managing anger

I wrote this last Wednesday, but didn't post it. I was so angry when I wrote it, and I don't like to post, or text, or write anything in anger.  I'll write it out, but I'll just sit on it for awhile.  I try not to act on negative emotion.  I've learned it's wise not to act on something out of anger.  Write it out, get it out of your system...but don't tell the world how you feel when you're enraged.

I've sat on it for a week, and I don't feel the need to edit anything out.  It all still rings true.

But just be warned, it's not a pretty, "feel good" post.  And there's some cussing, cause, well, it's me writing here.



I'm so angry. I've been walking around with this simmering anger, just sitting beneath the surface for a good week now.  Some days, like this past weekend, I am busy with life and can mask it easily. Other days I have nothing but obnoxious chores and work on my agenda and I feel like a ticking time bomb, just waiting to explode on the first unsuspecting victim that says something slightly off color.

It drives me crazy.

I'm not normally an angry person.  In fact, it usually takes a LOT to get me angry.  Granted, once I'm angry I'm usually seething mad and it's difficult for me to calm down, but it takes a whole lot to make me mad.  I don't fly off the handle easily.  I think before I speak.  I don't often say things out of anger that I later have to apologize for.  I can manage multiple stressors relatively well.  I am aware that the world and life are not fair, and I don't feel like I am entitled to or owed anything.

But lately that has not been the case.  I've been angry more often than not.

Having this uncontrollable anger nipping at me from the inside out is a strange feeling.  I'm on edge.  There are times when it literally feels like something is chewing on me from under my skin.  It's a constant low level irritation.

I'm pissed off that Reece died.  I'm mad that my body went into preterm labor and threw him out into the world before he was ready.  I'm angry that my daughter has to mourn her baby brother, and was robbed of the opportunity of being his big sister.  I'm absolutely irate that my relationship ended because my counterpart couldn't take it.  Couldn't handle another loss in his life, so he chose to check out, leaving me alone and pissed off.  I'm so so mad about that.  I'm pissed off that I had to move, twice in one year.  I'm so fucking pissed. I'm angry that this grief thing never just ENDS.  Like, seriously, enough already. ENOUGH.  That there doesn't come a day where you've reached your full of grief.  It's not a like a prison term, where you are counting down to a specific day when your nightmare is finally over.

No, friends.  This type of grief is life without parole.  Sometimes days are easier, and you relish those days.  Drink them up like fresh lemonade in the summer!  But then in the blink of an eye the bitter sourness returns, and you realize life handed you lemons.

I am so sick of it.  I AM SICK OF IT.

And I'm angry. 

I feel like I need to send a text to anyone who may come in contact with me throughout the day.  Just a simple message: "Caution, I'm angry.  Talk to me at your own risk."

The unfairness of this situation has been weighing on me.  Just sitting there on my shoulders, constantly pushing me down.  Why did I have to lose my baby and others get to keep theirs?  Why did MY baby have to die?  I did everything right, as instructed by my doctor.  Why are there people out there who drink, or smoke, or do drugs, KNOWING that it hurts their child, yet their babies get to live?

WHY?

ANSWER ME, because I'M FUCKING PISSED OFF AT THE UNFAIRNESS OF IT ALL.

I'm so mad.

And I know it sounds selfish, to ask why others get to keep their children, and I didn't.  I know, I KNOW, that that's a dumb question to ask.  Because of COURSE, we want everyone to have healthy babies. OF COURSE.  I want nothing more than for no mother to ever ever have to feel this feeling ever again.

But on my angriest of days, it still doesn't make it easier that I was the one dealt this shitty hand of cards.  I realize that everyone has their own struggles in life, but on my angriest of days, like this past week, none of that matters.

Because I am just so pissed off.

So I do anything I can to help relieve it.  I go to the gym.  I run.  I lift weights.  I crank the music up in my car LOUDLY.  I drink red wine.  I ponder going back on medication to even out my emotions.  I cry and complain about it to my best friends.  They are angry for me too.

That helps.

And then I read this.  This article, which had made the rounds on several of the babyloss pages that I follow on Facebook.

Grief and PSTD.  Yeah, I'd say I have a healthy dose of both.  Nothing like giving birth unexpectedly at home and then watching your child die in your hands to give you a nasty case of the PTSD.

The idea of the article is that these are crosses that we have to bear for life.  The low level rumbling of anger is something that I just need to "learn how to live with."  (Fuck that phrase, even if it's true, it can eff off.)

The author even says:

I frequently find myself in a state of irritation. I’m agitated, simmering on a low boil. I look forward to moments I feel content, moments I feel more like myself. I want to be that person more often. I long for that peace. But there is still anger in me that I cannot seem to tap. Things that wouldn’t normally irk me do. People that don’t normally annoy me are like nails on a chalkboard. It’s as if my subconscious is looking for ways to get out this anger, any way it can. How can I not always seethe at how unfair it is that my baby died?

It feels like she's reading directly from my brain.  That's exactly how I feel, way too often.

There is a shred of solace in knowing that others feel the way I do.  That others know how annoying and draining this process is.  I take a tiny bit of comfort in know that there are others who relate.

And then a note on love, which I also find to be chillingly true.

The irony is that I have an appreciation for my life that many others don’t. I have such love for my family and friends that I could burst. I value each breath that I take and find overwhelming moments of joy in my life. But I’m still also sad. I’m still also angry.


I love so hard these days.  I feel joy on such a greater level that I ever did before.

But I'm still so profoundly sad.

And I'm still ferociously angry.

progress

Today was such a beautiful day.

And I was happy.

It feels weird to type that on a Wednesday.  For the past 45 weeks every Wednesday I have to psych myself up.  I have to peel my eyes away from the clock from 7:30am - 7:36am, the times Reece was born and died.  Every Wednesday I have to give myself a pep talk.  A reminder that I've gotten through all of the other Wednesdays since he died, and I'll get through this one too.

We are still adjusting to Daylight Savings Time in my household, so the mornings have been particularly painful.  Neither Sadira nor I are morning people.  I've felt distracted the past couple days.  My brain is still sleep fogged when I wake up, and my bed feels like a warm nest.

I KNEW today was Wednesday when I woke up, but I wasn't acutely aware of it like I usually am.

We went through the motions of the morning, with the help of coffee.  As we both adjusted to the day, it started to take a turn for the awesome.  When we stepped outside, the sun was shining and the weather was markedly warmer.  I instantly felt awake and alive.  We both breathed in the air, which had a hint of spring to it.  By the time we arrived at school this morning the sunroof was open and the radio was up high.

We both loudly sang along.

Not all Wednesdays have been this awesome.  Just last week was a rough one.  And there will be many more rough ones in the future, especially as April 30th comes closer and closer.

In the early days after Reece's death I would feel so guilty when I would feel any shred of happiness.  Don't get me wrong, I wasn't happy very often, but every once in awhile I'd have a moment where, in the words of my friend and fellow babyloss mom, Marisa, "laughing didn't feel forced."  It's strange to think that, isn't it?  That there is a time where you have to fake "happy," or even just "okay" because your true emotions are so hopeless and sad that you don't want to subject others to that sadness? 

But every once in awhile I wouldn't have to do that.  I would genuinely smile or laugh, and then minutes later a wave of guilt would pass over.  Mommy guilt still extends to babyloss moms too.

These days I've allowed myself guilt-free happy moments.  I've allowed myself to laugh with friends without worrying if I came across as too well adjusted.  I'm still struggling, y'all.  That truth is real.  But I'm learning how to temper my sadness and manage my happiness.

