What’s in a Word?

After I was able to (somewhat) accept the death of Ellie, I started to seek out other women who had experienced the loss of a baby. Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope, the Compassionate Friends, and the MISS Foundation helped me tremendously as did a few private Facebook groups. I didn’t realize that I was part of such a large community and I often hoped the membership number would never rise. Although I feel I am starting to get to a point where I can offer support to other women, I would prefer to never know another bereaved mother! I want all babies and children to just be healthy and safe. But we all know that isn’t reality.

Last week, my husband and I attended the memorial service of a 24 year old man. His mother worked with us and his fiancé is a summer student worker in my husband’s office.  When we learned of his tragic death (an unsolved murder at the present time), my heart broke for his mother. Although there were very different reasons for the deaths of our children, I could empathize with her; I knew some of the emotions she would be experiencing. There would be: shock, guilt, anger, irrationality, pain, sorrow, and grief. She would be asking why and how something like this could happen and would probably try to blame herself in some way. Knowing this, I struggled with how to help her as someone 18 months further along in the grief journey. In the end I wrote her a brief letter and bought her the book, Beyond Tears: Living After Losing a Child. I dreaded attending the memorial service, both out of fear for seeing another mother in pain and for the feelings I was sure to experience remembering Ellie.

We attended the service and our hearts broke as we watched the family and fiancé. I hope the mass brought them comfort. After the service ended, I wasn’t sure how to get the book and note to the mother, so we walked out to the church foyer where she was surrounded by loving friends, family, and congregation members. We stood there awkwardly for a few moments when she locked eyes with me. She pushed passed everyone and approached me. She began to cry and we hugged. She said, “You know what this is like, don’t you?” And I responded through my tears, “Yes, I do. And I am so sorry.” A few moments later we released one another, and she turned back toward the crowd of people waiting to pay their respects. We gave the book and letter to her husband and quickly left, me in tears and my husband comforting me as always.

Since then I have been beating myself up. I should have said more to her. Having lost a child, I should have some magical words to comfort her; to take the pain away even if for a moment. I should be able to say something to soothe her and to help her make sense of what has happened. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. But then I realized that I didn’t need to. The moment we shared as we both cried, one bereaved mother to another, didn’t require words. Our hearts spoke to one another and our souls recognized a kindred spirit. Sometimes the best thing one can do for a bereaved mother in those early days is to just give her quiet understanding and silent love.

Time?

One statement that always perplexes me during the grieving process involves the idea that there is a set amount of time, as in “It’s time to move on.” To me, this statement implies that a parent can be over, or worse, forget, their child’s existence. How is that possible? I am not advocating for remaining in that dark place that we find ourselves in after the death of our child for a lengthy amount of time. I agree it is unhealthy to participate in risky behaviors such as drugs, drinking, or promiscuity as a method of working through grief. I certainly don’t think giving up in any form (at the least becoming a hermit and at worse ending your own life) is a viable option. And I do think it can be unhealthy to focus so much on the dead that we forget the living…or to do some living ourselves. Participating in charity events, anniversaries, birthdays, support groups, ect., can be very cathartic and a good way to channel those overpowering feelings of grief, guilt, anger, and pain. But what is the appropriate amount of time to grieve before “moving on?” The answer is simple to a bereaved parent but for some reason can be a mystery to those who have never lost a child. There is no set amount of time (or right or wrong way) to grieve. And there is no possible way to “move on” from what has happened.

I guess to “move on”, we’d have to be the same person we were before the unimaginable happened. But we all know that isn’t remotely possible. My life is forever defined by the trauma of loosing Ellie. No, that doesn’t mean I cannot go on to have a happy life, but it will never really be complete. There will always be a piece of my heart/soul/being that is missing. I will continue to miss my sweet daughter and wonder what sort of woman she would have been. And I will continue to honor and memorialize her in any way possible.

Instead of “moving on” I think I will “proceed with caution”. It is time for me to do so. But it will probably involve several detours and pit stops along the way. And that's just fine.

