Point of Connection

As of the 29th, it has been nine years since my baby slipped beyond the veil to God.  Most of the time, it's not hard to let the buffer of time hold the pain back.  It's not that time heals all wounds so much as time allows for distraction, for forgetfulness.  It allows me to hide from the feeling of the immediate, gut-wrenching pain of fresh loss.  

As I watch my nephews and niece and others around them deal with the fresh loss of their mother's departure beyond the veil, I feel those connections.  I can understand their pain--at least as we share the common connection of loss.  I will never understand exactly what they're going through, even were my mother to die, because I don't have their exact background or emotional constitution.  But I can reach out for an embrace, distancing myself from their pain to protect myself from having to dive into my own.  I imagine many of us do this.  We feel their particular pain through their lens from a safe distance.  As the memorial went on, even as they read an essay I wrote of their mother's loss, I clung to this protective barrier.  I hate funerals because they always want to drag me back to the whirlpool of my own exposed and naked pain.  But I hold back.  I keep the distance alive and well.  

Then, we come upon the month of her angelversary, and the distance starts to shrink.  Nine years feels a lot longer, somehow, than nine marks on the calendar, nine times I've had that scab peeled back as I stare into the bloody pulp, which is all that is left of my heart.  And suddenly, I start feeling the connection.  The distance means nothing.  The differences mean nothing.  Yes, our experiences are different, but the addresses of the pain are next door to each other.  At these times, it's as if nine years never happened, and it feels like fresh loss again.  We can embrace as one, pray for healing as one, as we experience the healing power of understanding and love.  The Lord will see us through.  He knows where our loved ones are, that they are happy and continue to love us.  He will hold them in his love until we can meet them again. 

When the Worst Comes

[Photos from the early years.]

Last time, I blogged about my brother's family's fear of the loss of their mother, my brother's ex-wife.  A short time after I wrote that blog, their fear became a reality.  I got the phone call at 1 am that said Sandy, beloved mother of three by birth and many by heart, adored sister, cherished friend, fur mama, and beloved soul mate of one slipped beyond the veil, leaving behind countless heavy hearts and teary eyes.

Thomas, her eldest son, and Amber, his wife, and their three children visit me regularly.  I have seen how much they love Sandy.  Things have not always been easy, but Thomas called her his rock.  Amber calls her Mom.  The family lived in the same apartment complex with her and frequently visited to play games, do laundry, give her the chance to play with grandbabies, or just hang out.  I've held Thomas in my arms as he's sobbed out his pain, crying out for his mom.  What do you say in the face of raw pain?  They never really got to say goodbye.  I wrote out a goodbye stream-of-consciousness hybrid poem/story from her point of view, but it will never be the same.  They are heartbroken but know she is still there for them, cheering him on as he revises his novel she loved so he can publish it for her. 

[source]

Andrew, her second, frequently chats with me.  He calls his mother his best friend.  He looked to her for so many things.  He lived with her for quite a while toward the end.  He is a lost soul without her but plans to write songs with his band in her honor to remember her.  Over the years, he brought a string of friends to her doorstep, and none was turned away.  They were all welcomed like her long-lost children. 

Pandora, her youngest, was her baby.  I called her the day after the loss, and we talked of her mother.  She'd hoped her mother would pull through as she had so many times before. 

Jose, her soulmate of ten plus years, misses her more than he can say.  She was his life, his heart.  He prayed for her life and now yearns to hear her voice.     

All these people and more are reeling with the pain of loss.  I know a lot of words, but there aren't words for this kind of pain.  You can try to write around the swirling vortex of the heart.  But actually capturing the pain or soothing it are things words can't really do well.  They say time heals all wounds, but time really only helps one find coping mechanisms, ways to put together a life that has been shattered through loss.  I pray for this family's peace.  Other than listening and offering

a hug or a word of empathy, that's all I can do.  That's all any of us can do many times.  Sometimes, that has to be enough. 

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. 

A Rainbow Doesn't Heal All

Experiences of others that I've read indicated child loss was individualized, that there are usually some kind of similarities between experiences of mourning such that mourning can teach one empathy for another mourner, that faith can help one find solace, and, above all, the secret to healing from grief is to have a rainbow baby.  The new baby isn't supposed to replace the old baby, but mothers and father everywhere are supposed to find comfort in a new baby. 

