August 31, 2010
If we lived in the days of wearing a black arm band while mourning, I believe I would be to the point where I would take my band off. There are still surprises for me once in a while. Things I didn't realize would remind me of Harper but do. For the most part though, I know what to expect and can prepare. I don't break down crying when reminded. If there is something that hits me hard, I'm able to hold onto it and process it at a later, more appropriate time. I think about her every day. Every day. But more often than not, it is with a tender sadness and awe.
I'm feeling tired of my grief. I'm tired of the self absorption that accompanies grief. I guess that's part of the process too. Part of what helps us move forward. And that's what I'm trying to do: move forward. Slowly but surely I'm doing it.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Something that happened
August 18, 2010
The feelings are fading. Especially the fear. I find myself reminded of something that happened in the hospital and my entire body is no longer affected by the memory. I can talk to people about my experiences without the urgency I used to have. It's becoming something that happened. I'm not weepy any more. I'm finding a routine, a rhythm to my life that is familiar. Ah yes. I'm remembering how my life felt. I remember. But it feels like this life now is muted somehow. Faint whispers of what it once was. It's not bad. The familiarity is comforting. I still wonder though, will the colors ever be as crisp as they once were? Will excitement ever reach the level it once did? Will it always be tempered somewhat with fear or sadness?
I am not fully engaged in my life yet. I can see myself holding my arm up, keeping everything at a distance. A safe distance. I laugh at the irony now when I picture myself in the hospital struggling to get up and go to the bathroom. Go to the bathroom. That's all you have to do. Just keep going Abby. Focus on what you have to do and you can do it. What did I fight so hard for if not to LIVE and to live fully? Then for crying out loud Abby - DO IT! Live fully. Don't be afraid. Hope. Love. Dream. You can do it. I know you can. How do I know? Because I've seen you do it. I've seen you face everything you were afraid of. And you survived.
That's right. I survived. (I'm trying hard not to bust out into song. That's right. You know what I'm talking about. I know you're hearing it too. That's okay, right? It's a good song to focus on once in a while. Hope you're smiling . . .)
The feelings are fading. Especially the fear. I find myself reminded of something that happened in the hospital and my entire body is no longer affected by the memory. I can talk to people about my experiences without the urgency I used to have. It's becoming something that happened. I'm not weepy any more. I'm finding a routine, a rhythm to my life that is familiar. Ah yes. I'm remembering how my life felt. I remember. But it feels like this life now is muted somehow. Faint whispers of what it once was. It's not bad. The familiarity is comforting. I still wonder though, will the colors ever be as crisp as they once were? Will excitement ever reach the level it once did? Will it always be tempered somewhat with fear or sadness?
I am not fully engaged in my life yet. I can see myself holding my arm up, keeping everything at a distance. A safe distance. I laugh at the irony now when I picture myself in the hospital struggling to get up and go to the bathroom. Go to the bathroom. That's all you have to do. Just keep going Abby. Focus on what you have to do and you can do it. What did I fight so hard for if not to LIVE and to live fully? Then for crying out loud Abby - DO IT! Live fully. Don't be afraid. Hope. Love. Dream. You can do it. I know you can. How do I know? Because I've seen you do it. I've seen you face everything you were afraid of. And you survived.
That's right. I survived. (I'm trying hard not to bust out into song. That's right. You know what I'm talking about. I know you're hearing it too. That's okay, right? It's a good song to focus on once in a while. Hope you're smiling . . .)
Friday, August 13, 2010
No guilt
August 13, 2010
I had a massage last night. Oh it was so wonderful. Getting massages these days isn't just doing something luxurious. It's therapeutic for me. It's an act of showing love to this body of mine that I have so many negative feelings about. I'm trying to rebuild a foundation that has crumbled; a foundation of gratitude, trust, and care.
I'm keenly aware of the fact that if we had kids, massages would not be something I would indulge in. I have a hard enough time spending money on myself as it is, but if we had kids, no way would I be able to spend the money. I'm aware of that any time I buy a mocha or chai tea latte too. I'm aware of it as I take a two hour nap on a Saturday and/or Sunday afternoon.
I don't want kids right now. I can't say I won't want them in the future, but right now, I don't. Jeremy and I spent ten years of our married life NOT wanting kids. Before we decided to try to get pregnant with Harper, we spent a lot of time going over the pros and cons, talking about all the sacrifices we would have to make, discussing the financial ramifications, etc., etc. When I say a lot of time, I'm talking years. Even when we tried to get pregnant with Harper, we had said we would try for two months and if it didn't happen, it wasn't meant to be. Of course I got pregnant the first month.
