Grief is no hoax

It's a special pain, when someone denies your grief. When they assume - like the assholes they are - that they know how you feel, that they went through it along with you so they must be included in your circle.

Unless you have lost a child - unless there is an urn or a headstone or an obituary or a death certificate - you don't know shit. And that's the truth. Your loss - a parent, a spouse, a dog - is not comparable. Until you put a child in the ground - and I so sincerely hope you never do - you are not in this circle. Pretending you are is disrespectful to me and to my child. It is dismissive of my grief and the lifelong journey I will take going through my grief.

End of story.

Denying my children's lives - their personhood, their existence, their importance - is an even greater grievance. They lived. They have names and they have souls and I feel their spirits. They are my children and they are a part of me.

So when I read this article in the Washington Post about a professor who made it his personal mission to deny the lives  and deaths of children killed in the Sandy Hook shooting, my heart skipped a beat. I cannot imagine my reaction - and it would be physical and immediate and hell would rain down, I promise you - if someone came to me and questioned my children in this manner.

It makes me sick - truly sick - because it is proof that we are living in the worst part of the history of our humanity. To deny these parents the right to grieve, publicly, privately, extensively - to mourn their children without political consequences - is unimaginable to me. It is unforgivable.

I know that when I can't cling to my children, I cling to their memory. I cling to my grief. It keeps me on this earth. It keeps my heart right.

Damn any person who would take that small comfort from a grieving parent.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/grade-point/wp/2016/01/13/the-father-of-a-boy-killed-at-sandy-hook-gets-death-threats-from-people-who-say-the-shooting-was-a-hoax/

Writing and feelings are inconvenient

It's true. Writing my thoughts here is inconvenient. My feelings - about mostly everything - are also irrationally inconvenient. I love and hate both. So there.

When you go through profound loss - especially the loss of a child or children - it's like you gain magnetism. Other people's grief finds you and sticks to you like a magnet. I gather up their stories - this child in hospice, this mother in her grief journey, a husband blogging about losing his wife to cancer. I read their blog posts and I cry for them. I know how they feel - or even more importantly - how they will feel in the coming weeks and months and years. I want to tell them that it will get better, that they will find peace or something that feels like peace. But I can't lie to these kindred souls. It won't get better. It will persist. You will be changed. You can't go back.

Increasingly, my from-afar interactions with these strangers is via Facebook, where they post snippets of their feelings frequently and more publicly that I ever could. I read about their chemo treatments and physical wounds that won't heal, their genetic woes and surgeries and complications. I read about funerals and obituaries, some obviously posted via phones. Thousands of people follow these stories along with me and like and comment and share.

Would it be easier, would I post more often if writing were shorter, my platform more conveniently available? Would more people read my words? Would my story be more impactful?

In the end, I don't care. I write a thousand blog posts in my head and never find the time to put them here. And if one, or two or none read these words, then I'm OK with that, too. I don't care if my story impacts others. I don't really care if it helps others. I don't know if people read this and cry for me. I don't care if they don't.

And I'm certainly not sure if this is another level of hell in the middle of the many levels of hell that I've already experienced. Another stop on the Grief Train. Another bag of mixed emotions - to care enough to read from another's feelings and to be so callous as to shrug off the need for others to care about mine.

So no emotional Facebook posts from me. I'll wallow in this little slice of obscurity and enjoy it, thank you very much.

New neighbor

Drew's stone was set beside John's (properly) and I was elated. We planted daffodil bulbs all around for springtime and landscaped with fall mums and scarecrows. All looked as adorable as could be in Dead Baby Mama World, where you landscape around granite instead of fill sippy cups.

Because I work from home two days a week, I'll often swing by the cemetery for a "drive by" in the mornings. Last week there was a new neighbor right in front of our two cemetery plots - a fresh grave.

I'm a bit ashamed to admit this, but I was distraught. I'd just gotten the grave to how I wanted it. The stones were in place and I'd gotten to plant flowers - and I didn't want anything to disrupt the little bit of peace that came with that - not even a very nice dead old lady.

It reminds me that so much of my grief is still far out of my control and that I am capable of feeling the weirdest forms and wisps of sadness spurred from all sorts of weird circumstances.

I also feel the gravity of things harder than ever before. This old lady is now my eternal neighbor. Someday in the (hopefully) distant future, when I am cremated and added to the family vault, it will be behind Mary Lu.

How about that?

?

"ohn and 'dew"

I wear my necklace with my children's names on it everywhere I go. I have a charm for each child and each charm has their name and their spirit animal on it. John's has a footprint.

Anyway, I don't think there is a day in Clark's life that he hasn't seen me with that necklace. I never take it off. The other night he was standing on my bed and put his little arms around my neck to hug me. Then he had this very serious look on his face and he was looking at my necklace. So I showed him "Emily" "John" "Drew" and "Clark" on each charm.

"Emmy!"
"Ohn!"
"Dew!"
"Aark!"

And then he said it all again, going through all the charms.

I can't describe the feeling of hearing my miracle baby say the names of his brothers out loud. It was as if I had never heard their names before. Like a song sung in a different tune.

I swear, I swear, I swear, I will never let the world forget about my boys. Hearing Clark say their names makes me even more resolved to their memory.

Oh, my heart.

Headstone drama

It's a headstone. Exactly like the other headstone. Why is this so difficult?

