Grief is...

It can be a dull ache in my arms, a tightening of my rib cage that doesn't let me breathe, a sharp pain in my heart. When my fingertips go cold and sweaty and a sudden lightheadedness makes me take a seat, it is called grief. Grief, at times, is physical. And there is no pill for that. It exists and I can't pretend otherwise. I don't love it and I don't hate it, I simply live it. And it's not as bad to me as it sounds to you.

On the contrary, I find this physical grief is what makes me feel alive and see the beauty in the world. Sometimes people ask me when am I going to live again, that I should try to move on. Move on from where? Live what? If I didn't live, I'd be with my daughter, and I am not, so I live. Grief makes sure that I am acutely aware of being alive and of the time's passing. I never stopped living. My life changed and now I live a new life, but that doesn't mean I don't live.


The key to grief is accepting life for the lessons it brings.




Love & Light

Understanding each other

I've been thinking a lot about what you, my reader, get from my writing, how do you understand and interpret it? I wonder how do I sound to a person who never walked in my shoes? How can a few words, selected either in the heat of the moment, or after long and careful consideration, convey the reality I live in?

First of all, I hope you understand that what makes it onto this blog is such a small piece of the puzzle. My postings are missing many thoughts, events, and ideas I omit for the sake of saving time, space, and heartache (except for that rambling post about "bad apples," that felt good! :) I rarely mention all the little things that hurt me or give me strength every day. It is hard to keep up with the pace of life as it is right now, the littlest things like house chores can be exhausting. Mostly because of constant reminders of what we lost, like a coffee shop full of babies and toddlers I walked into today. The lady behind the counter proudly told me they hold mom and toddler groups on Tuesday mornings, the ones I was supposed to be a part of. Instead, I told her my daughter passed away. She either didn't hear me or pretended that she didn't. I walked out with a crappy coffee and a heavy heart.

Second, there is each persons' individual life perception. Your lifetime memories, events, trials, and tribulations make you who you are. You might be going through your own heartache right now, or you might be living the happy life (if you are, savour every moment of it!). The joys and sorrows we get to experience help us understand others, be compassionate towards each other.

Third, I wonder at what point do people gain a better, deeper understanding of each other? Until I lost Amelia, I lived in a world of what I now call "regular" life: good and bad relationships, school and work deadlines, family matters, relocation and immigration. You get the idea. I did not have the easiest life, but it was good and I remained optimistic. When I saw people hurting, I genuinely felt for them and tried to help the best I could. I wanted to see everyone healthy and happy. I was not naive, but I was shielded.

Now, I feel like a veil has been lifted. I understand now that it was impossible for me to comprehend and for others to explain the pain they were going through. It saddens me that the sight of me, happily pregnant, made other women hurt. I understand I did nothing wrong then, and now what I feel is not wrong either. It is just life.


So as I try to explain something that can only be understood by being where I am, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone, let me ask you this:

How long did it take you to heal from a bad breakup, or a divorce?

How much did you cry when your pet cat or dog die?

How hard was it to pick yourself up when your parent died?


I hope most of you would say you haven't experienced these things. If you did, I'm sorry for your loss. It really sucks.

But to get back to my point, if either of the things I mentioned above is one of your worst points of reference on the $hit-scale (pardon my English), please try to put it into perspective:

People can be hurt for years by a bad break-up, a nasty divorce. How long does it take them to trust again? After being hurt by someone when I was only 17, it took me over 8 years to really trust someone else.

After losing a pet, the emptiness of your house can be unbearable, the atmosphere forever changed. When my mom and I immigrated to Canada, we had to leave our 14 y.o. cat behind. Knowing that she lived the remainder of her life with someone else, not understanding why we left her, not knowing that we still loved her, still saddens me and makes me tear up (thankfully they are great people and I am forever grateful to them for taking care of our kitty!).

I am lucky that my parents are both alive and well, so thankfully I can't compare there. But I know for sure that when you lose a parent, people never say to you: "You're young, you'll have another one."

What I'm trying to say is that please know that I was where most of you are now: I did not know what it was like to lose a child, I never wanted to find out. All I can ask of you is to have an open mind and don't assume anything. Don't assume that your are going to hurt me or help me by doing or not doing something, don't assume that you can imagine how I feel and know how to make it better. I am not saying this in anger or resentment, I am just saying what I hear many bereaved parents repeat over and over: people assume, but they have no idea. That's what makes people the worst and the best part of grief.

I guess the reason I keep putting myself out there, baring my heart and my soul, is to give you some food for thought, an image of a different point of reference, an explanation why a total stranger might run away from you in tears or give you a helping hand.

Can I take a shortcut?

About two weeks ago I decided to see what what happens if I am withdrawn from the world of bereaved parenthood, so I tried going along with what used to be "normal" life. These two weeks felt very long, painfully low. I realised that there is no way of going around the pain. Instead of letting feelings out throughout the day, in waves of highs and lows, I gathered them all up into one big lump of pain for my brain to sort through during the night.

I haven't slept well since I stopped going on MISS Foundation, a wonderful support forum for bereaved parents. I have been feeling lost in my thoughts since I stopped writing here. I became confused, to the point of sometimes "snapping out of it" to realise all over again that Amelia died. It stopped me in my tracks, sending me into cold shivers.