Yes, this babyloss thing is EXHAUSTING.

But today was beautiful and I was happy.

Progress.



About a year ago I went for my six month dental visit. I was about twelve weeks pregnant and happened to mention it to my dental hygienist, Selena, before she started my cleaning.  A weird side effect of pregnancy is that your gums bleed when you brush, and I wanted to give her a heads up.

We chatted about the normal pregnancy stuff.  How I was feeling.  Whether I thought it was a boy or a girl.  What we were hoping for.  All the nomal chit chat.  When my dentist came in to check everything out, he said with a smile, "well, let's try to get you back in here one more before the baby comes for your next six month appointment, okay?"

I made my appointment for the end of August.


About six months ago I went in for that August appointment.  I was at the lowest of low points.  My son had died.  My relationship was over because of it.  I was in between homes and living out of boxes.  Looking back I probably should've just cancelled the appointment, but I guess I wanted to try to maintain some sense of normalcy for myself.  Who knows for sure.

I was relieved when I got there and my hygienist, Selena, wasn't.  She was on vacation with her family and I had a substitute hygienist cleaning my teeth who didn't know me.  Didn't know anything about me.  Didn't ask any personal questions.

Whew.

The appointment was fairly routine, and the cleaning was simple.  As always, my dentist came in to check everything out after my cleaning.

I was lying all the way back, reclined in the dental chair when he came in.

"So, it looks like your teeth are still in great shape," he said.  I nodded, as he started poking around and inspecting my freshly cleaned teeth.  "Just remember not to brush to hard when you brush...you're gumline is showing some evidence of rough brushing, but nothing to worry about at this point..." he continued.

"I think you're good for another six months," he smiled at me, upside down from my vantage point.

I nodded.

"So how's the baby?  You must've just recently had the baby, right?"

I was still lying down in the chair, still has gauze in my mouth and wasn't prepared.  I knew he meant well.  He was just checking in, personally connecting with patients.  Something I normally admire about a healthcare provider.

But all I could muster up was a very tiny voice that said, "our baby died in April."  I couldn't explain anymore.  I stared up at the tiles of the ceiling, trying to will myself not to cry, but it was too late.  The tears rolled down the sides of my face and onto the floor.

He apologized.  Fumbled through something, I don't know what.  I couldn't pay attention.  I'm sure he felt horrible, but I couldn't even look at him.  The substitute hygienist quickly excused herself.  It just kept running through my head, our baby died in April. Our baby died in April. Our baby died in April.

I don't remember leaving the office, but I do remember sitting in the driver's seat of my car and weeping.  I was supposed to be in the very last weeks of my pregnancy.  I was supposed to be "nesting" and preparing the "any day now" arrival of my son.


But instead I was explaining to my dentist that my son was dead.



Last week, on Wednesday of course, I had my latest appointment.  When I arrived, I saw Selena behind the desk.  She motioned to me that she would just be a few minutes and I mouthed back for her to take her time.

I mentally prepared myself.  I reminded myself that I hadn't seen Selena in a year.  It was likely that she didn't know what happened to Reece.  It was very likely that she was going to ask.

"Nasrene? You can come on back."  The sound of her voice interrupted my thoughts.

I walked back to the exam room, and just like she always does, she reminded me, "there's a hook on the back of the door, if you'd like to hang your coat and purse."

I was hanging my coat up when it happened.  I was facing one side of the room, hanging up my coat, and she was facing the other side, looking through her notes. Our backs were to one another.

"The last time I saw you was a year ago and you were pregnant.  I know you've been here since, but I didn't get to see you.  Soooo....what did we have, a boy or a girl?"

I slowly turned and sat down in the chair, "I had a boy." I felt calm when I said it.

Her back was still to me, scanning through her notes, "wonderful! So how is he?  What's his name?"

There's always that moment.  That brief moment before you clue someone in on what happened.  That moment where you feel horrible that you are about to give them bad news.  It's weird, because it's YOUR bad news, so you KNOW that no one feels worse about it than you do, but you still badly for delivering the bad news just the same.  You know they're going to feel badly for asking once you tell them.  But they need to ask.  And you need to tell.

I've worked SO HARD on learning how to gently deliver this news over the past *almost* year.

"Our son was born prematurely in April, at almost 23 weeks gestation, and he passed away.  He was beautiful, though.  His name was Reece." I said it calmly and evenly.

She turned to look at me with a horrified look in her eyes, "I am so so sorry...I...I didn't know...I just.."

"It's okay," I told her with a small smile.  "Well, it's not okay that it happened, but it's okay that you asked."  I borrowed that line from a fellow babyloss mom, Meghan.  It's a good one that exactly conveys how I feel. (Thank you, Meghan.)

"Oh, okay, because I'm just so sorry. I just...I just don't know what to say," she stumbled.

"That's exactly it.  It's such an awful thing, there are days that I often don't know what to say, so I know. I know exactly how it feels to be speechless.  But I'm doing a little better these days, and I don't ever mind talking about him.  He was my son and I like to talk about him, even though I don't have much to go on."

With the ice broken, she asked me some questions, and I answered as honestly as I could.  She grabbed my hand and squeezed it.  I felt good to be able to talk about Reece.  She thanked me for being understanding with her, and for being willing to talk openly.

My appointment continued as usual.

I didn't cry.  I would've been okay if I did, but I didn't, this time.

My, how things had changed in six months.

Progress.


I left and didn't cry in the car on the way home. I had a little conversation with Reece in my head and thanked him for not only helping me to be a better mom, but a more compassionate person.

Life has been forever changed in the 45 Wednesdays since April 30th.  But there are still beautiful days, and happy moments.

Progress.

dear reece

Dear Reece,

Hi baby, it's your Mama.  I've been thinking about you so much this week, moreso than other weeks.  You've been on my mind almost every second of every day.  And today has been a rough one for me.  It's a weird thing, this grief thing.  There were about two weeks there, the past two weeks, where I felt really good!  And not to say I was healed, or fixed, or "over" the fact that you are not here with us...but I felt better about everything.  I could talk about you to strangers without getting upset.  I could diffuse awkward questions from people who had asked about you, but didn't know you had died, without making them feel uncomfortable.  I started to feel like I finally had a handle on this grief thing.

And then today happened.

Reece, there have been many days like this since you were born and died.  Days where I just.can't.function properly.  For no specific reason.  Days where I get overwhelmed with the simplest of responsibilities.  Days where things like going to a doctor appointment and giving my recent medical history wouldn't have broken me (like it did today).  Baby boy, I have lived through so many of these days and I am still here to tell the story, so I must be making some progress...but then days like today happen, and I feel overwhelmed and mercilessly sad, and I just can't shake it.

And I know I won't be able to just "shake it."  It doesn't happen like that.  There doesn't always have to be a trigger or a thing that happens to make this difficult for me.

It's difficult for me because you are not here, and I'm not able to see you grow up.  I miss you.  Your sister misses you.  She grieves in her own little way.  She still talks about and thinks about you and writes about you.  Though it's not always to me.  I think she doesn't want to upset me, like so many other people think.  But the reality is, I love when people talk about you to me. Or ask about you.  I miss you every moment of every single day.  You are never a bad reminder.  The only thing bad is that I didn't have more time with you.

