it feels like I can keep the pain in the box with no problem and continue to live my life. Sometimes, I exist in the box, in a world where everything is pain. I feel broken, kept together by a hodgepodge of chicken wire and duct tape that can fall apart at any time. Sometimes, peace of mind feels temporary, an illusion. But I know I can find lasting peace in knowing I can hold her again one day, in knowing she's still there. I just can't see her. That helps, but not all the time. One day, I'm hoping and praying for that peace to last and feel more substantial. In the meantime, I will live for those moments of peace given me from on high and pray for more. 

Angelversary Trauma Delayed

[Newborn Alli]

I have been so busy lately that blogging has not been a thing. I'm going to try to get back to it. A week ago today was the anniversary of her death. She would be 15. Every year for Alli Day, we try to be anywhere but home. Having an adventure keeps my brain on anything but my pain. A couple of years ago, when we went to Montana for a ghost town, I didn't even realize it was the day until the next day.

 

[Hiking: Source]

This time, we decided to head to a major hike up Mt. Timpanogos. One of the kids tripped a couple of days before, so we decided the strain of that hike would be too much. Instead, we stayed at a bed and breakfast and drove up the Uintas. Our end goal was a fossil museum in Wyoming and a shorter hike in that same vicinity. We spent the day busy and didn't arrive home until late. I thought in a distant way of Alli but didn't feel the pain. 

[3-way tummy time-a pic from Alli's baby book]

The next day, we went through Alli's baby book. I felt the standard emptiness, a few tears, but I didn't break down. Until I talked to my therapist. It's been good to talk through my pain with an outside set of ears. We've been working on trying to separate the joy we had from holding her for four months from the trauma of DCSF attempting to frame us for homicide. Usually, I can mentally close the door at the end of a session. This time, especially with how recent the anniversary was, I collapsed into an agonized puddle and felt gutted the rest of the day. It was also the day I had to do grading, a thing I changed classes to avoid. Grading eats me alive if I let it, leaving me very little time for time with my kids or anything else. The two events left me traumatized and wrung out. I survived, but it was hard. 

[mourning: source]

I know it's good to let myself feel it sometimes. It's good to push through the pain to find healing. But it was rough. It's not something I'm eager to experience again, but I'm sure it was therapeutic. Somehow. I'm just glad that day only comes once a year. 

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. 

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. 

Burnout for Christmas

 

[A gift for my angel; source]

When Alli died, I threw myself into work and anything I could do to avoid thinking. Come the holidays, I jumped into as much service as I could think of. We wrote down the nice things we did for other people and put them in a bottle. On Christmas morning, we read back over the service projects we did as a gift to my angel. 

[Observing what remained of my holiday spirit; source]

Last year, on sleeping medication that did not do me any favors for a year and a half, I crashed and burned out. I got sleep but lost my fire. I didn't have it in me to much enjoy the holidays, let alone help others do so. The fact that the economy turned my income from comfortable to surviving did not help matters. But we still managed to squeeze a few things in, still did a few things to help others. 

[The results of recovering my fire.]

I got off those meds and onto some that left me able to sleep and with enough ambition to work on jump-starting my writing career. I spent the late summer and fall writing and churning out books and putting them on Amazon, including the first in my novels for kids (Doomimals Book 1) as well as helping my boy get the first of his books out (Misadventures of the Just Us Chickens). We've sold some but are working on figuring out how to advertise. And now, I'm back to burnout between all the writing, a full-time job, and a part-time job. 

[Looking through the boughs darkly.]

The holiday used to be so hard because I felt the gaping hole where my youngest child ought to be. Songs about babies, pregnancy, and angels didn't help. Now, it's the burnout, two years running. Burnout is hard over the holidays because everything feels harder. The year has flown by so fast that it doesn't feel like we ought to be doing this all over again. I've slogged through the season so far, not deeply mourning but not excited about the little things. It doesn't help that others in my house feel the same. So, it's with a sense of duty and guilt that I still push myself to do something. I decorated the tree minimally because I was doing it alone. Wrapping is no longer a joy, so I trot out the tired, wrinkled gift bags and shove things in, sans Christmas music. 

[True meaning; source]

I'm trying to ignite that holiday spirit by reminding myself of the true meaning, the birth of the Savior. I've been listening to Christmas music, but only the stuff that won't automatically feel stale. Which is hard to find sometimes. Hint: shopping in stores doesn't do it. Pentatonix continually produces more unique versions and styles. The Tabernacle Choir often teams with fun performers like Muppets. Josh Groban makes me happy. Lindsey Sterling and Jackie Evancho are on the playlist for today. I'll be focusing on spiritual Christmas and spiritual songs and messages today. They help to bring in the Spirit and also the true spirit of Christmas. I'm still looking for service ideas on a budget. I know that will help, too, because nothing brings the Spirit faster than helping others. Feel free to share what helps you enjoy the holidays. Maybe something you say will help. I'll survive the holiday. I'd just like to survive it with a smile and maybe some memories that will last. 

