There is a thank you note that I have been wanting to write for seven months now. I even bought a card, separate from my regular pack of thank you notes, one that was really special and already said some of the things that were in my heart. It’s still sitting in a folder because it’s taken me this long to find adequate words to express my gratitude.
This letter is for the people who were on the front lines for us, ready to defend us against the real world after the death of our baby boy. This letter is for our amazing hospital staff. I decided to write this publicly, because whenever I’ve talked about the experience of losing our son, I’ve ended up talking about our doctor and nurses and how wonderful they were. Especially the first few weeks when everything was hazy and painful and I didn’t know where to start talking, I’d talk about these angels who had watched over us in the hospital those first few days. I know that saying “angels” sounds pretty dramatic, but aren’t angels the people that God sends to us in our darkest hours to hold us up?
So, to my angels.
I would love to name each of you and tell the world exactly what you did for me, but the truth is I spent a lot of that time drugged and blurry eyed and everything kind of runs together. But I can say that from the time that we learned that our baby had no heartbeat to the time we left the hospital, and even since then, you held our hands and carried our sorrow with us. You cried almost as hard as we cried. You took pictures for us that we will have as priceless treasures to remember our Robbie. You knew exactly when we needed a hug. You pulled up chairs and talked like we had been lifelong friends. I couldn’t believe in the short time we had been there that I got to know many of you and felt as though I’d known you my whole life. It’s strange to me sometimes to think that in one of the most intimate times of our lives, we were surrounded by strangers, because none of you ever felt that way to me. Recovering from surgery would have been hard enough on its own, but you helped me with the physical healing process, as well as getting us on our way towards emotional healing. You were my first grief counselors. You shared your personal experiences and advice. You empathized with our loss and made me feel like maybe it was going to be possible to survive and to keep being a mother despite the enormous hole in my heart.
Probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done is to let my little baby’s body be taken away from me, even though I knew his spirit had already left. Nothing about that was easy, but I knew that you would treat his body with the utmost reverence and care, and that helped me to let go. You treated Robbie as an individual and recognized him as part of our family. You gave us the answers we needed in the kindest and gentlest way possible. You anticipated our needs and gave us the perfect amount of privacy and attention. I honestly never wanted to leave.
Even after we went home, you continued to check on us and be"on call" if I needed to talk or needed medical advice. I have looked forward to my doctor appointments and every time I have come home telling everyone I talk to how amazing you are.
Josh and I have been wanting to sell our house and move for years now, but I sincerely believe that God has kept us where we are in a large part because of Robbie’s birth. Because of where we live, we had neighbors who could come in the middle of the night to watch our kids, parents who could be with us immediately, and we had you. I believe that God put each one of you in our path. You helped us take the hardest experience of our lives and turn it into something sacred. I feel blessed to still be in contact with a few of you. I know that your jobs are not easy, but I hope you always remember how important you are and how much you have touched our lives.
Monday, December 31, 2018
Tuesday, September 18, 2018
I am what I eat
I have a love/hate relationship with blogs. I can never keep up with one myself, and I don't often read others. I enjoy a blog if it is original, funny, touching, inspiring but not preachy. I feel like blogs have become so trendy and commercialized that I've shied away from the idea of having one. I also feel like social media has made people forget that some experiences can or maybe even should be kept private or shared only with those we are close to. It's hard to draw a line between intimacy and openness.
I love to write, but I don't do it often enough. But I have been thinking a lot since I lost my baby Robbie. I have been searching for ways to use the talents that God has blessed me with to help others. I would like to learn new talents, such as crocheting so that I can make blankets for babies who are born still like mine. But for now, I have to work with what I have. I've also been looking for ways to make my life more meaningful. To really consider what I love to do and cut out time to do those things. I've printed out piano music with the intention of learning new songs to play at church, but haven't got around to practicing yet. I do feel that writing is a talent of mine and something I enjoy doing. I think it's pretentious to assume that I can advise anyone else on how to live their lives since I can barely figure out my own. However, a few weeks after I lost Robbie, a dear cousin sent me a blog post by someone who is now one of my favorite artists and writers. It put words to the feelings I had inside of me that I didn't know how to express. So I've been thinking, if my words could have even a fraction of impact to someone else that those words had on me, they are worth sharing. And if nobody ever even reads this blog, it's still cathartic for me to write and is getting me back in the habit of doing something that I love.