Dream a Little Dream

"Throughout history, people have sought meaning in dreams or divination through dreams. Dreams have also been described physiologically as a response to neural processes during sleep; psychologically as reflections of the subconscious; and spiritually as messages from god, the deceased, predictions of the future, or from the Soul." Wikipedia

Not that Wikipedia is my favorite source of information because the articles are not always backed up by a credible source. But I liked, "The cultural meaning of dreams" section of the DREAM article because I've been thinking a lot lately about dreams and what they mean to me and to other people. I have had recurrent dreams since I was young. It was a white werewolf trying to get me then, but now it is an alligator blocking me from getting to something or someone. And we are talking WEIRD alligators. Like the Lake Placid alligator or Ammit, the crocodile, lion, hippo creature that would sit by Anubis as he determined the fate of ancient Egyptians as depicted in the Book of the Dead.) I have also had horrific dreams of my three year old son dying...almost always drowning. There are people around, but they are seemingly inanimate, just staring as I scream for help.

I know some people are really in to dream interpretations and I have no real issues with it. But I'm a black and white thinker, so I tend to take things at face value. I've been disturbed by dreams for a day or so. I've had some pretty, eh hem, great dreams too! I almost always dream to where I remember them the next morning, even if only for a few minutes. But I'm posting this morning not to talk about the dreams I have had.

I have only confessed this to my husband, and only recently...I have never dreamt of Eleanor. It has been almost 18 months since she left us. As if there is anything else I could feel guilty or sad about when I think of her, but now my subconscious or soul or whatever, won't let me dream of her. I haven't even had a nightmare of those traumatic last hours of watching doctors trying to save her twice and then holding her as she died followed by washing her beautiful, battered body. I see, smell and hear it when I am awake, but never while sleeping. I have fallen asleep countless times crying and thinking of her, but still, no dreams.

I read somewhere once that dreams and catastrophizing (daydreams of bad things happening) are the brains way of preparing us in case something does happen, like a car wreck, bank robbery or abduction. We create that path in our brain and can subconsciously tap back into it should we ever need to. If that's true, maybe my brain is telling me that I don't need to prepare for the tragedy of losing a child. I have already experienced it. It is already burnt into my brain. But I still hold out hope...because hope is all I have left now...that one day I will be able to dream of my sweet Eleanor. 

Bittersweet

We found out two weeks ago, at 19wks pregnant, that the baby has a healthy heart and no signs of hydrops! That was confirmed by a Pediatric Cardiologist the following week. I cried tears of joy and my husband and I both gave a HUGE sigh of relief. Another milestone has come and gone and we are still progressing along. During those appointments, we also learned that we will be expecting our second daughter. Her name will be Adelaide.  

I had mixed emotions to this as I knew it would be difficult no matter what the gender was…although that was the least important thing to me during those appointments. But once it sunk in that we had a healthy baby, the realization that I would finally have my living daughter both excited and terrified me. All the fears I had with Ellie came rushing back, which made me miss her even more. And I am terrified people will forget her with the new baby coming, especially since that baby is a girl. But we ARE so very excited.

My husband and I went straight to Target and bought a few toys and an outfit as soon as our appointment was over. We hadn’t allowed ourselves to get too attached until this point out of fear. But these appointments allowed us to imagine bringing Adelaide home in October.  As we excitedly talked about what was to come, it hit me that we already HAD this conversation a year and a half ago: What would it be like to have a girl? Would Sebastian be a good big brother? How would life change with two children? Remember what it was like with an infant? We had the furniture. We had all the toys and clothes. We were almost ready for Ellie at 30 weeks, just missing a few minor things. But now, now we would be going through the exact same motions as before. How strange to talk about bringing a new baby home, totalling two kids, when you have had three (and two butterfly babies lost by miscarriage)?

And I can't help but think about how Ellie’s 20 week scan was good too. The specialists have both said they would’ve caught her condition by then and it really depends on who is looking and what type of equipment is used. They said at this point they can see 70-90% of all major defects, with the disclaimer that something could be missed. I can’t help but fear the outcome will be the same for this daughter although I desperately hope it isn’t.

People keep asking me if I feel “better” now that we know the heart is okay. Will I “enjoy” this pregnancy more. The answer is complicated. I will never, ever be “better”. My daughter died, in my arms, and nothing will erase that. I have met amazing women who have suffered the loss of a child and now know there are many other complications that can occur. I am a little more at peace about Ellie after talking with the Cardiologist about her defect. I am allowing myself to talk more to Adelaide and do feel more connected. My husband has confessed he deseperately hoped for a girl and has every intention of spoiling her rotten in lots of pink, girlie things! If anything, these appointments and discussions with specialists have allowed me to begin forgiving myself for things I feel guilty about. I am beyond hopeful. But I still have so much fear. The unimaginable has happened and my eyes are wide open now. Although October will hopefully bring a healthy baby girl, my grieving journey will continue for a long time. Eleanor will never be replaced.