And then I grieve

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I’ve been a mother for almost thirteen years. From the struggles to conceive to the battles to stay pregnant, from losing multiple pregnancies to raising multiples, and the agony of having to say goodbye to a child I’d only begun to know, I’m no stranger to the heartache that sprouts from a heart that was only intended to know pure love.

Thirteen long years full of hopes and dreams for the twin boys I was over the moon about welcoming. Eleven long years on an emotional roller coaster with the one who couldn’t wait to get here. Nine long years with the one who seemed to exist just to be cuddled and doted over. And five long years with the one who would save me, the one who gave me a second chance.

The second chance I feel like I’m failing at every day.

Amidst the dust and construction dirt of our basement remodel sit all the years of memories I’ve been too busy to organize – thirteen years’ worth of pictures and ten years’ worth of school projects and so many mementos of first games and first theater experiences and first lost teeth it seems like there will never be enough time in my life to organize them all.

But every once in a while, I find the time. It’s there somehow squeezed in between basketball practice and substitute teaching, Pinterest dinner recipe searching and bottom wiping. And laundry, of course.

Always with the laundry.

So I get out the printed scrapbook paper and the stickers purchased so long ago – a whole different lifetime ago – and sit down to do something so simple.

One simple act that leaves me wrecked.

I’m wrecked as I look at the stickers that a younger, more optimistic me chose – Twins, Best Bros, sports, fishing, THE JOYS OF BOYS.

It’s obvious that I thought this life of ours was going to be different. Like the eternally optimistic character Poppy in the movie Trolls, I somehow thought I could scrapbook our way to a happy life.

But then life got busy with so many little boys and so many surgeries and therapy appointments and cancer.

And all of a sudden, it’s thirteen years later and I’m looking at these stickers wondering who it was who bought them and put them in my craft cart. She obviously had no idea how life really works out sometimes.

I feel sad, but I shrug it off because after all they are just stickers, right? They’re not life.

But then I open the drawers that contain the pictures. Pictures of a sweetly smiling Slim, eyes wide in a forced preschool photo day smile. Pictures of a pious eight-year-old in a little man suit, hands folded in front of him on the day he received First Communion. Cub Scout badges and a Pinewood Derby car that never quite made it to the end of the track. Class pictures of him always standing in front by the teacher, some of the same faces of his classmates present every year. The classmates who have watched out for him, helped him cope, been his friend, had his back. The classmates who know that he has a brother who is not with him anymore. The classmates who, along with him, have gotten taller, voices changing, interests expanding.

The children, like my own, who have grown up in the blink of an eye.

And then I grieve.

I sob like I haven’t sobbed in what feels like a million years. And for a change, I’m not exactly sure why.

Am I grieving over the life I thought my sons would have – best friends forever, brother buddies that never got to be? Am I grieving over all the ways that I planned to Mother my sons that I could never make materialize? Am I simply grieving the passage of time, of which ancient poet Virgil said is “never to be regained?” Am I grieving like all mothers grieve as their babies grow and change?

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Or am I grieving all of this through the eyes and heart and soul of a mother who has lost a child?

I have found in my thirteen years of being a mother that grief doesn’t discriminate. It can get to us all at any time. It can find us through the lock of baby hair we saved from that first haircut.

It can grab us as we place those unused ballet shoes in the “donate” box.

It can pull out a piece of our hearts as we close the trunk on the hand-knitted baby blankets we intend to pass on one day.

It can brush us off as quickly as he did, refusing to hug us in front of his friends.

It can rip through us at high school graduation, as she waves and departs for parties with her friends.

It can be subtle and surprising; but make no mistake: it is just as wicked as the obvious kind of grief. When it sprouts from a heart that was only intended to know pure love, it hurts with a pain that feels as if it can never be quelled.

The only relief comes from knowing that while time truly does fly, memories last forever. Where time is constant, memories are fluid, createable, renewable. While that heart, that pure mother’s love that can’t stop time, can make more memories. 

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Dear Grieving Parent: It's your story to tell

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At the boys' tennis lesson the other morning, I met a lovely couple: a grandma and grandpa who were staying with their grandsons and helping babysit for the summer. We talked throughout the lesson, and I really enjoyed the conversation with them.

At one point they remarked on the size difference between Slim, my twelve-year-old, and Knox, my ten-year-old. Knox is a big boy for sure and Slim smaller than average, but I couldn't help mentioning that Slim is also a twin.

And then it begun - how his brother got cancer and died (it was a brain tumor), how we discovered one morning that he was having a seizure, that he lived for a year after that (but he still went to kindergarten until he was too sick), how I was forty years old and was done with babies but had another one (who reminds me of Joey, by the way), and how the kids at Slim's school are nice to him because they know his brother died.

