Survived the Birthday

[source]

I actually did fairly well, all things considered.  I had a few breakdowns, but not so many I couldn't handle them. 

I had a breakdown the morning before, when I was driving into town.  I heard a romance song I've always liked and that I never associated with mourning, Richard Marx's "Right Here Waiting for You."   There was a line or two that particularly referenced romance, but the rest of it spoke to my soul at the moment I was thinking of my angel's birthday the next day.  I cried the whole time it played.  Afterward, I found peace in the LDS temple to which I was heading when the song played. I hoped but didn't expect that to be the last. 

The next day, the day of her ninth birthday, I reflected on her loss and cried again.  It wasn't long, and I had my husband to hold.  It felt good. 

As we like to do, we kept ourselves busy to avoid too much self-pity and fruitless reflection on loss.  We went out of town to celebrate my other daughter's birthday as a family.  It was fun and kept our thoughts on other things.  Then, the night came, and we gave Alli her birthday party with an angel food cake and a walk down memory lane through her birthday.  We even had a friend there to show moral support.  Coming to the end of her pictures always feels like a punch to the gut.  Especially when I get to the funeral photos.  It's been a long time since I've broken down that badly.  It hurt.  It will always hurt to pass through her birthdays, at least until we can hold her again. 

Ongoing Damage part 2

Over a year ago, my preteen girl was diagnosed with mono or a malady very like it.  It was almost impossible to wake her for school.  I had to dress her like a doll and still often couldn't wake her afterward.  Every day felt like the improv game of dead bodies where I had to manipulate a floppy person who was almost as tall as I am.  I finally just let the school know she was not coming or coming late every morning we couldn't wake her.  Summer couldn't come soon enough.  Over the summer, she got better but not all the way.  She showed every sign of chronic fatigue. 

Recently, I called the doctor's office to get some ideas of how to help my girl through these symptoms, which still haven't faded entirely.  I figured she still had the mono, which I had heard could become chronic.  When I talked to the nurse and told her my perception of the situation, she suggested good vitamins and getting her walking in the sun for vitamin D.  But the doctor said these symptoms are psychosomatic, that they have their root in psychology.  He recommended we get a therapist and/or have her work through a kids' therapy workbook. There's no pill to fix her.  There's no easy fix.  And it all started with the early trauma and tragedy of losing her sister on which the trauma of a bully, of a teacher that created an emotionally damaging environment, and other life events have only built to change her from an extreme extrovert who trusted the world to an extreme introvert drained by too much "peopling." 

On one level, she's done a lot of healing since her traumas.  She's gained a lot of confidence and self-assurance in her gifts and abilities.  On the other hand, it's hard to know how far she has to go and what being healed looks like.  All I can do is be there for her, give her those workbooks the doctor recommends since she has no interest in therapists, and help her turn toward God for the healing the atonement offers. 

Dreaded June

[Allamandas, a flower whose name resembles my Alamanda's name.]

I always feel better when I haven't noticed it's June yet.  And when I haven't yet connected the beginning of June with its tail end.  I haven't connected the budding, green world of late spring as summer vacation begins with the last moments of June, the darkest day of the calendar year when we pull out the pictures of my baby that start with ultrasounds and end with images of caskets and headstones.  I never dreamed eight years ago that such a bright, happy time of the year could end so darkly.

My world as I knew it ended that beautiful, sunny day.  Everything since has been a process of scrambling to piece together the shards of a shattered, bloody heart.  Every June since has started with the sun shining and ended in the abyss where it feels light will never shine again. 

There was a time I loved June, looked forward to it, cherished it as a perfect time of the year, when the sun hasn't quite baked the color out of the world, and the baby animals are still finding their feet.  Now, it's a month reminiscent of dying flowers beside a tiny grave with dates too close together and shabby rainbows representing the younger babies I would carry but never hold. 

I miss a green, happy June like I miss my smile before catastrophic loss.  But, somehow, life goes on, anyway.  I will survive until July, when the sun can shine again.  I will keep that picture book that ends too abruptly in its place on the shelf until the end of the month, when we will remember her short life with tears and warm memories but also pain.  I know, one day, I will be able to hold her again.  I know families can be together forever.  But for now, June hurts.  And I can either accept that or pretend I can replace what is with what "should be."  Life will go on with the pain.  I've accepted that.  And that will have to do. 

Ongoing Damage

                                                               (Tummy time for three)

I'm no psychologist, but I'm pretty sure my kids' emotional fragility is somehow connected with wounds from losing their little sister early in life.  My girl was three, and my boy was five when their little sister was just gone.  But I'm pretty sure the insecurities created then still play into their subconscious.  The damage festers on, whether they know it or not. 

