Bah Humbug!

I just CANNOT get into the holidays this year. Halloween is our favorite holiday, much to the chagrin of our neighbors. We normally decorate the hell out of our house, pun intended, and have an adult costume party. Halloween came and went and we only managed to get a spider on the roof, string up a few orange lights, and set the little Halloween tree on the table. Disgraceful!

Thanksgiving is usually fueled by my husband's obsession with the perfect turkey recipe. It helps to sort of get me in the mood since I make all the sides and I am amused at his primitive need to play with meat. My 4.5 year old is old enough now to talk about what he is thankful for and to make a beautiful pipecleaner centerpiece. His excitement and sweet answers to what he is thankful for ("I'm thankful that you grew me, mommy." And "My mommy and daddy, the President, those scientists that make the big robots, the police and firemen that save you, Ironman and Captain America.")  melted my heart this year.

As with most families, Thanksgiving weekend is followed by dragging out the Christmas tree and decorating the house. Although we are not religious, we still celebrate Christmas. (I think of the tree as a way to honor my ancestry since Germans brought the tradition to this country!) I bought a few supplies to make ornaments with the kids. I could put their pictures in the little plastic balls and helped them stuff tinsel inside and put stickers on the outside. But I had only a small plastic butterfly to put in Ellie's. Her stocking hangs empty next to her siblings, never to be filled or opened. I know that I will watch the children open their gifts in their Christmas PJs and laugh at their excitement. And I know I will have to excuse myself for a few minutes to hide my tears for what will never be.

This is the third holiday season since Ellie's death and the first year we are traveling to see family. The fear that they will not mention her, or worse, make me feel awful for mentioning her or tearing up, makes my stomach hurt. While the grandparents get to see all their living children and grandchildren, I will be expected to be thankful for what I have (which of course I am) and to not "bring the mood down". So, like almost every other day in the year, I will have to stay quiet because conflict on top of grief is no winter wonderland.  

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

As I stumble my way through this week, I find myself reflecting on repetition and cycles. We discovered I was pregnant with Ellie on July 4^th weekend, 2009. This past Sunday, July 8, Ellie would have been 2 ½ years old…followed by this coming Saturday commemorating 2 ½ years since she has been gone. I have been here before. I remember being hopeful for healing in July 2010 and then sorrowful in July 2011 as she felt further and further away from me. Will it always be this way? Will every January, March, and July – not to mention the holidays – affect me like this…like it just happened and I can hardly catch my breath? Is this what a bereaved parent’s life is: waiting for the next painful milestone, thinking about the what-ifs and my child’s should-bes?  

Cycles are a part of life and death. I used to see their beauty; the animal dying in the woods, breaking down into food and compost, and then becoming the foundation of new life and growth. It’s nature at her finest. But what is natural about the cycle being disrupted? This isn’t the way it is supposed to happen. And every day I am caught in a new cycle of happiness for my surviving children, fear that they will be hurt, sadness for Ellie’s absence, exhaustion from fighting to cope, and anger that I now know about this world of loss.

In my office at work and on my check book, I force myself every new page to place a small, red heart on the 8^th and 14^th of the month. Not like I would ever forget these days. But it has become repetition. It is something I have to do, like brushing my teeth or reading a book to my son at night.

Anticipation, a grieving mother's enemy

You know how anticipation feels. There is that little flutter in your stomach, maybe the shaking of hands...adrenaline pumping, heart racing, voice shaking. I used to associate it with the excitement of an upcoming trip or the nervousness of a public speaking event. But now I have to add Ellie's birth and death dates, her original due date and Mother's Day to the list. My heart has been hurting as I anticipate another Mother's Day without all my children.

Last year, I posted a brief history of Mother's Day. Many don't know its true origins. We think of it now as a day to celebrate mothers, a justifiable celebration on the awesomeness of mommyhood. But it began as a day for bereaved mothers to mourn their lost children. Now there is a day for those like me called International Bereaved Mother's Day. It was last Sunday, May 6.

The week between these two special days mirrors my mood of late; transitioning between dark and light. One moment I am honoring and crying tears of pain for my first daughter, the next laughing and thanking my son and daughter while opening their early Mother's Day gift. The pain of Ellie's death and trauma of watching her last few hours still haunt me. I can smell, hear, and see everything when I close my eyes. I know the pain will never go away. These moments are sprinkled throughout my days in between the hugs and kisses given to Ellie's siblings.

Of course I am beyond thankful for my surviving children. I am tired of having that constant caveat. It's like I cannot grieve Ellie without saying I am thankful for what I have. "It could always be worse," right? But there is some truth to that. It could be worse. I know that. I don't even want to imagine what could happen to my loved ones. And as I have written many times in this blog, I don't ever want another child to suffer, be sick or die.

Sorry, I am getting off topic. This blog serves as one of my coping mechanisms and honestly helps me make it through the tough times. One thing my mind does when I am anxious is wonder. I can't seem to focus. All these thoughts and memories and what-ifs run through my head. But like most anticipated events, the time leading up to it are seemingly much worse than the actual event. I just have to keep telling myself that as I prepare for another day without Ellie.