I miss him.

I miss him.

Not in that "man this sucks" way.

I miss him in the "oh my god, my heart shatters, my body aches, I am broken" way.

~~~

So begins my season of grief.  There isn't a single day since Colton died that I don't miss him.  He's always that little thought in the back of my mind.

As anyone who has lost someone they love knows, though, we have specific seasons of grief.  And so starts mine.

October really "kicks off" the season (for lack of a better term).  October brings Halloween, the first of many fun, happy, child and family focused holidays.  It is a day that I'll take my kids out and we'll laugh and joke and play.  And there will be a gap.  A missing puzzle piece.  There will be a soldier, Captain America, Hulk, Frankenstein ... missing from my group.  I will wonder what Colton would have chosen to be.  I will look at the hundreds of four-year-olds and think with yearning "that should be Colton".  I will think of his preschool party. Preschool.  He should be going now, into a classroom, preparing to start kindergarten next year.

After this passes then will start my loss period of grief.  A few weeks from now will mark the time of his shower.  The memories of my dear friends and their extensive effort to throw me the best party ever.  We celebrated him with so much joy and anticipation, not knowing just a few weeks later we would be crying and grieving. For some reason that's one of the hardest anniversaries.  I think I always still wonder how I didn't know. How I could have been so oblivious to what was going to come.

After this passes comes "the week".  The week that, in retrospect, I walked around denying to myself my son was gone.  I can tell you what I did every single day during that period.  Things that were said.  Moments of denial.  I can't tell you much of my life before or after, but those days are so clear. 

Then, of course, comes the day of the conversation.  The day I spoke the words I had been denying. 

"I don't remember". 

I told Brian I was going to the doctor the next day because things felt off and I didn't feel  Colton move.  And he asked "When did you last feel him".  I didn't remember.  Though, I guess I did.  Wednesday afternoon.  Yes, it was Monday by now, but it was last Wednesday afternoon. 

And then Tuesday. The monitor. Silence.  The ultrasound. Screaming. 

And Wednesday.

And Thursday. And silence.

I want this season to be over.  I want October, November, and December to just go by and be done. I want to get past all the painful days and sleepless nights.  I want these anniversaries, his "birth"day, his burial day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and his due date to just be behind me.  I want a reprieve from the pain, if just for another nine months until it starts all over again.

But isn't that the point? It will start all over again.  I will start my season of grief again next year. And the year after. And ever year until I leave this world and leave a season with someone else. 

I miss him.  I miss him so freaking much.  And I always will.

Bubby

Delaney has a delightful little voice and quite an impressive vocabulary for 15 months old.  Her favorite words are "cracker", "hi", "bye", "cookie", and "no".  And "bubby", for her favorite person in the world, her brother Logan.  Though they are 9 years apart they are inseparable.  Their love brings a smile to my soul and a giggle to my heart. 

Every morning Delaney wakes up asking for Bubby.  This morning I went to her crib and she kept saying Bubby, so I put her down to run off to the living room for morning snuggles.  But she stopped by my bed and pointed on top of the shelf and said "Bubby". 

My heart stopped for a second.  She was pointing directly to our Colton bear from Molly Bears (http://www.mollybears.com/).  I hadn't shared the bear with her yet, as she's too young to understand what it represents.  This beautiful bear was made to weigh exactly the same as Colton, 5lb 7oz.  He's beautiful and perfect and really brought me peace to receive and hold. 

I asked her "Do you want to see Bubby?" and she responded with a quick shake of her head, pointed to the bear again, and said Bubby.

I handed her the bear (which almost toppled her over at a quarter of her own weight!) and she hugged the bear so tight and said, in her sweetest little voice, "Hi".  She gave the bear a kiss, sat on the floor with it, and hugged it again. 

Somehow, I know she knows what that bear represents.  Somehow, I know her Bubby Colton is never far from her.

I hope to get a picture of them together soon and will share then.  Today, though, I just soaked up the love, the peace, and the joy from Delaney cuddling her "Bubby". 

Courage

The last few years have been a scary, roller coaster journey of dissecting the past, breaking down walls, building up character, and learning to be the most amazing ME I can be.

I have made mistakes, poor choices, and downright horrible decisions in my life.  I was in an endless wash cycle ... soil, soak, wash, rinse, dry, repeat.

When I got pregnant with Colton I thought my life was headed the right way. I had myself convinced the errs of the past were behind me, that life was good, and that *I* was healing.  I thought I was with the "right one" and that everything would be wonderful and bliss forever.

I was obviously still thinking like a child.

When Colton died, everything died.  And, while I regret a lot that happened, I am forever grateful for it as well.  I reverted to my "old" ways (were they really "old" or just buried) and I self-destructed.

And it was the best thing that could have happened to me.

Of course, not losing Colton. I would do anything to have my little boy back.  I miss him with every ounce of my soul and heart.  It took losing him, though, and losing myself, to be able to rebuild.

It really wasn't until I was pregnant with my rainbow that I started rising from the depths of my emotional and spiritual grave.  Priorities changed.  Thoughts changed.  Morals changed.  I changed.

I have learned to value myself.  I have learned I am the only one I can rely on.  I have broken past patterns and become the person I really am meant to be.

The journey has been filled in tears, struggle, and heartache.  I am challenged daily and set up to fail. And with every obstacle, with every punch, with every trigger that in the past would have broken me I draw strength. I will not be broken again. I will not repeat past behaviors.  I will prevail above who I was, what I've done, and - most importantly - what I've lost.  I will have the courage to continue to grow and become who I was always meant to be.

When Colton died, so did I.  Somehow, though, that was exactly what I needed. And I can't help but think that he's happy, and he's proud, of all his momma has accomplished.  I do it for him, I do it for me, I do it for Delaney.  I can't change or fix the past, but with courage I can be the me I was always intended to be.

Burying Your Child

There is no time in life when burying your child is okay.  When it doesn't hurt you to the core and bring you to your knees.  There is no loss that can compare to that of your child.  Whether they never took a breath - like Colton - or lived a long life, if you outlive your child and are forced to say goodbye it is devastating.

Last week I attended the funeral of a former coworker, and friend.  He was funny, kind, generous, and sweet. He had the goofiest laugh and a smile that spread from ear to ear.  He was a smartass (probably why we got along so well).  He would also take the shirt off his back for someone else. Matter of fact, I remember one time him giving me his jacket because I was cold.  It was nipple snappage cold that morning.  Yet he suffered and shivered to make sure I didn't.  He was a hard worker and worked as hard at living life.  He was a good, good soul.

The big, fat, nasty, sonofabitch Cancer attacked him and he was powerless to fight.  One day he was doing well and kicking ass back, and within weeks he was gone. 

His dad worked with us too.  He was definitely an apple that didn't roll far from his fathers tree.  When I heard of his passing my heart ached for his father and for his mother I had yet to meet.

When I walked up to his funeral I was greeted by my Tio. I have seen him many times, but at that moment I remembered attending the funeral of his daughter, who had passed in her 20s.  And as he hugged me I looked across to Colton's resting place. 

In that moment I looked around and wondered who else? Who else amongst us has felt this tremendous loss, this crippling pain?  How many more were mourning the loss of this friend as well as the pain of his parents and reliving their own loss as well. 

I held it together well.  Until his mom let out her first loud weep.  My heart shattered for her. I knew that wail. It escaped me at that same cemetery so many years ago as I buried my own son.  I knew the pain she was feeling and I knew that she would never, ever be the same.

The service was beautiful.  It still paled in comparison to his life.  His life is a light that will always glow in those that knew him. 

His mom and I hugged and she agreed that we wish we didn't ever meet this way.  That we wish we weren't part of that club ... The child loss club.  The age doesn't matter.  The time we had - or didn't have - doesn't matter. 

We should never, ever lose our babies.

Colton has friends who understand, and so do I.

Last night I had a great collaborative chat with a new found partner and friend.  She and I may have a lot in common, but we haven't chatted much to know for sure.  Yet we are excitedly working together on a project that means a lot to both of us and is the reason we met.  We both have angels watching over us.  And we both have beautiful little girls blessing us. We are mothers who have lost and who love both in heaven and on earth.