What not to Say to a Griever

 

[Don't stick your foot in it. Source]

It's easy to stick your foot in it with someone who is a fresh mourner, someone who just lost a loved one. Fresh grief is raw and painful. It may be numb as well. It can have any number of effects, many of them unpredictable and uncontrollable. It is what it is, and it is not easy to deal with. But there are certain things I'd recommend those who want to reach out to a griever not do. One is to ignore the grief, pretend no loss has happened or to treat the griever like the plague. A lot of people do either of these because grief is uncomfortable for all parties. The main thing to remember is that if you're there for the person, not for you. It should not be about you. That means you can express empathy but never say you understand. Everyone's grief is different. I can't even pretend to understand my husband's grief, and he's there with me all the time with the same losses. 

[Just don't: Source]

There are things one should just never say, though you may have the best of intentions doing so. Anything that starts with, "You think you have it bad" is a bad idea. Comparing any aspect of your pain with any aspect of theirs demeans and minimizes what they're feeling. Please, I beg of you, just don't. Anything after, "Well, at least . . " is almost as bad. I don't care if you're saying, "At least you'll see her again in heaven" or "At least you know you have an angel watching over you." It may all be true, but in saying this, you're telling them they don't have a right to feel pain. Their arms are empty NOW. It hurts NOW. Telling someone how they should feel or that they have no legitimate right to feel like they do now or in the future only hurts them more. Furthermore, Never put a timeline or expectation on grief. Wondering why they're not over it already can do just that. Mostly, these feel like an unconscious desire to silence.

[Questions that hurt. Source]

 

"How are you?" feels like an obvious and instinctive thing to say, but it practically demands the scripted answer, "I'm fine." This once again makes you the one getting comforted. If they say they're fine, you can feel better about them and not worry about them anymore. Even if they say it, what they might mean is, "I'm dying inside, but I don't trust you enough to tell you about it." They may appreciate the thought, but you can't bank on it. Just be there for them. If they trust you enough to tell you how they feel, there's a good chance they will do so. They just need you to reach out and be there. 

[Just be there; source]

If they're a hugger, a hug a shoulder touch, or any other contact can often help. But not everyone wants to be touched. Not everyone wants or needs any one thing. However, most people want to know you're there, that you're open to whatever they need from you, and that you are there for them, not for you. Empathy is a lovely thing, as long as you're not focusing on your losses but simply showing that you have some comprehension of what it is to grieve. Praying for people can help. Sometimes, they may actually feel the comfort that comes from your prayers. Above all, just be there for them. Communicate that you care, that you're open to what they need from you. Every griever is different and has different needs. 

Tell me in the comments how you offer comfort to a fellow griever or someone who you have seen in pain. 

The death date sneaks up on us

[Travel: source]

In just under two weeks, we'll be leaving town, as usual, to avoid being home on my baby's angelversary. We do this every year, choosing a new place to be other than home. It gives us something to look forward to, something to celebrate. But it also distracts from the pain of remembering she would have been 13 this month. 

[Yellowstone: source]

Some years, we've gone just on quick, local road trips. Some years, it will be an overnighter. We've been to Yellowstone, Craters of the Moon, Lava Hotsprings, last year, a small, local ghost town, and so many places, anywhere that is not here, dwelling in our own heads. I highly recommend it. It gives a chance to celebrate togetherness rather than to focus on being apart. 

[Ghost Town: Source]

This year, we're going back to major ghost towns, including Virginia City, Montana, and a dinosaur museum now that both kids like dinosaurs. My husband is all about Westerns and particularly the Vigilantes of Montana, a group of men who got tired of the sheriff and others ransacking and murdering with no limits and no law stopping them, the very definition of the Wild West. The vigilantes took out the murderers themselves. It's a dark story of heroism few know, which is one reason my husband likes to go there. Research for a movie he'd like to make one day. Meanwhile, child 2.0 has developed a love for small towns, particularly ghost towns. So off we go. 

[Anywhere but Home: Source]

Last we went there, we had two littles, one of which found the big, empty buildings scary. Now, that child is the one leading the way. I'm game. Anything to be anywhere but home. It's also likely to be the only vacation of any sort we'll be able to swing this year. It's all good. I'm just happy to be far away, busy and outside my own head, so I don't have to ponder the nastiest day of the year, the reminder of a pain most people will never understand. Thankfully. 

