Last week, I had a good friend ask me a question. She asked that if a year ago, I was told what I would be going through this year, would think that I could make it? Lately I have been thinking about that question a lot and my answer is no. I don't think I would have given myself, my marriage, and my family the respect any deserve and I would have said that I would not have been standing on the other side of this journey. While thinking about all of this, I experienced an emotion that I don't normally talk about (expect in regard to Sean's accomplishments) and that is pride. Not a selfish pride, but a self loving pride.
I am proud of Ryan. His life amazes me. It may have been short, but those two hours carry such great weight. I am proud of his fight, because not only did we fight for him to be a part of our family, but he fought just as hard. His little body and his heart hung in there to show us what strength and perseverance truly are.
I am proud of Sean. As a three year old, so much of what has happened to our family, is beyond explanation to him, but he has excepted everything as part of our family's journey. He shared a bond and love with his little brother even before Ryan was born. Not to say that we haven't had our struggles, but he is an amazing big brother.
I am proud of Scott. I am honored to be his wife. He stood with me through this whole experience, holding my hand, giving me a shoulder to cry on, and walking this journey beside me. He was angry with me, he cried with me, and he loved our son with me. I know that this experience was very different for Scott than it was for me, but he never failed to love to his family. The image of him holding our son, was an incredibly beautiful moment that I will never forget.
I am proud of our family. I am proud that we welcomed and fought for Ryan to be a part of our family. I am proud that we made decisions for Ryan from our hearts, even when they hurt. After we received Ryan's diagnosis, we kept living and because of that, Ryan got to live with us and experience things with our family. Ryan got to go to baseball games and a football game. Ryan got to go swimming and experience the crazy heat of a Texas summer. There were times of pain and hurt, but the love in our family exceeds it all.
You know what, I can even say that I am proud of myself. I have two beautiful sons. I am a mother and I survived what I would have said a year ago would be unsurvivable. I am still struggling through this journey, but I am going through the journey. And I will continue, because of Ryan, because of Sean, because of Scott, and because I have a faith and a God who will walk beside me.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Masks
I have spent a lot of time online since I learned of Ryan's diagnosis. At first, it was to try to find as much information about his diagnosis as possible, and since it progressed to searching for other women who have walked the same journey and finding ways to remember Ryan. One group I have located is Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope (http://www.facesofloss.com/). Through this group, they have started a writing challenge, which for me, is a good way to process some of my thoughts that often aren't very organized. For October, the topic is "masks" as a tie in with Halloween.
I like masks. I am quite fond of them in fact. I like to wear them to hide my true emotions from others. More often than that, I think I use them to keep my emotions, thoughts, etc, hidden from myself. My favorite mask is the "I'm okay" one, that has gotten a lot of use since Ryan's diagnosis and birth. When I take that mask off, the emotions are so raw and so fresh that it can be physically painful. It is not that I suppress my grief, trust me I have plenty to share, it is just that I cannot live in my grief. I still have to function as a mother, wife, and friend. Sometimes to just get out of bed and move through the day, I have to believe that I am okay. It is the whole "fake it till you make it" mentality.
The nice thing about masks, at least mine, is that I don't believe they are full face masks. They have a little bit of translucence, where the real me and my real emotions can come through, if you are looking for them. My eyes tear up, but they also smile. I like to believe that the good moments, allow ME to shine through my mask. I don't know when there will be a day when I feel like I can get rid of the mask, because we all have them. It is how we protect ourselves, just some get used more than others.
I wonder what would happen if we all got rid of our masks...would there be tears, anger, joy...could we learn to be content and accepting of our true selves?
I realize each day that Ryan has taught me many lessons, one is that he was perfect, he was perfectly made. It just breaks my heart to know that he was perfectly made for heaven. But in the same way he was perfectly made, we were all made by the hands of God.
I like masks. I am quite fond of them in fact. I like to wear them to hide my true emotions from others. More often than that, I think I use them to keep my emotions, thoughts, etc, hidden from myself. My favorite mask is the "I'm okay" one, that has gotten a lot of use since Ryan's diagnosis and birth. When I take that mask off, the emotions are so raw and so fresh that it can be physically painful. It is not that I suppress my grief, trust me I have plenty to share, it is just that I cannot live in my grief. I still have to function as a mother, wife, and friend. Sometimes to just get out of bed and move through the day, I have to believe that I am okay. It is the whole "fake it till you make it" mentality.