It's a strange paradox too - grieving the loss of a child and being in a place of not wanting children. I've finally gotten to a place where I can say that I don't want a baby right now without feeling like I'm betraying Harper. I am not yet to the place where I can say "I'm happy I don't have kids." I feel like it should be okay to say that, but there is this little voice in the back of my head that says, "But if you say that then you're saying you didn't want Harper." I know, I know. That's not what that means. It just all gets so mixed up in my mind. The only reason I'm writing about this is to share with people how complicated the grief process is.
Until I get it all figured out, I'm going to allow myself to enjoy my mochas and massages. No guilt! Right?
I had a massage last night. Oh it was so wonderful. Getting massages these days isn't just doing something luxurious. It's therapeutic for me. It's an act of showing love to this body of mine that I have so many negative feelings about. I'm trying to rebuild a foundation that has crumbled; a foundation of gratitude, trust, and care.
I'm keenly aware of the fact that if we had kids, massages would not be something I would indulge in. I have a hard enough time spending money on myself as it is, but if we had kids, no way would I be able to spend the money. I'm aware of that any time I buy a mocha or chai tea latte too. I'm aware of it as I take a two hour nap on a Saturday and/or Sunday afternoon.
I don't want kids right now. I can't say I won't want them in the future, but right now, I don't. Jeremy and I spent ten years of our married life NOT wanting kids. Before we decided to try to get pregnant with Harper, we spent a lot of time going over the pros and cons, talking about all the sacrifices we would have to make, discussing the financial ramifications, etc., etc. When I say a lot of time, I'm talking years. Even when we tried to get pregnant with Harper, we had said we would try for two months and if it didn't happen, it wasn't meant to be. Of course I got pregnant the first month.
It's a strange paradox too - grieving the loss of a child and being in a place of not wanting children. I've finally gotten to a place where I can say that I don't want a baby right now without feeling like I'm betraying Harper. I am not yet to the place where I can say "I'm happy I don't have kids." I feel like it should be okay to say that, but there is this little voice in the back of my head that says, "But if you say that then you're saying you didn't want Harper." I know, I know. That's not what that means. It just all gets so mixed up in my mind. The only reason I'm writing about this is to share with people how complicated the grief process is.
Until I get it all figured out, I'm going to allow myself to enjoy my mochas and massages. No guilt! Right?
Friday, August 6, 2010
The moments she's missing
August 6, 2010
It was dusk and the sun had gone down without me realizing it, so the house was dark; no lights on yet. I timidly opened the door to his music room and walked in. He has a sleeping bag spread out on the floor for when he wants to get comfortable and really listen to an album. I sat down on the sleeping bag and then laid back and looked up at the ceiling fan. He sat down near me and crossed his legs. The new Lost Dogs CD was playing. I repositioned myself so my head was in his lap. He clicked through different songs, pointing out the things he liked about each of them. We were mostly quiet though, just listening. It wasn't a scene that I had fantasized about before, but I could picture her there with us nonetheless. She would have been laying on my stomach, following the flow of her parents' mood. She probably would have drifted off to sleep, it being her bedtime and all. He couldn't see my tears in the darkness as they slipped out the corners of my eyes. I didn't sob. I didn't weep. Just a few quick tears.
He moved to lay down next to me. "There are some moments where I can feel that she's missing," I said to him. He nodded in agreement.
It was dusk and the sun had gone down without me realizing it, so the house was dark; no lights on yet. I timidly opened the door to his music room and walked in. He has a sleeping bag spread out on the floor for when he wants to get comfortable and really listen to an album. I sat down on the sleeping bag and then laid back and looked up at the ceiling fan. He sat down near me and crossed his legs. The new Lost Dogs CD was playing. I repositioned myself so my head was in his lap. He clicked through different songs, pointing out the things he liked about each of them. We were mostly quiet though, just listening. It wasn't a scene that I had fantasized about before, but I could picture her there with us nonetheless. She would have been laying on my stomach, following the flow of her parents' mood. She probably would have drifted off to sleep, it being her bedtime and all. He couldn't see my tears in the darkness as they slipped out the corners of my eyes. I didn't sob. I didn't weep. Just a few quick tears.
He moved to lay down next to me. "There are some moments where I can feel that she's missing," I said to him. He nodded in agreement.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
She never really had a chance
August 4, 2010
I've been sick the last couple of days. (I hate writing that. I hate being sick and I feel like there's always something wrong with my stupid body and I'm embarrassed to write that I'm sick, yet again.) This morning I went to the lab and had a chest x-ray done. As I was changing into the paper gown and donning a lead apron, I thought about the many, many x-rays I've had done the past few years. I thought about all that radiation that my body has been exposed to. And then I thought about Harper, and all the radiation she was exposed to. And I thought about the medications she was exposed to. And about the way she was nourished in the final weeks of her life (through TPN - chemically engineered nourishment that was pumped straight to my heart), and about how she never really had a chance. I was deluding myself the times I said out loud, "I'm leaving here with my baby and my colon."