(A boy and his baby sister)

My boy never really bonded.  They would do tummy time, but he was upset from the beginning he was getting yet another sister instead of his longed-for brother.  He wished her away...then she was gone.  He had been asking for a pacman frog just before we lost Alli, then the YouTube videos of pacman frogs eating just about everything small and weak figured heavily in his dreams after my angel died.  He no longer wanted one.  His own bed terrified him.  We had to get a new one, one he's had ever since.  He woke at 5 every morning for weeks and couldn't get enough sleep.  He finally got settled into better sleep patterns with the help of his doctor, but it was rough.  I think the bigger damage was guilt and fear became part of him, deep down inside.  Guilt that he had somehow caused her loss.  Fear that he could be next. 

(A girl and her baby sister)

For my girl, the damage was catastrophic.  She adored her little sister.  Her whole life circled around the little bundle of pink, the little sister she'd dreamed of, hoped for, and felt a bond with long before Alli came.  The day before I even knew I was pregnant, my little girl came and said, "My sister is coming," and nothing could shake her conviction because she just KNEW.  Then, for all of Alli's life, she wanted to be right there with her, comparing toes and fingers, asking about what "me-baby" was like.  Then, her heart was ripped out when her sister was just gone.  She knew without us telling her how Alli had died.  We were vague with the kids because we didn't want them afraid to go to sleep, but Alli had told her before she left.  Their bond was strong to the end. 

(Mourning)

Now, she doesn't remember her sister, really.  Neither of them do.  We look at Alli's picture book and talk about her sometimes, at least on her birthday and Angelversary.  But every time I cried, the kids would get scared and upset.  My girl would never want to talk about her sister, even at the time, claiming anytime she cried, it was for her cat that died a short time later.  I shared with them my sadness as openly as they would let me.  They worked hard to distance themselves from my mourning and from their own.  We took them to therapy, but the therapist had ulterior motives for all she did and really did not interact with the kids much.  She was eager to fish for evidence against us for the state's fraudulent case, so anything we said or did would show up as "evidence," even objecting to an early morning appointment so the kids could get enough sleep.  Despite our best efforts, they got no real therapy.  Due to this bad experience, I am in no hurry to subject any of us to more "therapy." 

(Fragile peace.)

But I see it in their fragility, especially my girl's.  Her immune system is terrible.  Part of that was she caught mono over a year ago, but part of that is she's always been that way.  It's almost like she feels guilty deep down inside that she lived, while Alli did not.  While her brother, the preemie-born child, was going strong, rarely sick, she's caught everything from strep to several colds and flus a year to that case of mono.  Emotionally, she's just as fragile.  She acts strong, confident, like she's healed, but since Alli's loss, she's wanted me there every night to watch over her as she went to sleep.  When she's sick or tired, she reaches for mommy to comfort her even during her preteen years.  She can't stand being around those in pain and in mourning because she has the kind of empathy where she senses others' emotions and is often strongly influenced by them.  She's gone from being an extrovert, eager to interact with others, to being an introvert, unwilling to let most people in.  Losing her sister broke her, and she's still trying to put the pieces back together.  She had a bullying situation and a teacher that was overbearing that damaged her further, but it all started when her world was shattered on one bright day in late June almost 8 years ago. 

(Healing hearts)

I'm thankful for the healing both kids have undergone.  I'm grateful for the times they have been willing to share their pain, when we could cry together.  I'm thankful for the cat that Alli sent her at the time my girl was most fragile, a cat that has helped her through much of her healing process.  I'm thankful for the healing power of the Lord in all of our lives.  Overall, both kids are doing well, are mostly happy.  But deep inside, I can still see broken hearts struggling to heal the rest of the way. I will continue to pray that their loss and healing makes them stronger than they otherwise may have been. 

Borrowed Babies

It's a hard thing to lose a baby and know you won't have any more.  I have had 15+ miscarriages since I lost Alli.  It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that my body is just done.  I had the testing done.  There is no explanation.  Well, now, my body is getting older.  It's not hard to figure it out.  But when Alli passed, I still had time.  And my body still would not do it.  I'd get them to just about the time I could go in and see the doctor for an ultrasound (though several did not make it that far), and I'd hear that same, chilling phrase, "There is no heartbeat."  Or, "The fetus is too small."  Either that or the blood, itself, would tell me hope was dead again. 

Now, I can only borrow others' babies.  I don't do it often because it's an awkward thing to just grab someone else's child if you're not close.  And because it can still cause twinges and echoes of pain to think about what I can't have.  But every so often, my nephew, his wife, and their little boy toddlers come by.  I get my fill of baby giggles, wiggly toddler toes, and sweet-smelling snuggles.  I don't have to change diapers or even worry about feeding or calming the child.  I get all the perks of being a grandma without a more old-sounding title than great aunt.  But I get my baby fix. 