The nice thing about masks, at least mine, is that I don't believe they are full face masks. They have a little bit of translucence, where the real me and my real emotions can come through, if you are looking for them. My eyes tear up, but they also smile. I like to believe that the good moments, allow ME to shine through my mask. I don't know when there will be a day when I feel like I can get rid of the mask, because we all have them. It is how we protect ourselves, just some get used more than others.
I wonder what would happen if we all got rid of our masks...would there be tears, anger, joy...could we learn to be content and accepting of our true selves?
I realize each day that Ryan has taught me many lessons, one is that he was perfect, he was perfectly made. It just breaks my heart to know that he was perfectly made for heaven. But in the same way he was perfectly made, we were all made by the hands of God.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Brothers
Just when I am having a moment of my own pity party or sometimes when I am having an "okay" moment, Sean often finds a way to remind me of his loss. Today when driving him home from daycare, he was chatting to himself in the backseat and I heard him mention "his brother who is not in Heaven". I asked what he had said and he informed me that he has another brother who is "not in Heaven yet" that lives at his orange house (brief aside - Sean has an imaginary orange house that is his home and he plans to live there on his own when he is 10). He told me that this brother laughs all the time. I asked if his brother has a name and he said "Eli" just like his friend's little brother.
Sometimes it is the fact that Sean lost his little brother that hurts the most. Though I know there would have been times of jealousy and sibling rivalry, there would have also been that "brotherly love" and tackles and fights and everything that having a brother is all about.
Sometimes it is the fact that Sean lost his little brother that hurts the most. Though I know there would have been times of jealousy and sibling rivalry, there would have also been that "brotherly love" and tackles and fights and everything that having a brother is all about.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Maternity Leave
Now that Scott has returned to work, I find myself with a lot of time to think - I'm not sure if it is always a good thing. Because of that, you may see more frequent posts, because often writing things helps me process them.
This week I have found myself thinking about the time period between learning of Ryan's diagnosis and his birth. I remember during that time wondering, what do you do on maternity leave if your child dies? It was such a foreign concept to me, but yet it was going to be my reality. I would try to figure out what I would do with my time and I would draw a blank. All I could think of was that I would sleep (that it my answer to a lot of things). Now when I think about it, there is so much more.
Traditional maternity leave is a time to recover from delivery and care for your infant. You try to learn all about your child, what their cries are for, how they like to be held, when they are hungry and when they are tired. You are learning what your family's new identity is and how this little child fits in your family. It is a period of adjustment and often stress and sleepless nights. But you survive and your child survives and your family survives. You forge ahead as the new family you have become.
Some wouldn't consider my leave a "maternity" leave. I can understand that - I left the hospital with empty arms and it wasn't because my child had to stay at the hospital for more care. I left the hospital to plan a funeral, not to make bottles and wash clothes and rock a baby to sleep. I am on "disability" leave because I had surgery. But I challenge that, I am on maternity leave. I am learning how to be a mother. I have to learn how to be a mother to my son that is with me at home and how to be a mother to my son in Heaven. I still have sleepless nights, and when I do sleep, my dreams are often of children or death, neither which lends to very good sleep. We are also adjusting to our new family's identity, because we have to figure out how Ryan fits in our family. When I walk through a store, people will not see that I am a mother of two boys, but I am. Our family has been changed and we have our own struggles to adjust to.
Maternity leave is not about the bottles and diapers and naps. Maternity leave is about love and about learning what it is to love a child. Maternity leave is a time for physical healing and a time for emotional growth.
This week I have found myself thinking about the time period between learning of Ryan's diagnosis and his birth. I remember during that time wondering, what do you do on maternity leave if your child dies? It was such a foreign concept to me, but yet it was going to be my reality. I would try to figure out what I would do with my time and I would draw a blank. All I could think of was that I would sleep (that it my answer to a lot of things). Now when I think about it, there is so much more.
Traditional maternity leave is a time to recover from delivery and care for your infant. You try to learn all about your child, what their cries are for, how they like to be held, when they are hungry and when they are tired. You are learning what your family's new identity is and how this little child fits in your family. It is a period of adjustment and often stress and sleepless nights. But you survive and your child survives and your family survives. You forge ahead as the new family you have become.