This is one of many reasons I kept praying for a rainbow baby.  Instead, I tacked loss upon loss until my loss count was a lot higher than my live birth count.  I have had three live births, one of whom passed at four months, plus 15+ miscarriages, and we've found peace with giving up the futile efforts of talking my body into giving live birth.  People will often equate pregnancy with expecting.  After a while, the only thing I began to expect with another pregnancy was yet another loss.  I was never to find out for myself if a rainbow baby would help or hinder the healing process.  But that's okay because pregnancy and fragile babies became causes of fear rather than joy for me.  

With my expectation that healing can become more complete with the advent of a rainbow baby, I was surprised when people we knew had their rainbow, and it wasn't all happiness and joy.  I know they've had a lot of happiness and joy with their new pink bundle, but everything their new baby does makes them yearn to have their older little girl to be there to enjoy the experience.  They keep wishing that their departed angel could see this or be part of that.  Instead of having

perfect bliss with their rainbow, they've had new kinds of heartache.  I had no idea this would happen.  

I guess the real moral here is expectations for someone else's grieving experience don't help.  Our expectations in the face of someone else's raw pain really mean nothing.  Phrases like, "Shouldn't you move on?" or anything that follows "at least" are attempts to force our own expectations on someone else.  Even trying to manipulate our own grieving experience according to how things should be doesn't help.  Grieving is what it is. All we can do is accept what is and seek solace and peace and seek to offer solace and peace to others.  We can't tell people they're doing it wrong or feel like we're doing it wrong because there is no right or wrong about mourning, grief, or loss.  We can plead with the Lord to carry our burdens, but that doesn't mean all pain will be gone.  He can heal our hearts, but it does take time and may never be complete in this lifetime.  We certainly can't expect everyone else to do the same.  What we can do is love and support each other and allow ourselves to be loved and supported when we need it.  Accept and respect others in how they need to mourn, and healing will come a lot faster.  

Into the Face of Mortality

Things were going okay.  We had challenges like anyone else, but our life was okay.  Then, we got the news recently that my husband was borderline diabetic.  People can live okay with managed diabetes, but I've seen and heard of the dangers it can pose to arms, legs, eyes, and overall health.  His brother has lost a lot of vision, likely due in part to his diabetes.  His father and mother also had it, so it's not really a surprise.  However, that doesn't mean it's going to do him any favors.  A young man I heard of recently died due directly to his diabetes.  It's scary stuff.  The best hope he has is to trim off the pounds and control the diet better. 

However, this isn't the worst of the news we've had recently.  We just learned the only sibling my husband feels at all close to was just diagnosed with skin cancer.  He found out about his condition due to miraculous circumstances rather than through careful planning or even intent.  He had no idea it was coming. Skin cancer can be curable, but only if it's caught early enough.  At this point, we can only pray it was.  My niece had cancer a few years ago, when she was little.  She was stage four and yet has been declared cancer free. 

I believe in miracles and guardian angels.  I know my Alli and others watch over me and my family.   I believe that the Savior suffered not just for my sins but also for my pains.  I know He can heal my heart.  However, I also know that the Lord sometimes asks us to undergo hard things.  I've lived many of the last years since I prayed my baby would live on what some have called "but if not" faith.  "Lord, I would like my husband/brother-in-law/baby/etc. to be cured of this malady.  But if not, I will still trust and follow."  It's a hard place to be.  We'd all like to think that all we need to do is pray, and all will be right with the world.  But that's not how the Lord works.  He tries us and blesses us as we strive to follow.  But even the most righteous, wonderful person can still suffer, can still die, can be called on to endure the most miserable trials in faith.  I will pray and even fast for my husband and his brother.  I will trust that things will go as they should, that a Father who cares enough to send us here to grow and become like Him, has our best interests at heart.  If my husband and his brother are healed, we'll show undying gratitude.  But if not, we will still believe and obey and be thankful for our blessings. 

Bouncing Back

Last time, I blogged about my dad.  It turns out it was probably just a seizure, and he's coming back to himself.  But he's lost enough functionality that he needs to be in a facility to help him work through walking and talking issues he still has.  His children flocked around him when we thought he was going.  And he probably registered little to none of it.  It makes me feel bad that we're not there for him now he's conscious enough to be bored and lonely.  Mom goes to the facility almost every day, but the rest of us are so busy that we don't make it to see him.  

I think that's often how it goes.  When one seems to be at death's door, everyone is there.  During recovery, people get too busy.  We are making plans to go and visit him soon, but it is harder to rearrange life when my days are far more full than they were when this started.  I was able to drop everything and run.  Now, not so much.  