After our chat last night I was asked who I was talking to and Logan was excited and chill when he said "Oh so her daughter (editing out name) is with Colton. Cool, he has friends!".

The comfort I got from that little proclamation was immense.  Yes, Colton has friends.  Ones that knew the same short existence that he did.  Ones that are full of only love, as that's all they ever experienced.  And, more importantly, my ten year old gets it. And acknowledges his brother and his angel friends.  And that is a gift to me and to every angel mom.  Just hearing our children's names and knowing they are valued, too.

I have been blessed to discover - and hopefully help develop - a whole network of other mommy's just like me.  Moms who have had to say goodbye long before a goodbye was due.  Most of who never got to say hello first. 

And these women are all virtually strangers.  You start to recognize names and build connections, but, honestly, they are people I've never met and may never meet in person.

Yet, we are bonded.  We chat like old friends. We discuss raw, intense, difficult emotions and thoughts that no one else understands. We love each other unconditionally, without malice or judgment.  We share without fear of scolding, a cold shoulder, or being ignored.  We are united in our grief, and in our hope. 

It's been a while since I felt like I belonged somewhere and that I had a true purpose in the world outside of my children and work.  Even amongst friends I often feel alienated and out of touch. I don't think it's their fault and I don't think it's mine. It just ... is. 

I'm not the same person I was four years ago.  I am not the same person I was even just a year ago.  Grief changes us, renewed hope changes us.  And being amongst others who gets us ... well, it changes us too.

I Still Cry

I still cry all the time.  More so than I have ever cried in all my before-Colton life. 

I cried the other day in the shower.  Delaney is sick and I thought, for just a moment, what if it's something horrible.  She's been sick off and on (more on) for six months.  What if it's something more?  And just at the thought, I cried. Big, ugly crocodile tears flowed from my eyes, from deep in my soul, as I worried about what-if.

I cried the other night when Delaney grabbed Colton's heartbeat monkey and squeezed just right.  The sound of his sweet heartbeat penetrated a cold, dark, sad place in my heart - Colton's spot - and I cried. Silent, steady streams of tears just rolling down my cheek.  A smile broke through, though, as Delaney's eyes lit up with delight at the sound and she hugged the monkey tighter and giggled. 

I cried when I got the email that my Molly Bear would be shipped in August.  I cried because this perfect little bear will weigh just what my little Colton weighed and will forever be made just for him, in remembrance and honor of who he was. 

I cried a little silent cry while at the playground with Delaney as I watched a little boy who had to be about Colton's age run around with reckless disregard through the jungle gym and clambered over the steps and bolted down the slide.

I cried when I read the PM reaching out to me about a mother struggling after her baby died of SIDS.  A loss that I cannot even fathom.  A loss that I still fear.  I still check Delaney multiple times through the night to make sure she's breathing and just peacefully sleeping.

I find the more I cry, the more I connect and heal.  Tears do not make me weak, they strengthen me.  They connect me to moments, to others, to life.  When I didn't cry, I was dead. I felt nothing.  Reuniting with our tears, embracing them, allows us to feel.

I still cry. And that's a good thing. 

I Cannot Bury Another Baby

A phrase I never thought I would say.  A phrase that sounds so foreign, coming from my mouth. No, scratch that, from my soul. From a deep, dark, terrified place in my soul.

Yet, more often than I like or want to admit, I hear those words in my head. They fly out of my mouth like a whip slapping out and stinging whoever they touch.

I cannot bury another baby.

At one time in life I was carefree.  "Oh don't be such a worrier" ... "They'll only do it once and they'll learn" ... I was a believer that allowing a child some space and freedom to explore and discover was a confidence builder and enabled decision making.

I still believe those things. I really do.  However, I am also more apt to control the environment.  To avoid risk that prior I wouldn't perceive as such a risk.  I doubt myself, I doubt others. 

It's infuriating when people say "Nothing is going to happen!".  Bad things happen every single day.  Colton dying wasn't supposed to happen, either. But it did.  He died.  And there was no reason, no danger, no action and consequence.  His death just happened. Without warning and without forgiveness.

So, why would I be so ignorant - or arrogant - to think it couldn't happen again? Why would I put myself in the position to challenge fate and invite situations that could put my daughter at risk?

I cannot bury another baby.

Am I paranoid? Probably.  Helicopter mom? Maybe a little.  Worst case scenario worrier? Yes, why yes I am.  Because I've already come face to face with the worst case and I cannot do it again.

I cannot bury another baby.

Words I never thought I would say, now a mantra in my day to day life. 

A Gift From Colton

There is no doubt that in the last almost four years I have changed a lot.  For a while it was not for the better.  For a while I was lost in the rabbit hole of chaos, disillusion, and grief.

I have come a long way since that period, though.  I have learned a lot about me, others, life, and love.  I have gained control of my emotions, my reactions, and my destination.  Of course, it's all fluid.  Some days are easier than others. Some days I fail.  Some days I feel completely in control and at peace.

Every day I feel is a victory.

Every day I am one step further in life than I thought I could be when he died.  I didn't know how I would survive the next minute, let alone an hour or a day. I felt so weak and lost.  So scared, so vulnerable.

Now I feel strong.  I feel protected and confident.  I feel like I have survived the worst, I can survive anything.  I know that even though I face huge challenges and things aren't certain, I am certain I can make it through.  I have an angel on my side, cheering me on, bringing peace to my heart amidst fear and uncertainty.  When I DO start to panic I breath deep and think "If I survived losing Colton, I can survive anything".

The gifts Colton gave me are many.  While I would trade them all to have him back ... I am glad to have them.  I am appreciative of all I've learned, all I have become.  I know that I am a better person now than quite possibly I have ever been.

And if that's what I gain, then I will appreciate it.  And hope that every day Colton can be proud I am his mom and he has touched my life more than just in a sad way.  His loss will always be my darkest time; his lasting footprints on my life will be the brightest points.

I love you Colton.  Thank you for all you were and all you'll forever be.

Who Would You Be?

I wonder, often, who would you be?

What kind of personality would you have? Would you be introverted or extroverted?

Athletic or intellect or a balance of both?

A lefty? What would your voice sound like?

Would you have dimples? Would you smile bright or smirk a little grin?

What would your favorite breakfast be?  Do you like snacks?

What would be your favorite toy? book? song? color?

I wonder because you would have answers to these things now. You would be four this year and your personality would be well established.  We could have little conversations where I could see the bugs and trees and flowers through YOUR eyes.  Where imagination would lead our lives and wonder would be a marvelous treat. 

The other day I was talking with a friend and her son was wandering and looking around. He's almost your age and while we spoke my eyes wandered to him, my thoughts to you.

I wish I could have known all these things about you, my sweet Colton. I wish I knew your eye color, if your hair stayed curly or straightened, what your smile looked like, and - almost more than anything - what your little giggle and voice sounded like. 

I miss you. Every day.  Even almost four years later I miss you.  There isn't a single day I don't think about you and wish you were part of my day, more than just a thought. 

I wish, so much, I knew who you would be.  Instead I dream and will always wonder.

Blissfully Ignorant becomes Toremented Awareness

Before losing Colton I was blissfully ignorant to the fact it truly can happen to anyone. No one is exempt from losing a child.  I had already given birth quite successfully twice for myself, twice for others, totaling six babies. I did one think right and well in life - having babies.

So when Colton was stillborn my security was shattered.  I didn't screw up having babies.  They were safe in my care.  For goodness sakes, I carried triplets! How could I lose ONE ... mine?

I was blissfully ignorant.  Then, the reality hit, and I now live a tormented awareness.

This awareness can, at times, become almost paralyzing.  Once you know the truth of what can happen you become aware it can happen at any time and it can happen to you.

People say "it won't happen again".  Well, it wasn't supposed to happen the first time.

And if I think about it, we are never safe from it happening to our children.  Sure, Delaney is one.  So she's "safe" right?  No.  SIDS/SUDS happens still.  Cancer can sneak up at any time.  Drowning.... Car accidents... Choking....  Head injury ....

The list could go on forever. And, if allowed, can consume the mind, the spirit, and suffocate us into a hole of fear and despair.

I try to fight this vortex of "what if" as much as humanly possibly, yet the small whisper of death always breaths on my neck, reminding me to stay aware.