Some wouldn't consider my leave a "maternity" leave. I can understand that - I left the hospital with empty arms and it wasn't because my child had to stay at the hospital for more care. I left the hospital to plan a funeral, not to make bottles and wash clothes and rock a baby to sleep. I am on "disability" leave because I had surgery. But I challenge that, I am on maternity leave. I am learning how to be a mother. I have to learn how to be a mother to my son that is with me at home and how to be a mother to my son in Heaven. I still have sleepless nights, and when I do sleep, my dreams are often of children or death, neither which lends to very good sleep. We are also adjusting to our new family's identity, because we have to figure out how Ryan fits in our family. When I walk through a store, people will not see that I am a mother of two boys, but I am. Our family has been changed and we have our own struggles to adjust to.
Maternity leave is not about the bottles and diapers and naps. Maternity leave is about love and about learning what it is to love a child. Maternity leave is a time for physical healing and a time for emotional growth.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
One month
Today is one month.
One month since Ryan was born.
One month since we held him in our arms in awe.
One month since we told Ryan "hello", "I love you" and "goodbye" in what felt like a blink of an eye.
One month since I held my son while he died.
One month of feeling an incredible amount of love for Ryan and an equally incredible amount of emptiness.
One month of millions of tears, both shed and unshed.
Most of this month, I have struggled to live in denial because that was how I survived most days. But there truly has not been a moment that I am not thinking of Ryan. There are moments that I am much like any new mom, I want to talk about my son and brag about him to everyone. But then my bragging would not sound much like other new mom's. I think about the breath that I saw Ryan take, I think about how strong he was to survive the 7 months of pregnancy and to spend two hours with us.
On Friday, I walked right into the anger stage of grief. I was angry that I had to celebrate a birthday in the midst of my grief. I was angry that I could no longer be a naive individual who did not realize the depth and width of the grief you experience with the loss of an infant. I was angry that forever my birthday will be the day that a nation and world recognize pregnancy and infant loss. When I was pregnant with Ryan, I often said that the only miracle I was hoping for was that Ryan would be alive at birth. Well, I got that miracle, but I am still angry. Friday was the first time that I said the words that I wanted God to save my child. Maybe I should find comfort in the fact that Ryan is in Heaven with God and is healed, happy, and perfect; and sometimes I do. But most of the time, I am angry, because deep down I wanted that miracle healing where Ryan would come home with me! I am angry that my family is having to walk this road of grief, that my son at 3 is learning about death, that to spend my birthday with my other son, I had to go to a cemetery.
If you see my in public and ask how I am, I will likely answer that I am okay or fine. Don't believe it. One song that has meant a lot to me during this journey is "I Will Carry You" by Selah and there is a line that goes "People say that I am brave but I'm not, Truth is I'm barely hanging on" I'm not brave and I'm not strong. I am a mother, who did what any mom would do for her child.
One month since Ryan was born.
One month since we held him in our arms in awe.
One month since we told Ryan "hello", "I love you" and "goodbye" in what felt like a blink of an eye.
One month since I held my son while he died.
One month of feeling an incredible amount of love for Ryan and an equally incredible amount of emptiness.
One month of millions of tears, both shed and unshed.
Most of this month, I have struggled to live in denial because that was how I survived most days. But there truly has not been a moment that I am not thinking of Ryan. There are moments that I am much like any new mom, I want to talk about my son and brag about him to everyone. But then my bragging would not sound much like other new mom's. I think about the breath that I saw Ryan take, I think about how strong he was to survive the 7 months of pregnancy and to spend two hours with us.
On Friday, I walked right into the anger stage of grief. I was angry that I had to celebrate a birthday in the midst of my grief. I was angry that I could no longer be a naive individual who did not realize the depth and width of the grief you experience with the loss of an infant. I was angry that forever my birthday will be the day that a nation and world recognize pregnancy and infant loss. When I was pregnant with Ryan, I often said that the only miracle I was hoping for was that Ryan would be alive at birth. Well, I got that miracle, but I am still angry. Friday was the first time that I said the words that I wanted God to save my child. Maybe I should find comfort in the fact that Ryan is in Heaven with God and is healed, happy, and perfect; and sometimes I do. But most of the time, I am angry, because deep down I wanted that miracle healing where Ryan would come home with me! I am angry that my family is having to walk this road of grief, that my son at 3 is learning about death, that to spend my birthday with my other son, I had to go to a cemetery.