It's the same story I've heard again and again.  Death or near-death comes, and everyone flocks around.  Time passes, and they stop coming.  It's not that people are intentionally skipping out to let one or a few left to pick up the pieces.  It's just that after the storm, things seem quiet.  Life goes back to normal...except for those left picking up the pieces.  I'd like to do more, to not be one of those that disappear.  I'm on my phone almost every day, supporting my mom through this, far more than I used to be.  But I'm trying to find a way to do more.  

When Elderly Parents Fade

(My family when we were young)

I've been blogging about child loss.  This week's focus will be on a different kind of loss.  A few years ago, my vibrant, hard-working father started to fade.  The doctor diagnosed him with senility.  He could no longer work as he had.  He couldn't drive as he always had.  He couldn't learn or remember.  As he walked away from his last job and mourned the loss of his license, he still tried to function and did a pretty good job.  But as the years passed, he became less and less eager to get out and about.  He'd go to movies then return to his bed, his TV, and his beloved little Pom-poo (Pomeranian poodle) we brought him and that he loved with all of his heart. 

(At the Bear Lake Beach, camping with Mom, Dad, our Pomeranian, and Dad's dog.)

A couple of years ago, we knew he was fading and took him and my mom to southern Utah, where they both wanted to go to see Zion's and Bryce.  We've taken him on a few little adventures over the years because we knew he had a traveling bone.  Over the last year, he's increasingly faded to the point that his only opportunity to see the light of day was periodic trips to the movies and walks with his dog.  On July Fourth, most of my full siblings and I got together with Mom and Dad for a barbecue.  My unstable-footed father rolled down the last two steps and broke his foot in two places.  He got out even less, mostly staying in bed. 

(Flying away for vacation)

All of his life, he longed to see Disneyland, but they never could afford it when he was young, and then through his first wife plus four kids, his brief second marriage, and his marriage with seven kids to my mom, he never could afford it.  So we, two of his daughters and our families and one of his sons and his family, took him to California.  We helped my elderly parents pay for Disneyland and their hotel.  We surrounded him with love as we celebrated his life and 78th birthday to come, doing just what he wanted to do. 

(Dad enjoying Disney with us.)

He only did California Adventure, Disneyland, a beach, and church while there, spending the rest of the time in bed.  He fell on the slick floors of the hotel a couple of times.  But he came back okay.  We got him home.  He and Mom drove up to my brother's house to pick up his beloved Pom-poo.  Mom went out for a few minutes, then she came back in to find him speaking incomprehensibly, in a way that seemed to indicate he'd just had a stroke. 

Over the last several days, he's been tested and prodded as all family that could rushed to visit, including three kids and some grandkids from his previous marriage.  We have started to pull together to support him.  It turns out it wasn't a stroke but possibly a seizure, though we're still not sure. 

(My Dad over the years)

All I know is the dad I've built a fairly close relationship over the years, the dad that went from a distant, angry tyrant, to a soft, sweet grandpa to my kids, the dad with whom I joked and played pinochle with, the dad that could be hard and sweet by turns, has become like a small child, frustrated in this shell, which is all that is left of his body.  He can't move much but still struggles to get around when the hospital staff won't let him because he could cause more damage.  He is used to being able to get out and do when he wants, even though he mostly doesn't want anymore. And now, no one can understand much of what he says.  He's stuck in a place where strange faces drift in and out of his consciousness, some of which he feels like he should remember.  He's become helpless, like a small baby, but with memories of being so much more.  It hurts to see him like this, but I'm thankful he's not gone entirely.  Not yet, but who knows what tomorrow or next month or next year will bring?  Meanwhile, my mother is left alone, trying to support him and deal with an empty house.  I'm thankful we could be there for them, but it's hard not to be able to do more. 

I miss him.  I miss my daddy and wish I'd hugged him a little more, talked to him a little more often, just given him more of myself.  I know when he leaves here, he'll go see my brother, who he loved fiercely and who died the month before Alli did.  I know his mother and several other family members are waiting to embrace his return.  But in the meantime, we'll do the best we can for him.  I just wish we could do more. 

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. 

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.

Goodbye, Sweet Aries: Watching Someone's Gravity Shift

Recently, my brother had to put his dog down.  This may not seem like a big deal to a lot of people.  But they've had the dog for over 14 years.  His kids grew up with Aries being the center of their home, the heart of their family.  As they moved around, as their world hit several snags, as they grew up and left home, they still looked to Aries to show them what love was.  One of my nephews shared custody with his dad and took Aries home every other week.  He was the very center of gravity for all of them. 

