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. 

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!

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. 

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.

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.

"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.