I had a discussion recently with my kids about donuts, or more specifically donut holes. Donuts are a favorite in our house, especially Miles'. When Josh takes him to the donut store, they usually come back with an assortment including a few donut holes. (These are especially useful when Miles has already had two or three full size donuts but just needs ONE MORE.) The kids were confused about why they are called donut holes if they're not really the inside of the donut. And I mean really, whose idea was that anyway? Why would someone think to make a delicious dessert that's missing its inside, and someone else think to recreate that missing part and sell it separately?
For almost four months now, I have been living with part of myself missing. A big hole right in my heart. Today I've been thinking about how I alternate living as myself, with a missing piece, and being totally consumed by that missing part. When I'm myself, I'm okay. I function, I get up in the mornings, I take care of my kids, I cook dinner, I do the things that I've always done. But I always have this feeling of absence. It's like when you leave for vacation and you check your bags an extra time because you have that feeling that you've left behind something important. The first few weeks after Robbie died, I was in such a foggy, confused state. I would drift off in the middle of a sentence and it would not come back to me. I tried to write down as many things as I could so that I wouldn't forget them later. I told Josh one night, "I just feel like I'm missing something." And of course, I was missing a huge thing. I was missing SOMEONE. The fog has dissipated somewhat, and I can complete my sentences now, even though I am and always will be absent minded at times. But I still have that feeling of being incomplete.
Other times, I live inside of that dark, empty space. I am the hole and the hole is me. These times don't usually last very long, because I have to be a functioning human. But when I let the emptiness suck me in, I feel like I could just stay there forever. I cry and I sob and I pray to God to get me through it, but at the same time I LOVE it because I'm feeling something. The intensity of the pain is as intense as my love for my baby that I will never hold again in this life. It feels wrong to be able to go about my life without him but the pain feels right. It feels like active mourning. People have told me, "It will get better" and that thought scares the hell out of me. I don't want being without my baby to ever come easy to me.
So the big question is, how do I ever reconcile these two parts of myself? How do I rejoice fully in the children I am blessed to have with me, while at the same time remembering and missing the one who I held for such a short time? I know that I will never be "put back together" the same way again. I can only hope that the part of me that is still here will become stronger. That I will be able to honor my baby's memory while going forward in my life.
I heard a comedian say "I hate it when people say 'yeah I'm just taking it a day at a time'... uhhh yeah so is everybody else because THAT'S HOW TIME WORKS. That is the only way to TAKE TIME". Honestly I can't even say that I'm doing that because my perspective can change 500 times throughout one day. Fine one second and falling apart the next. For now I guess I will just accept myself and all the feelings I'm going through. "Self compassion", as my counselor says.
Obviously I don't have the answers, therefore I don't have a clear conclusion to this post. I will just end with a quote from the blog I referenced before.
"Wishing a grieving mother's heart will be healed doesn't mean wishing she will pick up all her broken pieces, put a smile on and try to be exactly who she once was. Eternity is about becoming the woman she most desires to be. Heaven has touched her, and heaven has claimed her heart when it received an angel from her. Her life, her being, will never go back to what it was before. She will forever be a mom loving her angel."
