A Day in the Life of a Grieving Mother

I woke up this morning and sat up on my bed, legs dangling towards the floor.  The heaviness of my eyes was overwhelming. I was exhausted, yet weirdly refreshed and thankful to find that the stinging of my bloodshot eyes had subsided after a few hours sleep.

My mind didn’t waste any time reminding me of how I felt when I laid down those short few hours ago.

Sad. Heartbroken.

As I got up, the corner of my eye caught a glimpse of my heart that laid conspicuously on the pink flannel pillowcase. Black mascara decorated the top, providing me proof of the love that was shed. The fragile threads that mended my broken heart had torn apart, the years of love and sorrow finally freed. Again.

It had been a while, months since I had succumb to those persistent and pesky dog pile of emotions.

Yet they come, sure as the morning sun.  Learning to accept and live with them is difficult, yet over the years, I have learned to embrace these precious moments.

The ten years have passed by so fast. How can that be? Ten long years without my little girl.  Without hearing her giggle, tucking her in, and watching her grow.

What would she be doing today? Lounging around like most 16 year olds, getting her driver’s license, sleeping in on a warm summer morning? Arguing with her brother, or would she be tending to her lamb or eager to get to volleyball practice?

The pain is indescribable. But when I try, I can tell you that it feels so heavy and it’s difficult to breathe. When you want to talk with her, hold her, tell her you love her and all you can do is mutter the words and fall into your pillow sobbing in disbelief.

What triggered it this time? Was it that her birthday is tomorrow? Was it while we were out on a Saturday night and I overheard a mom say, “would you like this sis? Come sit down sissy.”

Ahhhh.

My sweet sissy.  I haven’t said that word in ten years.  The name that is etched in her headstone, Lydia’s nickname, “Sissy.”

Instantly, she flashed before me and I could see her strawberry blonde hair blowing in the wind as she twirled joyfully in her purple sundress giggling, looking like the picturesque poster of childhood.  So innocent and happy.

Holding my breath as my eyes welled up, I shook my head, turned and walked away.

How did this happen? Why did this happen to me?

I cry and cry. Why do we feel so much pain after all these years?

I just want to wrap my arms around her tightly, see her smile and tell her I love her.

One more time.

Five years, seven months, and 19 days just wasn’t long enough.

My mind finds it hard to fathom life without her now, attempting to piece together the two worlds in which I remain a permanent resident.

When I’m alone for the night while on a work trip or at home, what do I do?  I try to make sense of my life before and after and it’s almost predictable that tears will fall.

Silence and solidarity brings me to a place of reality.

My emotions overwhelm me. Being alone forces me to engage those pent up feelings, letting them run rampant without interruption, allowing me to be present in the moment.  So I weep and sob some more.

I talk to her and tell her I love her and how much I miss her.  How I miss her messy bedroom, boogers she left above her headboard, and her beautiful artwork that decorated the house.

I am immensely grateful current life yet still quietly yearn for my old life. I miss her being here, when life was simple, happy and free of heartbreak.  When I didn’t have to worry about grief, or her grave, or about all the years of events and triggers that seek to ravage my soul reminding me of what used to be.

Am I weak? No.

Shouldn’t I be over this by now, after all it’s been ten years?  Absolutely some would think so, but the real answer is no.  I will never get over it.

Am I strange? No.

Weird?  No.

When my faucet runs dry, I lay my head on the pillow, taking a deep breath and exhaling while clutching my bible.

Strangely I feel a bit better.  Over the years, I’ve learned that nothing or no one can comfort me like Jesus.

I am silently reminded that we are meant for so much more in this world that to hold onto heartbreak and pain.  Could I sit and wallow in my pain and loss for the distant future? Without a doubt. However, I know my sweet girl would not want this, nor does our amazing God.  Our time here is limited and our capacity to experience the complex feelings that come with deep love is a remarkable gift.

The hope we have been given shines light into those dark places of my soul.  I can rest in hope knowing that beauty will come from the tragedy of my daughter’s death and one day we will be reunited.  Until then, I wait faithfully with perseverance.

Romans 8:24-25: “In hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.”

 

 

 

Photo credit: Unsplash @davidwhitephotography

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Back to School-Examining the Past, Embracing the Future

As we wind down from Labor Day weekend full of activities at our local round-up and fair, I’m encompassed by a little quiet reflection this eve of the first day surrounds me.   I am exhausted from the hustle and bustle of early mornings and late nights. My days consisted of carnivals, nursing a twisted ankle, applying band aids to cuts, welcoming a spontaneous guest for the weekend, enduring the jaw dropping booby traps from my adorable five-year old, and did I mention the impromptu piglet that suddenly joined the family on Saturday.    Pig pen construction still in progress.  All I can do is laugh. Nothing really surprises me anymore.