Delaney is so sick right now. She has horrible congestion and coughing and snot all over the place.  Last night she slept, and I did not.  She was breathing so heavy, then I couldn't hear her breathing.  I jumped up and ran to her crib.  She had just shifted and found a better position, apparently, because she was still breathing, still alive.  Almost fortunately she woke often through the night crying.  I find comfort in that.  At least then I know she's still breathing.  Still with me.

If I wake in the morning and she is calm and quiet in her crib I say a quick prayer. Short and simple. "Lord, please let her still be alive". 

Will this fear ever leave me? Probably not.  Once you know the other side you live in tormented awareness.  You can't regain that blissful ignorance.  You are wiser beyond anything you ever wanted to know.  Your innocence is broken, the deep break that can never be put back together again.

Grief Shaming.

http://stillstandingmag.com/2014/06/grief-attacked/

This is why I haven't blogged in awhile. Being attacked about your loss, about your pain, is so hurtful. So, instead of me trying to explain, hopefully this article can.....

A year ago today.... Happy Birthday, Delaney.

A year ago today I met my little girl. The biggest blessing I never knew I wanted or needed.

Delaney's pregnancy was physically beautiful and easy. I wasn't in maternity clothes until the sixth month, very little weight gain, perfect blood pressure throughout ... healthy and happy in every way.  She always measured on track and the pregnancy was progressing picture perfect.

Emotionally I was a wreck most of the time. The circumstances were difficult.  But, more so, the fear was paralyzing many days. 

Every morning when I woke I would lay still and wait to feel her move.  I would sigh out the breath I didn't know I was holding when she'd begin to stir inside my womb.  Every day that I was blessed to feel her was another day closer to - hopefully - meeting her.  I lost count of how many batteries I went through with the at-home Doppler that was always by my side.  I was paranoid and scared every day. Would this be my last day with her?  I had no warning with Colton.  One day he was just ... gone.  Would that happen again?

My baby shower was June 1.  I was a little leery to have a shower. Two weeks after Colton's shower, he was gone.  But my dear friends insisted, and we kept it small, and it was beautiful.  A few hours after I got home, though, I started contracting. And throwing up.  Something wasn't right and I knew it. 

D took me to the hospital where they monitored me for a bit. There was no dilation, and no regular contracting pattern.  Delaney's heartbeat, though, was upward of 210, back down to 160, up to 190, back down.... They released me, but I knew something wasn't okay.

I rested all day Sunday. I just felt off and laid down all day.  My OB appointment was Monday morning, so I just laid low all day... 

Monday morning, June 3rd, 8 a.m., D and I went to the doctor for my weekly check up.  Because of Colton's passing we were super vigilant and also doing weekly biophysical profiles.  As soon as we started the ultrasound I knew something was off.  During the BPP ultrasound the tech measures the fluid, measures the heart rate, and measures movement. If the baby fails any area then its on to intervention.

Delaney wasn't moving.  At all. We had just had a big sugary breakfast but she wasn't moving around. I made the tech check her heart beat at least three times, the last time asking her to just let me watch it for a few minutes.  Her heart was beating. I had to focus on that. 

They give the baby 30 minutes to "perform".  If after that time they still haven't met all the requirements they move to further monitoring.  Delaney failed.

Dr. Clare met us in the exam room immediately after and was pretty direct.  He said "baby is coming today".  Whoa. Okay.  We discussed briefly that at 37 weeks she had a 15% chance of needing a short NICU visit.  Okay. I can handle that.  Then shit got real. Like really real.  Dr. Clare said "go straight across the street to the hospital... I'm going to monitor you for no more than an hour.... if I don't like how she looks on the monitor we're taking her by c-section immediately...if she looks okay we'll attempt a vbac with strict monitoring....first sign of an issue and she's out... "

It flowed into my mind like that ... fragmented ... discombobulated. All I heard, in my head, was "Oh my God, I may lose her". 

She did well in the hour monitoring, so we proceeded with induction. Things moved slowly, which was a good thing in the end. 

At about 9 p.m. I was dilated to an 8 and I sat up to help move Delaney down and deliver. As I sat at the end of the bed I began to weep.  I knew her delivery was very near.  And I felt this heaviness.  This fear. This anticipation. This longing.  This sadness.  This worry.

D looked at me and simply said "Colton?".  He held me as I wept more. And he stood me up and ...

I said "push", the only word I could get out in the intensity of the wave of pressure and nausea. It was time.  D said "push what"?! and the nurse and doctor had already sprinted into the room and pieces of the bed were flying, the nurse was stern in saying "Lay her back down NOW" and Dr. Clare, always a pillar of calm, sternly said "It's time now". 

One big push and her head was out and I felt the need to push again.  My eyes were closed and my body was pushing when I heard Dr. Clare very sternly say "Jenn I need you to stop the pushing NOW".  I looked down and Delaney was blue. And silent. 

Half a cord wrap removed.... one full cord wrap removed... second full cord wrap removed....

Another push and she was out. And it was probably seconds but felt like hours when she screamed.  It was singularly the most beautiful, powerful, amazing moment of my life.  She made it.  SHE MADE IT. She was crying. She was alive.

Later Dr. Clare talked to me about what happened. Apparently when I stood up her heart beat shot up then plummeted.  She was suffocating.  He told me that he ran in because one way or another we needed her out immediately. I could have lost her.  I don't know what I would have done, if I would have survived, if I'd had to bury a second baby. 

I cannot help but think her angel, her big brother, was looking over us that weekend. I believe he protected her when the doctors didn't.  We are sure she was wrapped all weekend and that's why I was sick Saturday night and hear heart rate was all over the place.  I fully believe Colton protected her until we could get her out on Monday. 

Her story is so much more complicated and this first year has been a whirlwind.  (You can read through the blog for more details, if needed).  Finding out that D wasn't her father, but indeed B was, really rocked all of our worlds.  There have been lowest of lows and highest of highs.  I'm at a point of complete acceptance and peace.  B and I will probably only ever be co-parents at best.  I would love a friendship for our daughter, but - at least right now - that doesn't seem possible.  D still loves her, and she loves him, and his bravery and his love humbles me and makes me so appreciative of the man he is to both of us. I feel at peace with where life is, and where it's going, and know that all things are beyond our understanding or control.  But they are perfectly orchestrated as only God understands. 

Today is such a joyous, bittersweet, emotional day.  This last year has held a lot of pain for all the adults involved.  A lot of struggle, a lot of broken hearts ... a lot of victory and healing as well.

Most importantly, it's been a beautiful journey with the most wonderful gift I never knew I wanted or needed.

Delaney is truly a blessing and a radiant light in all of our lives.  She is happy and healthy and perfect in every way.  Her spirit is contagious, her smile melts every one's hearts, and her joy brightens every single day.

I look at her and I know everything will be okay.  She brings my soul such joy and I couldn't be more humbled and proud to be her mom.

I miss Colton every single moment of every single day.  I look in Delaney and I see him and it's bittersweet to wonder who he would be, too.  I feel, though, that Heaven shines on her and she's a little gift.  A gift of peace and love and joy and a gift of a piece of her brother in heaven here on earth. 

I remember a year ago like it was an hour ago....

Happy, happy birthday to my sweet Delaney.  My heart feels overflowing with love, pride, and joy to be her mommy!

 

A simple little saying so true,

How very deeply, I miss you. 

Somdays are easier than others. Some days don't seem hard at all.

Some days I feel like I'm standing on a cliff,

Bracing myself for the fall. 

I wake up in the morning and long to hear your sounds.

The ache of missing you, the emptiness in my heart pounds.

You're never far, Yet always away.

Never to be run or laugh or gigled or play...

I miss you in the morning. I miss you all day.

I miss you when I drift to sleep, in my dreams, and all the moments in between.

Other people do not notice, they remain so unaware.

I wrap myself in the memory of us, my special blanket of care.

You, my love, are always with me, in every second, in every way.

I miss you, sweet baby boy.  In my heart you will always stay. 

 

Life is a Game

Life has thrown me some curve balls.  I have caught myself in pickles moving from base to base when I should have stayed safely where I was or committed to going all the way.  I have struck out, I have walked.  I have swung for the fences. I have scored. I have been tagged out.  I have felt victory, I have felt defeat. 

But I have played the game. I keep going up to bat. I keep swinging for the fences, and accepting whatever outcome plays out.

Life isn't meant to be sat on the benches.  Life is played inning by inning, each with a new chance. 