Now, I'm looking forward to holding the little girl that will come to them in a few months almost as much as they are.  I know it will cause twinges to see those little pink outfits, those sweet little dresses.  But I'm also looking forward to snuggling a little baby girl like I haven't in so many years.  It's kind of a mixed feeling but mostly positive.  For this, I am grateful.

Pioneering Women

Recently, I've been called upon to digitize an amazing scrap book of the history of our area, dating back to pioneer times.  As a member of the empty arms club, I think I read these stories differently than a lot of people might.  Instead of hearing about it from the safe distance of time, I read from child death to child death, and there are many.  Some families lost child after child.  One, in particular, about killed me because she lost something like eight of her ten children plus her husband.  Having been there, I imagine how it must have been to place one cold, lifeless child into the cold, lifeless dirt after another.  I don't know how these women (and men) had the strength to continue.  I do know those women's eyes just look tired.  I can see how the loss and struggle took so much out of them.  I think I would have puddled on the ground and hoped to not wake up.  One woman wasn't even a pioneer and still buried child after child in the various epidemics and outbreaks, some of them three at a time.  I just don't know how she survived it. 

But they continued for their remaining children.  I get that.  That was why I had to pick myself off the ground.  I moved like an automaton, going through the motions, for months and months, possibly years.  Perhaps I'm still doing it.  You move forward because you have to.  Because there really isn't an alternative.  Maybe you can escape into oblivion, sleep or depression or whatever, for a while.  But eventually ,you have to move forward.  I guess I can take inspiration from this.  If they survived losing three, five, eight children and carried on, I can do so as well.  I know they did it through their faith, through their trust that they would one day hold their angels again.  And all of them are holding their lost ones now. One day, I will as well.  And that thought brings me a lot of strength. 

The Birthday Creeping Up

I'm trying to avoid thoughts of my angel's birthday, less than a month away.  It doesn't help that I'll be throwing my girl's birthday on that date.  It's hard now to plan one without thoughts of the other slinking through.  When we looked at the calendar before my angel came and got excited that their birthdays would be so close together, we had vague plans of princess parties for two.  Now, one is a day of death.  One is a day to celebrate life.  I prefer it when they don't converge, but with only three days between them, it's almost inevitable that an eclipse will happen sometimes. 

Last year, I remember my angel's birthday hit me even harder than her angelversary.  Some years, it's not half as bad.  I never can tell in advance because I can't predict how I'll react.  At least we'll be together as a family and busy.  That sometimes helps to make the day less arduous.  Sometimes, the stress can make the day that much worse. 

She would have been eight March 2nd.  For LDS people, that date is significant because it's when a child can get baptized.  Significant dates --preschool entry time, what would have been entrance into or graduation from kindergarten, etc.--tend to be just a little bit harder because they remind us what we're not able to do for our child.  So far, I've just felt vague twinges and had the occasional thought about that rapidly approaching day.  I know those feelings will come faster and closer together as the day approaches, kind of like contractions only more hollow, less hopeful. 

I know it is what it is.  Like every other calendar day, that anniversary will come.  It doesn't help to dwell on things I can't change.  I just wish sometimes that I could skip over that day. 

An Angel's Birthday

I watched someone I know approach her angel's birthday in fear and trepidation and then have that day fulfill every fear and every expectation for a terrible day.  I saw her pain, her celebration of that child's life through pictures, and above all, the inclusion of others through an invitation to celebrate her little girl's birthday through a joint birthday party.  It was a beautiful, heart-rending thing.  Few things bring back the pain more than birthdays and angelversaries, the day on which the angel got his/her wings. 

I saw all of this from a distance, but my heart ached as I knew at least a part of the pain that family was undergoing.  Each person's loss is unique, and each person's grief hurts in a unique way.  At the same time, there's a unity in grief.  Those who have been through it know what it is to be in the empty arms club, to feel those empty arms and long for one person alone to fill them. 

It warmed my heart to join in the outpouring of love and support for this family.  I know nothing will make that pain any less except time and the healing touch of Jesus Christ.  But I also know few things help more than love, support, and prayers when days like this come with their accompanying sense of pain and renewed loss.  It brings me peace knowing they're getting that support they need.  I wish there was anything any of us could do to make that pain go away.  But it helps to know there are people supporting for you, pulling for you, standing by when these painful days come.  And that's what makes these days survivable. 

Fear of Loss

It's hard to say which is worse, losing someone without warning as I did with Alli or knowing you're going to lose someone before you do.  In the latter case, you get closure.  You get to say goodbye.  In the former case, you get neither of those things, but you also don't endure the fear and the period of mourning long before mourning really begins.

I started to think about this recently as someone I know sits by the bedside of her sick child.  I can't know if she'll lose the child, but the fear eats her alive.  Her every waking thought and breath are devoted to her child, knowing that she could lose her at any time.  I never had to go through that.  But with the way I went to work, made a call home, and learned my baby was gone in rapid succession, I don't feel like I had the closure I may have had.