And on and on and on.

I've always been a good listener. Or maybe just too polite to tell people to bug off. As a result, I often get cornered into listening to total strangers tell me their life story.

Now I am that total stranger telling someone my life story. 

Joey's story.

It's been six years since Joey died. We've been without him almost as long as we were with him, and not a day goes by that I don't think about him or say his name aloud.

Still.

Always.

Because missing someone never goes away. It never gets better or easier. It never becomes routine. You never forget to do it. You never have to remind yourself to do it.

It's just always there.

The ache in your heart is ever present. It tells you that a part of you is missing, that you will never again be complete. Sometimes you can hush it like a baby; but like a baby, it will just start crying for attention once again.

Your grief is a part of you now. It becomes a story from your life. It's certainly not the only story you have, but it is your story to tell.

Or not to tell.

There are times when people remark to me about my four sons: "You have four boys?! You must have your hands full." And I choose not to tell the story.

But it hurts my heart.

It hurts my heart because I want to scream, "I HAVE FIVE BOYS. FIVE." But only because I so desperately want that fifth boy to be tagging along behind us, helping his brother at the soda fountain at Costco, or offering to push the cart and unload the groceries for me.

I want to see that smile that radiates from his eyes and hear that laugh that's contagious and feel that hug that warms every part of my body.

But I can't.

So I talk about him. I tell his story.

I talk about who he was and what happened to him, not because I want to make you sad or feel your pity; but because it is my way of letting that grief have a voice. It is my way of never forgetting how I felt and still feel.

It is my way of honoring his short life.

I will always talk about him, because his is my story to tell.

I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable,

or sad,

or angry,

or scared,

or annoyed.

I get it, I do. It makes me all of those things, too.


But I feel grateful when you indulge me, when you listen to my story, when I can see in your eyes and your heart that you are really listening.

Even if it's the 75th time you've heard my story.

If you are a grieving parent reading this, I want you to know that I will always listen to your story. The first time or the 101st time. It's your story to tell.

Or not tell.

If it's safe in your heart and it feels right there, that's okay, too.

But if you need to let it out, there are those of us who are listening.

Now, and 839 times from now.



Because it's our story to tell. 

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You might also want to read some of my other stories about loving and missing Joey:

When Party Games Go Horribly Wrong

Not Broken, Just Bent

Remembering Joey: What I Loved About My Son

My Dear Sweet Joey

Unhappy Crapiversary

Tending the grieving mama heart

There were a gazillion plants and flowers at Joey's funeral. Well maybe not a gazillion, but it seemed like it. There were so many that we let people take home what they wanted. For years, I heard from my dear friend Meagan about her "Joey plant" and how it was doing really well.

Last fall, my mother-in-law gave me a plant. It was, for all intents and purposes, pretty much dead. Hubby gave the "in the garbage" motion to me behind her back until she said, "This is a plant from Joey's funeral. I thought you would like to have it."

Of course I would. 

After she left Hubby said, "That thing is dead. You're throwing it away, aren't you?"

I am the grieving mother who still has her dead son's bicycle in the garage. No, I had no intention of throwing it away. "It's a Joey plant. I can't throw it away. I'll see if I can bring it back to life."

Hubby rolled his eyes at me and walked away.

I got some new, rich soil and repotted it in a cute Pottery Barn pot with a frog on it that someone once gave to me. Every week I gave it a good soak and misted the leaves. I carefully pulled off the dead leaves so the new fresh green leaves could thrive.

And slowly but surely it came back to life.

Most of the dead, brown leaves have been stripped away, and new perky green leaves are taking their place. Some brown, droopy leaves remain; but you know what? I'm okay with that.

The plant is like my heart. Once I ignored it. Once, I was letting it die. That summer that we lost Joey I wanted to stay in a cocoon. If everyone would have let me, I would have lain in bed that whole summer. But, despite all the brown and dead that was destroying my mama heart, there was still some green and life in there: my other boys, my husband, our families and friends. They cared. And I cared enough about all of them to plod on.

Then there was a new baby who brought a burst of color to my dead, brown heart. And slowly as I tended it, it came back to life.

It didn't always hurt when I talked about Joey.

I could tell his stories and eventually my sad smile turned into tears of laughter.

I could talk of missing him with his brothers and help them heal, too.

Our hearts have greened back up again, just like the Joey plant. But the brown, dead matter still remains in part.

Hubby bought me a beautiful floral bouquet for Mother's Day. As he was arranging it in a vase, he noticed one droopy, less-than-perfect flower. He picked it out and discarded it. It made me sad.