The only way to succeed, the only way to be victorious, is to participate.

I love my team.  It's a little team, but it's mine, and it's perfect.  I have all the equipment I need to succeed, and all the cheerleaders I need in defeat.

Some days are harder than others. 

I say suit up. Get in the game.  You cannot compete in this crazy world without taking a swing and shooting for the stars.

Silence

Often times when people are silent we assume everything is going well.  We think "no news is good news".

Most of the time, in my experience, silence is the epicenter of sadness.  It is when we are silent that we are hurting the most. In silence is an emptiness that cannot be explained or filled. 

I sometimes go days or weeks without writing. It's not because I have nothing to say, it's often because I don't know how to say it.  Most of the time silence reflects the darkest of hours, not the most peaceful.

I find this to be true with any grief, really.  I have friends going through incredible sadness and hard times and they are silent.

Society, though, does not want to hear of grief. We force others to keep quiet, deal with things on their own, and not share their true feelings.  People are often intimidated by others grief, either because they want to make it better and can't or it makes them aware of their own hardships they'd rather ignore. 

One thing I am learning through my own journey of grieving and healing is to be more compassionate to others grief.  I check in with my friend more and encourage them to feel comfortable talking to me. I try to have open ears and a closed mouth.  I want others to know they aren't alone, even when it feels like it.

People who are hurting can't be fixed by anyone but themselves.  They need to be heard, not mended or instructed on what to do.  They just need to know "I'm here for you and I love you". 

The saying "silence speaks a thousand words" is so true.  Sometimes the best thing we can do is sit together, hold each others hands, and let the silence heal what words cannot.

Time

Grief has no concept of time. Space is empty and fluxes.

There are days when it seems like losing Colton happened in another lifetime. The thought of his loss is so surreal and abstract that it can't possibly have really happened.

Sometimes the facts begin to blur and it's unclear what really happened, what order, what truth and what fiction are interwoven into his story.

There are times when telling people I have four children feels like a lie because I can't recall if that really happened or was it just a horrific dream. I have that moment in time locked up so tight and hidden in its dark place that sometimes it feels more like a nightmare than the living hell.

Reality strikes though. It always wins out. When it does I am right back in those moments. Every second ticks like a thousand hours. Every word, motion, detail is sharp as a razors edge slicing into my soul. Every detail etched and engraved into my being. I could write it out verbatim, a script to a horror story too scary to watch.

Time does not lessen the blow when reality crashes down. Time does not ease that pain, soften the memories, or dull the ache. Time is but a number that loss laughs at. Time is a reminder that no matter how much passes it'll never be the same as it was before that moment when there was no more time; when what you treasured, what you'd been counting down in months and weeks and days in delightful anticipation is gone.

Time stopped, yet the pendulum still swings. Keeping pace. A silent hymn of marching forward, a booming thundering reminder. Time heals nothing. Time is not merciful. Time is just empty space.

Courage

Writing this blog is one of the hardest things I've ever done.  Anytime we make ourselves vulnerable we open ourselves up to so much.

On the plus side, we allow ourselves the opportunity to grow.  By stripping ourselves raw and naked we open a new canvas to paint our world in new colors and vibrancy.

On the down side, we open ourselves to attack, criticism, skepticism, and hate.


It's worth it, though.

It's okay if others do not understand my pain. It's not for them to understand. It is okay if people are upset by the things I express. It is not for their benefit.  It is okay if people do not support my path. It is not theirs to walk.

I am not proud of everything I've done. It's been scary to share the truth of Colton's story, of my story.  It's embarrassing at times, it's painful.

But it is necessary journey.  We cannot put grief in a box and expect it to quietly sit in the dark closet.  Grief festers and grows like a wild fire burning everything in site.  But when nurtured, when cultivated, when supported and loved, grief can turn into something beautiful. 

That is why I write this blog. I want to take my grief and expose it at the rawest of levels. And then I want to cultivate it, heal it, and let it blossom into a wonderful spirit of memory and strength and courage.

I have never felt stronger. And I believe that strength will continue to bloom and engulf me.  I believe that through this process I will become a better mother, friend, and a better ME.

I'm showing up. I'm letting myself be seen. And while it makes me vulnerable, it makes me strong. And it makes it worth it. 

Words

Words are the most powerful tool - and weapon - we have. 

We can build with them, or destroy with them.

I am learning that some use words as weapons (of mass destruction).

I am learning that some have the kindest touch and softest caress.

I am learning to be discerning in the words I use, who with, and when. 

I am learning, too, when silence can speak more than any words.

I am learning to protect myself.

You cannot take back words when they are spewed. You cannot say just kidding, I was just upset, or I didn't mean it.

Bruises of the skin heal much quicker than bruises of the heart.  Be gentle and kind in the things you say because you cannot imagine the pain they could convey.

Surviving

Sometimes I feel like that's all we are really doing in this world. Just surviving another day.  Waking to face the challenges, and lucky to lay our head down at night and do it all again the next day.

I have so many friends going through the hardest of times right now.  Separations, parental loss, miscarriage ... People struggling to find their way in this crazy world, not sure where to turn or what to do next ...

We all have our struggles and we all have our grief. I don't know that I have a single friend or acquaintance who hasn't, at some point, thought "will I survive this?".  The situations vary, the source of the struggle never quite the same ... but grief is pretty universal.

Sometimes I wonder if I have survived Colton's death.  I mean, I'm still breathing. I'm still functioning. I have a job I perform at daily, and great kids that I competently care for, and complete the day-to-day needs to live.  But did I really survive?

Last night I had the weirdest array of dreams.  I had dreams of happy days with Brian, before we lost Colton. I had dark dreams of after Colton (and even woke in a post-Colton signature cold sweat and panic attack).  I had dreams of what could have and should have been, and dreams of what I hope will be. 

I woke up thinking "Did I survive?".  Did I ... really? No.  The person that was before Colton long died.  She is but a memory.  An unattainable mystical being of many moons past.

And I look at my friends, as they are facing their own struggles and devastation. And I see that I'm not alone. I see that parts of them have been broken beyond repair. I know, as I watch them struggle, that they will not be the same on the other side.

Will they survive, in the literal context of waking up tomorrow and continuing forward?

Yes, I suppose they will. 

But when forced to survive we are never the same.  In order to survive we must change, must adapt, must leave behind something in order to move forward.  Sometimes we come out stronger immediately. Sometimes it takes a lot of mistakes, a lot of collateral damage, a lot of "what the fuck happened" before we get there.

I didn't survive Colton's death.  Nothing survived Colton's death.  But I will keep surviving life without him. I will be okay. We will all be okay. Just never, ever, the same.

It Cannot Happen Again

That was my first thought this past Thursday night when we discovered a lump under Delaney's skin. A big lump. A big, quarter size hard knot.  On her left side of her chest.

It cannot happen again. I cannot bury another child.

I cannot adequately put into words how scared I was.  After she fell asleep I cried. And cried. And cried some more.

My thoughts were all over the place.  If it is the big C ... How? Why? Then it jumped to what if ... What if Colton had some type of cancer? What if that's why he died?  What if Brian and I just have some awkward mixing of the goods that gives our babies cancer? We should have had the autopsy. We should have continued to seek answers....  What would she go through??  What were we facing??

I called the pediatrician as soon as they opened on Friday. Saying to the receptionist "I need to get my daughter in, we discovered a lump" was like choking on my heart as it pounded out of my chest.  I cried all the way to the appointment (a 45 minute drive).

The doctor checked her over and immediately said "sub-cutaneous cyst".  Sub what? A cyst? She went on to explain it's probably a fluid filled cyst, quite common, and should resolve itself. We could help massage it and ... blah ... blah ... blah.  It wasn't until that moment that I even realized I hadn't, for one second, thought it could be anything benign. In hindsight I see how I *should* have been able to play out all the scenarios. Yet, all I could think was "I'm going to lose her too". 