I guess the real question is does it hurt more when you can see the bus coming before it hits?  Either way, it hurts.  It hurts so badly you feel like you're going to die, that a heart can't take that much pain and survive.  Most of the time, I am buffered from the pain anymore.  The pain has become a part of me, like my leg or my arm.  But also, the Lord has helped me through, has shielded me from some of the pain.  But that doesn't mean the pain isn't there.

Loss is just hard, whether you see it coming or not.  There's no way around it.  Knowing families can be together forever helps but doesn't end that pain.  I can't hold my baby right now.  My arms are still empty.  I have something to hope for as will my friend if she does lose her baby.  She, too, knows she will hold her baby again one day.  But not until that day.

It's hard to see her in front of that metaphoric bus of loss, knowing it could very well hit at any time.  It's hard not to be able to do anything to prevent that bus from hitting.  I pray for her, but I know if the Lord wills it, if it's her baby's time, all the prayer in the world will not stop the bus.  All I can do is hold her hand and unite with her in prayer, help her understand that if the bus hits, I'll be there for her, no matter what.  For now, that will have to be enough.

The Echo of Fresh Loss

A little over a week ago, the shock of terrible news echoed throughout our community.  A three-year-old girl was thrown from a horse and had to be taken off life support.  Everyone spoke of little else.  Those in my church community, led by our bishop, gathered at the church to pray for this little girl and this family before the final news came that she was brain dead.  We all prayed for a miracle because we know they happen.  In this case, it was that sweet angel child's time to go Home. 

Once again, my community gathered for a balloon release in her honor.  People came from miles around to support this family in their deep loss at that little girl's funeral, as she was carried to her grave not in a hearse but by a horse-drawn carriage. 

My husband and I wept for this family as we heard of their loss.  Something came up to stop me from making each event, but I rejoiced in the support they received.  I sent that little girl's bereft mother a message of support on FaceBook, and my husband attended most of it. 

I am not close to the family.  I may have seen the little girl in passing but had not met her.  But this hit my husband and me hard because we understand what this family is going through on a personal level.  It all echoes back through time and makes our pain feel fresh.  I woke in tears over a dream that my two living children had died. 

It also reminds me of how little support we received when our loss happened.  We felt judged, rejected by our community at the time because we'd failed in a parent's primary responsibility: to keep a child alive.  The undercurrent was that whatever happened, we deserved what we got.  If only all communities could understand the power of support and love at the time of such a deep and life-shattering loss.  We still felt people's prayers and did have friends and family from nearby and elsewhere come to the funeral, but I think the loss would have been even a little bit less impossible to endure if we had the kind of support this sweet family had.  I'm just happy for them that they have it and would pray for all who have a catastrophic loss that they'd feel the kind of outpouring of love this sweet family has had. 

I know some people probably question how all of these prayers did not result in a miracle.  How could such a terrible thing happen to good people?  I sometimes, I have to remind myself that prayer is about aligning our will with the Father's.  He knows the larger picture.  If we would have been most blessed, the plan for our lives most fulfilled, over the healing of our baby Alli, she would have been healed. 

But the Lord, in His mercy, knew we had to pass through hell at that time.  I can't explain why everyone loses a child, but I believe I have come to some understanding of the whys in our case.  We needed the growth, the empathy, the lessons we learned through loss. 

Faith is about trusting that He knows what we need.  We want this thing, and we pray for it.  But if we don't get it, we will still trust and believe.  That is the purest kind of faith, the faith that gets us closest to Him.  If I could have it all over again, would I choose a redo?  You'd better believe I would.  I'd give my life for my little girl rather than have her taken from me. 

I'm thankful for the blessings that have come from this loss, but I still have a hard time being grateful for the loss itself.  I can't claim to know everything, even about our own situation.  It brings me comfort to know I will hold Alli again, that we will be a family forever.  It also brings me comfort to know my heart can be healed through Jesus's sacrifice, his atonement.  In the meantime, it still hurts.  And my heart still bleeds for those who have to join the empty arms club.  I will reach out to them as often as I can. 

I believe in angels, and that they watch over us.  I believe God loves me.  I believe we can be together forever.  For now, that will have to do. 

Finding a Kindred Souls

A year or two ago, I met a woman who had grown up in the same area in which I'd lived and worked for a year and a half.  We made that connection, and we've chatted occasionally since.  Recently, I talked about my losses.  That's when she mentioned she, too, had lost a child, and recently, too.  I had had no idea.  I gather she figured my losses were so intense that her one second-term miscarriage didn't compare.  She just never brought it up.  We never know who may be a member of the empty arms/mothers of angels club.