Then it hit me. Saying "she never really had a chance," is so close to saying that this was part of the plan. This is the way my life was supposed to unfold. And before all of this happened, I used to believe that there was a purpose for things, a reason. A plan, if you will. But then when my own body turned on me and nearly killed me, when my daughter died inside me and I had to deliver her, I just couldn't believe that any more. I just couldn't. That "God" had planned for this to happen to me? No thanks. And so I've been left to sort through the why of it without the foundation that I used to rely on to explain it to me. And it has left me devastated, fearful, and frustrated.
I tell myself sometimes, You don't need to have life all figured out to keep on living it Abby. You just keep going, day after day. Do you think everyone else around you has it all figured out? No. But everyone else keeps on going too. And I marvel at how people do that. Do other people think about these things? How do they reconcile the pain? It amazes me, that we as a species keep on plugging away without having the answers, or in the very best situations, having answers built on faith that they are true.
It's funny though. I've almost come full circle in my beliefs. I'm almost to the point where I need to believe in a plan again, because living my life without knowing there is a reason is too depressing. It's kept some anger and pain at bay, but not for long. Perhaps it's time to entertain those thoughts and just accept the emotions that will come with them.
I've been sick the last couple of days. (I hate writing that. I hate being sick and I feel like there's always something wrong with my stupid body and I'm embarrassed to write that I'm sick, yet again.) This morning I went to the lab and had a chest x-ray done. As I was changing into the paper gown and donning a lead apron, I thought about the many, many x-rays I've had done the past few years. I thought about all that radiation that my body has been exposed to. And then I thought about Harper, and all the radiation she was exposed to. And I thought about the medications she was exposed to. And about the way she was nourished in the final weeks of her life (through TPN - chemically engineered nourishment that was pumped straight to my heart), and about how she never really had a chance. I was deluding myself the times I said out loud, "I'm leaving here with my baby and my colon."
Then it hit me. Saying "she never really had a chance," is so close to saying that this was part of the plan. This is the way my life was supposed to unfold. And before all of this happened, I used to believe that there was a purpose for things, a reason. A plan, if you will. But then when my own body turned on me and nearly killed me, when my daughter died inside me and I had to deliver her, I just couldn't believe that any more. I just couldn't. That "God" had planned for this to happen to me? No thanks. And so I've been left to sort through the why of it without the foundation that I used to rely on to explain it to me. And it has left me devastated, fearful, and frustrated.
I tell myself sometimes, You don't need to have life all figured out to keep on living it Abby. You just keep going, day after day. Do you think everyone else around you has it all figured out? No. But everyone else keeps on going too. And I marvel at how people do that. Do other people think about these things? How do they reconcile the pain? It amazes me, that we as a species keep on plugging away without having the answers, or in the very best situations, having answers built on faith that they are true.
It's funny though. I've almost come full circle in my beliefs. I'm almost to the point where I need to believe in a plan again, because living my life without knowing there is a reason is too depressing. It's kept some anger and pain at bay, but not for long. Perhaps it's time to entertain those thoughts and just accept the emotions that will come with them.
Monday, August 2, 2010
How've you been?
August 2, 2010
I was at the doctor's office today, waiting for my name to be called, when a former co-worker walked in. Someone I hadn't seen in three years. Three long years. "How've you been?" he asked with a big smile on his face. "I'm doing alright," I answered. We're meeting in the doctor's office, maybe he'll think my lack of energy and enthusiasm is because I'm not feeling well.
We chit-chatted awkwardly as we both waited, and then my name was called. I was so relieved. What do I say? How do you sum up three important years in a casual conversation. You don't, right? You don't. But my world has changed. My entire world has changed. But it's left unsaid as it should be in this situation. It's just such a strange thing. To talk with someone who knew me then, right before my world fell apart, and who has no idea.
But it was okay too, not to spill myself all over the place. To remain composed. To hold within myself the most important moments of who I am. It was okay.
I was at the doctor's office today, waiting for my name to be called, when a former co-worker walked in. Someone I hadn't seen in three years. Three long years. "How've you been?" he asked with a big smile on his face. "I'm doing alright," I answered. We're meeting in the doctor's office, maybe he'll think my lack of energy and enthusiasm is because I'm not feeling well.
We chit-chatted awkwardly as we both waited, and then my name was called. I was so relieved. What do I say? How do you sum up three important years in a casual conversation. You don't, right? You don't. But my world has changed. My entire world has changed. But it's left unsaid as it should be in this situation. It's just such a strange thing. To talk with someone who knew me then, right before my world fell apart, and who has no idea.
But it was okay too, not to spill myself all over the place. To remain composed. To hold within myself the most important moments of who I am. It was okay.
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