Today, one of the days my heart has been dreading has come. Cohen's preschool is talking about families. He got a note with a little bag of small rocks with instructions to send back a stone for each family member and a family photo. It seems simple enough, right?
But then I feel it. The heaviness in my heart that we don't have that extra stone. That the pictures won't include our Carter, the other member of our family. Someday when Cohen understands more I will let him decide what and who he wants to tell about his brother. We counted out the four stones to send back to school, feeling the ache in my heart. This may be our first encounter with this, but I know it won't be our last. I don't know how we will handle it in the future, probably however Cohen feels he wants to handle it.
It took me a while to get over the guilt of answering "how many kids do you have?" with the number of my living children. But I reached a point where I didn't need to tell every single person about Carter. I know he is my child and in some ways, I feel like I'm protecting us both by not always delving into his story. There have been times where I have mentioned him and have been so, so blessed by the reaction, stories, or hugs I have received. But not everyone understands child loss (thankfully) and the reactions can be awkward and uncomfortable and hurtful. So I've learned to go with what feels right in the situation. I have a feeling this may become similar in the future for Cohen. But right now, the first time makes me feel that deep longing for my child and how much I wish he could be here counting out family stones with his brother.
Showing posts with label Loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Loss. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Friday, September 12, 2014
It's Still There
“I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, however, turns out to be not a state but a process.”
― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
I often wonder when the pain is going to let up. When I won't find myself tearing up when I think about my boy. When the nights won't feel so dark. When the waves won't crash so hard.
― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
I often wonder when the pain is going to let up. When I won't find myself tearing up when I think about my boy. When the nights won't feel so dark. When the waves won't crash so hard.
The thing is, grief is bittersweet in a way that every time I hear of another loss, I feel that family's pain. I know the ache that mother's arms are feeling to hold her child just one more time. I know the feeling of walking around in a daze, trying to wake up from the nightmare. The feelings of sadness and jealousy when you see another family with kids the same age as yours should have been. I go back to the day we buried Carter. How I told Danny I wasn't getting out of the car. That I couldn't, this couldn't be happening. I hurt for the things the family is going through and will go through. And it brings back my own hurt.
I don't talk about it as much because in theory, I should be "over it" by now. (I'm not). I'm slowly starting to learn, that as much as I would like for it to not hurt still, it does, and it's going to keep hurting. Trust me, I would love to not feel this ache so deeply. I even get frustrated that I can't not hurt. That I can't not think about it for even one day. I want my heart to be whole again. The hurt is still there and I don't think it's going anywhere.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
3 Years: A Grief Letter
Dear Family and Friends,
Well, it's that time of year. I should be joyfully planning a party for our twins. Instead I throw myself into various projects and avoid going to bed so I don't have to be alone with my thoughts. My heart aches to hold and hug and kiss my child. The pain of not getting to see Carter playing alongside his brothers gets harder to bear. The new mom to the twins that walks by my house frequently and the neighbors calling to their Carter feels like salt in my wounds.
I can't believe it has been three whole years. Three years since we heard the words "It's time" even though it was far too early. We knew the boys would be early but we were in no way prepared for what was ahead of us. We didn't know our lives would forever be affected and changed as we simultaneously joined the world of both parents of preemies and baby loss parents. The boys' birthday was not the best day of our lives, in fact it was one of the scariest and most devastating. I can still see his face and remember the moments I spent with him. I have lost a lifetime of hopes and dreams. We have lost a son. Our boys have lost a brother. I still wish it was all a bad dream and that I will wake up one day and we will be whole again.
I can't believe it has been three whole years. Three years since we heard the words "It's time" even though it was far too early. We knew the boys would be early but we were in no way prepared for what was ahead of us. We didn't know our lives would forever be affected and changed as we simultaneously joined the world of both parents of preemies and baby loss parents. The boys' birthday was not the best day of our lives, in fact it was one of the scariest and most devastating. I can still see his face and remember the moments I spent with him. I have lost a lifetime of hopes and dreams. We have lost a son. Our boys have lost a brother. I still wish it was all a bad dream and that I will wake up one day and we will be whole again.
Does it still hurt three years later? Absolutely. Am I "over it"? No. I will never be over that my child died. Has the pain changed? Yes, it has. Most days I don't have to struggle to gather the strength to get out of bed. I still cry for Carter. I still want to see him play and run with his brothers. I still want to tuck him in at night and tell him I love him and I can't do those things. I still struggle to see twins because it is an incredibly painful reminder of our loss. Carter will always be a part of me, just like my other children.
Carter's life was not for nothing, it has to be for something. Because of Carter (& Cohen), thousands of families will have tiny diapers to dress their babies in and will hopefully feel that their babies are treasured and that they matter. Care packages have been taken to the NICU. Money has been donated to the March of Dimes to continue research for treatment for preemies. I have found new purpose and meaning in my life because of him. I have learned so much about myself and who I want to be as a person and as a mom. I understand that there are no guarantees in life and that we need to do our best to make the most of each and every day. To love deeply because we may not have tomorrow. To not take for granted the gift I have to raise my other children (even when they are naughty) and to realize that there truly are things in life that don't matter. I have made connections and lifelong friends that I never would have if I weren't in this baby loss "club".
In the days leading up to and surrounding the boys' birth, we watched people we thought were our friends walk away from us in our time of greatest need. We also saw people surround us and hold us up when we weren't able to stand on our own. The prayers, gifts, and support were truly amazing. Thank you to those of you who held our hands, prayed with us, cried with us, gave to us, and just loved us. Thank you for your kind and supportive words, on the blog, in emails, texts, and in person. And thank you to those of you who didn't know what to say or do, but just stood by us. We couldn't have done it without you.
We also watched as the Lord changed us and worked in our lives and others' lives as well. Our faith was shaken and then strengthened as we faced the hardest days of our lives. And we were reminded over and over and over of God's love and faithfulness, even in times of great darkness. He carried us through days we never thought we would make it through. And yet, he never left us.
And now, here we are. We have made it through three long, difficult, rewarding, and joyful years. I will always wish things had gone differently for our family. Always. But, we have learned that our lives are led by one who is greater than us. Who has gone before us and walked the path that we have and will walk. We know there is a greater purpose for our lives and that this world isn't the end.
