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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I Came in Like a Wrecking Ball

Grief is like a wrecking ball.  It swings through, destroying everything it touches.  The quake subsides and you think it's past when it rivets back on the pendulum and slams into you again.

Through time the span widens, the time between impact broader.

If you know anything about physics or the laws of gravity, though, you can guess what that extra time does to the momentum and point of impact.

*SLAM*
*CRASH*
*CRUMBLE*

Where the hell did that come from? How long has the grief been suspended in space, so that when it hit it debilitated me?

Two days ago I found myself gasping for air. The thought of Colton slammed into me, knocking me from my precarious perch of sanity and mobility through life. I spiraled down a dark, all too familiar path of despair.

Last night I lay there, at the bottom of that pit. I laid there, my arms wrapped tightly around a stuffed monkey that protects the sound of my sons heartbeat, and covered in the only blanket to ever touch and protect my sons skin.  Desperately begging it to protect and comfort me.

I sobbed myself to sleep. Engrossed and devoured by the horrific reality ... my son died.

Some days it doesn't seem real. It feels like a story someone told me.  Something make believe from someone else's book of life. A bad dream. A fallacy of my memories.

When the memories crash into me I sucomb and drown in the pain of the reality.  Acknowledging I didn't feel him, no heartbeat on the dopler, no movement on the ultrasound, no waves of boom-boom, boom-boom....

Silence.

Yet that wail...? That primal deep wail of excrutiating pain and overwhelming grief....

Holy shit, that's me...

Shhhhhhhh .... No one can hear! What if you scare someone else? Make them uncomfortable?

Silence came with a price. I silenced my screams in that moment to spare everyone around me. Not realizing that was the first time of many. Not realizing silence meant death for me, too.

I lie to everyone daily, including myself. I walk around like a whole person, with a whole life, with a whole heart. I am a shell. I am what was left after that primal scream ended and the silence began.  Just like the ultrasound, just like my sons heart. Silent and dead.