I mostly think this week has been so tough because if you had been born at term, instead of prematurely, we would've been celebrating you turning six months old this week.  I so distinctly remember when your sister Sadira turned six months old.  I wonder if you would be doing some of the same things that she did at that age.  I wonder if you would be sitting up like she did, or rolling (she never did).  I wonder what your laugh would sound like, and what color your eyes would be.  Would they still be blue like your dad's, or would they have turned brown like mine?  At this point you would be smiling big giant smiles.  Smiles that would be big enough to see your dimples.  (And I know you would've had dimples).

These are the things that I miss and wonder about.  I will always count in my head how old you should be, what you should be doing, and how we should be spending our days as a family.  I wonder what foods you would've tried, which ones you would like and which ones you would hate.  I can only imagine the funny faces you would make to let us know if you DIDN'T like something.  That was always one of my favorite things Sadira did when she was your age.

I wonder if you would've been like Sadira and slept through the night at a crazy early age, or if you would still be waking me up at night.  Just so you know, I wouldn't have minded if you were here and waking me up at night.  I wouldn't have minded at all.

I still have most of your clothes, your crib, you rocking chair...all of the things that we bought just for you, but never got to use.  I was able to give some of your clothes away to some dear friends of mine who had baby boys about your age.  Not a bunch, but just a couple things.  That was very hard for me at first, but then I was glad that to see other baby boys wearing the things that I had so carefully picked out for you.

So many of your things have anchors on them.  Almost all, actually.

I don't know if it's a good or bad that I've held on to most of your things.  But I can't part with them.  It's all that I have to remember you.  The box of your cloth diapers that arrived in the mail two days after you died still sits in the top of the closet, unopened.  I can't open it, but I can't get rid of it.  These are the things I struggle with.

I hope you know how very loved you are, even if you are not here with us.  Your presence is so much a part of my life.  The people who know me the best make me so so happy when they talk about you!  A couple weeks ago I was talking to your Aunt Neda and she mentioned that she sometimes gets so sad thinking that she will not get to see you grow up.  And even though we both cried about it on the phone, my heart was singing with joy when she said that.  Because it means she remembers you and misses you too.  Same with your Aunt Tessa.  They miss you too.  Everyone does.

Reece, I would give absolutely anything to have you back here with me.  Absolutely anything in the world.  But the reality is, there is nothing I can ever do to make that happen.  I just hold onto my firm belief that there will be one day where I get to see you again.  I truly believe it, more than ever these days.

Sometimes people say to me, "you know he's always with you," and I want to believe that, baby boy, I do.  But the reality is, I'm selfish and I don't want you to be with me in that sense.  I want you HERE.  In my arms, in our home.  I want to hear you babbling, and shrieking, and saying "mama" and "dada."  I want to watch Sadira hold your little hands and help you stand.  I want her get grossed out at you because you blew out your diaper and you've become a giant mess.  I want you to keep me up all night because you've caught your first cold and you're stuffy and having trouble sleeping.  I want to be frustrated because you've started to wean yourself from nursing at six months like your sister did, and I have to resign myself to giving you formula because you prefer a bottle.

I want all of those things, and those things cannot be.  It's a tough fate to accept, sweet baby.  I love you and miss you every single moment of every single day.

I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living my baby you'll be.

Love,

Mama

to the friend whose friend grieves

A few weeks ago I asked my friend Lindsey if she'd consider writing a guest post for my blog.  Topic: anything related to helping a grieving friend through babyloss.  Deadline: anytime in 2015.  What she returned to me was this beautiful piece on empathy and friendship.  I wanted to save it for a week when I was maybe too busy to write a decent post, or feeling really uninspired on what to write about, but when she delivered this to me last Wednesday, I knew it would take all of my willpower just to make it to the next Wednesday to post.  

Lindsey, thank you so much for your words, for you love and support over this past year, and mostly for just showing up and being there. I don't think I could ever repay you properly, so I'll just bring you an endless stream of Berger cookies every time I visit Georgia.  Love you so very much, friend.



I'm writing to you, dear Friend Of A Grieving Person.  I'm sure you've got at least one grieving person in your life; if I've learned anything in the last year it's that there is no shortage of grief or pain in this world, and that grieving people are everywhere, disguised as “I'm ok” and “Thanks for asking” people.  Think for more than 10 seconds and I bet you've already identified in your mind who your grieving person is.  Maybe it's someone who lost a close family member?  A friend whose husband died tragically young?  Maybe, like me, it's someone who has experienced loss during pregnancy or a child's infancy.

A little background: I've been told that empathy isn't really my thing.  I made it nearly into my 30's without realizing that I was indeed pretty unacquainted with empathy.  Sympathy vs empathy, what's that even about?  Feeling sorry for someone doesn't come easily for me either so for a long time I figured it was all relative.  I'm sad to say that it's almost like I resigned myself to the thought that I'm good at other stuff, I don't have to be good at empathy.  Grief isn't something I've had much personal experience with either.  Three of my grandparents are still living.  I've never lost a close friend or coworker.  Truthfully, in sheer numbers, pets encompass most of the loss I've experienced in my life. I know now that there is no shortage of grief in my immediate circle of friends, and that grief is a pretty good teacher - empathy being the subject matter.  Part of me wishes I was still in the dark about both of these things, because the only reason I understand them at all now is because someone very dear to me experienced a loss that rocked me to my core.  I write these words to you now, Friend Of A Grieving Person, in hopes that I can shed some light on what the empathy journey is going to be like for you, if you are able to step inside your friend's house of mourning and open your heart to him or her.

***

 I never expected to receive a text like this:

 “Linds, terrible news.  The baby was born unexpectedly this morning at home, and he didn't make it.”

He didn't make it...

He didn't make it?

What?

I'll never forget what it felt like to read words that took the breath out of my chest and the sound out of my ears and how I just crumpled to the floor, clutching my phone and praying I was reading it wrong.

I wasn't reading it wrong.  My dear friend had delivered her perfect baby boy, unexpectedly, too soon, at home, and he died.  He died right there in her hands.  His whole little 22 week long life was lived inside his mama's body and outside in his mama's hands.  The beauty and gravity of that has been one of the comforts I have drawn when I think about him.  And I think about him often.

When Nasrene texted me that Reece had been born and died, it's not an overstatement to say that my world was rocked.  I have had other friends lose babies, and while it has been heartbreaking in a way each time I've heard of these losses, none of them came close to hitting me like Nasrene's loss.  Because you see, Nasrene is one of THOSE PEOPLE.  You know the ones... charismatic, inspiring, soulful, generous, successful, spirited, determined, pragmatic, kind, truthful, and most of all, a lover of life.  She has done everything and been everywhere and chased dreams and surmounted obstacles and she lives life, fully. She is one of a kind.  She is not someone who deserves to lose a baby.

But then, who deserves to lose a baby?  No one, of course.  It's just that if you've met Nasrene, you'd likely find yourself saying the same thing.  “What?  NASRENE lost a baby?  Not Nasrene!”  She seems to be a person totally capable of handling anything life could throw her way and at the same time the last person you would expect to have to experience loss and heartbreak because she is so full of life and love that you'd think it would just simply be impossible for them to happen to her.  And that is something I've discovered recently to be one of the cruelest ironies of life: that the people we love the most and find to the be strongest, when they experience loss and heartbreak and become broken, our world gets rocked and we kind of don't know what to do next. 

When Nasrene texted me those heartbreaking words, I tried to dig deep and find the “right” thing to say.  I sat there for a minute or two, and finally texted back something like “Oh no. No no no.  I'm so sorry.”  I bet that helped a lot, right?  Like me being sorry and wanting to deny it happened would be helpful.  I'm so glad she was able to hear that I was trying so hard to say something, anything that would express what I felt, since my words were sorely lacking at the time.  What she wrote back floored me:

“Can I call?”