Carter, my boy. In almost 3 years, not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of you and wished you were here. You will always be a part of this family. I can't wait to see you again.
And now, here we are. We have made it through three long, difficult, rewarding, and joyful years. I will always wish things had gone differently for our family. Always. But, we have learned that our lives are led by one who is greater than us. Who has gone before us and walked the path that we have and will walk. We know there is a greater purpose for our lives and that this world isn't the end.
Carter, my boy. In almost 3 years, not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of you and wished you were here. You will always be a part of this family. I can't wait to see you again.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Normalizing Grief
Grief and sadness are uncomfortable. Nobody wants to talk about it or "go there". Grieving mothers and fathers are often misunderstood or worse, judged. Unfortunately, there is an alarmingly large number of parents facing loss whether through early miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss. There are a growing number of programs and support networks for parents, but there is still a long, long way to go. No parent should ever feel like their child's life didn't have meaning or that it shouldn't be grieved or celebrated. And for that reason, I will not stop talking about grief or my son.
The hurt I feel didn't immediately go away in the days and weeks after my child died. It didn't fade when I, along with my husband, lowered that impossibly tiny casket, containing a piece of our hearts, into the ground. When the headstone came, the pain was still there. My sadness didn't disappear at year one or year two. The nights that I cry myself to sleep because I can never hug or kiss my child still exist.
Our children may not physically be here, but we will never forget them. We will never get over the fact that we can't raise them. We are still their parents and they are still our children. When you get emotional at your child's first steps, or sending them off to their first day of kindergartner, or watching them get married, we get emotional too. Our reason is different, however. We get emotional because we don't get to see them, we can only imagine these times.
I want it be okay for a parent to grieve the loss of their child. The goal in expressing grief is not to make others uncomfortable, but to be able to acknowledge our children and the gaping hole left in our hearts from their absence. I want it to be okay for parents to grieve for however long they need to and to express that in ways that will help them heal and not be hurt, intentionally or not, by their loved ones and strangers alike. I won't ask you to stop talking about your child, so please don't ask me to stop talking about mine.
The hurt I feel didn't immediately go away in the days and weeks after my child died. It didn't fade when I, along with my husband, lowered that impossibly tiny casket, containing a piece of our hearts, into the ground. When the headstone came, the pain was still there. My sadness didn't disappear at year one or year two. The nights that I cry myself to sleep because I can never hug or kiss my child still exist.
Our children may not physically be here, but we will never forget them. We will never get over the fact that we can't raise them. We are still their parents and they are still our children. When you get emotional at your child's first steps, or sending them off to their first day of kindergartner, or watching them get married, we get emotional too. Our reason is different, however. We get emotional because we don't get to see them, we can only imagine these times.
I want it be okay for a parent to grieve the loss of their child. The goal in expressing grief is not to make others uncomfortable, but to be able to acknowledge our children and the gaping hole left in our hearts from their absence. I want it to be okay for parents to grieve for however long they need to and to express that in ways that will help them heal and not be hurt, intentionally or not, by their loved ones and strangers alike. I won't ask you to stop talking about your child, so please don't ask me to stop talking about mine.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Hope and Peace
The days leading up to now have been admittedly hard. I have been teary, cranky, and exhausted. I even cried at a wal-mart commercial about kids growing up. I just couldn't shake it and didn't quite know what I needed so I just kept trudging forward.
On Saturday we had a family Christmas party to go to. I had bought Carter a little tree but just hadn't taken it yet. I was avoiding it because I didn't know how it would go for me now that Cohen is talking. We told him we were going to take Carter his tree and from then on he was talking about "Carter's house" and "going to see Carter". The whole way to the cemetery I could hear his little voice in the backseat saying Carter's name. So bittersweet. I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks as I wondered how he would respond when we got there and Carter wasn't there.
We arrived and got the kids out. There was still snow covering the ground from our recent snow and visible footprints in the snow to various graves. We uncovered Carter's headstone and made a place for his tree. Cohen knew right away that there were toys buried under the snow. He remembered there was a car there that he liked to play with. We spent some time there and then got back in the car. As we drove on, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I could still hear Cohen saying "find Carter" and I wondered how on earth we were going to explain death to a child. And then I realized that although we wish we didn't need to explain death, what a great opportunity we had. By explaining death, we can explain life. We can share the great gift of life that we have because of Jesus, who also died. Carter isn't here physically, but he is living in heaven and we will see him again. We always planned on telling our kids about God, but what an opportunity we have to be able to teach them as they grow and to talk about these things. Afterall, this life isn't all there is. There is an eternity to be spent with Jesus, free from pain and sorrow and full of joy in His presence because of what he has done for us. I hope and pray that we can help them understand that while we have suffered great loss, we also have great hope and peace in Jesus.
On Saturday we had a family Christmas party to go to. I had bought Carter a little tree but just hadn't taken it yet. I was avoiding it because I didn't know how it would go for me now that Cohen is talking. We told him we were going to take Carter his tree and from then on he was talking about "Carter's house" and "going to see Carter". The whole way to the cemetery I could hear his little voice in the backseat saying Carter's name. So bittersweet. I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks as I wondered how he would respond when we got there and Carter wasn't there.
We arrived and got the kids out. There was still snow covering the ground from our recent snow and visible footprints in the snow to various graves. We uncovered Carter's headstone and made a place for his tree. Cohen knew right away that there were toys buried under the snow. He remembered there was a car there that he liked to play with. We spent some time there and then got back in the car. As we drove on, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I could still hear Cohen saying "find Carter" and I wondered how on earth we were going to explain death to a child. And then I realized that although we wish we didn't need to explain death, what a great opportunity we had. By explaining death, we can explain life. We can share the great gift of life that we have because of Jesus, who also died. Carter isn't here physically, but he is living in heaven and we will see him again. We always planned on telling our kids about God, but what an opportunity we have to be able to teach them as they grow and to talk about these things. Afterall, this life isn't all there is. There is an eternity to be spent with Jesus, free from pain and sorrow and full of joy in His presence because of what he has done for us. I hope and pray that we can help them understand that while we have suffered great loss, we also have great hope and peace in Jesus.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
It's Not Fair
Nope, it's not fair. Burying a child is totally, completely unfair. Whether you've lost a child or not, I think we can all agree on that. The thing is, we could all find something about our lives that isn't fair. I'm not sure life was meant to be fair.