Then came the day a tumor started to grow on his nose.  When they took him to a vet, they were told that surgery was not a very viable option, especially for an elderly dog.  They watched his medical problems get worse and worse with some concern.  But 14 is fairly old for a large dog.  Without a huge financial expenditure, there was not much anyone could do.  Even then, things looked iffy. 

They held onto him for as long as they could because they knew how much his loss would hurt.  When they took him in, he wagged his tail until the end, trusting and loving them into the beyond.  Some of them have seen his spirit as he's continued to watch over them. 

But that doesn't stop the pain.  For most of them, it feels like a child or their best friend has died.  I held my adult nephew (who never cries) as he sobbed out his pain onto my shoulder.  A piece of their soul, the unifying force in their divided family, is nowhere they can see him.  I've had pets die.  I've had people in fur die (animals that have become more than just a pet, more like a companion or a best friend).  But I've never been rocked to my soul quite as much as I saw in my brother's family. 

When I saw their pain, I thought of my own.  We sat and cried together.  I know you can't compare one kind of loss (that of a child) to another (a furbaby).  But there's a kinship, a connection, that can be made between those who have lost, regardless of what the loss is.  I don't think I would have understood their loss like I do without my own.  I can be grateful for the empathy I've learned that allows me to be there for them and cry with them. 

The Tunnel of Mourning

I recently read a FaceBook meme debunking the fiction we're told that all we have to do is slog through an emotionally dark tunnel after loss, and we'll come out the other end all healed and feeling great.  It's so true that there really is no end to the tunnel.  Life changes.  We can either stare back the way we came, fighting for the dream of what we lost, or we can accept that life will never be the same.  All we can work toward is what experts like to call "the new normal."

After my baby died, I spent a long time looking behind me, longing for a way to get back into the life I left behind.  I kept feeling like somehow, I could think myself back through time and make the accident that took my baby never happen.  I could will my earlier self to do all the right things at the right times to make loss be a nightmare that passed instead of my new hellish reality.

I've since learned that I have little choice but to accept the tunnel in which I live.  The sooner I accept, the sooner I can move on.  There is no use looking back toward the sunlight, toward the imaginary protection offered by the world above, the world in which "it can't happen to me."  The tunnel is my life, my existence.  That won't change.

What can change is whether or not I let the light in, even here in the tunnel.  At first, letting the light in and feeling joy felt disloyal.  I've heard the same from friends who have lost, especially who have had a recent loss.  It feels like if you smile, you're betraying the person you've lost.  The truth is our angels want us to have joy.  We are here to learn to smile and be happy, even in the darkest night and to help others find the same light.  Even here in the tunnel, there is fellowship.  We can reach out in empathy to others who have lost.  There is healing.  The Lord can touch our hearts and lift our burdens no matter how deeply we feel we've sunk.  If we seek Him and help others lift their burdens, He will make our anguish seem less painful.

This doesn't mean all will be sunshine and perfection.  It just means we can seek and receive help to make it through those dark days.  We can know we're not alone.  I still have days when it feels like my heart is so broken and bloodied, my pit so deep, I'll never find joy again.  But as time goes on, and I seek healing, those days seem fewer and further between.  Time doesn't heal all wounds.  The Lord does.  That's why He suffered your pain and mine: so He would understand it and us.  He loves us all and wants us to feel joy.  We don't need to cling to the fiction that life is supposed to be painless for us to find joy.  The dark helps us understand and appreciate the light.  He is the light.  Let Him in.

The Power of Escape

One thing I'd like to do one day is to start a non-profit agency that pays for trips for families who have lost a loved one.  I know a trip to Yellowstone was better than any medicine just after we lost Alli.  It helped us all bond as a family and escape from day-to-day living.  When your world has changed as completely as it does for those who are fresh to the world of deep mourning, it can really help to get away from the mundane.  I know I, personally, looked around with raw, painful eyes that had been so fundamentally transformed and felt what I saw should reflect the pain I felt inside.  It just didn't feel right that headlines didn't shout that I'd just lost a baby.  It felt wrong that this piece of furniture or that blanket sat exactly where it sat when that person was alive.  I just wanted to escape my own skin.  I've been to Yellowstone several times before and since that day, but none of those trips have felt quite so magical as that one trip.

