by Band Back Together | Sep 16, 2010 | Anniversary Reactions, Baby Loss, Child Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS), Sudden Unexplained Death in Childhood |
{sigh} Yesterday was the 6 month anniversary of Robert’s death ~ he was 14 1/2 months old when he died. The past 6 months seem more like a year. I thought time dragged on when my husband Joe was deployed in Iraq, but that flew by in comparison to this. Not a day goes by that I don’t think to myself “Oh no, I forgot Robert at home.”
Or I look in the backseat of the truck & my heart stops because I think “I lost Robert in the store!!!”
Then I realize that he’s gone.
I flash back to the moment I found him laying so still in his crib, I knew in my heart he was already gone. There was nothing I could do.
6 months ago was the hardest day of my life.
Harder than saying goodbye to my husband while I was 9 months pregnant as he drove off on a bus late at night to get on a plane to go to war.
Harder than the day I had to go to the hospital, alone, straight from my OB appointment because they couldn’t find Robert’s heart beat.
Harder than the day Robert was born and the phone connection Joe was on in Iraq sucked and I couldn’t hear him half the time.
Harder than giving birth to Robert, without an epidural because he came so quick it didn’t take.
Harder than the 9 months I was home alone with 3 kids and a husband who was at war and having near misses at death almost everyday.
At 7:55 am on Sunday December 14, 2008 I went to get Robert up and ready for church. I picked my baby up out of his crib and I knew he was dead. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. Brianna was in our bedroom watching Playhouse Disney. She couldn’t know what was happening. I carried Robert into the living room, called 911 and pleaded for help.
I gave my baby CPR, knowing it was useless, waiting for what seemed like hours for the police to arrive, it was barely 3 minutes.
I handed Robert to the first officer through the door who actually was in Joe’s unit. He took Robert and another officer and paramedics came in. They tried to work on him, but I knew from the words they were saying it was too late. As soon as I had handed Robert to them I called Joe’s cell phone. He didn’t answer and I didn’t know where he was.
He had left at 4:45 am to take Kameryn to his hockey game. Joe’s phone was ringing, but then I realized, that I didn’t know what to say. I handed my phone over to another officer and said, “I can’t tell my husband. You have to talk to him.” I don’t know what he said, but thank God Joe was only around the corner. Joe barreled through the front door to find me sitting on the floor, sobbing.
Joe called his family to come over and they were at my house within minutes. I couldn’t get in touch with my parents, but finally, my best friend Heather and the police went to my parents’ house to tell them.
All I wanted was to get to the hospital to be with Robert but I had to answer questions. Joe called his LT at work, his 1Sgt from the unit. “God, we need to get to the hospital. Why are we still here?” was that all I could think.
Finally, they let us leave for the hospital.
They took us into a waiting room where we had to wait while person after person from the hospital and police talked to us. Thankfully, not long after we got to the hospital so did numerous people from Joe’s unit, our church, and people from Joe’s work. I was so overwhelmed by how many people came to help us. Much of the rest of the day at the hospital is still a blur. I remember pits and pieces of those hours but mainly I just remember being numb.
My Robert was dead.
What had happened? All the questions the coroner was asking me, that I had to tell the detective the same things I had told the police at the house, I just wanted to see my baby. “When can I see Robert?”
Finally, Joe & I could see him. Our sweet baby boy. All I wanted to do was lay next to him, my head next to him, smelling his hair. Bubby had the best hair, he was supposed to get a hair cut on Friday. I just rubbed his hair with one hand & held Joe’s with the other. Kissing my baby’s head, tears wetting it.
That is how I spent the day 6 months ago
by Band Back Together | Sep 14, 2010 | Baby Loss, Child Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Multiples Pregnancy |
You are going to have identical twin boys!
We thought we were in a dream, all the joys and fears at the same time. We got two cribs, two sets of every outfit (but in different colors), two swings, two of everything…except two identical boys.
We lost Jonathan James when he was 7 months (in utero). I was given the choice, but I never held him. I had to carry his identical brother Lewis Jordan, for an additional 7 weeks. He just was not ready to leave his brother until then. We knew about the extreme risks of twin-to-twin transfusion, how our surviving son would likely have severe brain damage as blood shunting causes terrible problems for a developing baby. We prepared ourselves for the very real possibility that our surviving son might not recognizing us, speak or walk.
We were destroyed.