While I have many days where I want to kick and scream and throw a 2 year old tantrum about the unfairness of it all (and some days I do), I just can't live there. This is a hard journey, and dwelling on things I can't change does me no good. You know what I mean? Some people don't even want their kids and I would give up a whole lot to have mine. Some people don't know how lucky they are. Some people smoke and drink throughout their pregnancy and get to keep their babies. There are a lot of these types of things that I could focus on, but I can't. Getting stuck in all of those thoughts makes me dig a deep, deep hole that I want to lay down in and not get out of.
It's a daily battle, it's not easy, and I am far from perfect. But, I know that it's not good for me, my relationship with Danny, or my boys. Everyone faces hardships in their lives and I truly believe that it is what we make of it. I can stomp my feet and get angry, and then continue living my life to the best of my ability.
People tell me that I do such wonderful things through Teeny Tears, NICU Care Packages and a few other projects. Truthfully? I do them for selfish reasons. It makes me feel good. I do it for Carter and for myself. Having my son die was one of the worst things I have been through in my life. The pain is often indescribable. If I let myself get idle, I find that I begin to go to "the dark place" where I wallow and pout about the unfairness of it all. And no, it's not fair. And yes, there is a place for being upset. But long term, I have to do something with it all. Sometimes I take on a few too many projects, but I need my grief and Carter's life to be for something. And so I bury myself in projects, get involved with causes, to try and keep myself moving and to hopefully make this world a little bit better for someone else going through a hard time.
This is not meant to be a "holier than thou" or "toot my own horn" type of post. I have hesitated to post this, but I do want people to know that even in those very dark places, there are ways out. My way out has been helping other people. Everyone is at a different stage in their journey and I definitely didn't come to this place immediately. It's taken me a long time, I'm still not all the way there, and not sure I ever will be and I'm okay with that. Losing a child is still unfair. But I just have to keep asking myself how I want to handle it and how I want to make Carter's life meaningful.
While I have many days where I want to kick and scream and throw a 2 year old tantrum about the unfairness of it all (and some days I do), I just can't live there. This is a hard journey, and dwelling on things I can't change does me no good. You know what I mean? Some people don't even want their kids and I would give up a whole lot to have mine. Some people don't know how lucky they are. Some people smoke and drink throughout their pregnancy and get to keep their babies. There are a lot of these types of things that I could focus on, but I can't. Getting stuck in all of those thoughts makes me dig a deep, deep hole that I want to lay down in and not get out of.
It's a daily battle, it's not easy, and I am far from perfect. But, I know that it's not good for me, my relationship with Danny, or my boys. Everyone faces hardships in their lives and I truly believe that it is what we make of it. I can stomp my feet and get angry, and then continue living my life to the best of my ability.
People tell me that I do such wonderful things through Teeny Tears, NICU Care Packages and a few other projects. Truthfully? I do them for selfish reasons. It makes me feel good. I do it for Carter and for myself. Having my son die was one of the worst things I have been through in my life. The pain is often indescribable. If I let myself get idle, I find that I begin to go to "the dark place" where I wallow and pout about the unfairness of it all. And no, it's not fair. And yes, there is a place for being upset. But long term, I have to do something with it all. Sometimes I take on a few too many projects, but I need my grief and Carter's life to be for something. And so I bury myself in projects, get involved with causes, to try and keep myself moving and to hopefully make this world a little bit better for someone else going through a hard time.
This is not meant to be a "holier than thou" or "toot my own horn" type of post. I have hesitated to post this, but I do want people to know that even in those very dark places, there are ways out. My way out has been helping other people. Everyone is at a different stage in their journey and I definitely didn't come to this place immediately. It's taken me a long time, I'm still not all the way there, and not sure I ever will be and I'm okay with that. Losing a child is still unfair. But I just have to keep asking myself how I want to handle it and how I want to make Carter's life meaningful.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Raising a Twinless Twin - The Next Stage
It's been a few months (um, since before Ezra was born?) that we have gone to Carter's grave as a family. I've gone by myself but we've never taken Ezra and it's been awhile since Cohen has gone. The reason?
I'm too scared.
We are entering a new phase on this journey. Cohen is becoming more aware. He's talking more. We are reaching a point where we are going to have to start explaining more. Of course we've been talking to him about Carter since day one, but I've been avoiding it a bit lately. We don't expect him to understand most of it right now, but someday he will.
Did I mention I'm a bit scared?
I'm scared to hear Cohen say Carter's name now that he's talking. I don't want to have to tell my son about his brother that died. I wish he could just know his brother because he was alive. Playing with him. Sleeping in bed with him. Fighting over toys with him.
I didn't exactly picture my boys being "together" at a grave site. I didn't expect to be raising a twinless twin.
Being a parent is hard. Being a parent of a child we don't get to raise or have a life with feels even harder. I am still trying to figure out how we acknowledge Carter as part of our family and remember him all while missing him terribly.
I want to be able to smile and laugh when I talk about Carter, and maybe some days I will be able to, but I think there will be a fair amount of tears too. I only have a few memories of Carter, and not all of them are ones that I would want to share. I want to be real, but I don't want to put my grief and sadness on Cohen. I want him to know it's okay to be sad his brother isn't here, but that there are a lot of good things that have come because of Carter's life. I want him to know that of course we would rather have Carter here, but that Carter has made lots of good things happen in our lives.
I'm too scared.
We are entering a new phase on this journey. Cohen is becoming more aware. He's talking more. We are reaching a point where we are going to have to start explaining more. Of course we've been talking to him about Carter since day one, but I've been avoiding it a bit lately. We don't expect him to understand most of it right now, but someday he will.
Did I mention I'm a bit scared?
I'm scared to hear Cohen say Carter's name now that he's talking. I don't want to have to tell my son about his brother that died. I wish he could just know his brother because he was alive. Playing with him. Sleeping in bed with him. Fighting over toys with him.