I never wanted someone to feel somehow of a lesser rank in that club or that her loss was any less painful.  There really shouldn't be any ranking at all.  Yes, some of us have had more losses than others.  Some of us have had later losses than others or more recently losses.  But we're all members of that club of loss, a membership we wouldn't wish on anyone because the dues are too high.  It's a membership that teaches empathy and understanding that can't be taught or learned in any other way. It makes me feel bad that she somehow feels awkward mentioning her loss with me.  We should all be brothers and sisters in this club.  We all understand what real pain is.

I'm thankful that she did share with me.  Sharing implies trust.  When you're a person in mourning, it's hard to know who we can trust because some people respond in more supporting ways than others to our professions of grieving.  We often walk around like everyone else, saying nothing about our loss for fear of painful words.  When we do say something, we're hoping for the right words or touch or contact of any sort that will make our pain feel that much more bearable.  I would wish that all around me who have suffered loss would feel I was a person with whom they could share their hearts without worry that I'd cause them added pain. I pray the words I say to someone in mourning are the words that will help them feel loved.  Always.

June in Black

It's June again.  I hate June.  My baby's angelversary comes up at the end of the month.  On that day seven years ago, my world and my life shattered.

I had a one-time job that morning.  I made sure my sweet baby was secure on the bed, away from the edge.  There was a stack of pillows to make sure even if she somehow rolled to that edge, she would not hit the ground.  I left her daddy watching over her.  When I left, I felt reassured life would be as normal.  Three hours later, I called home, and my husband told me to go to the hospital.  Alli had either rolled or crawled off the bed in her sleep such that my husband didn't hear more than a quick squawk.  She'd pushed away a heavy pillow on top and suffocated in the pillow below without turning her head to breathe.  We did not know until I showed up at the hospital that they couldn't revive her.  She'd shown signs of SIDS, times she'd slept so deeply it was hard to wake her.  I'd had no idea, however, that this was even a possibility.  I had never lost a child other than an early miscarriage, so I didn't imagine it could happen to me.

        At that time, I was launched into the deepest, darkest time of my life.  Between mourning and dealing with a corrupt branch of DCSF that falsified an investigation to try to ruin our family and our lives, we were launched into hell.  I would call it a nightmare, but you awake from a nightmare.  It felt like nothing we could do or say for ten long months could prove we were innocent.  We were liberated only through a series of miracles and the protection of our angel.

        Before all of this happened, June was just another month.  Now, June is a time to dredge up memories of tragedy and death.   Memories like that replay in our heads as if from a horror movie, badly disjointed and scarring.  Knocks at my door still terrorize me.  My birthday was two weeks after that most terrible day.  I went from looking forward to my birthday to dreading it every year.  Too many badly-timed miscarriages plus Alli's loss have ruined it forever.  It doesn't matter how good the month is.  It doesn't matter how many wonderful things happen at that time of the summer.  The colors go from vibrant to gray.  The day is always painful.  I brace myself to prepare, but it does no good.

            As I said in my last blog, I've been reviewing my poetry for a contest.  I think the pain I went through is best described through the one I wrote the day after I lost her:

****
“Day after Death”

Pain, 
searing, numbing,
erupting like molten lava,
clouding my vision
with burning ash. 

Food tastes like dirt
from the grave. 
I choke it down to fill the void, 
but the hole in my heart still bleeds. 

Everything I see 
connects to chubby toes, 
chunky legs,
petal-soft cheeks, 
pool-blue eyes
staring at me from around the breast.   
I reach out and long to touch 
peach fuzz across tender head, 
smooth skin on her body,
cold plastic bottle, eagerly slurped,
by a pink mouth that itches to smile.  

Where are you, my angel? I ache for you. 
My every thought reaches out to you, 
wondering how yesterday could have gone
if I had been more careful
with your fragility.

My only comforts, 
the remains 
of my family and, above all, knowing one day
you will fill my arms again.  
****

       Seven years have passed.  The loss doesn't hurt as much.  However, it still hurts, especially on the anniversaries.  I know I'll survive this one as I have all the others.  The Lord will help me through.  I know one day, I will hold my babies again.  I live for that day.  In the meantime, I will still have that hole in my heart, and it will continue to seep blood.

Old Poetry

I've been reviewing my old poetry with an eye toward a writing contest.  I've taken classes on writing poetry, one from a former poet laureate of Utah.  This does not mean I'm a great poet.  It just means I've learned a few things about what makes a good poem and what makes a mediocre one.  I've never quite achieved past mediocrity.  But I have been able to write through a lot of my pain.  For the most part, poetry only comes when I feel something deeply.  Any "poetry" I write under any less trying moments feels contrived and hollow, at least to me.  I've written a lot of mediocre but emotionally wrenching poetry on loss, on miscarriage and on the loss of my angel.  It's hard to reread them either because they take me back into a moment of pain or fail to, meaning it hurts to know that I couldn't quite convey the horror of the moment, no matter how hard I tried.  Either way, revisiting those moments is hard.