I spent the next 7 weeks in a rocking chair in the nursery with TWO of everything; rubbing baby lotion on my hands and inhaling, trying to stop the sobs and the unearthly sounding wails that came from deep within my heart.
But I had another to worry about. Lewis. During all this turmoil, the grief over Jonathan could not be allowed to hobble me too badly, I could not let it, I had to be ready to care for the child that was alive and waiting to meet his parents.
Thank Christ the doctors were wrong about Lewis’ challenges. He was born by C-section on a cold January day, crying out when they removed him from his space. I know he cried out because they were taking him from his beloved brother, Jonathan. They thought it was because he was cold and the lights were bright. Fools.
His kidneys began to shut down 3 minutes after he was born. As they whisked him away from me, I demanded my husband leave my side and go with our son, to protect him, and promise to bring him back to me, healthy and safe.
The OB asked me if I wanted to see Jonathan, warning me that the body’s natural reaction is reabsorbtion, I asked only one question, “are you sure they were identical?” The doctor replied, “one sac, one placenta.” I replied with a heavy heart while still wide open on the operating table, “no, I already know what he looks like, just like his brother.”
Two hours later, my husband brought back our son, placed him in my arms and kissed my forehead. The doctors had stabilized him, no further medical issues had arisen and today he is a healthy, happy, wickedly intelligent nine-year old boy.
I will forever be happy that our son is healthy.
I also will be forever crushed that he does not have his twin brother.
I wish I could make the ache go away.
I wish that I was not jealous of other twins.
I will always wish that I had been strong enough to bring both of my sons into this world (though I followed every order from the medical establishment, I will always blame myself).
I wish I had my Jonathan.
by Band Back Together | Sep 10, 2010 | Baby Loss, Child Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss |
A little while after Charlie died, a girl I volunteered with at the Ronald McDonald House shared her idea with me about the grieving process. She had lost her 5 year old to Cancer a few years earlier so she had experience and was already a member of the “Moms of Angels” club.
She said grieving was much like a rock in your shoe.
And you can’t get it out. Can’t take the shoe off and shake it out. It is there and always will be.
At first it cuts into your heel and ball of your foot causing you to bleed and be in pain. Then after a little while, you can wiggle it around and get it into a spot where you can’t feel it too much.
But every now and then something will happen and make that rock get under the heel of your foot – causing you to bleed and be in pain. So you go through life with this rock in your shoe that sometimes causes you a lot of pain and sometimes is just “there”.
I thought that was very interesting at the time. And now I know that it is very true.
I attended a visitation for a friend’s stepdad about 5 years later at the funeral home where Charlie was. I remember our visitation almost too vividly. I remember greeting hundreds of people (seriously, like 500) – local friends and friends who had driven several hours or had flown in for our 24-day old baby’s funeral. It was very humbling. I had been in that room for various visitations over the last 5 years with very little pain. But tonight for some reason when I walked in the room, I felt physically ill. Like I might throw up. I remember feeling that way the first time I went in the church where we had his service (my home church) and that morning they just happened to have a baptism and sang “Jesus Loves Me”. Again, I felt physically ill.
You never know what is going to trigger one of those “Moments” and the moment might not make you cry and get all emotional or anything, but it puts a knot in your stomach and makes your hands shake and just makes you feel that rock in your shoe.
But I’ll be able to wiggle it back out of the way and go for a little while until it decides to get under my heel again. This is how we are able to go on.
by Band Back Together | Sep 8, 2010 | Anniversary Reactions, Baby Loss, Child Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss |
Ever since 2000 when our daughter Elli was born with life-threatening heart defects and nearly died three times the first three weeks of her life, I’ve experienced blindsides.
I wish I referred to the movie.
Blindsides are swift and completely unexpected emotional breakdowns, often experienced when sharing your story with a stranger or a group of strangers.
As the parent of a child with special needs, I have shared Elli’s story countless times with medical personnel, school staff, new acquaintances, and random strangers we’d meet out in the community. I have had the opportunity to share our story for some college classes for special ed teachers and therapists, and for potential donors to our hospital.
I never know how those presentations would go. Will a blindside slam me into a teary mush pile this time? Or will I be able to communicate clearly and strongly?
When Elli passed away a year and a half ago, the blindsides changed. They began striking at any time, in any place, doing anything or nothing at all.
Anything.
A wisp of a memory… her sister’s laugh that sounds exactly like hers.
A glimpse of a familiar-but-no-longer-visited place… driving past her aquatic therapy pool.