Feeling a Kinship

 

[Celebrity; source]

I'm not one to be excited about celebrity. Yeah, I see them, know about them like anyone else. I have my favorites. But I don't spend a lot of time thinking about it. But when I hear about a celebrity losing a child or being a member of The Empty Arms Club, someone who has lost a child, I immediately feel a sense of kinship with them. It doesn't matter who they are, whether they be a massive Hollywood celebrity or a minor singer. I immediately feel empathy and a connection with them because of the loss of my baby. 

[Death, the great equilizer; source]

Loss seems to be the great equilizer. We, as humans, are so different in so may ways, with money, position in society, careers, health, gender, race, etc. But when loss hits, we all experience much of the same pain, many of the same emotions, much of the same grief. Everyone experiences loss differently and deals with mourning in an individual way. But there are definitely similarities. 

[Grief; source]

I'm not a believer in the "Five Stages of Grief" because there's nothing stage-like or predictable about how grief hits. Based on my experience, we can be hit with anger, numbness, etc. in rapid succession or even all at once at the same time. From what I understand, there's no real scientific evidence that these stages have any basis in truth. When I first heard them after I lost Alli, I held to them like a lifeline, found comfort in them because I knew once I hit that end stage, the pain would be over. But I can find peace a joy briefly then be launched back into the maelstrom. From what I've seen in others, I'm not alone. Grief is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and life-changing. no matter who you are and how you experience it. 

[Reaching out; source]

Grief builds a connection between humans. It can be very isolating, but it can also teach us to be more understanding of others' experiences if we let it. We can feel a connection with anyone else over our pain and our loss. The question is what are we going to do about it? Are we going to allow that empathy to teach us how to reach beyond ourselves to others who have lost?

Easter

[Not enough baskets: source]

 It's on a holiday like today you notice who is missing. You look over the two dozen eggs and two Easter baskets and wish there were three of each. You'd pay any price to fill that last spot and have it mean something more than an empty gesture. 

[The empty space where her basket ought to be: Source]

It's not that the coming of the holiday messes with my mind and heart, not like the coming of the holiday season. I don't dread it like I do her birthday or angelversary. I often don't even miss that third basket. But today, it's there like a shadow of emptiness. 

[The true meaning of Easter: source]

It's because of my loss(es) I'm thankful for the meaning of Easter, that it reminds us that the Lord suffered and died for my pain and yours, so He would understand our pain and overcome death and hell for us. It's for that reason I can survive every day, knowing I will hold her again, that we'll be a complete family, together forever, one day. I don't know how I would make it through this loss without that knowledge. It doesn't make it easy. But it does make it survivable. 

When Your Doctor's Office Doesn't Get the Memo

[texting-source]

I got a text a couple of weeks ago that felt like a punch to the gut. "Alamanda hasn't been to see the doctor in a while. It's time to set your appointment." Something like that. Now, I know my doctor has been with us since before my first was born. He's great. But he recently turned a lot of work over to his nurse, who is new. She didn't know she was inquiring about my baby who died 12 years ago in an accident that killed my innocence and ripped out my heart. She didn't mean to send a trigger. But in not checking the file, she sent me a major trigger. 

[Fixing up a house-source]

Then, a short time later, I had to text back because of a UTI. I haven't had a UTI since I had one of my last miscarriages. Pregnancy usually brings UTIs, not working all day on fixing up a house we built 3 years ago, just so my sister could trash it in those short years. Oh, and not hydrating enough in the process. So when the blood came, it reminded me of a miscarriage. And the diagnosis reminded me of pregnancy. Yeah, that's another fun trigger. Brings everything back, so I have to stare at it. 

[The nurse comes in-source]

And when I went to talk face-to-face with that same nurse who sent me the misdirected text, she didn't know my history either. She expressed sympathy but no knowledge of my 16+ miscarriages. Trigger.  One would hope that your doctor's office and any reps thereof would get the memo on stuff like this. It's easy to trigger someone when you blunder into a person's health history unprepared.  I'm trying not to get bitter about the little things. It would just be nice if someone did her research. But if one hasn't gone through it, it's hard to know what a landmine such a history is. I try to remember that. It can just be hard some days. 

When Your Greatest Fear Takes Another Shape

[My former greatest fear--source]

My greatest fear used to be spiders. However, after I lost my closest brother and my baby and had 16+ miscarriages in a row, I learned there are much, much worse things to fear than (most) spiders. All spiders can usually do is give you physical pain. Emotional pain that comes with the loss of family members makes a mere spider bite, even one that lands you in the hospital, trivial by comparison. A spider may leave holes in your flesh that will most likely heal. The world-shaking loss of loved ones hollows you out and leaves no part of your world untouched. 