I didn't exactly picture my boys being "together" at a grave site. I didn't expect to be raising a twinless twin.
Being a parent is hard. Being a parent of a child we don't get to raise or have a life with feels even harder. I am still trying to figure out how we acknowledge Carter as part of our family and remember him all while missing him terribly.
I want to be able to smile and laugh when I talk about Carter, and maybe some days I will be able to, but I think there will be a fair amount of tears too. I only have a few memories of Carter, and not all of them are ones that I would want to share. I want to be real, but I don't want to put my grief and sadness on Cohen. I want him to know it's okay to be sad his brother isn't here, but that there are a lot of good things that have come because of Carter's life. I want him to know that of course we would rather have Carter here, but that Carter has made lots of good things happen in our lives.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Being Back in "That" Room
Last week was brought a flood of emotions and memories. It was physically emotionally exhausting. Hard, but good. I think I'm still recovering.
Going back to the NICU has never phased me very much. It's not that our journey wasn't hard or traumatic, it was, I just think everything else we went through was bigger than that, if that makes sense. I'm not sure how, but somehow we were spared the PTSD aspect that so many preemie parents can face after a long NICU journey.
While we were at the hospital we went to visit my friend who is there on bedrest. We visited with her and her husband for a little while and then found ourselves visiting another family there on bedrest. This family was in the very same room that I was in after our boys were born. The room where I held my baby's lifeless body. Where family members came and went quietly. Where I cried myself to sleep.
The days before and after the boys were born were some of the most awful days of my life. My children's births have not been the happiest days of my life, in fact, they have been far from it. Not many parents fear the birth of their child, but I was terrified. Deep down in my heart, I knew it wasn't going to turn out well.
Sitting in that dark room, a reflection of the somber mood, listening to the babies heartbeats on the monitor, having the nurse come in and adjust the monitors frequently. It was all too familiar. The helplessness and incredible fear came right back. Memories of begging God to give me just one more day to grow my babies. And then having my water break and knowing that the time was nearing even though it was still way too soon.
I don't think I said anything encouraging to this family because the memories just came flooding back. I could feel the fear again. I could feel the heartbreak of hearing other children in the hallways, knowing that I would never hear mine. I wanted to help this family, I wanted to hug this mom and tell her that everything was going to be okay. I truly hope with all of my heart that it does turn out okay for them.
Going back to the NICU has never phased me very much. It's not that our journey wasn't hard or traumatic, it was, I just think everything else we went through was bigger than that, if that makes sense. I'm not sure how, but somehow we were spared the PTSD aspect that so many preemie parents can face after a long NICU journey.
While we were at the hospital we went to visit my friend who is there on bedrest. We visited with her and her husband for a little while and then found ourselves visiting another family there on bedrest. This family was in the very same room that I was in after our boys were born. The room where I held my baby's lifeless body. Where family members came and went quietly. Where I cried myself to sleep.
The days before and after the boys were born were some of the most awful days of my life. My children's births have not been the happiest days of my life, in fact, they have been far from it. Not many parents fear the birth of their child, but I was terrified. Deep down in my heart, I knew it wasn't going to turn out well.
Sitting in that dark room, a reflection of the somber mood, listening to the babies heartbeats on the monitor, having the nurse come in and adjust the monitors frequently. It was all too familiar. The helplessness and incredible fear came right back. Memories of begging God to give me just one more day to grow my babies. And then having my water break and knowing that the time was nearing even though it was still way too soon.
I don't think I said anything encouraging to this family because the memories just came flooding back. I could feel the fear again. I could feel the heartbreak of hearing other children in the hallways, knowing that I would never hear mine. I wanted to help this family, I wanted to hug this mom and tell her that everything was going to be okay. I truly hope with all of my heart that it does turn out okay for them.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Capture Your Grief - Day 20
Day 20: Hope
(Do you have hope for the future? What do you hope for those who will join this club in the future)
I do have hope. I have lots of hope. I have to or I won't get out of bed to face another day. I have hope that my boys will grow up knowing how loved and precious they are. I have hope that the things we are going through now will be able to help give someone else hope. I have to believe that this isn't all for nothing and that good will come out of Carter's life.
The hope I have for other parents who may be facing loss is that they are supported in even greater ways. I hope that their baby's life is validated. I hope they are giving the opportunity to spend time with their baby and to make as many memories as they can in a short amount of time. I hope that the healthcare system and those involved in it can be kinder in the words spoken and actions taken. I hope that people can be more aware of their words and how much they can affect grieving families. I hope families know that they are allowed to grieve their baby(ies). I hope that no one ever tells them to "get over it" or to "move on". I hope that families can find support and love to get them through the hardest time of their life.
(Do you have hope for the future? What do you hope for those who will join this club in the future)
I do have hope. I have lots of hope. I have to or I won't get out of bed to face another day. I have hope that my boys will grow up knowing how loved and precious they are. I have hope that the things we are going through now will be able to help give someone else hope. I have to believe that this isn't all for nothing and that good will come out of Carter's life.
The hope I have for other parents who may be facing loss is that they are supported in even greater ways. I hope that their baby's life is validated. I hope they are giving the opportunity to spend time with their baby and to make as many memories as they can in a short amount of time. I hope that the healthcare system and those involved in it can be kinder in the words spoken and actions taken. I hope that people can be more aware of their words and how much they can affect grieving families. I hope families know that they are allowed to grieve their baby(ies). I hope that no one ever tells them to "get over it" or to "move on". I hope that families can find support and love to get them through the hardest time of their life.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Capture Your Grief: Day 11 - Triggers
Day 11: Triggers
My major trigger is seeing twin boys. It's like a knife in my heart or a punch in the gut, or both at once. Every time. Part of me can't help but stare when I see them and the other part tells me to run and get as far away as I can. I can see twin girls, or boy/girl twins and it's still hard, but obviously the twin boys are a different story. It's a painful reminder of what our life should have been like. What should have been for our boys. They should have had each other and we should have both of them. As much as my grief has changed, this is one thing that still gets me each time.
My babies at 20 weeks. One of the last ultrasound pictures we have of them together. We never got to see them together after they were born. The ultrasounds I have of both of my boys are some of my greatest treasures.