Among the laundry, cooking and house cleaning to come, getting back on a schedule is something to look forward to.   Yet as I scroll through social media and texts, my mind is overwhelmed by first day of school pictures of all these children.

For a mother whose child has died it hurts.  Honestly, it’s bittersweet and sucks really. Part of you longs with envy at those parents of children getting to revel in the excitement of classmates, lockers and team sports and those whose kids are healthy and happy.  Of course we’re delighted for them, however, we grieving parents never get over it. While I am grateful for my other four children entering school, no matter how many years have passed, this time of year we are involuntarily given that dreaded reminder that our child is gone.

Today Lydia should be starting her sophomore year. Wow. That is so hard to imagine. However, I do find myself wondering how she would dress and do her hair. Would she wear make-up? Still love dresses? Be playing volleyball because of course she would be so tall?  Would she be driving?

I can’t help but to think of my life ten years ago.  Lydia had just passed away six weeks earlier, 7/16/08.  It was time for Hunter to start preschool.  I wanted to keep him with me, but knew he needed social interaction with kids his age.  Staying in his depressing dungeon of a home alone was not the best place.

Months of driving him eight miles one way to preschool, I would cry every morning on the way there and on the way back home, sobbing at the wheel as I felt the eeriness of an empty car seat behind me, saying softly to myself “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”    Sadly, I would drop him off, then weep and wail uncontrollably all the way home, crawling back into bed alone where I would remain until it was time to pick him up.  For months this was my routine.

Completely heartbreaking.

Yet I vividly remember those days in the trenches, nearly six years ago, home as a single parent to a two month old, a two-year old, 3-year-old, and six-year-old, while my husband began a new job and relocated to a new town.  It was crazy.

There were times when I didn’t think I could do it.   Working part-time while up to my ears in diapers and potty training, spills and refereeing sibling rivalry, while laundry and housekeeping didn’t stand a chance.  Reruns of Dora the Explorer and Barney the Dinosaur played incessantly.  Fueled by coffee and chocolate, daily mocha’s became my saving grace.

To say I was exhausted was an understatement. The circles under my eyes were evidence that could not be dismissed.  To say I didn’t enjoy it would be wrong, because I did.  But in all seriousness, it was so hard.

I used to fantasize about the day that all kids would be in school and I could actually have a moment to myself to do my own thing, to even clean the house and go to the bathroom alone.  To just breathe.

Baby after baby came, life was busy.  I put my grief on hold, focusing on these new blessings in my life. They were indeed a much-needed buffer to the pain I was holding on the inside.  Yet as the years progressed, and gradually each child entered school age, I was left with my baby who is now five.  The last couple years, we have enjoyed our togetherness, special activities and 1/1 time.

The day I had been eager for the last four years has arrived. Now my youngest enters kindergarten.  This little spitfire who makes me laugh all day, telling jokes, yet generously gives hugs and kisses, always wanting to protect and love his mama will be on his own.

Another chilling reminder of the day my Lydia anxiously awaited for, the first day of kindergarten she never got to see, her youngest brother is now experiencing.  Bittersweet for sure.

The day has come I am once again alone, but this time it’s different.  Looking back, I cannot believe how fast time went by. The day I begged and pleaded for in my desperate moments has arrived and now I am not quite sure how I feel about it.  In a way, I’m sad for me but excited for him.  The new world that awaits, he is sure to find fascinating.

I have come to a different kind of sadness. It’s not one of sorrow, but one filled with hope and expectation. Remembering where I used to be and seeing how far I have come, I look forward to starting a new chapter laced with endless possibilities, embracing change and knowing this journey I’m on is not my own.

Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future-Corrie Ten Boom

In the meantime, I will enjoy what’s left of summer and eagerly anticipate the days of autumn to come. My favorite time of year.

No matter what season you are in, brighter days are ahead. Just hang on-one day at a time!

 

 

 

 

Photo Credit:

https://pixabay.com/en/users/Victoria_Borodinova-6314823/

Finding the Sweeter Side of Grief-A Look at Child Loss Ten Years Later

So July 16, 2018 marks ten years since our car accident.-when a routine commute to work on a hot summer day, ended with my daughter gone and my son and I in the hospital.

