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.  

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.  

The Stork's Impending Visit (not to me)

My great niece is going to be born any day now.  On one hand, I celebrate inside because it means I get to hold a baby in pink and play with baby toes.  On the other hand, I will be praying inside, nervous the whole time leading to the birth, the time of birth, and even after baby is here.  Most people sigh with relief when a baby is here safely.  Having lost a babies in and out of the womb, I know babies are fragile in all their stages.  I'd be paralyzed with fear if it were my own baby.  Even watching my nephew and his wife, with whom I have been close for several years, bringing a baby to this earth scares me.

Babies are just scary to me for their sake.  They're scary for me for my sake, too, because I have lost too many times before.  I can't help it.  Babies equal loss to me.  I know most babies live.  This little princess will probably outlive me by many years. But just thinking about a baby makes me cry.  There was a time I envied women who called themselves "expecting" because they were pregnant.  It's been years since I've expected anything but loss, even when I was pregnant.  There was also a time I envied those with babies.  Now, I realize I don't envy any of it because babies mean fear to me.  I'm much more at peace letting other people deal with the stress.  I'll be grateful for my older kids and the chance to hold other people's babies. 

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. 

Ho Ho Horrible

'Tis the season to be jolly.  It's the holiday season.  Everyone is supposed to rush around with a smile on their face, right?  The colors seem brighter, happier.  Unless you've had a loss that drains all color and turns the light to darkness.  Then it all seems to be washed in particularly painful shades of gray fading to black.  The holidays are anything but happy for those in mourning. 

People's expectations that you have happy holidays makes this time a year more painful for many people.  It's hard to feel thankful at Thanksgiving when all you feel is the black hole of where your loved one ought to be.  2010, the year I lost my baby, all I could feel was that black hole, that bloody hole where my heart used to be, sucking all light, all color, all flavor out of the world.  It's hard to taste turkey and pie around the flavor of blood that tints everything.

Those who haven't had that world-rocking, earth-shattering caliber of loss simply don't understand how this works.  Your struggle with the holiday confuses them many times.  It seems like your failure somehow that you haven't "gotten over it" yet.  Some people outside the miasma of your loss  try to understand.  Some have gone through it and really do understand.  But so many don't.  And their expectations for your joy feel like that one more burden you can't carry. 

I've seen it again and again.  My husband lost his mother just over 20 years ago on the 16th of December.  For him, she was Christmas.  To this day, every Christmas feels like a soul-sucker.  He struggles to find things to be grateful for since his holidays have been buried in the cold ground for over two decades.  He loves us, but that doesn't stop his clinical depression that gets worse in the dim, short days from feeling all the more acute during "the most wonderful time of the year."  I've talked to multiple people this year who feel the same about the holidays as we did and, to some extent, still do.

Neither my husband or I felt even sort of merry December 2010.  Every song about babies or birthing brought burning tears to my eyes.  Since then, I've been clawing my way back through finding ways to serve others for myself and my family and then putting slips of paper with acts of service printed on them into a jar for my angel.  These are to be opened and read on Christmas morning.  My holidays do almost feel merry again these seven years later.  But my husband still feels the darkness in a way that overshadows everything else.  I respect that. 

There's no easy fix for this.  The holidays just make everything feel harder, more burdensome, for many people.  All many of those who are in mourning ask is that they be allowed to mourn and feel in their own way, in their own time.  Please don't try to force your smiley face on someone else.  Don't add to that burden.  Just be there.  That's enough.  And if you're there and sharing your love and support, you may see a smile after all. 

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. 

Too much Death

I don't know if it's just me, but it feels like I can't hop on FaceBook or even the news without hearing about world-rocking loss hitting someone I know.  One day, I spent about five minutes online and found news of three deaths, all in rapid succession. A friend of mine posted a news article of how her niece and her niece's best friend were hit by a truck, which killed one of them.  Another friend is reeling from the death of a cousin.  Another friend's mother unexpectedly passed away.  And so on.  Then, of course, were the loss of the three-year-old I wrote about last time and the loss of my good friend's beloved husband I wrote about some time ago.  They all break my heart because they were so sudden and unexpected.  Each of them broke multiple hearts.  And the list of loss rolls on.  For the sake of one of my friends, I looked up a FaceBook support group for mothers of angels.  Now, I get the stream on my FaceBook wall of pictures of babies mourned.  It's almost a shock to see a baby who is still alive and well. 

I don't actually know most of those who were lost, but I feel their pain.  It's so hard to be living life, feeling like everything is okay when someone calls or something happenszx, and your world falls apart.  I run into constant reminders of how fragile life is and how precious the moments are.  I know families can be forever, but loss is so hard in the here and now.  I fell into the trap of self-blame, and I can only imagine that's a very real struggle in the lives of many of those who have lost those they love. 

It's such a helpless feeling to hear about someone's pain when you can't do anything.  All you want to do is take away their pain, yet you know it's not possible.  All I can do in many cases is pray for their peace.  Healing is hard.  I know my prayers and others' prayers softened the pain.  I know the Lord carried me when I could no longer walk.  I just hope and pray those with such fresh pain are blessed with the same.

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.

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.