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