Gulp.  Of course she could.  Gah, I wanted nothing more than to hear her voice and be reassured that my beautiful strong friend wasn't broken, that she was going to be okay, that this was not the life wrecking event I knew it to be.  So of course I said yes.  And then I ran and locked myself in my room so my kids couldn't bother me while I waited for her to call.  And then I prayed, awkwardly:

“Please God, don't let her call until I finish this prayer.”

And then the phone rang.  Ha, that God, what a kidder.  I've gotten to know Him a lot better since that day.

I answered.  We didn't talk long.  It didn't take long for me to realize I was utterly unable to know what to say, and so we just cried.  We just both cried, sobs for the baby, sobs for the distance between us, sobs for the fact that we both knew this thing that had happened had broken something in Nas that was going to take a long time, maybe forever, to heal.  The last thing I remember saying to her, was an answer to her question, “How am I going to survive this?”  All I could say was “I don't know, but I do know that you will.” 

I've known all along that she would.  But I had no idea what the journey really looks like.

***

I've been a doula for about 5 years now, and have met many mamas who have lost a baby along the way.  It usually comes up casually when we are talking about how many kids they have, what were their births like, etc.  Baby loss moms are always so gracious with those of us who don't know what we're talking about: “Oh, you lost a baby? I'm sorry to hear that.  I've never had a miscarriage.” “I'm glad to hear that.  It's very difficult.” “I bet.”  Loss and grief and healing and the journey therein are very much misunderstood by those of us who haven't experienced them, something I've painfully come to realize over the last year.  I was utterly unprepared for it when Nasrene lost her baby.  Nasrene and I have been friends for close to 7 years now, and we had really bonded a lot over the course of her pregnancy.  Lots of text conversations about appointments, milestones, symptoms, complications, etc.  The usual “friends who are in the having babies stage of life” stuff.  But because Nasrene is such a special person to me, I really came to love that baby she was carrying because I knew he was going to be something special.  First of all, how could he not be, being Nasrene's child?  But from the start I just knew this kid was going to be a big deal.  He turned out to be a big huge major deal and not at all in the way I expected.  Reece taught me about empathy and grief.

Empathy, when you strip away all the dictionary definitions and anecdotes and get down to the bottom line, is what happens when you feel someone else's feelings as if you were experiencing them yourself.  It's the tight feeling in your chest when someone tells you their bad news.  It's the ache in your belly when you see that someone you love is hurting physically or emotionally.  It's the cold chill you get when someone tells you about their terrifying experience.  It's the experience of being heartbroken over something that didn't even happen to you.  And when it happens to someone that you care for a lot, the empathy response is amplified in a way you might not have been ready for if it's the first time it's happened to you.

I've been sad for people before.  I've cried tears for people before.  I have never, before Reece, been so sad or cried so many tears for someone else that my daughter felt compelled to draw a picture of a purple flower to cheer me up, and hang it above the toilet in my bathroom, because that was where I kept ending up sitting to cry so I wouldn't have to keep explaining to my family why I was crying again.  I have never walked around in such a long lasting emotional fog, or looked at the baby asleep in the crib and felt guilt that my baby lived and someone else's didn't.  Not even the most shocking news stories affected me like this loss.  I was consumed.  I started my period a week early, on the day I got the news that Reece was gone.  Even my uterus couldn't handle the onslaught of emotions I was feeling with the new thing called empathy in my life.

When your friend loses a baby, you struggle to think of anything you can do to help.  You know that anything you do is not enough, because enough would be getting her baby back.  You know you want to help, but you know the help you can offer is so very lacking.  But you do it anyway because that's what we women do, we do something - anything - whether it will really help in the end or not.  So, in your inexperience, you put your game face on and you take her a bottle of wine, and trashy magazines, and chocolate, so she can escape her pain for 5 minutes by staring at glossy pictures of “Sexiest Man Alive: Bradley Cooper” and thumbing past “Who Wore it Better?” comparisons and you try to make small talk and ask if the nurses were nice and who was the doctor and the whole time you are sort of panicking because oh my gah you don't know what to say.  You want to coo over her baby because you want him here, and not gone, but the only thing you can do is choke back the tears when she asks you if you'd like to see the pictures the hospital took, and you say yes because you do, you really really do.  You want your friend to be wearing baggy maternity pants and the hospital mesh panties because she just went through a 41 hour labor and birth, not because she had to be induced to deliver a baby who would never get to celebrate his own birthday.  And you want to say everything, all the right things, and in the end the best thing you can do is just sit and stay and listen and not be scared of her grief.  I am so very grateful that the mama of a precious baby boy named Jeremiah shared him with me.  Jeremiah was born into heaven a few years ago, and his mama taught me the value of just being a friend who is willing to enter the house of mourning.  I wish I could go back to when he was born and be better for his mama, but I didn't know then what I know now, and his mama forgave me for it just like so many other baby loss mamas have forgiven so many other clueless friends. 

Empathy to me now means taking a portion of someone's pain and carrying it around inside your own heart.  Doing this probably doesn't make them hurt any less, but maybe it makes the burden feel a tiny bit lighter to have two people carrying it instead of one?  I don't really know.  I hope so. 

Empathy to me now means thinking before I speak.  This is a major shortcoming of mine.  I never realized before Nasrene's loss how people just say things, words words words without thought thought thought.  What is the saying?  Listen twice as long as you speak?  Something like that? I probably wasn't listening when the person was trying to explain it to me.  How many times have I just let a trite cliché roll off my tongue when someone has opened their heart to me?  Tried to tell me something really important and I respond with something dismissive?  It's been largely unintentional on my part, but entirely regrettable.  Reece's death taught me that words matter.  It matters what you say to a grieving friend.  It matters that you measure your words when they tell you the thoughts and feelings coming from the grief darkened depths of their heart. It matters that you try and say the right thing and also that you realize that you don't always have to have something to say.  Out of the heart the mouth speaks, and empathy is a heart condition.

Empathy is what makes you cry, late at night, when you are laying sleepless in bed and it suddenly occurs to you to count up the number of women you personally know that have lost a child.  And when the number hits the double digits you feel such a wave of grief come over you and you wonder how?  How do they do it?  How do they all get up every morning and tend to kids and jobs and husbands and not just stay in bed and cry?  How do all these walking wounded mothers keep putting one foot in front of the other?  You want to understand it and at the same time you are completely terrified that by letting the thought of a lost child of your own enter your consciousness.  Do those of us who haven't lost a child really mean it when we say we wish we understood what it felt like?  I'm not sure we do.  But empathy makes it possible for you to take that tiny slice of hypothetical heartache and hold it for a minute and pray for the mothers whose babies are not with them anymore.  And your tears dry and you fall asleep and wake up the next morning and are able to bound out of bed like it's any other day.  But empathy tugs on your heart again and reminds you that it's Wednesday and that means there's a mama in Baltimore who is sitting, watching a clock, and waiting for the day to start.  It is not any other day for so many mamas, and you wish there was something to be done or said to turn back the clock so they were able to have just one more day with their baby.