I remember clearly when it was nearly evening time that day and we were finally allowed to leave the hospital. I was heavily bandaged from shoulder to wrist, dressed in a grey sweat suit, and sent out the door with an army of prescriptions to aid in my pain and grief.  As they wheeled me out of the room, into the lobby were fountains of people waiting inside and out, standing room only.  Coworkers, friends, strangers, even my brother’s childhood best friend was there.  I felt like an exhibit at the zoo, on display with all eyes on me. I bowed my head unable to look up, ashamed and guilt ridden, in complete disbelief.  A horrifying start to the new phase of my life.

Ten years. A decade. Oh my gosh, excuse me while I try to catch my breath. I am having a hard time believing that it has actually been that long since Lydia died.  My strawberry blonde, confident and beautiful sassy pants 5 year old little girl has been in heaven for ten years now.

It’s sort of scary really and sometimes it feels like a dream.  How can I possibly have lived that long, drudging through life for ten years in these cement boots?

Reluctantly, I looked into the mirror days after the accident and didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.  She was a stranger. Who was I?  A terrible mother? All sense of identity and normalcy was stripped away instantly, leaving me just a shell of a person with nothing left inside.  The thought of drinking myself into oblivion to escape my new reality, I have to admit was very appealing, however I was terribly fearful I would lose control and wouldn’t be able to stop.  So after one day of margaritas, I quit.

My incapacitated self-had no motivation for anything and was glued to the couch in a daze.  I never moved, days went by and I hadn’t showered in almost a week.  My best friend came over and gave me a bath.

Imprisoned by guilt, I lived in the dark back corner of my closet, shielded by my hanging clothes, which offered strange sense of security.  It was there, where buckets of tears were released where no one could see or hear me.

Regret remained in the forefront of my mind for quite some time. The record of my last moments with her, the trip to Disneyland we never took, the vivid yet suffocating reality of no first day of school, no more dance recitals, no proms, no more shopping dates, no wedding, etc. The No’s were endless.

My future had been destroyed.

Suddenly, nothing mattered anymore.  I had failed. Failed to protect my most prized possession. Failed horribly as a mother.  I was at the bottom of the food chain.

I had to learn to live again yet life as I knew it had ended.  The darkness surrounded me, the trauma and flashbacks consumed me, haunting me for years. Every breath was a challenge.  Perspectives changed to where getting up off the couch to get a glass of water was monumental, and finally not burning the toast and sleeping for more than 3 hours straight became something to celebrate.

I couldn’t make sense of it. Why did this happen to MY family?  Things like this never happened to people I know, let alone MY family.  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

How could I live again, and was I even going to be able to? These were questions I asked myself over and over again. Was I being punished? Did I trust God? Did He hate me? Did Lydia hate me? Why did He allow this to happen?  My faith had been tested to the end. How could He do this to me? Why? WHY? Like a broken record, my thoughts and unending demand for answers played incessantly in my mind, yet none would come.

I had heard stories of others who were told to give God the glory in times of weakness.  Praise God?  Seriously?  In my situation, how could someone even think of doing such a thing?  It was the last thing from my mind, completely weighed down in utter devastation, yet scripture so boldly states, praise Him.  Does He know how I feel?  Praise the Lord and give thanks. Thanks for what?  For letting my daughter die? What was there to learn in this?

However, when the phone quit ringing, when friends stopped coming by, I found I was alone.  ALL ALONE and it was unspeakably frightening. Everyone had moved on and no one could relate to my experience or had any inkling as to what I was going through.  Left with no other way out of my grief, I knew I needed to uncover and bring to the surface the faith buried deep within me.  I would not survive this without God. And he was such a loving God.  I was desperate and grasping at any sliver of hope I could find, eventually realizing He was my only hope.

Circumstances, pain, confusion, and sorrow engulfed my soul. Completely broken and alone, what did I have to lose?  Down on my knees in my bedroom in the dark of night I surrendered. I had nothing left. Sobbing uncontrollably barely able to catch my breath, I prayed for Him to rid me of this pain, forgive me, give me hope, and give me strength to endure the future.  So, I praised Him hesitantly with tears while whispering out loud, “Thank you Lord for all the blessings in my life.” Thanks be to God.  I needed to humble myself, and “I will praise Him” became my daily mantra.  And I did, thanking Him for my family, my children, and for bringing me to a place of such brokenness that I was unable to put myself back together.  It was at this point where I conceded myself and allowed Him to have full control over my life.  I put my hope and my trust in Him.  Only God could restore this brokenness.

The guilt, shame and pain was an incredibly heavy and arduous load to carry, becoming increasingly unbearable day after day.  I turned to my Bible, opening the pages of a book I had often let sit unopened, but always close by. The Word became my friend, and in my weakness He became my only strength.