The scent of the hospital’s blanket warmer, so comforting after yet another general anesthesia.
The discovery of a long-buried personal item… her bath towel.
Anywhere.
…sitting at the piano in church on Sunday.
…driving down the highway.
…laying in bed, drifting off to sleep.
…watching a movie with my husband.
…waiting for my son’s school bus.
At first, they assailed me daily, even hourly. With time, less frequent and more unexpected… except in the fall near the anniversary of her death and in the winter near her birthday. Those are memory minefields.
At first, the pain was bitter, cutting deeply, exposing raw wounds. Now it’s more of a wistful dull ache, a pain of long separation, hidden under scar tissue and wrapped in hope of heaven one day.
Have you seen me? The random weeping girl in front of the yogurt at the grocery store? If you do, would you spare a tissue? I promise, if I run into you, eyes red, face puffy, I’ll dig one out for you.
Where’s the craziest place you’ve ever been blindsided? What helps you get through it?
by Band Back Together | Sep 8, 2010 | A Letter I Can't Send, Baby Loss, Child Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving |
[What to say when a friend loses a child is such a mystery. I was the mom at her daughter’s casket in the fall of 2008. So when a friend of mine lost her young son to a progressive fatal disease, I wrote her a letter somewhat like this. When my daughter died, I craved a letter like this.]
Oh my friend. My heart breaks that you find yourself here, where I have walked and wept. Every hour I lift you and your family in prayer, pleading with God to pour out grace and strength and rest over you.
I was so encouraged by the outpouring of support for you and your family at your child’s visitation and funeral. I well remember how exhausting that was, but how much the presence of friends both old and new holds you up in those initial days after. I pray that you drew strength from that love poured from so many who love you and loved your child.
Please consider me a willing listening ear to hear whatever you need to say, or to just sit in silence when the words won’t come. I’ve walked this dark road and would be pleased to walk it again with you, if that would help.
Even now, 21 months later, some of life’s moments still seem surreal. It’s like I step out of life and look at it in disbelief. Can this really be the life I’m living?
The day Ellie died I felt myself split in two. I remember riding in the ambulance with her and yet looking at the scene and thinking, “Is this really IT? Look at the way they are working on her. I think she is gone. Is this really happening? Is this really the way it’s going to end?”
And that numb detached feeling persisted through the funeral planning, the visitation, and the services. Whenever I’d step back into my life, I was saturated with sadness. I remember thinking that I had to figure out how to stop crying because it hurt too bad. My sinuses and eyes were swollen, throbbing, aching. Grief is a physical pain. So I would step back out when it got to be too much.
Ever so slowly, the crying slowed, though it will never stop completely.
Ever so slowly, I could move through a day a little more.
Grief is exhausting. I had no idea. I needed help with food preparation, clean-up, housework, laundry… for weeks. Every task took everything I had. Things I had done before without a thought took every ounce of concentration so that I didn’t leave water running or the stove on or milk on the counter.
At the same time, all those days I couldn’t figure out what was taking so much time and effort. Without Ellie and her needs, the days gaped empty. Again, another surreal element of that time. Those days finding your way through is so awkward. You feel the yawning emptiness in your family: Folding laundry and folding your child’s things for the last time, and then having one less pile of clothes. Their empty bed. Their silent equipment. I constantly looked for what I was forgetting, constantly counted heads because I wasn’t confident I could keep track of everyone anymore.
It took at least a month for my energy to return.
If I may offer a bit of advice? Many will say, “If there’s anything I can do…” Take them up on it. Mention the lawn that needs to be mowed, the dirty dishes, the vacuuming, the leaf-raking, the snow-shoveling, watching the kids so you can sleep, writing thank-you notes (I personally think that a grieving parent should never be expected to send thank-you notes.), doing laundry. It will give you rest and they will love to be of some small help to you.
And in the midst of crying your own tears and asking your own questions, your other children have fears and questions. They are worried for their parents. They make valiant efforts to understand death and funerals and where their brother or sister is versus where their body is.
I write in hope that knowing others have walked through this gives you hope. I hope that you can feel my arm around you as I weep with you.
Love and prayers,
Joy
by Band Back Together | Sep 6, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Child Loss, Coping With Losing A Child, Faith, Family, Fear, Grief, Guilt, Help For Grief And Grieving, Hope, How To Cope With Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Loss, Marriage and Partnership, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Romantic Relationships, Shame, Stress, Trauma |
As women, we have to learn to listen to our gut. {Even when it’s telling us something we don’t want to hear.} And in March 2010 my gut was telling me one thing – loud & clear – “You must turn this ship around or it’s going to sink!”