Empathy is what makes you refuse to delete your 1 gigabyte of text messages from your grieving friend, even though your phone is locking up and you can't store more than a handful of pictures, and you can't download the new Taylor Swift song until you clear up some storage space.  You feel like deleting those messages would be a betrayal, like not being able to scroll back to the day it all happened and remember Reece's birthday in details would somehow mean you are letting him go into the past, permanently.  Of course, time is going to march on with or without those text messages, but words mean something and if you can keep finding unused apps to delete, you aren't letting those messages go.  Then the day comes when you carelessly swipe left and you cry because they're gone, but you realize almost immediately that it's not over.  Your friend is still there on the other end, missing her baby.  The text messages won't stop coming in, because grief isn't something with an expiration date.  Empathy reminds you that you are still needed, and makes you almost relieved to get a “today is hard” message from her because you know when she's talking, she's healing.  And you really really want her to be healed because she deserves to not have to live brokenhearted forever.

Empathy has made it possible for me to accept teaching and correction.  I can't even begin to tell you how many times, how many “aha!” moments there have been in the last 10 months when Nasrene has said something and it suddenly clicked for me, bringing to my attention something hurtful I have unknowingly done or said to some other grieving person.  I am so thankful for these hard lessons.  I don't want to be the bull in the china shop.  I don't want to keep thoughtlessly speaking in canned quips and quotes.  I don't want to be too scared to apologize when I do slip up.  I want to develop the courage to say “I'm sorry – that was thoughtless.”  I don't want to be the idiot stranger in the grocery store who asks personal, probing questions under the cloak of manners.  Nor do I want to be the friend who avoids hard topics, afraid of reminding someone of their lost loved one.  How ridiculous is it, really, that we all are so accidentally self centered to think that us saying something would be the only reason they remember their baby died?  That's truly ridiculous when you think of it.  I know now that most people who are grieving a loss would rather you cry with them about the hard stuff than waste breath prattling on about stupid stuff.  Empathy has injected a great deal of perspective into my life, and I'm so grateful.  At the same time I wish so acutely that something much less tragic had been capable of catching my attention years ago.  I wish I could've known.  I wish I could've been prepared. 

Probably the strangest thing about empathy and walking alongside someone in grief is that I battled guilt along the way.  I am not given to a guilty conscience usually, so this was new territory for me.  I felt guilty that my baby lived.  I felt guilty that I didn't understand.  I felt guilty for feeling so sad.  I wondered if I was somehow wrong to be taking someone else's loss so personally, like maybe I was developing Munchhausen syndrome.  I felt guilty for the time I spent crying, like I needed to toughen up and be strong for my friend.  All this guilt demonstrates to me now just how little acquainted I was with empathy.  I feel certain that there is little a grieving person wishes for more than to just feel like someone else understands.  I can't offer a grieving mom the same solidarity as another grieving mom can – the sorority of baby loss Nasrene has written about makes a lot of sense to me now.  I can't say “I understand” and be 100% honest.  But what I can say is that “I can imagine how you feel.”  Because I really can.  I have imagined it, and it's terrifying, and I never want anyone to walk this path alone.

Empathy, if you are “a do-er” like I am, spurs you to action.  You want to DO something.  You want to FIX IT.  It takes you about .03 seconds to realize that a) there is nothing you can do to fix it, and b) that isn't going to stop you from trying to think of ways to make it suck less.  If you are a do-er friend or sibling or coworker of someone who is grieving, I have a secret for you:  the best thing you can do is just show up.  Show up and show love.  You might be nervous, you might be lost on what to say, you might be scared that you will do the wrong thing.  Love covers a multitude of wrongs and your grieving person will not begrudge you some mistakes along the way.  Just show up.  There will be so many people who won't show up.  I don't mean you literally have to show up on their doorstep; consider first whether your person is a private person and needs space.  But show up SOMEHOW, nonetheless, because it doesn't even have to be a physical in person showing up.  Answer the phone.  Respond to the text.  Write an email.  Send a card.  Send a meal.  Make contact with a local friend of your friend and find out how you can help her help your friend (follow?  Hope so, haha.).  Just. Show. Up.  There will be so many people who don't show up.

This has probably read like a stream of consciousness essay and I'm okay with that.  Grief is a messy process and experiencing secondhand grief makes even less sense at first.  I'm also relatively new at the empathy thing and my description here may be sorely lacking.  But in an attempt to summarize I want to say this, to you, Friend Of A Grieving Person:

You cannot possibly overestimate what a show of empathy will mean to your grieving friend.  In fact, at some point in the journey, you will feel embarrassed by how little effort it really took to show them love, and you will wish so acutely that you had not wasted so much time being consumed by your own first world problems in the past.  You will find immense personal satisfaction in the act of empathy, and it will open a window in your heart you didn't know was nailed shut.  Embrace it.  The world and your friend need you and your open heart.  Get past the guilt of lacking grief in your own life and be a person that shows up.

***

Nasrene, what you have taught me in the last 7 years of friendship is that two people who are polar opposites can be not just friends, but also kindred spirits.  We've crossed a lot of bridges and watched water run under each one of them.  I have had some of the best and most memorable times, cackling with you around campfires in Indiana or under a carport while a Persian grandpa taught me how to eat crabs.  I can think of no one with whom I would rather share a glass of wine or spend a Crocker Springs morning.  I am here for the long haul, girlfriend.  And though I would never ever have wished upon anyone a year like 2014, I am so incredibly awed and thankful for all you have survived.  You and your baby boy have a place in my secondhand broken heart forever, and it is to both of you that I owe a debt of gratitude.  Because on the morning of April 30, 2014 empathy was born in my heart and I was able for the first time to see the world through its filter.  It has changed me.  Thank you for having the courage and patience to let me travel alongside you in this journey.  Asking me to write about it here is a gift I don't deserve and I hope I have managed the words. 

If this were a text message I would end it with a heart and an anchor, for Reece.

the pendulum swing

It's a weird thing, the pendulum swing.

Like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, my emotions could swing quickly from one side to the other.

Tick tock, tick tock.  Sad happy, sad happy.

Within the first weeks after Reece's birth and death my emotions were all over the place.  Well, they were mostly in the messy heap on the floor, a combination of anything bad and sad you could think of.  It was confusing and sad and scary and just a jumble of feelings and emotions spurred on by postpartum hormones.  One minute I was "okay," the next minute I couldn't stop the tears from falling.

It was as if my emotions had a mind of their own.  I couldn't control them.  I couldn't control my baby from being born early.  I couldn't control him from dying.  I couldn't control anything.

Everything was all over the place, especially my emotions.  But I was mostly sad.  Terribly, woefully sad.

I was lucky that I had so many people around me who loved me and wanted to help me.  They surrounded me.  They came over.  They sent dinner.  They invited me out.  They sent me beautiful things to remember Reece by.  They offered to do anything.  The ones who were out of state checked on me constantly.  They listened to me vent, and cry.  They created beautiful things for me. They did acts of service in Reece's honor.  So much good.  They loved me.  Friends, family, all of them.

I was lucky in that regard and I felt it.

I would feel so lucky and happy and grateful that I had these wonderful people who cared about me and my family in my life, and for a moment I would be flying high....

...until...

I remembered.  The reason all of these kind things were happening for me was because something awful happened.  My baby died.  And though all of these kind, loving, wonderful family members and friends want to help me, the only thing that I really truly want---for my baby to be alive again---is something that they cannot give me.  Since they cannot do that, they are trying their best to do everything and anything else.  But the bottom line is they cannot fix this. No one can fix this.

My baby is dead.