At the same time, I know there is a healing power in writing and reading that poetry.  I once took a class on trauma writing.  The whole course was based on the assertion that healing comes through self-expression.  Some argue that revisiting just causes trauma all over again.  But for me, there are few better ways to work through the pain than by expressing it, putting it to paper.  My master's thesis went one step further and explored the healing space created by fiction.  But as for writing, there are few ways to try to approach my pain and deal with it faster than through poetry.  I don't believe in rhymed poetry. I may use alliteration to tie together sounds, but truly rhymed poetry rarely works well for me unless the author is William Shakespeare.

But how do I tell which is objectively "best" and, therefore, most deserving of someone else's attention?  Poetry is so very subjective.  Is it best because it most vividly conveys the emotion to the reader, because it uses all the poetic conventions, or because of something else I can't possibly know?   It all hurts.  It all helped me through hurt.  There was a time I would have compared my writings to children.  I would have asked how I could choose.  I don't make that comparison anymore.  There is no comparison.  I would lose 100 hard drives with 100 carefully written, award-winning novels on each before I would choose to have one miscarriage, one child loss of any sort, again.  All I can do is use poetry to express the pain of child loss.  Not that any words quite capture that pain.  They can't.  The pain of child loss is beyond human words.  But here is a poem that takes me back to that first day, the day everything was so fresh that I thought I would die of the pain.  It's simply entitled "Pain."  Objectively, it's not a great poem.  But anyone who has ever lost a child ought to recognize the emotions:

"Pain"

Pain

Blinding, numbing

Burning like a volcano

And clouding out everything

From my vision.

Everything tastes like dirt or salt.

I choke it down to fill the emptiness

But the real emptiness remains.

Everything I see, touch, think about

Links back to chubby toes,

Chunky little legs

Soft little cheeks,

Bright blue eyes

Staring at me from around the breast,

Peach fuzz across the soft head,

Round little bum

Aimed at me for a change

Preparatory to eating.

Where are you, my angel?

I long for you.

My every thought is for you,

Wondering how yesterday could have gone

If I’d have been just a little more careful

With your fragility.

My only comforts,

Your older brother and sister,

Your daddy

And above all knowing one day

You will fill my arms again.  

So back I go to staring at mediocre expressions of loss and healing, hoping to guess right, to find the one or two or three or four out of so many that may help someone else feel something of what I felt in that moment.  Because I guess the real truth beyond poetry, or any writing, is that unless you make the reader feel something, you've missed the boat.  Your writing will fall flat.  Here's hoping I find something that takes shape in the reader's mind and helps them find a little healing, too.  

A New Loss

[Harmoni]

It all comes back when you have a new loss.  You hear it's true, but you don't know what it feels like until you go there.  This week, the baby I lost was not human, but I felt her loss as if she were.  Unless you have never lost a baby, it's easy to think pet loss feels somehow the same as child loss.  People who have never experienced child loss will often think they're offering empathy when they say, "My cat/dog/whatever died, so I know what you're talking about."  Pet loss is a painful echo, a faint shadow of child loss ordinarily.  I have lost more cats than I can name here.  I've now said goodbye to a few dogs.  Under most circumstances, I can't make that comparison.  When my four-month-old died, and even when I had my first in a series of late first term miscarriages, they were world-rocking losses that left my heart a bloody hole.  I had no idea what loss was, even after all the pet deaths, until I lost my babies, particularly the one I held.  

Pet loss hurts more when that pet has become a person-in-fur to you, when you have bonded with that pet on such a deep level that the pet becomes part of your soul.  I have lost simple pets.  I have lost furbabies, persons-in-fur.  There is no comparison there, either.  We had a cocker spaniel a few years ago.  He ever remained a simple pet.  I mourned his loss when he was hit on the road, but nothing like the loss we had this week   

A year ago, my girl wanted to give away one of our two dogs, one we had inherited and with which none of us bonded, to get herself a puppy.  We sent that dog to a happy home where she had a sister dog that looked like a twin.  We have no doubt she's happier there than she ever was with us, and they're happier to have her.  We replaced her with a puppy that we all felt was handpicked by my angel Alli, the four-month-old baby I lost.  Harmoni, the puppy, was exactly the age, the size, the everything my girl wanted.  That puppy had silver-gray fur and blue eyes with flecks of brown.  It seemed like she was min pin like my husband liked mixed with a husky that my girl wanted.  She was full of energy and life.  And despite the fact that we bought her to be my girl's puppy, she spent all day as my shadow, my faithful companion, a close friend.  She became a person-in-fur, a furbaby to me.  I loved her more than I thought possible for a dog since I'm a cat person.  