The feeling of isolation was asso overwhelming. While I have lots of great and supportive people around me, there are only a few who really know what it's like to be here. I actually think it would be a good idea to have a meetup group for bereaved moms and dads, just like they have pregnancy and new mommy groups. It helped me so much during my pregnancy when I got together with women pretty much walking in my shoes, that I can only imagine how helpful it would be to have a group like that. Can you imagine registering a DBMs (dead baby mamas :) group on meetup!? Oh, the new found morbid sense of humour :)

Seriously though, this is what it feels like sometimes. When we joke about taking Amelia out to give her a big hug, is when we realise how horrid the event is.



I guess it's time to paint Amelia's room a pretty green colour. Somehow I know that green and lilac would have been her thing...

Lots of love.


Here is a link to MISS Foundation:

http://www.missfoundation.org/

Sequence of Events

Yesterday, the 23rd, was three months since Amelia was alive. Today, the 24th, is three months since she died. Tomorrow, the 25th, will be three months since she was born.

I am struggling with acceptance of the sequence of these events. How can my child be dead before she is born? How can I bury my newborn?

Nothing makes sense anymore, life and everything in it is up for an evaluation, a scrutinizing one. What mattered before, has no meaning, what had no meaning before is now the way of life.


What remains a constant is missing my girl.

Meeting at the Lawn

I bought some beautiful Irises for Amelia and I to share. A bunch of blue and and yellow ones, so bright and pretty. Keeping half of them at home, so that I can look at them and smile, I took the other half to the Lawn this morning.

There I met a very interesting and inspiring father, just in time for Father's day. His son, Tony, died 33 years ago. What a long time... In between our childrens' graves, he told me a heart-wrenching story of his life, as well as a story of his inner strength.

My new friend's words of wisdom are going to stay with me for the rest of my life. You see, there are two kinds of strength, physical and inner. Grief and stress are very physical, you would be surprised. Once your outer shell is broken, your core is all you have to stand on. It's the inner strength that holds us up when life gets rough.

So, how do you build up your inner strength? Well, Tony's dad told me how loosing his son lifted his insecurities and helped him become a better person. I know it sounds very cliche :) Still, it was very inspiring to hear how he believed in himself, and found the strength to grow from his experience. He and his wife have been married for over 33 years, they have grown stronger and tighter together. They have a long-awaited and much loved daughter. It was good to know there is hope...

But for those of you who say: "See, everything will be good!" Here is what I have to say:

Tony's father also talked about the fire of grief. That's where I am right now, right in the pit. There is no other way out of it, but through the thick of the flame. You can't avoid, pretend, or bargain with grief. You will have to face it, sooner or later. It is better to face it and deal with it right away, than try to hide it and have to deal with it later on, which is, according to Tony's dad, tougher.

As I walk on my new path, I am starting to meet Earth Angels. These are people who I believe are sent to us for encouragement, strength, a shoulder to cry on. The ones who help us take the next step. For that, I am grateful.


So the thought of the day is: never do tomorrow, what you can do today.


(As a reminder: nothing here is personal. I am only sharing my deep feelings to help myself and others understand the process of stillbirth grief a bit better. This is somewhat of a journal for research purposes. Of course, all copyright laws apply).

Hate this day.

I really really hate number 24. Sorry if it's your lucky number, but it's the worst one for me.

Exactly two months ago, on March 24, just before 11am, my world came crushing down. The ceiling was spinning, the ground turned into a black hole. I was lying on a hospital bed, looking into the eyes of a woman I've never met before, begging to wake up. Dan was beside me, crumbling, crying... Our midwifes suddenly appeared in the doorway, their faces pale and full of sorrow. That was when "I'm sorry, there is no heartbeat" became so very real. That was when my hopes and dreams died.

For the last two months this memory haunted me day and night. Every night, my dreams start with that spinning ceiling. I feel that hospital bed beneath me when I see moms and their babies on the streets, hear children play in the park outside our windows...

Tomorrow, I am going to be happy. After all, Amelia will be two month old. I wonder how is she, where is she. I still worry about her all the time, hope that she is safe, that she feels our love.

Hope. Hope is what I lost, and hope is all I have.

Funny?

Interestingly enough, when I saw this, I let out a little giggle. There was even a smile, followed by a deep sigh...

Reading the comments, I was surprised to find people who thought that it was offensive and questioned the post's presence on failblog. While the writer of the headline should probably stop using his/her thesaurus, I understand that the title wasn't written to offend anyone. Another surprise was to read a comment by another mom of an angel, saying that she didn't find it offensive either.

It made me remember how a similarly "gruesome joke" made us and a few other angel parents giggle. I don't remember what it was about, but it was definitely not something that would have made us laugh before we became Amelia's parents. We definitely need humour to survive, to let some of our emptiness and hopelessness out.

I wonder, what does grief do to our sense of humour, how does it change it?

Happy vs Sad

Dear Amelia,

How can I feel happy and sad at the same time? Not one feeling after the other, but simultaneously. From time to time, I find myself smiling on the outside while my heart is crying. It is tearing me apart. The more time passes, the stronger this mixed feeling becomes. As I continue living without you, my pain gets stronger as joy becomes more frequent. I heard about this from other angel parents, but never quite understood what they meant. Oh, how true it is that to understand someone you have to walk a mile in their shoes...

I guess the good thing is that the intensity of my feelings goes both ways. Some smiles and laughs I actually feel now. Still, the pain comes back, with a vengeance. The days following your birth I was in some serious denial. I was so good at it, I fooled myself sometimes. Now I cannot hide and must face the day. People did warn me that children change our lives forever... Amelia, you gave new joy to my life, new meaning, and for that I am grateful.

It is true that children make you happy, each in their own special way. I see now how beautiful life is, every moment of it, hoping that you share this joy with me.


Love you forever,
your Mommy