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.

Easter: a Time to Celebrate

Last Sunday was Easter.  The holidays are a time to reflect.  Christmas is often hard on those in mourning.  It makes me think of the presents I won't be buying and the child or children who could be here around our Christmas feast but aren't.  Easter is a different matter.  I am not as keenly aware of those who aren't here, or at least those I can't see.  It brings to mind rebirth, the time of year when those things that have grown cold and dark, the trees and plants that have closed down for the winter, come to vibrant life again.  It brings to mind the birthing of a new generation of baby animals.  And it brings to mind the resurrection of our Lord and, thereby, the hope for resurrection of those we love. 

The two days are really two halves of the same holiday.  One celebrates mortal birth, the birth of our Savior.  That can be hard for those who are keenly aware of babies they can't hold.  The other celebrates His rebirth, the other end of His mortal life when He left and came back.  Because He did this, I know that I will hold my baby again.  I know she and her younger, miscarried siblings will come back into my life some day.  It's a time for hope, a time to celebrate life, the Lord's life and the short life of my baby.  For this reason, among others, I love Easter and spring most of all times of the year. 

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. 

One of Two

(Alli new)

Well, we made it through one of two major hurdles that come around every year.  March is my angel's birthday.  June is her angelversary, her death date.  Those two dates still feel way too close together.

The worst part of her birthday was just before, when I wrote the last post, and then the morning of, when it was quiet, and people were writing and calling in sympathy.  I wasn't thinking about it until then.  After that, it was all I could think about.  Fortunately, it was a short day at school.  After I picked up kids, I was swept up in the reality of mommying, especially when I also ended up babysitting my sister's kids.  Then we all went out to eat to make up for not being able to have my girl's party that night.

(Playing with Alli)

At the end of festivities, however, it was time to eat our angel food cake and go through Alli's pictures.  The tears flooded in again.  It's always a pleasure to feel her back with us as I'm looking through those pictures.  The worst part is always when I get to the funeral pictures with her waxen face and, almost worse still, when the pictures run out.  I always feel so empty when I get to that point.

(Viewing)

It made me sad that the kids said they don't really remember her at all.  It has been eight years.  I guess that's a very good reason to go through those pictures at least twice a year, so they can remember her and feel like she's a part of us instead of just a memory.  Sometimes, it's hard to feel like she's more than a memory for me.  I know she's with us as often as she can be.  I know she's still real, an angel watching over us.  But I've gotten so used to the pain that it can be hard to remember the joy.  Some years, her birthday feels more like a celebration of her brief life.  I guess that's the way it should be every year, so she knows we still remember and love her.

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.