We were pondering sending my friend, who has just lost her husband, on a trip somewhere but then found out someone had beaten us to it.  I haven't had the chance to talk with her about it, but I'm sure it will help her state of mind to get away for a while.

Even after I came back from the physical trip, I found that reading and watching movies, a mental escape, helped some.  It helped to read and experience other people's (real or fictional) stories, so I didn't have to be stuck in a world so full of my own pain.  Sometimes, it helped when I was able to read other stories like mine because it allowed me to realize I'm not alone.  It also helped me see how others make it through.  Escape was such a good thing for me.  I know I'm not alone.

Funerals

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Funerals were once no big deal to me, back when they aid last respects to people with whom I had some emotional distance.  I never felt truly close to my grandparents, so their funerals didn't devastate me.  Those ceremonies simply meant they were moving onto the next logical step in their journey.  They were no longer in pain or in a world of dementia fog.  My grandma's also meant they could be together since hers came second.  Then my half-brother was cut down in the prime of his life by a murderer, who later ended up on the FBI's most wanted.  It felt like the specter of death was slowly closing in on my life where grandparents and cats could be lost but no one else.  However, I hadn't seen that brother much over the years.  I mostly felt for his wife and children and for my dad and his.  Loss had not become a meaningful companion.

Then came the year when my husband lost his father, I lost my closest brother, and, worst of all, my husband and I lost our baby, the center of my world.  They all died within about four months of each other.  Loss rocked my world and fundamentally changed me forever.  I was no longer a spectator to other people's loss.  Mourning became part of my identity.  Funerals became painful, almost impossible places to be.

A few days ago, we went to the memorial service of that friend's husband I mentioned last blog.  It was in a park and didn't exactly feel like a chapel-type funeral since it was mostly secular.  But any funeral brings up shades of pain.  I point blank refused to go to the viewing.  The real person, the person's soul that gave them light and life, is gone.  All that is left is an empty shell.  There are few things more painful than looking at that shell, especially when the person meant so much to you.

My heart broke for my friend on that day.  It continues to break every day when something brings to mind her pain.  My friend and I spent two hours just talking and crying together one day recently.  It didn't feel like enough.  When someone has had their heart ripped from their chest like that, nothing is enough.  But mourning with those that mourn is something, which is certainly better than nothing.

I know we can live with our loved ones again.  I know their spirits are still around, loving us.  I know families can be together forever, that love never dies.  But I also know it hurts today.  Funerals hurt.  We need them for closure, but they hurt.  Visiting graves hurts.  Loss hurts.  It helps to have an eternal perspective, to know that this life is just a short piece of a much longer journey.  It helps to know that our hearts can be healed by the Savior.  But it still hurts.  The best thing we can do is to show each other empathy and understanding, to show love and that we are there for each other.  No matter what and for as long as it takes.

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.  

Near loss

We lost a dog a couple of weeks ago, as you may have read.  This week, we thought we lost another four-legged friend.  A cat knocked over a cage, shattering it, then attacked our sweet baby bearded dragon.  We found the dragon, looking shaken and acting near death on the floor.  We've only had her for about a month, but I've already grown quite attached to her.  I was sure she was going to die that night.  I held her, hoping she would not die.  The next morning, my boy reported she was dead for so she seemed to be.  We mourned her.  The thoughts of what I could have done to avoid another death haunted me as we tried to do fun, family activities that day.  That night, my boy discovered the beardie was actually alive.  She's acting now like she's going to live.  We view her survival as a miracle.

This may seem like a trivial incident to an outsider, but it was not to us.  It is a frightening thing to come so near loss of any sort after suffering so much of it.  I think that's true of anyone who has had a series of losses.  There are few things in life more frightening than the fear of more pain associated with loss.  We're breathing easier now that we know she'll be okay.  But I still feel shaken with the reminder that pain can come at any time, in any way, even from unexpected sources.

Wrong Number

A strange thing happened some time ago.  I got a text from a stranger who thought I was her brother.  Someone gave her my number and told her it was her estranged brother's.  I don't think it was an accident.  In fact, I know it wasn't, though the person who gave her the number couldn't have known.  Even when I texted her that I was not her brother, she desperately reached out with a voice of pain and loss.  She needed someone to talk to.  I let her call me because she sounded so forlorn.

She lives on the other end of the continent.  She has lost her career, her future, had her child kidnapped [and eventually returned], and gone through so much unimaginable hardship.  She has all but lost her faith.  She's been crying out to God into what felt like a void to her, not hearing His voice but longing to know He was there for her.