And so I come crashing down.  And that immense, profound sadness is sitting there at the bottom waiting for me. The minute I hit the bottom it cloaks me with its shroud of grief.  Breathing becomes difficult because there is pressure in my chest.  The pressure eventually erupts into my head and the tears start.  The tears lead to sobs.  The incredible sadness just washes over.  Surviving becomes the goal.  Functioning becomes an impossible task.

When that cycle was finished?  Rinse and repeat.


This is what my life became.


In May, one month after Reece died, a few of my out-of-state friends came in town, and we all got together, with some of my closest local girlfriends.  A select few of the many who were helping put me back together all gathered, on the same weekend.  It was one of those moments when you look around and see the faces surrounding you and feel so LUCKY to have THIS group of friends, all in the same place at the same time. Friends from different circles were meeting one another and saying, "oh! Nas has told me all about you!" but now they were MEETING in PERSON, and it was just awesome!  They were all there to support me, to rally around me, and to love me.  But in the process they became friends, and it was just a perfect weekend.

I was flying so high after that weekend, I knew a crash was inevitable.  Because that's just how this grief thing works.

The pendulum swings far right, and then swings far left.

I remember saying, "it's almost better when my emotions stay in neutral. Maintain equilibrium. Don't get too happy, don't have too much fun, because grief will make you pay."

It's always there, looming in the background.  Waiting for you to have a day where you have fun and actually feel happy instead of melancholy. And then when it's over, it's waiting for you.  The bear is always there, ready to remind you of your reality.  To mock you because you actually allowed yourself a moment of reprieve.

"You were having fun? Oh good for you. Because I'm hear to remind you that your baby's dead.  How does that feel?"

There comes the wave of emotions. It's as if you almost forgot for a second, and life was back to "normal."  But you can't fool grief.

Stay in the center. Only slight deviations to the left and to the right. Try to limit the emotional motion...not too happy, because then swwwwwiiinnnggg!  Back over to the left you go.

And then you add a little guilt into the mix, just for good measure.

"You were enjoying yourself, weren't you?  So strange, considering your baby is dead. You really shouldn't be having any fun at all now, should you?"

Tick tock, tick tock.  Sad happy, sad happy.


This has been my balancing act since April 30, 2014.  I've become so expert at this that I've come to anticipate it.  When I went away for a fun girls' weekend in Indiana back in October, I knew it would happen.  I enjoyed every moment with my friends. And even when some unexpected dramatics happened in the group and I felt myself getting sucked in and wanting to "fix" things, I thought to myself, "nope, let it go and deal with it later. Have your fun now, because you'll have to pay for it next week."  It's inevitable.  So I kicked back and enjoyed myself, because I knew the pendulum would swing back to the left.  It always does.

I came home and crashed hard, coming off the high of such a good weekend.  I spent two full days just going through the necessary motions, and cried tears I didn't even know I had left.  Had to deal with that pendulum swing.  It's the nature of the beast.

This past weekend I went away to visit my dear friend. Shannon.  She's one of the friends who came to be by my side back in May when I needed it the most.  She's one of the friends who has done everything she could to help put the pieces of me back together.  She's one of the friends who doesn't get sick and tired of me, and my grief process, no matter how many times I break down and need a little extra.

Sadie and I trekked up to Connecticut despite the impending snow storm to get some time in with Shannon.  After a rough two weeks, and a few awkward conversations with friends who don't really know how to handle "babyloss Nasrene," time with Shannon was just what the doctor ordered.

We laughed, we ate, we drank, we did crafts with the kids, we ate, we drank, we got snowed in, we ate, we drank.  All good stuff.  With Shannon I can say stuff  like, "When I was pregnant with Reece..." and she doesn't recoil.  I don't have to watch what I say for fear of making her uncomfortable. I can just TALK about anything.  And I can say Reece's name in conversation, and she'll say it too. Without worrying that she's bringing up something sad, because she knows it means so much more to me that he is remembered, instead of ignored.  It was such a good weekend for ME, that I knew that the pendulum would undoubtedly swing back to the left when I got home.

Inevitably it happened last night.  On the eve of another Wednesday without Reece, I put Sadie to bed and I could feel my chest tightening up.  I could feel it start to come over me again, threatening to make this Wednesday even more difficult that they already are.  "You enjoyed yourself too much this weekend.  You didn't grieve enough, and now I'm going to make you pay," it seemed my subconscious was telling me.

I put myself to bed early to avoid a rocky night, but I woke up not feeling any better.  It seemed like it was just sitting there beneath the surface, this feeling of overwhelming sadness, just waiting for its opportunity to come out and derail me.

I may seem extra cautious on days like this.  I don't engage in casual conversations as freely.  Too worried that something might come up that I'm not prepared for. "How many kids do you have?" is usually one that can be a trigger on a day where I'm feeling particularly fragile.  And on a day like today where there is sadness just sitting under the surface I was particularly on edge.

I got to work today and went about my day and a few hours in, I heard something that I normally don't hear in the office--a baby cry.  And more specifically, the cry of a newborn.

Was I hearing things?

No, there it was again.

I got up from my desk and walked out of my office and around the corner and saw my co-worker and her beautiful baby boy.  The same co-worker who hugged me and cried with me, her pregnant belly sandwiched in between us, on my first day back to work after my own maternity leave.  She is coming back to the office from her maternity leave next month and she stopped in with her baby to say hello to everyone.

As I stood there and saw her holding her tiny son, I knew this moment could make me or break me today.

So I walked up to her and hugged her and smiled.  Kissed her cheek and told her how good it was to see her.  Touched her son's tiny head and told her how beautiful and perfect he was.  Asked her what day she would be back.  Told her that I looked forward to seeing her.  She was starting to get emotional, and she said we'd talk again soon.

I didn't cry.  I didn't lose it.  I kept it together.  I was genuinely happy to see her.  And her baby IS beautiful and perfect.  If there was ever a day for me to lose it, it would've been today, when those emotions are just sitting beneath the surface waiting to bubble over.

But I didn't let that happen. I'm glad I went up to her and hugged her, instead of taking the easy road of running back to hide in my office.

And although the pendulum still swings, and I'm still feeling the repercussions....I feel like today was a tiny victory.

 

not everything happens for a reason

"Everything happens for a reason."

Do you believe it?

Most of us have said this at some point or another.  I know I have, many times.  It's usually said at a time when comfort is needed.  When something not-so-awesome has happened, and we want to encourage someone (or ourselves) that things will get better.

We say it as reminder to stay positive.  We believe it because we are hopeful.


"Everything happens for a reason."

It means, don't worry.  This didn't work out, but that's because something bigger and better is around the corner waiting for you. One day, you'll look back at this and be GLAD it happened.  One day you'll be GRATEFUL.  One day, the mystical "reason" at the end of that sentence will reveal itself and you will be standing there, stunned in your moment of clarity, as it becomes ABUNDANTLY clear...."THIS is why THAT happened!"

There will be an aha moment.

Because surely this hardship has happened to get you where you are destined to go.


"Everything happens for a reason."

We say it when our best friend didn't get into their first choice college.  Or we didn't get the job we really really wanted.  Or when a friend is crying on our shoulder, sad that their relationship just ended.

Don't worry, best friend, you'll get into another school, and you'll probably love it even more.  You may meet a life changing professor and completely change your major and future career path and make tons of money in your newfound career passion! REASON!

Don't worry about that job, just be patient and steadfast and you'll get another offer.  And then six months down the line you'll get a sudden promotion you weren't expecting, and it'll be wonderful! SEE? REASON!