I asked about cancer and the doctor said the odds are very low of that being the case.  If, at her one year check up next month it's still there we can be referred out to have it checked further. She was so calm, though, so nonchalant, that I felt silly for just a second.

Before that moment, though, I was just terrified.

I was told "I figured you were just being dramatic".  That kind of hurt ... even if it were true. I wish I could live blissfully unaware that babies - my babies - die.  I wish that I didn't think about what it would be like to bury a child ... again.  I wish that I could be naive and carefree and think the best.  But I know the worst.

I admit, I felt silly afterwards. I probably did overreact.  And I still hope that it's really "nothing".  I still rub it and pray it goes away.  I have a feeling, though, just like the fear deep inside, it's going to take time.

It just cannot happen again.

I wonder.. .. ..

I wonder if I resemble the person I once was. I wonder if, with all I've experienced, all I've done, all I've broken, all I've healed, all the whirlwind of this life .... I wonder ...

I look at others and sometimes think "who the hell are you and why didn't I see this before?!".  And then, in a brief second I see a flash and think"Oh, there you are", with a gentle, somber heart. 

I wonder if others feel that way about me too?

I wonder in this great big world of love and hate, receiving and giving, celebration and grieving ... are we ever the same as the day before? The week before? The year before?

There's a saying that "people never change".  Why surely we all do, every day...

I was once told that, in all relationships, we either grow together or we grow apart.  The point being, we are always growing.  Sometimes it's just not in the same direction.

I think that there are life situations that deter us from our path.  Sometimes minor bumps in the road.  Sometimes a full on sink hole that sucks us down into an abyss.

I wonder .. .. ..

I wonder if people can ever forgive and remember people as they were before these detours. I wonder if people can truly step outside of themselves, outside of their emotions, outside of their pain, and find empathy for others.

I wonder if we all took step back and looked at each other with hearts that stripped away mistakes, cruelties, anger, and hate ... I wonder if we could remember ... I wonder if we can forgive.

I wonder if people can stop anger and hate and think "I loved you at one time".  And while that doesn't change the past, could it change the future? Could it allow people to say "I'm sorry" and it be accepted as truth and their faults forgiven?  Why do we, as a society, find it so easy to condemn, and so hard to forgive? Why do we hold on so tight to anger and let go of love so easily?

I wonder .. .. ..

Truth

A friend shared this today on their Facebook and it was one of those Oprah "Ah-Ha" moments. Like Hell-To-The-Yeah, hive five a sista', dancing in the streets, TRUTH, word-to-yo-momma moments. 

The truth is my son died. The truth is, it fucking sucks. The truth is I still miss him. The truth is he still lives in my world every day and night. The truth is I love him as much as all my other children. The truth is ... I don't give a shit what anyone else thinks about it.

I have been told - paraphrased here (somewhat but not really) - get over it already.

The problem is I was never allowed to get through it, how the heck am I supposed to get over it?

I have, just recently, taken control of my grief. I have allowed myself to feel it and more importantly to experience it, express it, and energize it.  The more I experience it and express it the more my LOVE shines through the loss, the more I heal, the more it energizes me.

I have realized grief DOES make other people uncomfortable. And I have come under attack by many, some from the strangest of places (people you would never think would be on the "shut up" already campaign). 

But it also brings out comfort. Not just for me, but for others.  It brings peace. It brings HOPE.

I can't apologize for FINALLY starting my journey to healing. I am benefiting. My children are benefiting. And, maybe, someone else in this dark cruel world of grief is benefiting too.

Grief, to me, is soft of like an addiction. People are afraid of others addictions as well and avoid the topic if possible.  AND the only person that can take control of an addiction is the addict. AND the first step to recovery is admitting there's a problem.

I admit, I have a problem with my grief. But I am taking the steps to recover. Each time I write, each time I talk about Colton, each time I live in the moment I heal a little more. That's MY comfort, and my truth.

Walk In Faith

Today is International Bereaved Mother's Day. This past month I have faced more challenges and tests of my faith and hope than I sometimes think I can bear.

Today, especially, I focus on hope. Every day when I leave work I'm accosted by butterflies. Beautiful, vibrant, playful butterflies and I feel a rush of joy and peace and feel a whisper on their wings of comfort.

Delaney, my sweet joyous Delaney... her smile lights up the world. Her little voice saying momma and her little slobber kisses make the craziest days beautiful.

And, most important, at the end of the day when I lay down in the quiet I can tell myself I did the best I could today. I know that I shuffled forward, I appreciated my children, I loved them, and I loved me.

It's a continual journey and battle. I just remained focused in walking in faith.

All I Can Muster .. .. ..

Cullen

Cullen will never know how much he's touched my life.  Well, actually, I'm sure he knows.  See, Cullen is always looking down on this world.

Twelve years ago today my friend Leah said hello and good bye to Cullen.  Twelve years.  Cullen was born with Potter's Syndrome.  He was undiagnosed, so when Leah met him she had no idea she would, very soon, be saying good bye.

I remember the day Leah told me about Cullen. 

I felt like an ASS that day.

She was wearing a beautiful set of emerald earrings and I commented on how beautiful they were, and that emerald was my birthstone and asked if it was hers too.  She then told me that, no, emerald was her son's birthstone.  The son she lost. I am pretty sure I said a hurried I'm so sorry. I don't remember if it was that day or sometime later that I asked what had happened. 

I remember, though, feeling fear.  Now I recognize I was afraid of her pain. Afraid of her story. Oh my God, her SON died.. .. ..

Leah takes off Cullen's birthday every year. Every year I thought "it must be so difficult".  You could feel a shift in her the week(s) leading up to his birthday and heavenly day.  Shortly after it would lift, however that period of time was dark and sad for her. I always felt melancholy for her, and sympathetic ... I never imagined I'd find empathy someday, too.

I remember going to work the day I confirmed Colton was gone.  I remember waiting until 8 when the doctors office opened and called to come in.  I remember going to Leah and telling her I had to go be checked.  I remember telling her I hadn't felt him move.  And I remember in her eyes that shared knowledge of what was to come....

Today Cullen turns 12... and I know that for Leah it feels like just yesterday she held his precious little body in her arms.  Years go by but a grief so deep doesn't age.

Happy birthday, Cullen.  You are thought about and loved so very much.  By your mommy and by those of us she has shared you with. xoxo

April Showers

I have always disliked the month of April. It seems every year it's a complete mess, the world is flipped off it's axis, and I cannot wait for it to be OVER.

This year, obviously, has been the same.

May, though, isn't so much easier.

Mothers Day is just a few weeks away.  There are certain holidays, dates, periods of times, that are more bittersweet than others after you've lost a child.

Mothers Day is definitely one of them.

I will do something special with the kids.  What, I am not sure yet.  I do know, though, it will include a trip out to see Colton.

I feel so fortunate to have my other children. I think with great sadness of all the childless mothers.  The mothers who have no children here on earth with them, yet are mothers just the same. I pray their families acknowledge them, acknowledge the child or children they've lost.  I know how hard the day is for me, I cannot imagine the pain they must feel.

I feel blessed to be planning my daughter's first birthday party.  I feel blessed to be celebrating my own birthday, just the day before Mothers Day.  I feel blessed to every day wake up with the knowledge I am surrounded by love, both here on Earth and all around me.

April showers be gone please ... May flowers and a blooming abundance of hope lie ahead.

Simplicity

 

I know my heart. I know my journey. I know my pain.

 I also know my hope. I know my healing. I know my love.

 

 And I pray they never do. 

If given three wishes I'd wish 

To hold my son

To have a healed heart

And for NO ONE to ever have to bury their child.

How lucky I am to have Colton.

While this pain is great, my love for him is greater. 

How lucky I am.

Appreciation

If you've never suffered an immeasurable loss you cannot imagine how it feels to trudge through the trenches.  You cannot imagine the swirling, overwhelming emotions that slam and drag you like a roaring tide of an ocean.

I received a nasty comment on one of my posts.  Since I moderate comments, it won't be posted.  And since it was anonymous, I cannot address it directly with the commenter. (I hate that ... if you have something to say, don't hide. Don't be a coward).

But I'll address their hate here.

The comment basically said my posts are a "gut punch" and ungrateful for all those that were there for me when I lost Colton.

I utilize my blog to work through the grief. To work through the loss and the pain that I felt - and feel - about losing my son.  I utilize it to reflect on the mistakes I made after his loss and I hope that by being raw and naked in my pain, possibly someone else will benefit and not feel so alone.