[My Disney Princess: Source]

For 12 years, my greatest fear has been to lose a family member. People talk about helicopter parenting derisively with reason. But my husband and I became predator drone parents to defend ourselves from ever dealing with that kind of catastrophic loss. All of the emotional scarring of loss was made much, much worse when CPS attempted to destroy my family with false accusations that tried to tear us apart. That, alone, is a very long, ugly story some would find farfetched, and some would nod along to because they've had their own experiences with that kind of nightmare. It doesn't help that my brain became a worthless fog after my catastrophic losses. I understand brain fog is pretty normal. That's right. I've become Marlin and Dory from Finding Nemo. I don't recommend it. It's stressful and frankly terrifying. It's exhausting to live in a world where not just loss but any kind of loss becomes a very real possibility at any time. 

[Another kind of loss--source]

So when a family member recently nuked their family with the big D, becoming far more destructive than necessary without careful thought to the consequences, I felt like a brand new black hole tore into my carefully duct-taped semi-comfortable reality. The way this family member destroyed their family brought threats of CPS way too close to home. It's a long, ugly story that has only begun. There are not likely to be any winners, only losers.  And it brought back all the pain, all the trauma of my past.  Worst of all? We come away from it wondering how many family members may be lost to this black hole. The fears and traumas that seemed carefully buried have reared their ugly heads again.  

[Heartfelt prayer--source]

Just thinking about it leaves me in shock. I don't know how to emotionally tread through this minefield. I didn't cause it, but I have only begun to ponder what consequences these events may have. All I can do is pray for all involved and hope that's enough to bring a miracle. 

Survival on Her Death Date

[Ghost town-source]

As usual, we all took off for a trip to be anywhere but home on the anniversary of Alli's death. When we do this, we can more easily take our minds off the significance of that date. We decided to go to a ghost town, appropriate for the purpose. We wanted to revisit Virginia City, Montana, on which my husband wants to write a book, but with gas prices being through the roof, we ended up at a charming, rebuilt pioneer town in Idaho instead. It did not have the right creepy vibe, and there were too many people involved on the tour for my daughter to enjoy it like she wanted to. However, the rest of us were suitably impressed. Some of the houses reminded me of my grandpa's house. The mercantile there especially felt just like a store my grandpa's family ran from almost a century ago until a couple of decades ago.  

[Ice cream to cover tears. Source]

We did wander through the nearby Lava Hotsprings, a charming tiny tourist town like one my daughter has created as the basis for her stories and plotlines. We enjoyed ice cream and a small-town diner. It was a nice, inexpensive getaway, so we didn't have to ponder who wasn't there, or probably was there that we couldn't see.  She would have been 12. 

[Remembering Alli]

Most of our little trip, I was able to keep it together. I lost it a little bit when my mom called and cried with me. I started to break down a couple of times over the course of the day. But my real breakdown came after we got home, and I trotted out her baby book. I went into more detail than I usually do for my boy, telling him things he'd never heard about Alli and about his relationship with her. It wasn't until we got to the images of the cold, waxen face of my previously vibrant baby and the pictures of the tiny coffin that I collapsed entirely. Instead of awkwardly offering me a drink of water to stop me from crying in his usual panic mode, my teenager showed a lot more emotional maturity when he just held me while I sobbed. My husband rubbed my back until the storm passed. My boy later pointed out we all need these times to break down, to give into the grief.  I'm thankful they were there, and I'm thankful to know we will hold our angel again. In the meantime, dates like this still hurt. 

The Angelversary Creeps On

 

[Angelversary comes: source]

Yeah, I feel it, that dreadful anniversary of my angel's death, creeping up on me as usual, like a monster stalking its prey. I hope it won't be the nightmare it often is. Sometimes, the anticipation is worse than the actual day, itself.  Mostly, I just pretend like it's not coming, ignoring it as it creeps every closer and then close my eyes as it sweeps over me in a wave.  

[June-source]

I know some people celebrate the angelversary. We usually plan an outing, so we don't have to be home. I have no idea what we may plan for this time around because planning for it usually requires pondering it. And I prefer not to think at all about it.  But too often, the word "June" comes with it an unpleasant feeling, that feeling of darkness coming at the end of the month. 

[Her baby book-source]

There's nothing I can do about it, either. It's going to come, whether I think about it or not, whether I watch it come or not. There's no way around it because it's the nature of the beast. The best I can hope for is it won't be as painful as usual. As usual, we'll go somewhere. As usual, I'll trot out Alli's baby book at the end of the day. That's when I'll probably lose control and let myself feel it.  In the meantime, I think I'll go back to not thinking about it until it can't be avoided and hope for the best.