My major trigger is seeing twin boys. It's like a knife in my heart or a punch in the gut, or both at once. Every time. Part of me can't help but stare when I see them and the other part tells me to run and get as far away as I can. I can see twin girls, or boy/girl twins and it's still hard, but obviously the twin boys are a different story. It's a painful reminder of what our life should have been like. What should have been for our boys. They should have had each other and we should have both of them. As much as my grief has changed, this is one thing that still gets me each time.
My babies at 20 weeks. One of the last ultrasound pictures we have of them together. We never got to see them together after they were born. The ultrasounds I have of both of my boys are some of my greatest treasures.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Light in the Darkness
Awhile back in our Sunday school class, we were talking about how and when we felt we were closest to God. There was a list of things like when you read your Bible, at church, during fellowship with other believers, and a few others. It turns out it was a trick question, because the number one answer was one that wasn't listed. The number one time when people felt the closest to God was during trials. And I totally agree.
When we were in that dark place after the boys were born, we felt so surrounded. We felt embraced by our family, friends, church family, and strangers who had heard our story. The prayers of those around us, carried us closer to Jesus when we weren't able to do it ourselves.
And? My relationship with God has never been deeper and truer than during that time. A time when I had nothing else. When we are walking through our normal day to day life, it's so easy to rely on ourselves. We can manage to get by, and sometimes we even think we are doing pretty well. And then, in an instant, everything changed. My son was gone, my other son's life was hanging in the balance, I was away from home, and I was alone. When I was at the very bottom and there was nothing else to cling to or trust in, God was there. He gave me the strength to keep going when I didn't want to and didn't think I could. He took my anger and my sorrows and he felt them all with me. Those were the times when I felt His presence the strongest.
No matter who you are, or what you believe in, trials can shake you to your very core. They can make you question everything you ever thought you knew. In those moments, you make a decision to walk away from what you claimed to believe, or you are reassured that everything you said you believed in was in fact the truth. I'm not going to pretend like I didn't question God or his goodness. I did. For many, many days. I was so angry. I never got all the answers I wanted, but what I do know, is that God is faithful. He was there and he never left, and he was all I had, my light in the darkness. The things I had claimed to believe were reinforced as the truth.
I'm not perfect, and sometimes I still wrestle with doubt. I don't know all the answers to the hard questions, and maybe I never will, but I have faith in God because I have seen him work miracles. I have seen his goodness even in the hard places. And I know without a shadow of a doubt, that Carter is with him. Whole and healed and waiting for us.
When we were in that dark place after the boys were born, we felt so surrounded. We felt embraced by our family, friends, church family, and strangers who had heard our story. The prayers of those around us, carried us closer to Jesus when we weren't able to do it ourselves.
And? My relationship with God has never been deeper and truer than during that time. A time when I had nothing else. When we are walking through our normal day to day life, it's so easy to rely on ourselves. We can manage to get by, and sometimes we even think we are doing pretty well. And then, in an instant, everything changed. My son was gone, my other son's life was hanging in the balance, I was away from home, and I was alone. When I was at the very bottom and there was nothing else to cling to or trust in, God was there. He gave me the strength to keep going when I didn't want to and didn't think I could. He took my anger and my sorrows and he felt them all with me. Those were the times when I felt His presence the strongest.
No matter who you are, or what you believe in, trials can shake you to your very core. They can make you question everything you ever thought you knew. In those moments, you make a decision to walk away from what you claimed to believe, or you are reassured that everything you said you believed in was in fact the truth. I'm not going to pretend like I didn't question God or his goodness. I did. For many, many days. I was so angry. I never got all the answers I wanted, but what I do know, is that God is faithful. He was there and he never left, and he was all I had, my light in the darkness. The things I had claimed to believe were reinforced as the truth.
I'm not perfect, and sometimes I still wrestle with doubt. I don't know all the answers to the hard questions, and maybe I never will, but I have faith in God because I have seen him work miracles. I have seen his goodness even in the hard places. And I know without a shadow of a doubt, that Carter is with him. Whole and healed and waiting for us.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Finding Purpose Part 2
I've been feeling a little restless lately. Like I need something more to do with my life. Not to be more busy, but to have more purpose. Being a parent gives me great purpose and it is definitely the most important thing in my life, along with being a wife. But I need more purpose in being a person. Some time ago, I wrote about finding purpose in giving back and making diapers, which I don't think I will ever stop doing, but now I'm ready to go a little farther.
I have a job that is a good enough job. I don't mind the work, I like my coworkers, and I have the schedule that I want. But sometimes it doesn't seem like enough. We only get one chance at life, so why not do what we can make a difference, right?
Having and losing Carter has opened my eyes to a whole new world. The world of angel babies and grieving parents and all the things that surround it. My first glimpse of the gaps in bereavement care came from personal experience. I was shocked when a healthcare worker explained in completely insensitive terms that she would be "putting my baby in the refrigerator". I honestly can't remember if it was this same person or yet another healthcare worker who also kindly explained to me that I would need to let them know if I wanted to hold Carter again so they could "warm him back up". I kid you not. This is not to rag on healthcare workers of any kind, but rather to point out that there is a lack of education, awareness, and empathy surrounding miscarriage and infant loss.
I have heard from multiple parents who have lost babies to miscarriage and so many of them have expressed how they wish they would have gotten some kind of resources or some kind of something to acknowledge their baby and their loss. I think we (I'm including myself here as well) can get so used to things that become routine to us, but are far from routine for someone who is experiencing it for the first time. At my postpartum checkup, I asked our OB office if they had any kind of resource available to parents experiencing a miscarriage. The response was that they "used to have something but they weren't sure where it was".
It continually surprises me how resistant people are to providing care and support for people facing loss. I truly think it as issue of a lack of awareness and understanding. Even when facilities are offered something free (cost is always a huge stumbling block in healthcare) that would greatly benefit their patients, there is still resistance. I fully understand that every patient may not want resources, we all grieve and process differently. But I want it to at least be an option to have the support.