Immediately after I lost Colton many friends did come to my side.  My best friends Nikki and Bridgett were on the phone constantly with me, checking on me all day, daily.  My friend Amanda was on the next flight from across the country and spent many days with us and helped take care of me and my family.  My huge surrogate "family" poured in literally thousands of dollars to cover the burial fees, the headstone, and anything else we needed.  Food poured in from local surrogates and from my wonderful work family.  My dear friend Mary spearheaded organizing information for the funeral, paying what needed to be paid and she and Leah printed cards honoring Colton for the service.  Cards and gifts poured in from across the country.  Dear friends, work friends, Internet friends, almost strangers, showered us with care.

I have not forgotten that. I will forever be grateful for the overwhelming care that was shown when I lost Colton. I still thank those people often for their love and support.

However, most I have never talked to again.  Some are no longer friends.  Some have betrayed me and exploited their contact with my family.  Some are still great friends.  Few ever speak of Colton, though.  Most stopped talking about him immediately.  Do I appreciate anything less? No.  I know that child loss is hard to talk about.  I know they cared and some still care. But life goes on for others.

My blog is about my personal journey of grief.  It's about feeling abandoned by those in my own home.  It's about abandoning my home and my family.  It's about my journey through the pain.

My take on this comment? If you are hurt by my pain because I'm not continuously thanking you then please reevaluate your motives in life.  If you were looking for praise, you were selfish.  If you are too cowardly to come to me directly and discuss this with me ... then are you really a friend anyways?

I do, beyond words, appreciate the support that flooded in after I lost Colton.  It came in like a thundering tide.... and receded and disappeared just as quick.  Does that make me upset? Absolutely not. 

To those reading this that supported me, please know I DO appreciate EVERY gesture and every ounce of love my family was shown.  My lack of acknowledgement is not a lack of appreciation. My blog is for healing, and will continue to be.

I'm on a journey, come along for the ride if you will.  But never, please never, make my pain about you.  I pray you never have to understand or relate to the pain of losing a child. I pray no one does.  But my pain IS my own. I'm sorry you lack the compassion to understand ... my blog isn't about you.

Mercy

People make mistakes.

I have made a lot of mistakes.

When I lost Colton a downward spiral spun like a hurricane, fueled by the ocean of tears.  I made bad decisions. Lots of bad decisions.

I wept in silence.
I pacified instead of demanding more.
I asked for the wrong things, and didn't vocalize what I really needed.
I retreated into myself instead of begging others to come in.

That lead to infidelity, disassociation, and ultimately the loss of all my family, not just my son.

I was angry, for a long time, that I was abandoned in my grief.  It really hasn't been until recently that I have found forgiveness through one simple, little thought.

We're all doing the best we know how.

For some, that comes with pity. How sad they don't know and can't do better.
Some with pride. How amazing they are under such duress.
And some just surviving ... look at them trudging through.

Brian and I had no idea how to handle our loss.  He dove right back into work, right back into normal life. He said over and over "we have other kids to worry about, it happened, move on".  For a long LONG time I was angry at him for that. How could I move on? My son was dead! My breast still hurt, my stomach was still swollen, and my heart still shattered. 

By the time I could function again I lived in anger and frustration. I resented that it felt like I was the only one that Colton mattered to. The only one that knew and acknowledged Colton lived. 

The anger and frustration fueled me. Why should I talk when no one listened? Why should I say I'm sad when I needed to "suck it up".  Why should I care if no one else did??

I wish I had had the clarity then to think "he's doing the best he knows how".  I wish I had extended the empathy and compassion I so desperately wanted.  Had I done those things life may be very different now...

Brian and I are forced into a new relationship now. We will never not be in each others lives. We have Delaney. 

I think that we both could have lived the rest of our lives without talking, without forgiving, without ever acknowledging the downfall of our lives and where we ended up.

I don't pretend to know the reason for Delaney coming into our lives right as we split up.  I don't know the purpose of our forced relationship.  But I do know that I have explored MY heart so much more and I have made evaluations I may have never made.

I am not the person I was three years ago when I lost Colton, two years ago when I started my affair, or (almost) one year ago when Delaney was born.  I have changed in so many ways.  And, for once in a long time, I feel whole. I am at peace. I am secure in knowing my weaknesses and overcoming them.  In many ways I am rebuilding the woman that was before Colton died.  Will I ever be the same? No.  But I am certain I will be better.

I forgive because I have mercy. We are all only doing the best we know how.  What a beautiful life we could lead if we all extended the same mercy to one another.

A Story Never Told

One of our greatest joys in life (at least for me, probably most) is sharing our lives with others. We have pride in the life we live, the people we chose as our partners, and the children we create.  Part of the joy of bearing children is watching them grow and seeing how they integrate into this crazy world and how the world takes them in.

I find sadness that no one will ever know Colton.  I was blessed to know him. I know that he had hiccups often.  He preferred laying on my left side (would he be a lefty like dad??).  He liked spicy food and loved pizza (momma's boy!!).  He mellowed in a warm shower and celebrated when he got ice cream.  He danced to mine and Logan's voice, and mellowed to his dads.  He would poke back and forth with me, and curl up in his dads palm.  He was calm, overall.  Would he have been the same on the outside?

I grieve that I won't know that answer. I also grieve that neither will anyone else.  I got to know him through all those months I was blessed to carry him, know him, and love him.  No one else will ever know him like I did.  And that brings it's own agony.  The agony of the untold story the grew inside me. The story  no one else will ever know.

How I wish Colton could have stayed and told his story to the world.

Flying Free

I haven't taken Delaney out to see Colton before. To keep it real... I have had an irrational fear of the cemetery.  I had this crazy fear if I took her out there, death would steal her from me too. (Have I mentioned  how irrational grief can be??). 

So I'm working on overcoming fears. So yesterday we went to visit Colton. I realized two things.

One, this is a place of love and joy and peace, not fear.

Two, Colton needs new flowers. 

Delaney was so full of joy out there. Laughing and giggling.  I snapped this as she started to squeal as a butterfly had landed on her hand and took off again. 

The butterfly was a bright, pure white. Beautiful, innocent, and comforting. And on the wings of that butterfly flew off my fear...

Happy Easter, Colton. We love and miss you. And promise to visit again soon .. .. ..

"Playing the Victim"

I wonder how many others have been told, after losing their child, to stop playing the victim?

From Merriam-Webster:

vic·tim

noun \ˈvik-təm\

: a person who has been attacked, injured, robbed, or killed by someone else
: a person who is cheated or fooled by someone else

: someone or something that is harmed by an unpleasant event (such as an illness or accident)

Robbed? Yep, robbed of my son and a life with him.

Cheated? Yep, definitely feel cheated.

Harmed by an unpleasant event... CHECK!

Don't fucking tell me not to "play the victim". 

I had no choice in my situation. I didn't chose to live in a harmful situation. I didn't put myself in a situation to be attacked, injured, robbed, or killed. Though, the situation BEYOND MY CONTROL did kill part of me.  I didn't CHOSE to be a victim but sure as shit I was injured, cheated, and harmed by my son dying.

I can't just "suck it up and move on".  I can't blame anyone else. I can't just say "it happened" and move on. 

My son died.

I think I'm allowed a lifetime of grief.  Is it horrible every day? Does it control my life?

No.

But it still sucks. It still hurts. I still have triggers that throw me into the day he died and the week following of letting him go and burying him.  I still have moments of overwhelming grief.

And that's okay.  It's NORMAL. 

People grieve in all kinds of different ways.  Some bottle it up. Some bury themselves in work. Some try to pretend it never happened.

I'll never apologize for FEELING.  I will never apologize for expressing  my pain and working through it. I will never, ever apologize for loving my son so much that it brings me to my knees weeping and causes me to act irrationally and breaks my heart still.  And forever. I lost part of me. I lost my son. 

Grief makes no sense. Being overwhelmed by love and grief isn't playing a victim. It's surviving a loss beyond comprehension. A loss and a grief I wouldn't wish on anyone. 

Letting go...

It's been three years, five months, and one day since I delivered Colton.

