Unexpectedly Expected

I woke up in tears this morning. I don’t mean sad– I literally woke up with tears running down my face and no idea how they got there. I don’t recall dreaming anything about my son, his father, or the accident, but my heart knows they were in my mind last night. Now, I can’t shake the sadness. A dear friend told me I carry my sadness with me everywhere I go, and he is absolutely right. Days like today, it overwhelms me.

All day, I’ve wondered about this sadness. It isn’t the gentle, constant sort. It’s the piercing, new-grief sort that happens less frequently these days. It literally feels like a whole in the center of me, slowly eating its way through my soul. I’ve called this post unexpectedly expected because the realization soon hit that I am pregnant with a child who I could also lose.

My daughter is already so loved by so many people, and she will have the absolute best I can give to her. She is growing in the safe and warm environment my body gives to her at the moment, and I will do everything possible to keep her just as safe outside. Still, in the back of my mind (and sometimes the front) I know how deeply aware I am that mothers cannot protect their children completely. I know that there is nothing I could have done to stop the car from slamming into that cold concrete barrier. I know there is nothing I could have done to protect Andy from the crash or heal him after it happened. Will I be able to protect my daughter? Will horrible things like that happen to her, as well? My fear has been rising to near panic level, and I have no idea how to lessen it. There are no words, no true promise that my daughter will grow old. I have to take it on faith that she will live a long and happy life, far longer than mine, but how do you do that when your faith has been shattered irreparably?

Today, I feel inconsolably sad and terrified for my daughter. I know how cruel the world can be.

Doing It Wrong

I haven’t written in this blog for over a month. It’s the time of year when I start ignoring things. Next month marks the 4th anniversary of Andy’s and his father’s deaths. December marks the birthday and death anniversary of my younger sister. And, of course, there are the holidays. I was looking forward to them for the first time since Andy’s death, but as I went through holiday shopping and card lists yesterday, the world sunk again.

I feel like I did the first year wrong. Time and again, I read about or talk to parents who found themselves paralyzed that first year. For better or worse, though, I couldn’t do that. I had to go back to work soon after Andy’s death, and I had to work through the first half of that year. Things bounced around for the second half of that year, but I had to keep things balanced a bit, even if it meant appearing fine at work and collapsing completely when I got home. Still, I feel like my need to keep it together publicly was a disrespect to my son’s memory, like I didn’t take enough time for him. Work is work, though, and home is home. Money had to be earned, bills had to be paid, and professional ties had to be kept. It’s just the way my life was at the time. I couldn’t put it on hold, even when I wanted to.

I’m wondering, though, if that was a complete and utter disrespect of my child. I wonder if he watched me and wondered why he wasn’t more important than that. I wonder if he thought I forgot him far too soon. If I could talk to him right now, I’d tell him over and over again that he is my first and last thought of of the day. He always was and always will be. I just don’t want him to think moving past him was easy, or even possible. He’s still very much the center of my life, and I will always love him more than anything else in the past, present, or future of the world.

Multiple Losses

I’m just now starting to work with my therapist in dealing with my sister’s death almost 10 years ago. I feel stuck in that day. It started a chain of loss. First was my sister, then my brother, then our parents, and then Andy and his father. In the span of 2000-2006, they were all gone. And I’m left. It’s a very scary feeling. I’ve planned far too many funerals over the years.

Each loss brings with it a different set of emotions. Losing my sister was like losing a child, to some extent, because I acted as primary caregiver for her. I was still very much a child when my sister was born, but my mother’s mental status made her unable to care for us. It’s not some grand feat that I was able to do what I did. When you have no choice, you act as you must. It truly is simple logic. Because of our situation, my sister’s suicide left me with feelings of guilt and responsibility. I’m still stuck in that day, that initial loss, and the therapist is helping me work through it. I’m wondering what life will be like on the other side of this loss. Hopefully, it will be more peaceful and more productive. Maybe it will even leave me with time to process the other losses in a healthier environment.