Don't worry about that guy, he was an asshole and didn't appreciate you.  When you least expect it, you'll meet someone even better who will sweep you off your feet and fall head over heels in love with you.  THERE'S THAT REASON!


"Everything happens for a reason."

We believe this SO WHOLE HEARTEDLY, because usually when enough time has passed we find it to be true.  In the best of scenarios, we did get a better outcome in the long run.  Or we can at least convince ourselves that we did.  "The contract fell through on the house I really wanted, but this one that I did buy has turned out to be better than I expected and it's in a great neighborhood, so yeah...maybe I didn't want that dream house in the first place."  Regardless, we receive our emotional validation that we were correct.  In the worst of scenarios, we just forget.  Forget that we used this line as a coping mechanism.  Maybe the predicted reason happens, maybe it doesn't...but the line gave us comfort at a time that we needed it and we've since moved on and have forgotten that we were so upset in the first place.

"Everything happens for a reason."

It was shortly after Reece died, and I was on the phone with the short term disability company.  Yet another time I had to explain this awful story to a complete stranger.  The call was concluding, and I could tell that the woman on the other line was struggling with what to say and how to end our call...and that's when she said it.

"Again, I'm just so sorry about your loss, Ms. Mirjafary, but you know what they say...everything happens for a reason."

Say wha?

I'm not sure how I responded.  I'm pretty sure I didn't.  Or if I did it was an "okay, goodbye." Because in the past this phrase provided me comfort...but this time, it provided me...confusion.  I wasn't offended in the traditional sense, but I was just moreso confused as to how there could be any good reason that could validate my baby dying.  I probably sat there stumped for a good hour trying to think of it.

Maybe it was to say that something must've been wrong with Reece for him to be born prematurely.  (There wasn't, it was just a fluke thing that he was born early) but maybe that's what she was getting at...and if so....REALLY?  It happened for a reason?  What, maybe down the line he was predisposed to be a serial killer?  I'm not really sure how that hypothetical is comforting.

Now let's consider the case was that there WAS something "wrong" with my baby (and I say that very tongue in cheek). Let's presume that maybe he had a genetic disease, or one of the trisomys.  I dare you to ask any parent who's lost their child to a genetic issue like that if they were relieved that their child died.  It's basically saying, "eh, you didn't want that kid anyway...there was something wrong with him."  Again..to which I say, REALLY?  I've connected with many babyloss parents through this journey, and a number of them had children with genetic disorders. And I assure you not a single one of them is glad or "relieved" that their baby died.

Let's take this a different route. Let's say someone experienced babyloss and then goes on to get pregnant again and have a healthy baby.  One could make the argument that since the parent NOW has a healthy baby (which of course, they love), then they must be GLAD that previous pregnancy didn't work out because if it had, they wouldn't have their current child.

Now I haven't experienced this myself, but I have a dear friend who had a baby around the same time I was due with Reece.  And this baby boy was her "rainbow baby," a baby born after a loss.  And the reality of it is, if either of her previous pregnancies had resulted in a healthy baby, her current baby would not be here. That is a fact.  And the conflicted guilt is something she continues to struggle with.  Her most recent words to me were, "I am having hard time.  I feel so much guilt, as if continuing to grieve for this loss is somehow wishing my healthy son away, since he never would have arrived if either of his siblings had lived.  I don't know what to do with that...it makes me feels like such a bad mom.  Like I don't deserve him."

Would you feel comfortable saying to her, "Everything happens for a reason! Your other children died so you could have this one!"  Would you really believe that?  Would you expect her to?

I can't believe that.

I spent months and months and MONTHS trying to figure out what "reason" I was supposed to glean from this experience.  And the answer is....there is none.

There is no reason.


"NOT everything happens for a reason."

It's easier to understand this when you've undergone a personal tragedy.  Because in our society we rely on this concept that things happen for a reason so much to help us get through difficult times.  But when giant life changing tragedies come our way, it becomes really difficult to see what kind of lessons we're supposed to be learning.  When real hardcore earth shattering situations come along and rock our foundation, it feels cruel to think there is some sort of greater lesson that we are being taught. It feels horrible to think that God would find it necessary to make my child die in order to reveal to me some reason later down the line.


"NOT everything happens for a reason."

There was a local story not too long ago of an enormous home that caught fire in Annapolis and killed all six people inside.  Two grandparents and four grandchildren were all killed when a Christmas tree caught fire.  Would you be able to say that this happened to teach us all about how Christmas trees can spread fire and cause tragedies?  We know that already.  Why would we need a lesson at the expense of six lives?  That is too trivial a lesson to be taught at such a cost. I don't buy it.

There is no reason.

While there may be an explanation as to how or why something happened, that cannot be depicted as some cosmically linked reason.

Sometimes it's simply systematic causation...one thing which happened to cause another and then another.  An unfortunate chain of events.  Not necessarily that there is some great lesson that must be learned, or force ourselves to try to find amidst a cloud of grief.

There are tragic and horrible things that occur all over the world.  There are wars going on right this moment. Innocent people who just happened to have been born in war torn areas can wake up one morning and have a bomb dropped on their head.  Are they supposed to generate some deeper meaning from this? Of course not, they can't. They're dead.  Could you walk around their war ravaged town, full of death and desolation and in good conscience say, "well...I guess this happened for a reason?"


"NOT everything happens for a reason."

There are children starving right this moment.  Would you look a starving child and say, "don't worry, everything happens for a reason...one day you'll get food to eat and you'll be really grateful for it!"  Of course not.  It's a ridiculous sentiment.

Obviously in these extreme examples it's easy to see evidence of the fact that not everything happens for a reason.  Sometimes people have shitty things happen to them, or they are born into shitty situations, or they have a shitty cross to bear, and it's no doing of their own...it just IS.  Sometimes bad things just happen.  And sometimes really bad things just happen to good people who don't deserve them.  But there is no greater lesson to be learned from that.  It simply IS.


"NOT everything happens for a reason."

It took me a really long time to accept this and get over the concept that there needed to be a reason for my son's death.  I struggled for months to figure out what I was supposed to learn from it and why God would do this to me. It's pretty useless to say things like, "Why did this happen to me, God?" but I will admit that I asked a few times.  I needed to know...what reason was I to take from this?  What lesson was I to learn?  What penance was I being asked to pay by giving up my son?  I struggled and struggled and struggled until I decided I wasn't going to waste my time trying to work through my grief and burden myself with the task of determining the greater lesson I was supposed to be learning.

Because there is none.


"NOT everything happens for a reason."

There is no reason my son died.  It's something that happened.

There is no life long lesson I'm supposed to be taught by bearing this grief.

Sometimes bad things happen to good people.

God is not punishing me.

God still loves me and is walking this journey with me.  I know it because I have this thing called hope.

This is simply a horrible thing that happened.

I can stop searching for a reason.



That is so FREEING.

buzzkill

This weekend I hung out with my friends Melissa and Jason and watched the Superbowl with our kids.  I am, admittedly, a rabid football fan, but I really had no vested interest in either team this year, so I really didn't care too much for the outcome.  Like most Americans, I chose to enjoy the halftime shows and the commercials more than the actual game.

(Especially with that ending.  I mean, c'mon.  Who throws on second and goal when you have Marshawn Lynch?  But that's a different discussion.)

I really enjoyed the halftime show, and even some of the commercials.  But I somehow missed the one that had lots of people talking later in the week.  The commercial that was dubbed "the worst commercial of the SuperBowl."

I'm talking about that Nationwide commercial. The one where the kid dies.