I love to write, but I don't do it often enough. But I have been thinking a lot since I lost my baby Robbie. I have been searching for ways to use the talents that God has blessed me with to help others. I would like to learn new talents, such as crocheting so that I can make blankets for babies who are born still like mine. But for now, I have to work with what I have. I've also been looking for ways to make my life more meaningful. To really consider what I love to do and cut out time to do those things. I've printed out piano music with the intention of learning new songs to play at church, but haven't got around to practicing yet. I do feel that writing is a talent of mine and something I enjoy doing. I think it's pretentious to assume that I can advise anyone else on how to live their lives since I can barely figure out my own. However, a few weeks after I lost Robbie, a dear cousin sent me a blog post by someone who is now one of my favorite artists and writers. It put words to the feelings I had inside of me that I didn't know how to express. So I've been thinking, if my words could have even a fraction of impact to someone else that those words had on me, they are worth sharing. And if nobody ever even reads this blog, it's still cathartic for me to write and is getting me back in the habit of doing something that I love.
I had a discussion recently with my kids about donuts, or more specifically donut holes. Donuts are a favorite in our house, especially Miles'. When Josh takes him to the donut store, they usually come back with an assortment including a few donut holes. (These are especially useful when Miles has already had two or three full size donuts but just needs ONE MORE.) The kids were confused about why they are called donut holes if they're not really the inside of the donut. And I mean really, whose idea was that anyway? Why would someone think to make a delicious dessert that's missing its inside, and someone else think to recreate that missing part and sell it separately?
For almost four months now, I have been living with part of myself missing. A big hole right in my heart. Today I've been thinking about how I alternate living as myself, with a missing piece, and being totally consumed by that missing part. When I'm myself, I'm okay. I function, I get up in the mornings, I take care of my kids, I cook dinner, I do the things that I've always done. But I always have this feeling of absence. It's like when you leave for vacation and you check your bags an extra time because you have that feeling that you've left behind something important. The first few weeks after Robbie died, I was in such a foggy, confused state. I would drift off in the middle of a sentence and it would not come back to me. I tried to write down as many things as I could so that I wouldn't forget them later. I told Josh one night, "I just feel like I'm missing something." And of course, I was missing a huge thing. I was missing SOMEONE. The fog has dissipated somewhat, and I can complete my sentences now, even though I am and always will be absent minded at times. But I still have that feeling of being incomplete.
Other times, I live inside of that dark, empty space. I am the hole and the hole is me. These times don't usually last very long, because I have to be a functioning human. But when I let the emptiness suck me in, I feel like I could just stay there forever. I cry and I sob and I pray to God to get me through it, but at the same time I LOVE it because I'm feeling something. The intensity of the pain is as intense as my love for my baby that I will never hold again in this life. It feels wrong to be able to go about my life without him but the pain feels right. It feels like active mourning. People have told me, "It will get better" and that thought scares the hell out of me. I don't want being without my baby to ever come easy to me.
So the big question is, how do I ever reconcile these two parts of myself? How do I rejoice fully in the children I am blessed to have with me, while at the same time remembering and missing the one who I held for such a short time? I know that I will never be "put back together" the same way again. I can only hope that the part of me that is still here will become stronger. That I will be able to honor my baby's memory while going forward in my life.
I heard a comedian say "I hate it when people say 'yeah I'm just taking it a day at a time'... uhhh yeah so is everybody else because THAT'S HOW TIME WORKS. That is the only way to TAKE TIME". Honestly I can't even say that I'm doing that because my perspective can change 500 times throughout one day. Fine one second and falling apart the next. For now I guess I will just accept myself and all the feelings I'm going through. "Self compassion", as my counselor says.
Obviously I don't have the answers, therefore I don't have a clear conclusion to this post. I will just end with a quote from the blog I referenced before.
"Wishing a grieving mother's heart will be healed doesn't mean wishing she will pick up all her broken pieces, put a smile on and try to be exactly who she once was. Eternity is about becoming the woman she most desires to be. Heaven has touched her, and heaven has claimed her heart when it received an angel from her. Her life, her being, will never go back to what it was before. She will forever be a mom loving her angel."
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