We ordered Drew's headstone recently. It is exactly the same as John's. Exactly. Same size, same color. They are buried in the same vault on the same plot in the same cemetery. John's stone is raised instead of sunk into the ground.

The stone was supposed to be here last week, but the monument company called to say 7-10 MORE business days. Then this week, I go out to the cemetery and they dug the spot for Drew's stone.

Two problems with that: They dug the footer BEHIND John's stone instead of beside it.
AND THEY DUG IT, like to sink it down. Not like John's stone.

I am irrationally beyond upset about this. The stone is important. It is forever. It must be right. Now there is some bullshit about how they don't think they can put Drew's stone next to John's stone. I don't want it in the plot next to John's, I just want it physically next to John's stone!

I'm so frustrated. And sad. And mad. I should not have to deal with this because I should not have dead babies. I should not have to deal with this because this is not rocket science. Because I have been clear on my wishes about this. And because it is important.

Ugh!

Off the emotional wagon

I just can’t keep doing this. I just can’t keep being OK all the way up until I’m not OK at all.

I’m not OK, and that’s not OK.

Long story very short:

I got drunk

I cried

I embarrassed myself

I suck

I’m sad

So there are a few things that have to happen here. First, I have to identify what is actually wrong beyond dead babies. Dead babies will always be the thing that’s wrong. End of story. But the emotional stuff that kind of lives around the dead baby emotional stuff is the stuff that is the problem right now. Got it?

That stuff includes:

Forgiveness of my family

Forgiveness of my husband’s family

Forgiveness of myself

Letting go of guilt on SO MANY LEVELS

Being able to be in a room full of people without needing pills or even wine to cope

I was a little stunned to realize that I have not seen a counselor in two years. No talk therapy for TWO YEARS. Stupid deferred emotional maintenance. Keri (my counselor) quit and I just stopped going. So basically, I was diagnosed with PTSD and my response to that was to stop therapy. Not smart.

OK, then.

So back to therapy.

A big question: do I need medication? Inside, I say yes. I need help. This is bad. It can’t keep getting good and bad like this. I’m almost OK with being always sad, but having these very random, very unpredictable emotional breaks is exhausting. Would medication even the ship a little bit? Or capsize the whole thing?

And the forgiveness…well…I’m going to work on it. There are certain emotional cinder blocks that I have to carry with me wherever I go. The boys and the terminations and the sadness – I can’t put that cinder block down. But if I am going to emotionally move forward from the me that I hate so much, I have to be able to forgive people even when they are not sorry. I can’t think of anything harder, to be honest. But I know that I have to do it for me, not necessarily for them.

Forgiving my family for treating my boys as if they didn’t exist is going to nearly kill me. Forgiving my husband’s family for treating my boys like their lives weren’t as important as children who lived is going to kill me.

Not forgiving – or at least not moving on – is killing me.

How much of this is about the boys? How much of it is about thoughtless family members? How much of this is about me?

It’s time to find out. I don’t want to be the girl I hate so much anymore.

Three years later, on my own terms

For nearly three years, a tiny urn sat next to our family picture in the living room. I would often pick it up and hold it in the palm of my hand, and I would remember the day I lost my little Drew. I can close my eyes and remember the absolutely wonderful nurse at the Special Birthing Center - how she asked us if we wanted to see him and we were stunned. It wasn't possible for us to see John and we somehow didn't consider that we would be able to hold Drew. I was so surprised that I almost declined - I had already been through so much.

But that moment when we held him - so, so tiny - was one of the best, most magical moments of my life. A moment of heartbreak and grace. A moment of grief and motherhood. I got to hold my son. It means so much to me, even now.

And maybe that's why I delayed burying Drew's silver urn with John's marble one (I'm beyond pleased that they have such different urns - it's the little things for Dead Baby Mamas). Everyone told me that I should bury John's ashes right away. I might never do it if I don't do it soon, they said. It helps you get on with the healing process, they said. But it felt rushed. I wasn't ready and I was pushed. And maybe "everyone" was right and I just didn't know it.

But Drew was different. I wasn't going to be pushed to it. I kept the urn downstairs in an out-of-the-way place. I kept quiet about it. Then I got pregnant with Clark, and not knowing if he would be healthy or not, we saved our money for medical expenses "just in case." There were no leftover dollars for burial and headstone.

So we waited. And somewhere in those nearly three years, suddenly, it was time - my heart was ready. It was time for Drew to be with John.

So a few weeks ago, we ordered his stone and organized the burial with the cemetery. We got dressed up - just me, my husband and our children, and we talked about Drew and about our love for both boys. I wrapped the urn in a baby blanket with monkeys on it (Drew's spirit animal). And we said goodbye.

I will admit, I nearly chickened out of the entire thing when I saw the cremation vault. I so clearly remember when we buried John, thinking that I would never see that vault again - it was only to be opened after my death to put his urn in my casket. And there I was, and there it was, like a cruel joke. And, beyond all reasoning with the Universe, the name of the company on the side of the vault was the Clark vault company. I can't make this stuff up.

The feeling now is really peace. If this is how my life story is supposed to read, then the boys are supposed to be together. And now they are. I'm very glad we did this on my terms, on my timeline. There is some closure. There is some comfort. This is a reminder of how blessed I am to have their little spirits around me always.