I'm not sure how I managed to miss this commercial, or maybe I just missed the actual ending of it, because I do remember seeing parts of it on the TV, but I suppose it happened to air at a moment that I was doing what I normally do with commercials---tuning them out.  So I didn't quite "catch" it in the moment.

But my Facebook newsfeed told me all about it.

"Way to go, Nationwide, way to be the SuperBowl buzzkill."

"Did Nationwide intentionally want to bring everyone down during the Superbowl?  Inappropriate!"

And even better...

"Just what I want to think about while I eat my nachos...dead kids.  Thanks Nationwide!"


I totally get it.  It seems "out of place."  And I've since watched the commercial, purposefully.  I saw it on one of those celebrity news shows that did a piece on the Best and Worst Superbowl commercials of 2015.

It was dubbed the worst.

The main reason why?  Nobody wants to think about grief and loss.

Especially not during the SuperBowl.


In the days since the big game I've seen the topic pop up on lots of babyloss blogs and sites for grieving parents.  Everyone has an opinion.

There are some that say, this is a necessary PSA.  And if you're bothered by it, you are not living in reality.  Well done to Nationwide for speaking up on an issue that is sometimes preventable.

There are others that say, why is this so strange?  For many people grief and loss are a huge part of their day, a reality that can often feel isolating from the rest of the world. Kudos to Nationwide for bringing it to the forefront.

Some others felt it was a painful reminder.  That there are so many people who have dealt with childloss or babyloss, why does it have to be thrown in their face and brought back up when they're merely trying to do something normal like watch the Superbowl, and "move on" in life, learning to live with their grief?  Thanks to Nationwide, for pouring salt in their wound.

And then there is a larger majority, made up mostly it seems, by people who've never experienced childloss or babyloss, who think it was completely inappropriate and poorly placed.  Not the time, not the place, and certainly not what people want to think about when they're watching a football game.

A Superbowl buzzkill.

There's no wrong reaction, I don't think.  But I do find that people react very differently depending on whether or not they've experienced a loss like this.

Surprisingly I don't have much of an opinion.  I'm sure the old me, who never thought that this kind of loss would happen to me, would've been very bothered by it.  I probably would've been one of those people who thought it was poorly placed because it's depressing and sad, and didn't fit into my neat bubble of what's supposed to happen in life.

Especially not during a commercial for the SuperBowl.

But now I watch it and think, "hmm. That's interesting that they chose that angle."

I don't feel particularly affected by it, but I do think that is has it's place.  Is it morbid?  Yes.  But so have been much of my thoughts since April 30th, 2014.  I'm not bothered by that.

Or maybe I'm just desensitized.

Buzzkill.


I do feel a bit of a kinship, though, to it's new reputation.  That of a buzzkill.


There used to be a time I didn't write about grief and babyloss.  And sometimes I really hate that I write about it.  Mostly I hate that grief has become such an active player in my life that I've had to learn to tackle it.  It would be lovely to block it completely from my mind, throw a smile on my face and just resume my old life.

But that won't work.

Because I had a child, and I think about him and who he would've been every single day.

And I miss him.

Talking and/or writing about it has simply become my vehicle.  And there's the other part of me that feels so much relief to be able to get the words out of my head and written down somewhere.  There's the part of me that feels alive and understood again when I connect with someone who tells me that they have felt the exact same way and can relate.

I love that I found my voice.  I hate that it needs to write about this.

I'm such a Gemini.


In the first few months after Reece died, I couldn't write about my grief, but I could talk about it.  And even when I didn't talk about it, it was all over me.  It was everywhere, it was all around me, and written all over my face.  It hung over my like a black cloud.

In the past few months, as I've actively tried to become more vocal, I've started to feel glimpses of my old self coming back again.  Seems ironic because now I'm actually WRITING about the things that plagued me over the past year, just as I feel like I'm making tiny improvements. I do believe that writing has helped me to work through some of the things that I just let fester inside of me after losing Reece.  Now I can have a few "good days" in a row, instead of  one bearable day sandwiched between a week's worth of awful ones.

But to say that I'm back to normal would be a lie.  Because I'll never be the same girl I was before this happened.

Sometimes when I share my blog I want to give a little disclaimer.  One that says, "Read with caution.  This is heavy stuff.  I've been known to write stuff that makes my friends cry.  I'm not trying to, it's just my way of dealing."

Or:

"You really don't have to read this if you don't want to, I just needed to write it out. Sorry to be a downer."

Sorry to be a buzzkill.


It happens in real life too...co-worker or friend is talking about their pregnancy and then I walk in the room.  They either awkwardly stop talking about it and quickly shift topics, or continue to talk about it and try their best to avoid eye contact with me.  I can almost hear their thoughts, "oh please don't let her bring up her dead baby, please please please....I just wanted to talk about the new nursery furniture I picked out."

You guys, I get it.  I'm not dumb.  It's okay.  I wasn't always on this side of the babyloss fence.  I know it's tough to navigate how to "deal" with a bereaved mom.  I know it's awkward to be my friend right now.

It's tough and awkward for me too.


Sometimes I want to say to my grief, "you know, I used to be a really funny person before you came along. I used to be the life of the party, and I had lots of friends who could be sarcastic and silly with me.  They didn't need to handle me gently like they do now, or constantly worry that they might say the wrong thing.  I didn't make people feel uncomfortable.  I didn't always blog about sad and scary things." 

I used to write about shoes (yay!), and camping (ugh), and trips in my city or visiting friends.  Even my crush on Ryan Lochte during the Olympics.  Sometimes I read my old posts and it's like I'm reading them with fresh eyes for the first time.  Damn, I was funny!

But now I write about how going to Target terrified me last year.  About how going to court to fulfill my civic duty filled me with dread.  About how I've made some wonderful friendships in the worst of circumstances.

Sometimes I get really pissed off that this is now my thing to deal with.

I don't want to be known for babyloss.  I don't want to be the one who has to explain how it feels from this side.  I don't want to write things that make people cry.

I don't want to be the buzzkill.

Thanks, Nationwide commercial.  We were just trying to enjoy the Superbowl.

Thanks, Nas.  We were just trying to make small talk.


The reality is, for me, I feel kind of the same way about my effect on people as I do about the commercial's effect on people.

Mostly...I kinda don't care.


Sorry if it ruins your lunch.  Sorry if putting yourself in my shoes for a moment ruined your day.  Sorry if it made you sad for a few minutes.  Sorry, not sorry.

But if for a moment you thought, wow, thank you for sharing that.  Maybe you're thinking, "I have a friend who lost a baby and I don't know how to relate to her."  Now I know what she might be thinking or feeling.  Or maybe you thought, I've felt these feelings before, but I never spoke out about it, because maybe you lost your baby at 13 weeks, 10 weeks, or 8 weeks.  And you didn't feel you had "the right" to grieve (you so do) because people didn't know yet, or you weren't that far along (doesn't matter, loss is loss).  Or maybe you had a loss 30 years ago and buried it deep in your soul and put on that brave face and moved forward in your life...because you didn't want to be a buzzkill to those who around you who love you.  You wanted to get better for them, even if you didn't feel better.

Sometimes life is really effing tough.

You can't always be the life of the SuperBowl party. 


But you can always have hope that one day you will laugh with reckless abandon again.  And it won't be a cover up to make people feel comfortable.  It'll be genuine.  And you'll smile not because you force it, but because it just happens somewhat involuntarily.  I know because I'm getting there.

Slowly, but surely.