In the midst of loss, especially when it is new, taking one breath at a time is often all we can do.  As time would go on, I would somehow learn to manage the intense grief and pain, miraculously and subconsciously training myself to live with the “new normal.”  I never wanted a “new normal.” I wanted my old life back.

To those who knew me before 7/16/08, I thought I was unstoppable. I was confident and outspoken, a career focused and fun seeking woman.

In all honesty, let’s just say in my early 20’s, you would find me, a free-spirited, social director reigning the title of beer drinking champion, planning the next event.  Living up my independence, every day was packed full of friends and round the clock activities.  I never turned down and opportunity for an adventure, squeezing school and work in when I could. My zest for life continued through my late 20’s.

When I became a mom in 2002, life slowed down a bit, but I continued on my self-absorbed path, keeping up with the Jones’.  I loved being a mother, don’t get me wrong.  Lydia was the love of my life. I never knew how full my heart could be, yet I still did not perceive the enormity of the gift of being a mother.

Looking back, the years did scream by terribly fast but not at first.  My 20’s were grand, full of excitement and adventure, spontaneity and determination. It was full of confidence, friends, graduations, weddings, parties and new beginnings. And then the decade of the 30’s arrived, and only one year into them, at 31, tragedy struck and my life was instantaneously shattered into a million pieces, leaving me feeling like a helpless child. When Lydia died, I lost everything. I had no direction, no purpose, and no motivation for life. My existence had been reduced to crumbs.

And after 7/16/08- Well, it’s been awful. It’s been great. It’s been terrorizing at times, yet it’s been beautiful as well.

Weird. I know.

I didn’t know what I had until I lost it. How many times have we heard that deep-rooted cliché? Those few powerful words pack so much meaning.   As for anything, we don’t really fully understand the value of what we have until it is gone.  So true.

I feel invisible sometimes and long for the person I used to be. Yet, I strangely welcome who I have become.   I persevered and fought through those first years of “firsts.”  I powered through the guilt of my first smile since she died, her first birthday, every visit to Starbucks without her, the overwhelming jealousy seeing others with complete families, the continued dance sign ups in the mail, and so much more.

Amidst the pain and sorrow, I first felt a faint sense of inner peace, slowly growing more prevalent in my heart, allowing me to know deep within that somehow God would make this alright.   It took relinquishing control to Him, trusting that He would carry me through.  I knew I couldn’t do this on my own.

I’m happy, but also sad. I’m so blessed, yet broken inside. I’ve learned to balance these delicate feelings of grief and sorrow that ambush me at moment’s notice, while still being able to experience amazing joy and gifts of each new day.

Not one day goes by where I don’t think about her. Her presence is missed on every holiday and family gathering. The inevitable empty chair makes itself known.   Even today on occasion, I avoid social functions, baby showers, church, graduations, and birthday parties. And that’s okay. I have learned what works for me, where I fit comfortably and what my limitations are.

I’m still as forgetful as I was that first year.  I have never recovered from this and seem to have gotten worse. So I apologize in advance if I forgot to return your call or text, or email. I’m sure I read it and replied to you in my mind.  Please be persistent and patient with me.

I don’t cry every night, or every month for that matter.  My grief comes and goes, here one day, gone for months until a song, a smell, a place, a photo or something else transports me back to that familiar day. But my smiles far outweigh my sorrow.

Questions like “how many children to you have?” aren’t paralyzing and uncomfortable anymore. They are welcomed, as they provide me an opportunity to share my daughter. To talk about Lydia brings me more joy than anything else.

I’ve learned to take off that mask of “I’m okay,” and be authentic to myself and others.  This is real life and they get the real me.   I’ve learned that it’s okay to cry through church and embrace those pure emotions, moments that touch my soul.

I’ve learned to manage my anxiety and panic attacks, recognizing and combatting them with God’s word.  I carry Lydia in my heart and have her special items placed throughout my home. Her artwork is framed on the wall, her bottle of High School Musical perfume sits on my bathroom counter, her photo next to my bed, her favorite princess blanket draped over the couch, and so many others. She is always with me and will always be my daughter and I her mom.

Perspective is what keeps me going.  Eternal perspective.  Imagining my darling daughter dancing with Jesus, joyful and in complete bliss.  Nothing makes me happier.  Knowing what awaits us all after we depart this world, is something we must treasure and eagerly anticipate.

The fog has lifted. The me who lived a decade ago is not here anymore. Not sure where she went but, an older and wiser me has evolved. I know what’s really important in life.  I’ve learned about forgiveness and generosity, perseverance and deep love. And I’ve finally figured out how I like to eat my eggs- (scrambled), and that my favorite time of day is just at twilight when the sun it setting. The sky is illuminated in a magnificent light that amplifies the spectacular rainbow of colors, bringing peace to my soul.