I have decided that when I grow up, I want to be an advocate or liaison between parents facing loss and the healthcare system. Whether that is helping to educate healthcare workers, pushing to get more resources into OB offices and the hospitals, sitting with a parent who has just found out they have lost their child, or maybe even being a bereavement doula. I am working on figuring out the path to take to where I want to end up. It breaks my heart to know that parents are facing loss alone and often aren't being fully supported by the ones that are often in the front lines and should be offering support. I'm hoping I can find a place where I fit in and honor Carter in bringing more support to the bereavement community.
I have a job that is a good enough job. I don't mind the work, I like my coworkers, and I have the schedule that I want. But sometimes it doesn't seem like enough. We only get one chance at life, so why not do what we can make a difference, right?
Having and losing Carter has opened my eyes to a whole new world. The world of angel babies and grieving parents and all the things that surround it. My first glimpse of the gaps in bereavement care came from personal experience. I was shocked when a healthcare worker explained in completely insensitive terms that she would be "putting my baby in the refrigerator". I honestly can't remember if it was this same person or yet another healthcare worker who also kindly explained to me that I would need to let them know if I wanted to hold Carter again so they could "warm him back up". I kid you not. This is not to rag on healthcare workers of any kind, but rather to point out that there is a lack of education, awareness, and empathy surrounding miscarriage and infant loss.
I have heard from multiple parents who have lost babies to miscarriage and so many of them have expressed how they wish they would have gotten some kind of resources or some kind of something to acknowledge their baby and their loss. I think we (I'm including myself here as well) can get so used to things that become routine to us, but are far from routine for someone who is experiencing it for the first time. At my postpartum checkup, I asked our OB office if they had any kind of resource available to parents experiencing a miscarriage. The response was that they "used to have something but they weren't sure where it was".
It continually surprises me how resistant people are to providing care and support for people facing loss. I truly think it as issue of a lack of awareness and understanding. Even when facilities are offered something free (cost is always a huge stumbling block in healthcare) that would greatly benefit their patients, there is still resistance. I fully understand that every patient may not want resources, we all grieve and process differently. But I want it to at least be an option to have the support.
I have decided that when I grow up, I want to be an advocate or liaison between parents facing loss and the healthcare system. Whether that is helping to educate healthcare workers, pushing to get more resources into OB offices and the hospitals, sitting with a parent who has just found out they have lost their child, or maybe even being a bereavement doula. I am working on figuring out the path to take to where I want to end up. It breaks my heart to know that parents are facing loss alone and often aren't being fully supported by the ones that are often in the front lines and should be offering support. I'm hoping I can find a place where I fit in and honor Carter in bringing more support to the bereavement community.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
A Parent's Grief
I shared this photo over on our facebook page, but wanted to share it here as well. I've never seen such a powerful, accurate picture of what it's like to lose a child. A parent that doesn't want to let go of their baby, who can't stand the thought of leaving them alone in a grave, who will never get to hold that child again.
I always thought that I was strange for having thoughts about wanting to go and get Carter out of his tiny coffin and to hold him. I thought I was odd for wanting to take a blanket to his grave so he didn't get cold. Clearly, I am not the only one who has these seemingly unnatural thoughts. Although, we of course want to take care of our living children, so why wouldn't we want the same for all our babies, even if they aren't on this earth anymore. A part of us goes and stays with our babies when they are buried. It was so hard for me to walk away and leave my baby there in the ground. This picture just says it so well...
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Who We'd Be Today
I have entered the sleepless zone of pregnancy. Most nights I either just stay up late or try to go to bed and end up getting back up again even though I'm tired. As I laid in bed last night trying to sleep, I realized that the boys' birthday is coming up very soon. I don't know if we've just been so busy that I haven't thought about it or if it's a subconscious thing to hold myself together, I'm not sure. Part of me can hardly even believe that it's been two years since the boys were born and our world was forever changed.
A few weeks ago I posted the Kenny Chesney song that I know a lot of baby loss parents have related to, a song called "Who You'd be Today". I frequently think about who Carter would be today if he were here. But I also think about who we as a family would be. I spent part of Mother's Day in my bed crying because things just weren't supposed to be this way. Danny came in to find me and said the words I was thinking, things would be so different if they were both here.
How would our little family be if we had our twins? I really can only imagine. Would we be struggling to keep up with two rambunctious toddlers? Would we be cheering and celebrating that we had survived our first two years with twins? Would we like the attention from having twins, the questions about having twins, and meeting up with other parents of twins? Would we be complaining to other parents about how busy and tired we were raising two toddlers? We are so very excited for Ezra and we wouldn't trade him for anything, but honestly, we probably wouldn't even be thinking about more kids until the boys were older, if ever.
The truth is, we will never know. It's an experience that we won't get to have, one that we are left to imagine. There is definitely beauty in the ashes, and we would certainly be a different family and different individuals had our situation been different and we were able to raise our twins.
A few weeks ago I posted the Kenny Chesney song that I know a lot of baby loss parents have related to, a song called "Who You'd be Today". I frequently think about who Carter would be today if he were here. But I also think about who we as a family would be. I spent part of Mother's Day in my bed crying because things just weren't supposed to be this way. Danny came in to find me and said the words I was thinking, things would be so different if they were both here.
How would our little family be if we had our twins? I really can only imagine. Would we be struggling to keep up with two rambunctious toddlers? Would we be cheering and celebrating that we had survived our first two years with twins? Would we like the attention from having twins, the questions about having twins, and meeting up with other parents of twins? Would we be complaining to other parents about how busy and tired we were raising two toddlers? We are so very excited for Ezra and we wouldn't trade him for anything, but honestly, we probably wouldn't even be thinking about more kids until the boys were older, if ever.
The truth is, we will never know. It's an experience that we won't get to have, one that we are left to imagine. There is definitely beauty in the ashes, and we would certainly be a different family and different individuals had our situation been different and we were able to raise our twins.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
A Bittersweet Day
Last Sunday was International Bereaved Mother's Day. I was asked to write something for a link up but never got around to it because we were so busy and sometimes it seems like there is a "day" for everything. I honestly didn't think much about the day. But now I get it. It almost doesn't seem fair for moms who have lost their babies to have to live through Mother's Day. We had plans to go to church this morning but I just wasn't sure I could do it. The thought of having to listen to all of the "Happy" Mother's Day wishes was almost too much to bear.