I'm sure the Lord has been reaching back, but she was unable to hear Him.  So He sent me into her life.  She's facebooked and texted me a few times since, whenever she needed a voice of peace in her life.  Someone to just listen.  Those who understand tragedy and loss seek the voice and understanding of other people who understand what that's like.  I know I've wanted to hear a voices of understanding, those of people who don't judge me or tell me how to think or feel.  Often, when you're feeling hurt, lost, and alone, you want someone who will listen and reach out without seeking anything from you.

I told her God loves her, no matter what, that there is nothing she could ever do to destroy that love.  I told her that even though she can't always hear His voice, He is reaching out to her, wanting her to find peace and joy.  She felt bad for things she'd done in her life, so I told her to tell the Lord how sorry she was and to make amends if possible.  Above all, though, I just wanted her to know God loves her.  That was the message He most wanted her to hear.

I know it was no accident that I was there for a fellow human being at one of the lowest points in her life.  And I know I was there to reach out and help her.  We will never meet in person.  But I hope I helped her, even in a small way, because that is the purpose of life: to learn to love like our Father in Heaven loves us and to show that love to both Him and to our fellow men through kindness and service.  We are to be His voice, His hands, to those who need us.  He will guide us along the way.

I don't know how I would have reacted to this wrong number before my losses taught me empathy and compassion for lost souls.  I'd like to think I would have been polite, but I would not have known how to speak the language of loss and pain.  I know that was part of why I needed to go through what I have so I could become closer to what the Lord wants me to become.  I still feel the pain, but it's good to know what I've learned through loss can help someone else.  

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.

Pandora's Box

I passed through nausea I thought may be pregnancy.  It wasn't, but it filled me with such a mix of emotions, that I'm scared of going anywhere near that pandora's box again.  I had a whiff of hope but mostly fear, depression, and a certainty of more loss.  I was so overcome, I cried.  I've lost track of the exact number of miscarriages I've had in a row.  I want to say it was either fifteen or sixteen, in addition to the loss of my four-month-old. I just can't take another one.  We're actively trying not to get pregnant but haven't decided on anything more committal than that.  One day soon, we need to figure something out.  But in the meantime, I feel like I'm walking on thin ice every month, scared of that pandora's box bursting open again.

And just when I think I'm well on my way to emotional healing, to finding more joy than fear, something like this happens.  Though it was a non-event, it was a reminder of what could be at any time.  With the last miscarriage, I had to come to terms with the knowledge that my body just will not, cannot give me another live baby.  Mostly, I've found peace with this.  But there are moments the pain brushes the surface, lurks underneath.  I know I will hold my babies again.  I look forward to the resurrection and to a glorious reunion.  But in the meantime, I fear more loss.

Another Holiday Season

Anyone who has lost can tell you holiday seasons are hard.  You tend to feel the absence of the one you have lost more than most times.  We haven't gotten very deeply into the holiday season, but so far, this doesn't seem as bad as some of the other seasons.  It doesn't seem as painful.  Maybe it's because I'm busier than most times.  Maybe it's because other events going on in my life or the world make my pain seem small by comparison.  It's hard to say why.  I just hope my pain stays this muted for the whole season.

As I have done for previous years, I will seek out opportunities to serve.  But I feel less compelled to do so for my sake.  I'm not having to bury myself in service to survive.  The things I do this year are for others and for others alone.  I will still write down services we as a family do and put them in a jar as a gift for my angels to be opened Christmas morning.  Alli and the other angels are still part of the family and always will be.  I'm not sure what's different about this year, or if the emotion hasn't stricken yet.  I guess we'll see.  In the meantime, I will continue to search for ways to make others' season just a bit brighter as I go about my own                                                                                                          

Gratitude

I have had some hard days recently.  But I know that I have to focus on gratitude for what I do have rather than on sorrow for what I don't or for what I've lost.  When I think back over all we've been through with my baby's death and five years of miscarriage, I'm tempted to fall into a dark place of pain and sadness.  It would be easy to do.  

However, this week is Thanksgiving in the US.  It's a time to reflect on all we've been given.  It's time to invite joy in by showing my living children how much I appreciate them by spending more time with them.  It's time to hold my husband and those two sweet kids close to my heart and focus on the joy that comes with counting my blessings.  Thanksgiving is about more than food.  It's about cherishing the moments with those we love.  It's about making memories.  And this week, I am determined to cherish every moment and make wonderful memories.