It is, as the therapist pointed out, a very lonely feeling. It’s also frightening. I’m more terrified than I realized about losing one more person. That’s part of why I feel so on edge all the time. I didn’t realize that, either. Losing Andy is and will be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me and the hardest loss to work through. Losing him is also the end of the chain of losses that left me with no biological family. Working through each death and the effects will take so much time and effort. I know therapy will be very, very difficult. It’s also very, very necessary. Wish me luck, everyone.

Defining Grieving Parents

Someone emailed this poem to me today.  I don’t know who wrote it or where it came from or really anything identifiable.  It is *not* original material.  However, it fits so well with how I feel, and I’m sure so many other bereaved parents will identify with this poem as well.

—————————————————————-

A GRIEVING PARENT IS:

A grieving parent is someone
who will never forget their child no matter how painful memories are.
A grieving parent is someone
who yearns to be with their dead but cannot conceive leaving their living ones.
A grieving parent is someone
who has part of a heart as the rest is buried with their child.
A grieving parent is someone
who begs for relief from the memories which plague them and then feels guilty when they get it.
A grieving parent is someone
who pretends to be happy and enjoying life when they really are dying inside.
A grieving parent is someone
who can cry or laugh at the drop of a hat whenever they remember their beloved child.
A grieving parent is someone
who feels as if they just lost their child yesterday no matter how much time has passed.
A grieving parent is someone
who fears for their remaining family because they cannot bear to have any more losses.
A grieving parent is someone
who sits by their child’s gravestone and feels a knife stabbing their heart.
A grieving parent is someone
who wants to help others who have lost loved ones because somehow their loss is theirs all over again.

Survival

I came across a quote this morning on Twitter, and it reminded me of what we deal with as bereaved parents– “Damaged people are dangerous.  They know they can survive.”  We’ve been through the worst of the worst, and we’re still standing, still moving through our lives, even though a piece of us is gone.  From the outside, it doesn’t seem possible.  From the inside, it doesn’t seem possible sometimes.

St. Patrick’s Day is coming up.  It’s my absolute favorite holiday and how my son got his middle name.  It’s a holiday about love and luck.  I still consider myself lucky and honored simply to have known my son.  He was a great kid, and today I can smile as I say that.  Tomorrow it might make me cry.  I feel as though I’ve made it through one more hurdle, though; I can think of Andy and *smile* now.  The pain doesn’t quite cut through me as sharply, most of the time.  At one time, even the slightest thought of him made me double over in pain.  All I could focus on was his death.  Although the times are still hit and miss, it’s nice to know that thinking of his life can make me laugh once again.  I can hear his little cackle from when he was very young.  I can remember the sound of his voice on the other end of the telephone line, giggling at some joke I or his father had made.  I can hear his baby sighs and his “big boy” determination.  And I can smile.

My son gave me so much hope and happiness during his life, and I’m trying now to reconnect to those emotions through his memory.  Life has been black more days than not since Andy died.  I’m hoping for blue skies that last longer than a couple of days now and happiness that isn’t followed by guilt.  I love my son with all of my heart and soul, and I will always do so.  It’s time, I think, to very carefully allow some hope back into my life.  People have often told me that Andy would want that for me, and it made me furious.  Most of these people didn’t even *know* my son.  Now, though, I’m starting to feel his love again and realizing that, in so many ways, he’s still very much a part of my life, and I can’t imagine a life with him that doesn’t include hope.

All Over Again

Since Andy died, I’ve only been to one funeral.  Funerals aren’t pleasant for anyone, of course, but they seem even more difficult after you’ve lost a child.  Stepping into a funeral parlor is like stepping back in time.  My mind flashes back, and I see Andy’s and Alan’s coffins clear as day.  I hear the priest (Alan was Anglican) reading the funeral rites.  I feel the searing pain coming back vividly.  And I don’t want to put myself through that.  Maybe it’s a selfish thought, but it’s how I truly feel.

A dear friend of mine lost his mother on Thursday.  She was 94, and her death was expected.  I know that doesn’t make it easier and is no comfort at all to my friend, and I would *never* say those things to him.  It makes sense, though.  His mother died first.  She died peacefully after a very long, full life.  Andy died in a horrible car crash, having lived only eight years.