In all this time I was able to let go of one thing. ONE. (A stroller...). A while back I made two boxes of sorted Colton things. There were things I would never get rid of and things I would. Maybe. Someday.

Today was that day.

I have struggled for the last three years to get to this point. The tub of "to let go of" clothes and blankets was huge. All wonderful things meant for my wonderful boy. They'd been washed and folded with care. And have sat for years now.

This year, though, one of my best friends had her own little boy. And it finally felt right.

Today I took over that huge bin. And I gave it to her and Baby J. And ... I felt peace. The fear and anxiety I had been carrying so long wasn't there.

And I let it go. It really is just clothes and blankets. It's just stuff. I didn't lose anything by giving them away. I gained joy that I could share those with my friend and her son.

Letting go. It's taken me a long time. But I'm okay. And that I will hold on to.

Destruction

You, my sweet, are entwined in my soul.

You are part of every breath I take,
Every laugh I make,
Every tear at stake.

The silence of your heart
Tore me apart

The silence in the night
Stole my light

The night you left my womb,
The agony did consume

The calm in the air
I could no longer care

Captive by the longing
Following paths into wronging

Others who I loved, who I also missed
I was so lost, so sad, so pissed

I lost you, lost me
Why couldn't anyone else see?

The pit was deep, destroying, and dark
The bite of anger much worse than the bark

All gone now, the past did crumble
Only a sorry, so meek, could I mumble

Rock bottom is softer than the hell
Of losing it all, the abyss in which I fell

I reach to you,
Will you grab my hand too?

You, my sweet, are entwined in my soul.
Pull me toward your light, out of this hole.

Peace

In this moment, right this second, I feel peace.

We went for a walk tonight, ate, played, talked to granny and poppa, then got ready for bed.  As we rocked, Delaney reached up and touched my face and my heart melted away.

I made acknowledgements and realizations today I have avoided. I let go of unrealistic attachments that held me in place. I accepted realities that will never change. And I felt peace.

I cannot change other peoples feelings regarding the loss of Colton. Everyone is doing the best they know how. Its different for each of us, how we handle this crazy emotion called grief. Its not right or wrong, its just our way. To pass judgement, to hold it against someone, to yearn for something more ... it won't help and can only hinder healing.

I have held on to things of this world ... Colton's bedroom, his chair, his clothes, grasping to all that remains in our world of him.

But the wise words of Logan have really been playing in my head. Colton is all around us all the time. He is the air we breath, the laugh we bellow, the tears that fall. He is enveloped in our hearts and our fabric of life. He is everywhere!

I was told today Logan and Delaney and no one else can heal me. That I'm dysfunctional because I relate them to my grief and healing. I disagree. I believe the the love we share with the people around us is what heals us. I think the absence of that paralyzes and destroys us. The innocence,  the purity, and the LOVE I share with my children ... there's power in that. There is healing. There is peace!

Love does heal. Love conquers all.

There's a saying "one step forward, two steps back". Well, its quite amazing when the two steps back are a running start for a huge jump forward.

Peace.

In finding my voice. In confidence in myself. In joy in my love ... and in my loss.

Collateral Damage

A few weeks ago Logan was upset, about what I don't even remember, and he proclaimed "I just want to be with my brother!".

I immediately thought he meant his older brother, who is living back South with his father. I said, "You know you can't just go see Jo". To which he replied...

"NOT JONAH. COLTON!"

My heart stopped, dropped to my gut, and tears boiled.

I didn't say anything. What could I say.

I finally mustered "Why would you say that?".

He burst into tears and said "I just miss him so much".

Sometimes as adults we get so lost in our own grief, in our own lives passing us by, that we forget about the collateral damage.  I know that Logan thinks about his brother often, yet we don't talk about him often. I forget that, just as I need others to ask me about Colton, maybe he needs to be asked about him too.

All I could say was I miss Colton too.  And I wish he were here, with us.  And that it would crush me if Logan was with him, as that would mean I lost Logan too.

Logan replied that Colton is with us. He's always with us.  That he protects Delaney and that he feels him all the time.  What comfort I gained from that! What power in his little words.

He went on to express he just wishes he could hold him and play with him, like he does with Delaney.  He wishes that he knew what he looked like and they could play catch.

Logan would have been an AWESOME big brother to Colton....

I feel so alone in my grief sometimes. And I wonder if Logan does, too.  I am learning that I can't expect others - Logan especially - to talk to me about Colton. Maybe I need to make that effort.

I have to be careful who I share with. I learned that the hard way.  Even his father I cannot trust with my feelings of loss and longing.  But I'm not alone in my grief.  And that is something I need to remember, and respect, and honor.

And talk about ...

Guilt

I don't know if I'll ever stop feeling like I failed Colton.

I know - logically - I did everything I could to protect him. However, he died. In my womb. Under my care.

He died.

I couldn't protect him from whatever took him. I couldn't stop it.  I didn't even know anything was happening. How could I not know?

And now, I'm in a situation where I know danger is slamming head on into my daughters life. And I'm helpless. I can do nothing.

But pray. And pray. And pray some more.

The feeling of despair and guilt and fear of what you cannot control is overwhelming. It drowns you, suffocates you, and leaves you struggling to survive.

I couldn't protect Colton from the darkness that took him. And I feel lost, like I can't protect Delaney from the danger facing her. And I am angry, because she doesn't have to be in harms way. She doesn't have to be exposed to dangerous people and unhealthy situations.

But I cannot control every aspect of her life. I cannot make others see what they chose to be blind to.

And so I pray.

And I pray that this time prayer is enough to protect my sweet baby.  I am obviously powerless to do so myself.

Maybe not a rainbow ... but definitely my sunshine.

Clouds stormed on my day.

And my sunshine shown down on me, brightening my day. I thank God for my miracle. I pray he continues to protect her. I pray for guidance and serenity for me. I pray for her father, for clarity and guidance.

And I thank Him. I get it. Maybe rainbow isn't the right term for me....

But sunshine is almost too mild for how much she lights up my life and heals my heart!

My Pain is My Own

I'm going to be okay.

I cannot control other people. I cannot fault them for doing the best they know how, however little that is.

I can control me. I learned a valuable lesson. Or reminder?

My pain is my own. Only I can heal it. Only I can move through it. I don't need anyone else. And I should be discerning with who to trust. Who are friends. Who are not.

I made horrible mistakes. I have forgiven myself.

I love Colton. I love Delaney. I will defend them, protect them, and love them before, beyond, and greater than anything else.

I will love ME. I will protect me.

Sometimes our moments of weakness make us stronger.

I am better than I was yesterday, I will be better tomorrow. And slowly I will continue to heal.

My pain is my own. And so is my healing.

Betrayal

Today I was punched in the gut. Knocked flat on my ass. All the progress I made dissolved in an instant.  I lost my shit and acted like I swore I never would again... When you are shattered again though how do you maintain control?

This past week I have obviously been having a hard time. I reached out and thanked people that helped me immediately after his loss. I reached out to his dad.  He was never a support but he's his dad. And the only connection to Colton. I made myself vulnerable WHICH I HATE. And will not do again.

I went to drop off my daughter this morning and Brian had someone there. Long story short its one of my old friends, Jenelle.  One of the people who came to the rescue when I lost Colton. Someone I trusted.

I had sent her a message the other day to thank her again for her support when I lost Colton. I never heard back, which hurt and I didn't understand. Now I do. She's supportting Brian. They're dating ... in love .... happily ever after...

I feel so betrayed. I can not even completely pinpoint why. I opened up to both of them and they've been sharing my feelings together. I feel like a fool. Like a mockery. I feel betrayed. I feel like Colton's loss destroyed our relationship and now has been exploited to develop theirs. She contacted him. After three years?? Why? Why him? They would never know each other had I not lost Colton...

I just feel sick. I feel like.... I don't even know.

Betrayed. Like Colton has been used, exploited. Like I've been lied to. And I am supposed to trust them with my daughter?

Sad. So sad today.

I will not lose control again. I will not trust him. I will not make myself vulnerable. I will not be betrayed again.

The Rainbow After the Storm

My little Delaney. My sweet little Delaney ... I have hesitated so much to vocalize these feelings because of fear of how it would be interpreted. I love my daughter more than words can even begin to explain. I treasure her and appreciate her presence in my life. I am grateful she was given to me.  She is my joy. She's also my sadness...