The day that is supposed to be joyous and reflecting of how wonderful being a mom is and how grateful children are for their own mothers. And yet here we are, with our arms aching to hold our little ones just one more time. To hear their voices, to give them kisses, and to rock them to sleep.
My boys have taught me the true depth of a mother's love. I never knew I could love so deeply until I lost that chance. Of course I love my Carter, but it's not the same. I love him with all my heart but there's nothing physical to match my emotions. He isn't here. I can't parent his pictures and the things he left behind, they aren't him.
So I will spend my day loving Cohen and being so incredibly grateful to have him here in my arms. But I will also be thinking of Carter, who I long to have here with me. My journey to motherhood has not been what I have expected, but I am thankful to my boys for making me a mom and for teaching me so many valuable lessons. While today will be a joyous and day of celebration for so many, it will also be a bittersweet day for many who are moms but don't get to have their babies here on earth. In your celebrations, please remember the moms of angels and keep them in your prayers.
The day that is supposed to be joyous and reflecting of how wonderful being a mom is and how grateful children are for their own mothers. And yet here we are, with our arms aching to hold our little ones just one more time. To hear their voices, to give them kisses, and to rock them to sleep.
My boys have taught me the true depth of a mother's love. I never knew I could love so deeply until I lost that chance. Of course I love my Carter, but it's not the same. I love him with all my heart but there's nothing physical to match my emotions. He isn't here. I can't parent his pictures and the things he left behind, they aren't him.
So I will spend my day loving Cohen and being so incredibly grateful to have him here in my arms. But I will also be thinking of Carter, who I long to have here with me. My journey to motherhood has not been what I have expected, but I am thankful to my boys for making me a mom and for teaching me so many valuable lessons. While today will be a joyous and day of celebration for so many, it will also be a bittersweet day for many who are moms but don't get to have their babies here on earth. In your celebrations, please remember the moms of angels and keep them in your prayers.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Is it Okay to Not Share Our Story?
In the world of baby loss, there are lots of questions and emotions around when is it okay to share our story? There are often feelings of guilt if we say we have 1 child when we really have 2 or we don't mention our angel baby. I don't think there is a right or wrong answer, I think it totally depends on the situation and what you feel is right at the time.
Generally, I love talking about my boys. It's a pretty normal thing within my family and close friends to talk about Carter and "the twins". Despite the emotions and feelings of guilt, I have come to notice that there are times when I don't want to share our story. It's not that I don't count Carter as our child, because I do, or that I am ashamed or embarrassed of our story. It's more of the opposite. Sometimes I just get the feeling that the person won't understand or appreciate our boy so it feels more like I am protecting him by not sharing.
At times, it feels like I am being scrutinized and judged based on how I react when people ask questions or we tell our story. Like maybe we aren't sad enough, or we aren't tearing up, or we act like we miss our boy enough. None of those things will ever be true. We will always miss Carter, but it doesn't mean that we cry every minute of every day (although some days we do). Some days, I don't want to be judged by my emotions or seeming lack thereof. And some days, I just don't want the looks. The looks of pity or the awkward silences. I just want to be a normal person.
The other reason is that although Cohen isn't old enough to understand what's going on now, this is his story too and eventually, in some situations it will be up to him whether he wants to share or not. We will always talk about Carter and he will always know that he has a twin, but I want him to feel like he can choose if it's something he wants to share and when. I also don't want him to feel like he is defined by being a "twinless twin" because he is, but he's also so much more than that.
There are many times that we will share our story and we will share Carter with other people. What it comes down to is that in my heart, Carter is our boy and he always will be. We will never hide him from the world or act like he didn't exist. But, there are times when it feels as though it's all I can do to protect him and myself by not sharing his story. And I'm okay with it because for me, I know how much I love that boy and that will never change.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
A Letter to Carter
Carter,
I stopped by your grave the other day and put my finger in your tiny handprints as I always do. I remember when I saw the proof of what your marker would look like, I asked if your hand prints were the correct size. They just seemed too little, smaller than I remember them as I sat in the hospital room trying to memorize every detail of you. To me, you just looked so perfect.
Sometimes I just wish this pain would go away and that I didn't have to feel it every day. But that would mean not knowing and loving you, so I will take the heartache. The pain reminds me how very much I love you and wish you were here. You will always be a very important part of our family.
As I walked away from your grave, I got mad. Sometimes, mommy still has a hard time with wondering why we didn't get to keep you and why this had to happen to us. Your little handprints reminded me that I will never get to hold your hand and walk you down the street, or around the house like your brother loves to do. I love Cohen's little hands. Some days I just sit and look at them. I love when he wraps his little hand around my finger and wants me to go somewhere with him. I want that with you and I will never have that on this earth. I want to see you walk and I want to feel your little hand in mine. I don't know how old you will be when I get to heaven, but I sure hope you aren't too old to hold your mom's hand.
Love you forever.
Mom
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Loss and the Holidays
I was pushing my cart through the floral section of the grocery store on Christmas Eve. I was looking for a balloon to take to Carter. Somehow they were just all wrong..."Get well soon", "Smile", ones with giant happy smiley faces. Finally, I picked a little one that just said "I love you". I tried to fight back my tears as I paid for my groceries and left. I was, once again, mad that this was my life. Disappointed that the dreams I had for my life would always be broken and sad that the innocence of life had been tainted.
There was a deep, deep sadness as I drove up to Carter's grave. I had been having a hard time and I knew I just needed to spend some time with my boy. I put his balloon next to his Christmas tree and cried. And cried. I wished with all of my heart that he could be there in my arms. I longed to see him cruising around the house with Cohen throwing ornaments off the tree. I wanted to fill his stocking with things he could actually play with. I wanted to plop him in front of the tree and take his picture.
We still struggle with the fact that Carter isn't here. Yes, this year was a little "easier" (that never seems like quite the right word), but it was still hard. It was a reminder that while we can carry on with our day to day lives in a more graceful way than last year, that pain is still there and will always be there.
In the midst of the "most wonderful time of the year" we still had to take time out to grieve. And to cry. And to miss our little boy. While we have done a lot of healing over the last year, I don't think I will ever stop wishing that he was here and wondering what life would have been like. When a piece of your heart is gone, you can't help but want it back.
