Let Down

I was actually kind of looking forward to my angel's birthday in two days because it seemed I would be too busy working then being with family then going to my child's party that I wouldn't have to think.  Now, due to a pending storm, I'll have plenty of time to think and not much to anticipate but another day to suffer through.  And I'm feeling it hard.  I was fine earlier today.  Then thoughts of yet another refusal from a publisher, a long, hard week of small frustrations, and then this disappointment all hit at once. 

And now, I stare into the face of another birthday without her.  Another day of hollow acknowledgement that my arms are still empty.  That my rainbow never has never and will never come. 

Most of the time, I'm fine.  Most of the time, the blues don't get me down.  I can try to live in the gratitude for what I have rather than mourning for what and whom I've lost.  Much of the time, I feel like I've come a long way toward healing. 

But when those anniversaries strike, whether it be on the day or not, they strike hard.  And all the scabbing and peace I've built up to protect me from the pain peels away.  And I'm left with only the pain.  I'll probably be okay tomorrow.  I'll somehow survive the birthday.  The birthday that was supposed to be forever more a joint princess birthday party. 

But right now, it just hurts.  And it sucks.  And no amount of peace the rest of the time stops the pain right now. 

"Some days are like that, even in Australia."-Judith Viorst.

The Birthday Creeping Up

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

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

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

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

An Angel's Birthday

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

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

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

Emotional Landmines

When I hadn't been through serious, heart-shattering loss, the world was just a world.  The blanket was a blanket.  I mostly saw things at face value.  Now, I'm often startled at how things have changed meaning and how often I have to dodge emotional trip wires I find everywhere.  I look at our wall of recent family photos and see the glaring hole where Alli should be.  I look at the older photos and see an easy smile, an innocent smile of one who didn't yet understand what loss was.  I see the baby who would disappear from later photos. 

The same is true all over.  There was a time it was no big deal watching a tv episode about an unwanted baby or hearing a news story of a child murder or commentators talking about how easily people terminate unborn life.  These things seemed distantly sad, like they happened a world away and in no way touched mine.  Now, they're a very personal punch to the gut.  I hear them with pain on a very real level.  I tried for years to have a child, only to meet with fresh miscarriage.  Fifteen or more fresh miscarriages in a row, seventeen child losses if you count Alli and the miscarriage before.  The idea of someone not wanting a child or taking the life of a child for granted causes me physical pain. 

There was a time women could announce they were pregnant in a way that implied they were actually expecting to give live birth or that I could see a huge family with as many children as a family could want or even a pregnant woman and not feel a twinge deep within, that inevitable twinge of jealousy.  If I get pregnant, the only thing I'm expecting is fresh loss, fresh death.  Another angel statue for my shelf.  Pregnancy is all about fear. 

I remember life without an emotional landmine just beneath the surface.  I can't say I truly appreciated it then because I didn't understand there was anything else.  I didn't have that empathy to understand the perspective of those who had had this kind of loss.  I can wish the empathy on others, but I would never wish them this kind of loss.  And that's the fastest way to gain empathy.  I can hope families will appreciate and love their children as the treasures sent by God that they are.  But the world is what it is.  Loss will still happen.  Children will still go unappreciated and neglected. 

I just have to accept what is rather than cause myself more pain with unrealistic expectations.  I have to know the landmine is there and continue to seek healing.  I've come a long way.  The mines used to be closer together, more fragile, more explosive.  I'm thankful that the pain has lessened.  I'm thankful for the perspective I've gained.  I just wish there had been a way to gain this perspective without the landmine.  But I know it is what it is, and I'm thankful God his here, walking me through, protecting me from the worst of it. 

Bearing Burdens

This holiday season wasn't as bad, emotionally, as some have been.  Mostly, it passed uneventfully, with a few twinges or moments that reminded me they were supposed to be hard.  I'd say that was a vast improvement.  Our practice of looking for people to help really made it easier to think of someone other than myself.  But other things helped as well.  

It also helped that people would show they were thinking of us and wishing us well.  I had people checking in on us, asking us how we were in the way that it was clear they really wanted to know.  I had a friend show up on my doorstep with a gift to add to my angel shelf.  That did bring a tear to my eye, in the very best way.  

We also prayed consistently for those who struggled more than we did, and there were many.  Someone I know sat beside the hospital bedside of her little girl as that toddler flirted with death.  Someone else I know struggles with a difficult pregnancy.  Several someones struggled financially or emotionally.  Others struggled through their worst Christmas ever as they mourned the recent loss of a loved one.  

Nothing helps with one's own burdens more than thinking of others or having others think of us.  Knowing that there is love and there are prayers help carry the difficult burden of a holiday.  Thank you to all who prayed for us and all those who gave us an opportunity to pray or serve them.  There is truly magic in bearing one another's burdens.  

Our Traditions

Christmas season, as I've said, is hard.  But we've found ways to make it just a little bit easier with traditions and sparks of joy.  

When I unpacked our Christmas decorations, I pulled out a little tree made of gold tinsel. I wouldn't think much of it, except that we bought it on clearance the year my baby died.  That year, everything was painful.  Breathing was painful.  Existing was painful.  It's hard to describe just how much agony comes upon a family that has just lost a child when the holiday season comes.  Everything from a baby's first Christmas ornament to images of babies to paintings of angels to songs about mothers giving birth brought new pangs of loss.  With that tinsel tree, my kids played an improv game named Props in which they brainstormed what that little tinsel tree could be from a mermaid fin to a cat's tail to a dunce cap to a nose.  That little tinsel tree brought a rare smile to my face.  It brought something so rare during such a painful season: laughter.  

This one little item makes me reflect over the last seven Christmases since our angel came and left.  I remember buying little angel ornaments with anticipation to add to our journal tree.  Every year, we select and date an ornament to represent our year.  We have a 2004 angel that represents our boy before he was born and a toddler ornament that represents him after his birth.  We have similar ornaments to represent our next child.  We bought both a solitary angel for Alli and an angel dancing with a little girl to represent both of our girls.  Then, we bought a frame with wings in which to place our baby's photo after she passed.  But most years, we buy one ornament to represent our vacations or the purchase of a house or a pet.  Those ornaments, like our children's scrap books, remind us of the major events in our lives.  We also have an ornament to represent our miscarried angels.  We all sit together to put those special journal ornaments on our tree and reflect on our lives together.  We smile together remember the fun moments as well as our losses. The tree represents all of it, the good, the bad, and the ugly.  

Then, there's our angels' gift.  Every year, it's the last present we open because it's the most important.  Over the course of the holiday season for the last seven years, we've recorded every service we've done for our fellow man, even each other.  We write them on slips and put them under the tree.  We've made a point to add to it every chance we got.  For the first few years, I needed something to think about other than the holiday season, itself.  I have a friend who struggles financially, especially around the holidays.  So every year for the first few years, I had my kids and me find presents for this family to make their Christmas a little bit brighter.  Now, I don't need that emotional escape, but I still want to help.  I still want to add to that service jar, the gift for my angels.  So I give her a little money.  I want her to have the joy of doing the Christmas shopping for her kids.  This year, especially, we're looking for ways to bring a little bit of joy to others.  That's what this season is all about: remembering the giver of all good things.  

Due to these acts of healing and others as well as the healing power of the Lord, Christmas is no longer as painful as it once was.  That doesn't mean it's free of tears and pain.  But it is better.  We don't have to let the holidays stay painful.  We can find traditions, find ways to bring joy in spite of our pain.  I hope you can do the same.  Because the message of Christmas isn't one of pain but of joy, light, and love.  When we share all of that with others, it comes more fully into our lives.  

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.