Then, this last week, we installed new sod in the backyard.  My husband didn't realize he hadn't quite latched the fence.  I didn't think to look before I let them out since the backyard had always been so secure in the past.  I heard the dogs bark at the back door and was about to let them in and got distracted.  I hadn't noticed the barking had stopped when the phone rang.  The woman on the other end apologized for hitting my dog, explaining that the tag around Harmoni's neck told her whom to call.  My husband went out and retrieved by furbaby's broken and cooling body from the arms of a neighbor, who had also stopped to comfort my fading Harmoni.  We'd only had her for just under a year, and she was five months old when we got her.  She was still a puppy.  

That's when the flood of loss hit all at once, weighing me down.  It all came back.  All the child loss.  It felt like I wasn't just losing my furbaby, though that would have been hard enough.  I was losing them all, all over again.  If felt like I was being hit by a brick wall, a harpoon through the chest.  

Later in the week, we found and brought home a puppy to help my kids through their mourning.  They seem to be okay for now, though they probably feel it still on a deeper level than we all realize since they loved her, too.  I love the new puppy, but she's not the same nor can she be.  I know it's not like having Harmoni back, not even sort of.  I'm thankful that I know the angel who sent us Harmoni can take care of her and give her the love we can't on the other side of the veil.  I just miss her.  I miss them.  I look forward to the house full of lost pets and babies I'll have when the resurrection comes.  In the meantime, my arms are empty of my babies, and I can't pet my Harmoni.  Days later, I know this pain won't fade in a hurry.  The wound is reopened.  I have peace most of the time, but it still hurts.  And I know, from way too much experience that it's going to hurt for a while, possibly until I see them all again.  But I will live on, and I will continue in my faith and hope in the Lord and know I will see them all again.  

Easter

I got to share my testimony today of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ with the three-to-four-year-olds I teach in church.  Usually, teaching children of this age is a bit like herding kittens.  If you're entertaining enough and bounce around enough, you'll catch and keep their eye.  If you sit still for any length of time, you've lost them.  They're off to bat at something more interesting.  Today, I talked about one of the topics they know and love most of all: Jesus.  They know His picture as a baby or as a big person.  They love to talk about or act out the Christmas story.  Everything beyond that gets a little hazy.

But then I pulled out a picture of my baby and told them that because Jesus suffered and died for us, he paid the price for our sins.  He suffered all our pains, so He would understand them and comfort us when we hurt.  He overcame death, so I can hold my baby again.  We can have our families forever because of the atonement.  They were transfixed, but their reaction went beyond that.  I cried, so they cried tears of empathy.  Their spirits listened and understood my pain and my joy.  Shortly after, they were back to acting like kittens again.  By the end of the class, when I wasn't telling them stories anymore and after they were done with their snacks and structured games, they were tackling each other and playing loudly like any good kittens [or small children] would.  But for that moment, we all understood and felt the power of the Spirit, confirming the truth of my words.  I will ever cherish the beauty and strength of that moment.

Empathy

Part of what one learns through loss is empathy.  I can try to describe loss to my friends and family, but until they've been through it, my descriptions are just empty words.  I remember the days before I knew that level of empathy.  I said some pretty insensitive things without realizing that's what I was doing.  However, since I've actually been there, I can now share common experiences and feelings with fellow members of the empty arms club.

This last week, I read a student's paper that moved me to tears.  His baby was stillborn just hours after the little guy tested as strong and healthy.  That is a place I've never been, exactly, but I still understood his pain.  He wrote of holding the cold, perfect form of his baby for hours, still in shock because he would be walking out of the hospital with empty arms.  My baby was four months old when she passed, but I have clear memories of living through similar moments.  The image of walking out of that hospital with empty arms and expectations turned to ash is still fresh in the back of my mind.  It always will be.

He described a level of healing to which I can only aspire as of yet, a level of joy that I still seek.  But we both know we will hold our babies again, which can bring both of us peace.  It's nice to belong to a fellowship of empathy.  I just wish the dues of belonging to that club weren't so high.

Gratitude

It took me a while to hit upon this major key to happiness and peace.  For such a long time, I felt the gaping hole the loss of my little girl left in my life.  I still do.  But before, I felt that gaping hole as the definition of who I was.  Now, it's an important part but not the defining part.  I felt the pain of what I didn't have: a rainbow baby to somehow make my loss somehow feel less final.  Now, I know the rainbow baby will ever remain just that, the illusion of a baby I will not be holding, a mirage I've been chasing for years without success.  I still feel that pain.

But I have come to understand that there is power in focusing not on what I don't have--on the angels I can't hold for now--but on what I do have.  I do have two children around whom I can wrap my arms.  I have a supportive husband who will hold me when I fall apart with pain.  I have faith that the Lord is there, and that my angels are mine forever.  That they're watching over me now.  I believe in forever families.  I have heard of some people so enmeshed in grief that they've totally lost touch with reality.  They try so hard to regain what they've lost through irrational means.  I gain peace from the knowledge I don't need to be so desperate to hold the shreds of the past because I have a glorious future to anticipate.  I know I will hold them again, all of my angels.  They are lost, but only for now.  There is much to be grateful for in this knowledge.