Tomorrow is my friend’s mother’s funeral, and I’m just not sure I can attend.  I feel guilty for not being able to stand by him through this, but I also know he is part of a very large family and will certainly not be alone.  Since my son’s death, it’s hard for me to console even those I love with all my heart.  I do what I can, but sometimes that’s nothing at all.

Anyone else find it difficult or impossible to attend funerals or comfort grieving people who have not lost a child?

Sleep

I didn’t get out of bed last night.  I woke up, yes, but went back to sleep before actually getting out of bed.  It’s the first time I’ve even almost slept through the night in a couple of weeks.  This is good.  This is progress.

It’s this bloody time of year that’s making me feel like everything is new.  I’ll be glad when it’s gone.

A Conscious Awareness

A few days ago I spoke with a woman who had miscarried a child early in pregnancy.  Even though she miscarried nearly 40 years ago, it still crosses her mind from time to time.  She still wonders what the baby would have been like, whether the baby was a boy or girl, and what he or she would have made of life.  The lady has three children, but she often answers ‘four’ when asked, just as an instinctual response.  That’s how quickly and strongly a mother bonds with her child.

The lady I spoke with referred to a ‘conscious awareness.’  I like that.  As mothers, we always have that conscious awareness of our children.  While they’re at school and we’re going through the general activities of our day, they aren’t on our minds directly, but they’re never far away.  When they’re out with friends, we’re not (usually) terrified for their safety every minute, but that conscious awareness is there.  Our children are never out of our minds completely.

That awareness extends into death.

I am always conscious of Andy’s death.  As I go about my day, his death is not my constant focus.  It’s in the background, though, always lurking so close to the surface.  Now that I’m able to have good days again and enjoy things without tremendous guilt, I can concentrate on other thoughts.  Andy is never far, though, and I’m glad of that.  I just went through a very difficult period where my grief became the central focus of my life for a bit, just like it did when it was new.  Now that I’ve climbed back out of that total darkness, the conscious awareness remains.  I hope it never leaves.

Asking Why

I don’t know why I’m writing this, except maybe I need someone out there to understand this raw, paralyzing pain I’m feeling right now.  It’s too much.  I’m tired of feeling like this, tired of the pain, anger, and fear that still fill way too many of my days.  It’s exhausting, and I am tired.  I want to make myself very small and sink away into nothingness for a bit, just a few minutes to escape this pain.  I know those of you who read this blog can relate to every word I’ve written.

More often than not, I’m functional in my daily life.  Then there are days like this when I wonder if I have the mental and physical strength to withstand this loss.  It’s wrong.  It’s out of order and too unbelievably horrendous to have happened.  But, it did happen.  How do we, as bereaved parents, get through this long term?  I really feel like my grief is winning the battle *and* the war right now.  I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs and crying until I run out of tears, but instead I’m recording all of this in a blog I wish I’d never had a reason to write.

For those of you who have been on this path longer than I have (2 and 1/2 yrs) please let me know how you made it through the earlier times.  I just can’t imagine feeling like this forever.  I know it will never go away, but right now all I’m looking for is reassurance that it stops feeling like you’re being ripped apart at the center.  I thought I’d come to that point, but I’ve slid right back down.

The only thing that helps right now is reading through the things I brought back from last year’s TCF Candle Lighting and remembering that feeling of love and understanding we all shared that night.  Those candles represent so much.  Thanks to TCF and Bereaved Parents of the USA for providing such a peaceful event in such a difficult time.

Peace and comfort to all of us.

 

Crying

This morning, I went for some routine blood work.  Just a tiny tube of blood drawn by a pleasant young girl who chatted with me about her job.  But now, 2 hours later, I’m still shaking.

A mother and her 13-day old baby were in the waiting room.  A few minutes after they were called back, we could all hear the baby crying.  I thought about how terrible an introduction to the world that must be.  13 days old and dealing with a needle stick.  The blood of a 13-day old baby filling a glass tube so doctors could try to piece together what was going wrong in that little body.  I thought about how horrible the mother must feel watching that.  It was hard for me to take Andy for vaccinations.  I can only imagine how much harder it must be to take a sick child to a medical laboratory and wonder what those tests will reveal.

Protection.  It’s what we all wanted for our children.  It’s what we want still.