Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
“Hmmmm… you’re right, move on huh?I never even thought of that.Gee thanks! I’ll give that a try!”
I didn’t choose to have a child born terminally ill.
I didn’t choose to fall in love with her, to let her huge spirit envelop me and to believe in her ability to beat this.
I didn’t choose to be put into the impossible role of decision maker when it came to treatment plans.
I didn’t choose to feel a part of me die right along with her.
I didn’t choose any of these things anymore than I can choose how long it takes my heart, mind and soul to mend.
I, like any other sane human being, would like nothing more than to be surrounded by joy. To see my dreams realized and feel the warmth of happiness. To have children and watch them grow. Believe me when I say that I wanted those things yesterday, and the week before that, and the months before that - it is getting my soul to sync up with my desires that is proving to be such difficult and taxing work.
One of the things that most people don’t realize about grief is how incredibly exhausting of a process it is. I have been in this fight, for lack of a better word, for over seven months, on the heels of forty two weeks of pregnancy, an emergency c-section with no time allowed for healing, and twenty eight days of round the clock panic and life and death decision making. It takes time to recover from this. How long? That is for God to decide, even I don’t know. What I do know is that each morning I wake up and offer whatever my best is for that day. Some days I even surprise myself. On others I come up short.
Each day I try to honor my child, my husband, my family and myself while looking towards the future, but sometimes, in trying to accomplish even a fraction of what I set out to do, my energy is sucked dry. Missing someone is tiresome. There is no rhyme or reason to the ebb and flow of emotions that the bereaved feel: sadness, anger, hopefulness followed closely thereafter by hopelessness, guilt, dismay; but one constant in the process is just how endless the cycle can seem.
There will never be a day when this loss is not ingrained in me, never be a time when Peyton is not my first born child, or when her absence from our everyday lives isn't felt. I cannot move on, as so many have suggested, I can only move with. And for now, that is what I am exhaustingly working towards - trying to find a way to live this life, to find joy in it once again and to see our dreams fulfilled with Peyton.
With the memory of her.
With that little spirit.
With her unguarded love.
And even with the unrelenting pain of her loss.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
I can’t say that losing Peyton has been any harder on me than my husband; only that we grieve in entirely different ways. Where I cry and talk and question incessantly, he tends to be more accepting. Where I retreat to deal with my pain alone, he chooses to find joy in the company of others. On Tuesday night, as we sat at a restaurant waiting for dinner, I mentioned that I had been in a real “funk” all day, feeling frustrated by my inability to be “strong” during this, and doubtful that things will ever be the way I had imagined them. It’s been seven months since Peyton died, and sometimes it feels as raw as if it had been only seven days. The fact of the matter is grief doesn’t respect time; there are okay days and there are bad days and Tuesday just happened to be the latter. I began to question whether my weakness bothered him; if he was upset with me for still being so broken up; what he wanted from me.
“That’s simple,” he answered, his tone honest and caring, “I want you to be happy.”
Our plates arrived and the subject changed; this exchange becoming just another blip on the radar. We began to talk instead about our meals, the saltiness of my drink, how his day had gone. I had actually totally forgotten about the conversation until I woke up yesterday morning to find the tiny slip of paper, a Chinese fortune, retrieved from the pocket of a loving man and left intentionally in plain site. Leaning over it I read the blue lettering:
Happier days are definitely ahead for you.
This may seem insignificant, but to me meant the world. I remembered that my husband mentioned that he had gone out for Chinese with some friends over lunch. I pictured him reading the fortune, then placing it in his pocket so that he could bring it home to share with me. For the first time in a long time, I started my day with a smile. Even in this darkness I have never been alone; he has always been at my side. I am blessed by the love that I share with this man, and it is my faith in that love that tells me that we will find those happier days together.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
"God can take a life that is peaceful and sweet (and a blast)....and bring a storm. When the storm hit we were all faced with enormous heartache. But then God began to heal our broken hearts, and life began to hold beauty and happiness again. That's the kind of God we serve." http://lynnettekraft.blogspot.comAnd so I will try to remember this, even if it is just for today; that while there is no shortage of grief in the world, and while life sometimes feels completely unfair, that there is the possibility that one day life will begin to "hold beauty and happiness again". Until then, I will trudge along and wait.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
I found only tears on my pillow.
Where I had imagined flowers and a card,
I found only flowers on her grave.
Where I had imagined a home of happy chaos and noise,
I found only weeping through silence.
Where I had imagined my child at my chest,
I found only emptiness and aching.
Where I had imagined Motherhood celebrated,
I found only another painful reminder of loss.