 I know my angels watch out for me.  I know the Lord will send his Spirit when I am hurting.  For all of this, I can be eternally grateful.  Acts 27:23 states, "For there stood by me this night the angel of God, whose I am, and whom I serve."  The scripture refers to being in the service of God, not in service of the angel. I, too, can have my angels stand beside me as I serve God.  "And thanks be to God for [this] unspeakable gift"(2 Cor 9:15).  Gratitude brings me much joy, and I know it can do the same for you.

Survived the Birthday

Last week, I wrote about my dread of my angel's upcoming birthday.  Last year, it wasn't bad.  I stayed so busy that the birthday party at the end almost came as a celebratory moment.  I cried as we went through her baby book.  But otherwise, it was a light time.  I hoped that would bode well for future birthdays. 

I don't know what it was about her seventh birthday, but it hit me hard.  I started out okay.  But most of that work I dreaded that day canceled out.  I had a lot of time to think.  And as I've discovered, thinking, especially on a day like that, can be hard.  The more I thought about what day it was, the harder the day weighed on me.  I met my husband for lunch and to spend time at an LDS temple, our traditional gift to her.  And he could tell from the moment I showed up that I was a fragile mess.  Anything and everything set me off.  It didn't even take a trigger; the world was a trigger that day.  Existing was a trigger.  We had a lovely, peaceful time together, but that didn't mean I felt the peace inside.  Most days, I drift through not thinking.  All I could do that day was think. 

The kids got home from school, and nobody seemed much affected by the day.  They had their homework and chores to do, even though all I wanted to do was just spend time with them, to celebrate the children I still can hold.  Meanwhile, I carried the weight of the day alone as I waited for my husband to get home from work.  I just wanted it over.  When all chores were done, we invited the cousins over to celebrate Alli's birthday party.  We each wrote a little note to Alli and my miscarried angels [since the others don't really have a birthdate], telling them how much we loved and missed them.  I started to cry from the beginning.  But when I showed the video/slideshow my friend made for me for her funeral, one that played her song, "A Breath Away" by Josh Groban, I sobbed harder than I had in a very long time.  My girl, who usually holds everything inside in spite of her bond with her baby sister, sobbed with me and held me.  I don't remember having such a good cry together like that.  A healing cry. 

We still wanted a priesthood blessing from my husband, basically the opportunity to hear the Father's voice speaking words of comfort.  And the words did offer the peace I hadn't had all day.  He spoke of how special it was to hold this angel in our arms for a brief time, along with the reminder that we would get to hold her again.  I know we will be a family forever.  It does bring me peace.  But I think we all need time to cry, especially time to cry together.  As I gain some distance from that day, I may say it was a good day.  It was an important day, anyway.  One that needed to happen.  I'm grateful it only comes once a year.

Casual

It still occasionally comes as a shock when I hear of someone casually talking about deciding to have a baby, as if that's such an easy choice for some people.  For a lot of people, it really is.  Once one child gets to a certain age, many people simply expect you to be considering the next.  People just assume that considering leads to acting, which leads to a child.

And then there are people who struggle with infertility and/or serial miscarriage like me.  There is no such thing as "expecting."  The only thing I'm expecting on the rare times I do get pregnant is loss.  There is no such thing as casually deciding to have another baby.  After fifteen [sixteen?  I've lost count] miscarriages in a row, seventeen losses in a row, including Alli's passing, I won't try again.  Pregnancy would be synonymous with loss.  One follows the other.  And I can't go there again.  There will be no rainbow baby for me.

Most of the time, I'm fine with this.  I've come to terms with this after so many years.  But when someone talks of having a baby as a casual or even possible choice, I'm reminded of the choices I no longer have.  I can't expect people to stop talking like that.  As with everything, I just have to accept it's going to come and try to be happy for the other person for whom it is a choice.

Count Down

I find that as our angel's birthday and death date/angelversary approach, I become more fragile to triggers.  I found a poem my sister-in-law wrote to my baby, one I don't look at because of the way it sets me off.  And, of course, it set me off because Alli's birthday is less than a month away.  I heard of someone else's angel's birthday coming, and I cried for that person's loss and for my loss as well.  And just talking about the songs I've emotionally attached to my angel got me crying.  Josh Groban's "A Breath Away" is not one I can hear without crying.  I mentioned Evanescence's "My Immortal" in conversation the other day and broke out in tears.

Last year, Alli's birthday was a fairly happy one.  We had an angel food cake for her and looked at her pictures.  We threw her a party and invited her cousins.  It was a good day.  But it's not always so.  I can hope it will be like that.  But I know I've already stepped foot in the emotional landmine time that is the month before her birthday, and I never know how things will go.