Now, as I look at the reflection in the mirror, I see a woman who hasn’t taken her necklace off in ten years, the one with the silver pendant of her daughter’s last thumbprint with her name engraved in the back.  I see a woman who feels old as the creases on my face get more prevalent. I feel exhausted, and deeply scarred. Yet on the contrary, I also see someone who is strong, full of faith and is a thriving survivor of life’s most horrific circumstances, whose direction in life has been made clear.  A lady seasoned on the lessons of grief, a heart bursting with love for others, who has found the secret to surviving child loss.

The most important thing I’ve learned in the past ten years, is that if we allow Him, God will turn our grief, sorrow, and anger into something so beautiful. The trauma, the flashbacks of that horrific moment, were like stabbing pains directly through my heart, over and over again, hour after hour, day after day, penetrating my core, for years. Yet, beneath all the pain was a tiny spark of hope that I was determined to uncover. As I reached for the light that I could just barely see, He gently brushed away what kept it hidden, and slowly He began to strengthen me, mold me, and refine all that He created in me. What He has clearly shown me in this process is that through recognizing His work in our own lives, God is able to give us the ability to see others in a different light, with a heart full of compassion. Finding meaning, and living fully with passion and purpose, is what life is all about. It’s unfortunate that it often takes us being broken and at rock bottom, before we can see the light through the cracks. But, my God is faithful, full of mercy, and His love is immeasurable.

No one is exempt from tragedy and loss. No one is exempt from accidents or mistakes. Guilt, regret, and shame do not have to haunt us. I made a choice-a choice to find hope. It didn’t matter anymore how she died, but how she lived and how she is still living on in heaven.  I learned to gently let go of those things that weighed so heavily on me, slowly removing the blanket that once enveloped me. Although scary, I was able to get through it by clinging to my faith. He works miracles, and is the only one who has the power to bring amazing beauty out of total devastation.

For now, when I feel that time is just rushing by way too fast, I try to slow down to read those books to my children, to play games, pick ugly flowers that they think are beautiful, explore and appreciate the sloppy kisses, silly questions, fantastic indiscernible artwork, sassy attitudes, teenage arguments and make ample time for the simple things, learning that a little gratitude goes a long way. I’ve learned to embrace my unorganized, chaotic and messy life, making room for what really matters.

The scars on my arm have forever marked me providing me a daily reminder of my difficult journey, dividing my life into “before and after.” Something that I will carry with me always. Presently, I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, however, I know I’m equipped to handle whatever life throws at me.

So, my advice to you all, if I can do this, so can you.

I pray you find that sparkle of hope seeping through your darkness and come to see the Lord is our strength and faithfully carries our burdens.  In time, He reveals a striking world, a slow dance exposing the wonders of life, teaching us to appreciate and see Him, and to see this life we’ve been given from His perspective and not our own.  Remember, God’s got this!

I have experienced the worst and at times still, relive those gut wrenching soul-killing sobs and accompanied sharp pains. However, instead of that initial blanket of hopelessness, these intimate moments are followed by an overwhelming peace that embraces me, bringing comfort and healing.  This is the gift of grief.

I can honestly say that having lived through the trauma of the death of my child, my eyes have been opened to a new world. Initially, it was the world full of sadness and unending pain. It was struggling with heavy doubt and perpetual what ifs.

However, as the days and years progressed, slowly I began to evolve, hatching from my cocoon inviting flickers of hope into my life and soon, they out shadowed the darkness. I found myself smiling more, and counted the days in between the tears.  Progress was being made.  My faith was growing and glimmers of joy were blooming inside me.  I began to forego the judgmental self of previous days, learning to appreciate the struggles of others, understanding full well that each one of us is fighting a silent inner battle.

However, ten years later, it has evolved into a world of deep introspect and life lessons.  Grief is constantly developing and growing my heart of compassion while pruning my spirit and blossoming my faith.   Grief causes you to become authentic to yourself as you walk that fine line between past and present, delicately balancing the dynamic emotions that flood your soul, while reflecting on yesterday and pondering what the future holds.

I have learned that I cannot only survive this, but can thrive.  It humbles me to know that without grief, my life would have been entirely different and I would not be the same person I have become today.  For that I am grateful.

Well, what’s another 10?  Bring it on.  Every day is one day closer to my reunion with my little girl.   Thinking of all of you grieving hearts and sending prayers of peace and love. Hang on-hope is just around the corner.

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