Sadness, death, imperfection - no one wants them, but they are a part of life. Without them happiness, life, and joy wouldn't be as sharp, as bright or beautiful. The contrast, while ugly at times, is striking and necessary. I want to be reminded of my sadness. I want to look at pictures of Joey's kindergarten year and feel such an ache in my heart that I think I might die all over again just like I did that day I held him in my arms for the last time.

When my four-year-old son tells me he wishes I could have another baby and that it would be Joey so he could meet him, I want to feel torn in two with both sadness over losing one son and joy over gaining another.

I want to watch my ten-year-old helping his brother get dressed and imagine that's what Joey would be doing.

I want to cradle my eight-year-old when he is tired and crying over Joey and cry with him.

I want to watch my twelve-year-old with ASD sob over his twin brother's grave because that's the only time I know for sure that he cares, that his heart is not all brown and dead.

I'm holding onto the brown and dead parts of my heart because they make the other parts more vibrantly green and alive.

I want all grieving moms to know this: sadness can co-exist with happiness, healing can happen alongside hurt, and hope will thrive amidst despair. It's hard, so hard sometimes; but it can happen. You just need to tend to it - tend to your heart. Care for yourself, soak yourself in what makes you feel good, carefully pull away the pain and bitterness, and be okay with leaving some of the sad, dead parts as a reminder of what makes you alive.

Your heart is still alive because it loved and was loved by someone very special. That is something that will never die.

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We Remember Them All

I have written previously about my three miscarriages. Each were unique and different and bring separate memories and feelings for me.

I was talking to my brother-in-law and sister-in-law the other night. She has experienced over half a dozen miscarriages. In talking about their experiences, she mentioned that she feels like the woman connects with these children because she had them physically with her; therefore, they will always be with her.

For men, it's different. They need a way to deal with their loss - because it most definitely is their loss, too. My brother-in-law shared that he named each little baby, and says their names daily in prayer.

This is interesting to me because I never thought of doing something like that. To me, names are for babies who were born, no matter how early, whether alive or still.

I know a miscarriage is still a baby - I have seen the heartbeat at just 5 weeks gestation - but I never thought about naming one.

My first miscarriage occurred at six weeks along in my first pregnancy; and this is the one that still affects me the most. I think about that baby all the time. I just know in my heart that was my daughter, and I wonder all the time how different my life would be if I had had her.

We never got to use our girl name; so I've decided that from now on, I will think of that baby as my girl. And I'm saying her name here: Natalie Kathleen.

I'll always wonder about her. I'll wonder if she would have had beautiful, long, brown, thick hair like I had as a child. Or would she follow suit with her brothers and be a blondie? Would she have my deep blue eyes or Hubby's bluish-green ones? Would she want to dance or play soccer? Or be a kick-ass girl and do both? Would she have my love of words and be an amazing big sis to the brood of brothers that history tells me would have surely come after her?

I'll never know; but I'll always wonder.

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. We are saying their names and telling their stories and giving ourselves permission to wonder and dream and grieve together.

Join me over at Her View From Home where I'm sharing what I wonder about the ones I have lost. Click here to read.

As you read, know that you are not alone.

xo

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The Problem with 'What Can I Do?'

When our son Joey was diagnosed with cancer, many people from our community came out to help us. From offering to take our boys to the park to organizing weekly meals to sending cards and gifts to leaving a ham on our porch, it all helped tremendously.

Help works best in crisis when people just DO rather than ask. It may seem like a sign of support when you say, "Let me know what I can do to help;" but rare is the person who will actually turn to you and say, "Okay, why don't you do xyz?" Many times, they don't even know what they need.

Speaking from experience over on Her View From Home today, I'm sharing nine things you can do instead of asking 'what can I do' when someone you know is in a crisis. Head on over and read the full post here.

Also, if you haven't read why I hate the hashtag #sorrynotsorry, you can read that here. 

Grief, Healing, and a Rare Bird: A Review of Anna Whiston-Donaldson's New Memoir

Rare Bird. A memoir of loss and love

Every once and a while you meet someone (or in the case of blogging - come across someone) with whom you feel an instant connection. About three years ago while I was still reeling from the loss of my son from cancer, I began seeing other bloggers posting a blog button for An Inch of Gray and saying, "Let's lift her up." Of course being curious, I clicked over.

Author Anna Whiston-Donaldson

Anna was a mom who started out writing a blog about crafts and DIY projects; but after one fateful afternoon, her blog became about grief. It was a rainy September afternoon - much like it is today where I live. The rain came softly at first, so she allowed her squirrely kids out to play. But then the rain came harder and swelled the creek bed in their neighborhood, and only one child returned.

Her beautiful, precocious, gentle-hearted son, Jack, was gone.