If you see my in public and ask how I am, I will likely answer that I am okay or fine. Don't believe it. One song that has meant a lot to me during this journey is "I Will Carry You" by Selah and there is a line that goes "People say that I am brave but I'm not, Truth is I'm barely hanging on" I'm not brave and I'm not strong. I am a mother, who did what any mom would do for her child.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Births
Before I write about anything else, I want everyone to know that October 15th is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. Before Ryan, I never knew this day existed, but I now feel that it is important that other's know. It is a day to recognize the women and families who suffered a loss through miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant death. Please join us in lighting a candle at 7pm your time on Friday, in memory of Ryan and all of the other babies that are at home with their Father, but whose parent's arms ache with emptiness.
I spend a lot of time reading blogs from other moms who have walked this same journey. There is an undescrible comfort in knowing that you are not alone. Often I read their enteries and their words could be mine. Today I read one that really struck a chord with me, it was about "good births". The other mom wrote about having the "best" card when discussing a "bad" birth because what could be worse that delivering a child who has not survived. Reading all of the other comments really made me take some time to think about both Sean's and Ryan's birth.
There were some definite similarities with both deliveries. Neither delivery occured when expected. I drove myself to the hospital to have some medication administered when I ended up being admitted and induced to deliver Sean. I went into labor on my own with Ryan, but it was over 11 weeks before his due date and over 7 weeks before his scheduled delivery date. Both boys were delivered by c-section, but with Sean it was completely unplanned. Sean was not up for being delivered, I never progressed, but the induction was started because his heart rate would not stabilize at the time (come to find out at delivery that the cord was wrapped around his neck). Ryan determined when he was going to be born. My children are also apparently night people, Sean was born at 2:22am and Ryan was born at 1:55am. But that is where the similarities end.
It is actually hard for me to qualify one birth as "better" than the other. The obvious choice would be Sean's birth, I got to bring my son home with me. I did not have the complication of high blood pressure and I remember physically recovering in a much shorter time span. But, in many ways, Ryan's birth was a miracle. The second time around I was mentally prepared to have a c-section (at the time and after Sean's birth, I felt like a failure that I could not deliver my child on my own). Second time around, Scott was right by my side with his head at my forehead instead of watching the actual cutting and delivery. I was able to have a friend present who took pictures that are worth more than I could explain. Ryan may not have a made a sound at birth, but he was present and he was alive with us. I could get selfish and say that it was not enough of a miracle because Ryan wasn't healed and did not survive, but he was alive in my arms. I still want him with me every moment of every day. I wonder how big he would be at this point and I think of carrying him and holding him. I wish that I was spending my leave at home sleeping while my baby sleeps and feeling exhausted from a crazy schedule, instead of planning my times to visit the cemetary and feeling exhausted because I can not sleep because the dreams and thoughts are haunting.
Both of the deliveries of my boys were miracles and I thank God daily for my beautiful sons. I only ask that God hold Ryan in his lap and tell him about his Mommy, Daddy and big brother.
Sean Micheal
Ryan James
Thursday, October 7, 2010
What is Normal?
Normal is having tears waiting behind every smile when you realize someone important is missing from all the important events in your family's life.
Normal for me is trying to decide what to take to the cemetery for Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, Valentine's Day, July 4th, and Easter.
Normal is feeling like you know how to act and are more comfortable with a funeral than a wedding or birthday party...yet feeling a stab of pain in your heart when you smell the flowers and see the casket.
Normal is feeling like you can't sit another minute without getting up and screaming, because you just don't like to sit through anything.
Normal is not sleeping very well because a thousand what if's & why didn't I's go through your head constantly.
Normal is reliving that day continuously through your eyes and mind, holding your head to make it go away.
Normal is having the TV on the minute I walk into the house to have noise, because the silence is deafening.
Normal is staring at every baby who looks like he is my baby's age. And then thinking of the age he would be now and not being able to imagine it. Then wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it will never happen.
Normal is every happy event in my life always being backed up with sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart.
Normal is telling the story of your child's death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone's eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of my "normal".
Normal is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your child's memory and her birthday and survive these days. And trying to find the balloon or flag that fits the occasion. Happy Birthday? Not really.
Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special my baby loved. Thinking how she would love it, but how she is not here to enjoy it.
Normal is having some people afraid to mention my baby.
Normal is making sure that others remember her.
Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives, but we continue to grieve our loss forever.
Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse sometimes, not better.
Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to this loss, unless they too have lost a child. NOTHING. Even if your child is in the remotest part of the earth away from you - it doesn't compare. Losing a parent is horrible, but having to bury your own child is unnatural.
Normal is taking pills, and trying not to cry all day, because I know my mental health depends on it.
Normal is realizing I do cry everyday.
Normal is disliking jokes about death or funerals, bodies being referred to as cadavers, when you know they were once someone's loved one.
Normal is being impatient with everything and everyone, but someone stricken with grief over the loss of your child.
Normal is sitting at the computer crying, sharing how you feel with chat buddies who have also lost a child.
Normal is feeling a common bond with friend on the computer in England, Australia, Canada, the Netherlands and all over the USA, but yet never having met any of them face to face.
Normal is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying together over our children and our new lives.
Normal is not listening to people make excuses for God. "God may have done this because..." I love God, I know that my baby is in Heaven, but hearing people trying to think up excuses as to why healthy babies were taken from this earth is not appreciated and makes absolutely no sense to this grieving mother.
Normal is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did laundry or if there is any food.
Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have three children or two, because you will never see this person again and it is not worth explaining that my baby is in heaven. And yet when you say you have two children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your baby.
Normal is avoiding McDonald's and Burger King playgrounds because of small, happy children that break your heart when you see them.
Normal is asking God why he took your child's life instead of yours and asking if there even is a God.
Normal is knowing I will never get over this loss, in a day or a million years.
And last of all, Normal is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for you to feel so that everyone around you will think that you are "normal".
~author unknown
I have not experienced all of these "normals", but there are many that ring so true...
Normal for me is trying to decide what to take to the cemetery for Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, Valentine's Day, July 4th, and Easter.
Normal is feeling like you know how to act and are more comfortable with a funeral than a wedding or birthday party...yet feeling a stab of pain in your heart when you smell the flowers and see the casket.
Normal is feeling like you can't sit another minute without getting up and screaming, because you just don't like to sit through anything.
Normal is not sleeping very well because a thousand what if's & why didn't I's go through your head constantly.
Normal is reliving that day continuously through your eyes and mind, holding your head to make it go away.
Normal is having the TV on the minute I walk into the house to have noise, because the silence is deafening.
Normal is staring at every baby who looks like he is my baby's age. And then thinking of the age he would be now and not being able to imagine it. Then wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it will never happen.
Normal is every happy event in my life always being backed up with sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart.
Normal is telling the story of your child's death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone's eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of my "normal".
Normal is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your child's memory and her birthday and survive these days. And trying to find the balloon or flag that fits the occasion. Happy Birthday? Not really.
Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special my baby loved. Thinking how she would love it, but how she is not here to enjoy it.
Normal is having some people afraid to mention my baby.
Normal is making sure that others remember her.
Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives, but we continue to grieve our loss forever.
Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse sometimes, not better.
Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to this loss, unless they too have lost a child. NOTHING. Even if your child is in the remotest part of the earth away from you - it doesn't compare. Losing a parent is horrible, but having to bury your own child is unnatural.
Normal is taking pills, and trying not to cry all day, because I know my mental health depends on it.
Normal is realizing I do cry everyday.
Normal is disliking jokes about death or funerals, bodies being referred to as cadavers, when you know they were once someone's loved one.
Normal is being impatient with everything and everyone, but someone stricken with grief over the loss of your child.
Normal is sitting at the computer crying, sharing how you feel with chat buddies who have also lost a child.
Normal is feeling a common bond with friend on the computer in England, Australia, Canada, the Netherlands and all over the USA, but yet never having met any of them face to face.
Normal is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying together over our children and our new lives.
Normal is not listening to people make excuses for God. "God may have done this because..." I love God, I know that my baby is in Heaven, but hearing people trying to think up excuses as to why healthy babies were taken from this earth is not appreciated and makes absolutely no sense to this grieving mother.
Normal is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did laundry or if there is any food.
Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have three children or two, because you will never see this person again and it is not worth explaining that my baby is in heaven. And yet when you say you have two children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your baby.
Normal is avoiding McDonald's and Burger King playgrounds because of small, happy children that break your heart when you see them.
Normal is asking God why he took your child's life instead of yours and asking if there even is a God.
Normal is knowing I will never get over this loss, in a day or a million years.
And last of all, Normal is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for you to feel so that everyone around you will think that you are "normal".
~author unknown
I have not experienced all of these "normals", but there are many that ring so true...
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