There was a deep, deep sadness as I drove up to Carter's grave. I had been having a hard time and I knew I just needed to spend some time with my boy. I put his balloon next to his Christmas tree and cried. And cried. I wished with all of my heart that he could be there in my arms. I longed to see him cruising around the house with Cohen throwing ornaments off the tree. I wanted to fill his stocking with things he could actually play with. I wanted to plop him in front of the tree and take his picture.
We still struggle with the fact that Carter isn't here. Yes, this year was a little "easier" (that never seems like quite the right word), but it was still hard. It was a reminder that while we can carry on with our day to day lives in a more graceful way than last year, that pain is still there and will always be there.
In the midst of the "most wonderful time of the year" we still had to take time out to grieve. And to cry. And to miss our little boy. While we have done a lot of healing over the last year, I don't think I will ever stop wishing that he was here and wondering what life would have been like. When a piece of your heart is gone, you can't help but want it back.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
The First Appointment
"Let's not turn this pregnancy into something it's not"
These were the words the OB told me at my first visit. My appointment was scheduled with a doctor that was new(er) to the practice and I hadn't seen during my last pregnancy. The office had already changed my appointment and I wanted it on a day Danny could come and we didn't want to push it back anymore. I decided to just go with it since I had heard good things about this doctor.
The doctor was nice enough, but I realized how important it is going to be for me to have doctors that I know support me and understand where I am coming from. As the doctor asked me if both of my boys were doing well, I realized maybe she didn't look as closely at my chart as she should have. Through tears, I gave her the very brief version of our story. I understand not knowing every detail of my 2 inch thick chart, but the fact that one of my babies died is kind of an important thing to know.
Then, when I asked what the plan for pregnancy would look like, I got the speech about not turning the pregnancy into something it's not. I didn't ask for daily appointments or my own personal ultrasound machine at home, I just wanted to know what to expect. Honestly, I don't even know how often normal people go to the doctor. I haven't had a normal pregnancy. All I know is what I've experienced. And I don't feel like that was understood or acknowledged. I felt like I was judged and dubbed that patient by someone who had just met me. I'm also probably just being a little sensitive, but this was much different than the "we will do what we need to to get you through this" that I have heard from my other doctors who had been with me through the boys' pregnancy.
I have no intentions of being completely overbearing during this pregnancy, but I am going to need reassurance and support. My only pregnancy was one of fear and unknowns and filled with appointments and tests. It felt like everything that could have gone wrong, did. I wish I could make all of the bad feelings and experiences from the last pregnancy go away and start over with a clean slate, but that is impossible. I am thankful that we have other doctors that I know I can go to and not be made to feel this way. This was a good reminder that we need those that are going to acknowledge and respect what we've been through.
These were the words the OB told me at my first visit. My appointment was scheduled with a doctor that was new(er) to the practice and I hadn't seen during my last pregnancy. The office had already changed my appointment and I wanted it on a day Danny could come and we didn't want to push it back anymore. I decided to just go with it since I had heard good things about this doctor.
The doctor was nice enough, but I realized how important it is going to be for me to have doctors that I know support me and understand where I am coming from. As the doctor asked me if both of my boys were doing well, I realized maybe she didn't look as closely at my chart as she should have. Through tears, I gave her the very brief version of our story. I understand not knowing every detail of my 2 inch thick chart, but the fact that one of my babies died is kind of an important thing to know.
Then, when I asked what the plan for pregnancy would look like, I got the speech about not turning the pregnancy into something it's not. I didn't ask for daily appointments or my own personal ultrasound machine at home, I just wanted to know what to expect. Honestly, I don't even know how often normal people go to the doctor. I haven't had a normal pregnancy. All I know is what I've experienced. And I don't feel like that was understood or acknowledged. I felt like I was judged and dubbed that patient by someone who had just met me. I'm also probably just being a little sensitive, but this was much different than the "we will do what we need to to get you through this" that I have heard from my other doctors who had been with me through the boys' pregnancy.
I have no intentions of being completely overbearing during this pregnancy, but I am going to need reassurance and support. My only pregnancy was one of fear and unknowns and filled with appointments and tests. It felt like everything that could have gone wrong, did. I wish I could make all of the bad feelings and experiences from the last pregnancy go away and start over with a clean slate, but that is impossible. I am thankful that we have other doctors that I know I can go to and not be made to feel this way. This was a good reminder that we need those that are going to acknowledge and respect what we've been through.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Part of the Journey
I read a few other baby loss blogs of people who are in various stages of their grief. I think it's good for me to look back and see that the things that I went/go through are normal. There are things I read from other people and I sit and nod my head and remember how I had so many of those exact feelings. The deep sorrow, the questions, the "what ifs". I so badly want to take the people who are in that place and just give them a huge hug and remind them that they will make it through. I wish I could take their pain away, but I think it's all part of the process of healing, to go through those hard places, whether we find answers or not.
I also read about people who are farther along in the process and I am encouraged that someday I can be there too. No two people's journeys will ever be exactly the same, but its nice to know that you aren't alone. Or crazy. Or at least not crazy beyond what is expected.
I am definitely in a different place than I was a year ago, or even 6 months ago. This grieving process is slow, and some days it's two steps forward and one (or 6) steps back. The fact that this hurt is still present reinforces to me how important Carter was, and is, to us. That slowly the wounds are healing. I never expect them to be gone and I do expect to have some scars. But I find hope in the fact that I'm not in the same place I was, that I am moving forward, and that it doesn't mean that I love my little boy any less.
I also read about people who are farther along in the process and I am encouraged that someday I can be there too. No two people's journeys will ever be exactly the same, but its nice to know that you aren't alone. Or crazy. Or at least not crazy beyond what is expected.
I am definitely in a different place than I was a year ago, or even 6 months ago. This grieving process is slow, and some days it's two steps forward and one (or 6) steps back. The fact that this hurt is still present reinforces to me how important Carter was, and is, to us. That slowly the wounds are healing. I never expect them to be gone and I do expect to have some scars. But I find hope in the fact that I'm not in the same place I was, that I am moving forward, and that it doesn't mean that I love my little boy any less.
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