I know, right? Clearly, something I didn’t want to hear.
You see, my son was nearly killed in an accident in July 2009 and eight months later, the bones were healing, but I was still broken. And, something had to give. I was bending and bowing under the heavy load I was carrying & I had to make a choice. The first choice that would turn my life, this ship, around was telling my husband the truth. I had to tell him of the awful thoughts that would fill my soul and haunt my nights.
I had to tell the man I love how often I had pictured him dead or dying, with our beautiful, innocent, children at his side. I had to tell him of the times I lied and told him I was sleeping downstairs, when really? I was sitting in one of the kids rooms crying. Picturing them dead. There is no marriage course that prepares you for that conversation. No book that tells you what to say when you’re wife is losing her mind.
I am blessed. And he reinforced what my heart knew and my mind couldn’t comprehend when he hugged me and held me and told me that I needed to call a doctor. {I knew in my gut that this was what I needed, but it was nice to hear him say it.}
You see, I was dying a slow death at the hand of post traumatic stress disorder. At the time I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that anxiety and fear were ruling my life. I was not living with intent.
Post Traumatic Stress had taken over & changed the woman I had once loved. It had stolen my husband’s wife & my children’s mother. I am a firm believer that life shouldn’t be the same after trauma, I expect that. I accept that. But, I also knew that I was not living and I didn’t want to settle for anything less. When you believe in your heart that one of your children is dying, is going to die, may die…there are no books or blogs or words or friendships that are inspiring enough to settle your soul.
And, even after I tucked my boy away in a bed, EIGHT long months later…safely upstairs, without a wheelchair, after a long day of school and baseball practice, I couldn’t shake my spirit of those haunting thoughts. Those reoccurring nightmares, I had when I was awake.
Nighttime would creep up on me like a thief and steal any sanity I had managed to build up in my reserves for the day. It was always worse at night.
The blackness would slip under the door frame and suddenly I would grow weak under the urge to hold my children tightly and scream into the thick air. The thoughts that filled my head were not that of a “sane” woman. I no longer recognized the woman that replaced me when night fell. The fear of losing my loved ones began to grow…and grow…and grow…
I didn’t tell the therapist everything right away. But after a week of visits, I let it all go. I told him that I pictured my baby dying of SIDS every time I closed my eyes. I would sit in her room in the dark on the floor and use my phone to light up her face so I could watch her breathe. I would rock in her room through the night and cry. And torture myself with the thought of finding her lifeless in the morning. A thought that wouldn’t let me close my eyes.
The blanket the boy brought home from the hospital would trigger phantom day-dreams that would leave me shuttering. I could hear him screaming in the night, in pain, even after the pain was gone. I would lay awake at night and watch my husbands’ chest rise and fall with each breath. I would picture how badly my heart would/will hurt when he dies, I would think of losing my parents…losing my aunts. Death consumed my thoughts.
I couldn’t drive in my car without sobbing uncontrollably. Every slammed brake or rushed traffic light would leave me in a puddle of doubt and fear. I was convinced someone was going to hit me, hit us, kill my family…
And, I knew this wasn’t right.
There were times when my mind would convince my heart that I was better off dead, rather than face the sadness the future holds. I would pray to please let me die before my children, my husband…and at times, I would even think “before my parents.” I would remember the agonizing pain of the unknown – as my son was air-cared to the local Children’s Hospital – and I would pray that the demon of memory be taken away from me.
But, as I told my therapist of my thoughts & fears…as I spoke of the anxiety that chased me in the night…the fear seemed to find a place where it could lay dormant. And I was fine with that. For now.
It’s been just over one year since the accident. And I still know that the dormant monster is waiting. Lurking…
And, there are times when I have talk myself off the ledge. Times when I feel the anxiety creeping back in. I accept the fact that life will never be the same. I accept the fact that it’s not suppose to. And, I know that with that change comes baggage, that at times will be too much to carry. But I also know I can face this demon head on, with the help of my family & friends…and even my blogging community.
I am working hard to turn this ship around. To make up for the ground that has been lost. To find my way back to the shore of safety and maybe, just maybe, even learn how to live on the sandy, white beaches of satisfaction.
Someday.