~~~~~~~~~

There is beauty in the storm, with the rainbow representing the end of the storm and brighter days.

So I have my rainbow baby. And, according to so many, her light shining on me should make my days all better. I read all about having the rainbow baby and heard from my friends how healing she would be.

But no one really talks about the flip side.

No one talks about looking at your rainbow and celebrating the shine but seeing reflected in it the shadow of what was lost. The darkness of the storm. The only reason the rainbow is referred to in such a way is because of the storm. They'd just be another child in the family. But they are the rainbow, the promise, blah blah blah.

My pregnancy was filled with dread. When would I stop feeling her? When would she die?

She failed her bio-physical profile ultrasound. I kept asking "but her heart is beating right?".  She wasn't moving, she wasn't responding to stimulation. Something was wrong. And I just knew she was on her way to meet Colton too.

We induced immediately. When I delivered her she was blue, no cries. The cord was double wrapped around her neck. Very quickly my OB unwrapped the cord and she cried. I think. Maybe? I don't even remember. I do remember feeling guarded. Feeling a wall. A protective barrier. She was perfect, and beautiful, and ... alive.

But Colton was still dead.

See, the rainbow was there but she was shining through the cloud in the room. The thundering, deafening, pouring rain cloud. And this little rainbow, this little shining beacon in that cloud. Everyone else was celebrating, happy, and I was .... detached. Feeling the ache of the storm, the darkness, the memory of what was lost before. Seeing her held up and pink and alive in the doctors hands. And seeing the dark room, the lifeless body, the silence of when he held Colton just the same. Two wrinkles in time, paralleling in that moment. Torturing me and blessing me all at once.

Every milestone is so bittersweet. Would Colton have crawled at the same age? Would he have had a tooth sooner than Delaney's perpetual teething-with-no-results? Would he be so close to walking?

More painfully ... would he have her beautiful golden brown locks? Her piercing blue eyes? Would his laugh sound the same? What about that smile? Would he have a dimple too? Would his eyes dance with excitement and joy? Would he be as curious and adventurous and outspoken? Would he love making music and dancing at the slightest sound of a tune? Would he ......................

I rock Delaney in Colton's rocking chair every night. It's still Colton's rocking chair in my mind and heart. She's borrowing the space. She sleeps in his crib.

And the guilt I feel for this? Immense. Overwhelming. Crushing.

She is worth her own identity. She's worth her own life. She's worth being celebrated and loved without the comparison. Without the longing for knowledge of who her brother would have been.

And yet she's Colton's rainbow. She's a promise. Right? A promise of what though?

The pain isn't gone. It's not lessened..  Sometimes it's even magnified.

And the guilt for feeling this way. A punch into the gut. A feeling of failing another child, just in a different way. Failing to be able to give her untainted love. To give her an individual assessment and appreciation.

I love her so much, so I hate feeling this way. I hate feeling like she's a reminder of all I lost. I want to just love her. Just enjoy her. I don't want to cry when I rock her in the middle of the night, longing to know who Colton would be, longing to have held him and rocked him in his chair.

I want to be her rainbow. I want to heal so that she never feels like a shadow. So she knows she's Delaney. And she's wanted and loved and treasured.

Not as the rainbow baby, but as my baby.