I got chills typing that. And I get chills every time I read Anna's blog. She writes so eloquently and with such grace (that's what we say about moms who have lost children - they have such grace). It seemed to me that she was still able to love God despite having suffered this horrible circumstance. And I didn't understand that because my own relationship with God was shattered after losing Joey. She drew strength from one of Jack's very favorite Bible verses:

And so she set about writing a book about that: the healing process. I fell in love with Anna and her words and offered to help her promote her book. But, I must admit, when it was in my hands I was afraid to open it. My own wounds were still so raw. But she does not write about Jack's accident. You can read about that here.

What she does write about is the after. The funeral, picking out something to memorialize Jack, the lingering feelings of doubt, sadness, resentment, and shame. Yes, shame.

Rare Bird is a story about Anna's healing process; and since it's a process, it is still on-going. I was drawn so much to her words as I have felt the same feelings she has felt. Seeing grieving from her perspective helps me as I work through my own grief. 

This isn't just a book for those who have lost a child or lost someone they love. Life hands us many things that we feel are unfair and cruel. Anna shows us that it is okay to question, to doubt, and to feel anger and shame. This book is a journey through one of life's toughest lessons, and Anna is our guide.

The book has already been praised by The Washington Post and Publishers Weekly. See Anna tell about the book in her own words:




Rare Bird isn't just a book about grief and healing. It's a book about human-ness and hope, vulnerability and trust. Anna's sweetness, faith, strength, and resolve clearly resound on every page. I cannot recommend this book enough. Even if I hadn't hugged Anna in person at BlogU, I would still tell you to read it.

Jessica of Four Plus An Angel, Courtney of Our Small Moments,
Me, and Anna - still smiling despite our collective grief.

Visit Anna's author page, and follow her on Facebook and Twitter. Get her book here. You will be so glad you did.

*I begged Anna for a copy of the book to review, which she graciously sent me. A big thank you to Julianna of Rants From Mommyland for the beautiful graphics. Stay tuned for my end of the month wrap-up (Around the Pond with the Frog) when I give away Anna's book, plus the other books I'm reviewing this month.

The Worst Kind of Mom Guilt

Once upon a time, I had four little boys under the age of five. Believe it or not, this was my dream.

Sort of. (Some of those children were supposed to be girls, but that was the part of the dream I couldn’t control.)

I wanted a house full of little children. We would do crafts and play board games and have picnics in the park. We would eat lunches of star-shaped sandwiches and fruit made to look like little smiling people. We'd read bedtime stories all snuggled under one blanket on the couch, and we would create little plays that we would present for Daddy when he got home from work.

But, oh, things went terribly wrong, and I blamed myself.

Click here to continue reading "An Extreme Kind of Mom Guilt" on Mamalode. It will make your mom guilt feel like nothing compared to my mom guilt.

And while you're there, check out "I Faced My Fear of Heights for Him." It's a story about how a mom would do anything for her child, especially if he was dying.

If you love the stories on Mamalode, follow them on Facebook, and never miss a thing by any of their amazing writers!

Full Hearts, Empty Hands on Mother's Day

When people see me with four boys trailing along behind me, they say to me, "You must have your hands full."

Every time.

It has always kind of irritated me. As a new mom with twins, it made me feel like people thought I wasn't handling it well when I knew I was rocking the mom-with-twins gig.

And when I had three little boys under the age of two and was making my way all over a tiny Long Island town with one baby strapped to my chest and two toddlers in a stroller, I wondered what about what I was doing looked like I wasn't handling it.

Now I think it's just what people say because they don't know what else to say. People say a lot of things when they don't know what else to say. Or they don't say anything at all. We can take offense, or we can try to understand that they might not know what to say.

It's the same thing when you're a mother grieving the loss of a child. People get nervous and they just say things - or say nothing at all. When you're the grieving person it can be hurtful sometimes. You don't want to have to tell other people what to say. Like, don't say "everything happens for a reason" or "he's in a better place." Don't even say the hands full thing. Our hearts may be full, but our hands will never be because someone is missing.

We're working hard to handle our grief, and frankly handling your feelings about our grief is not high on our priority list. So, I'm going out on a limb and helping out a little with that. At Seleni.org, I'm talking about what to do and say to a grieving mother on Mother's Day. Click here to read more.

Even though I'm usually the one giving advice, sometimes I need a little reminder, too. That's just what I get quite often from Joey's twin brother anytime I am missing Joey. Slim lets me know that Joey is always with us. He's pretty smart, and you can read his words here on Mamalode.*

For something lighter that every parent can relate to, read Sleeping with the Frenemies  also on Mamalode.

Happy weekend, everyone!

*Seriously, though, I don't know who this Erin Britt person is or why her name is on my writing.