Look how beautiful my Vick Baby's grave is.
This is my Heaven spot.
♥ you forever Victor.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
The Tabloids
I hate the tabloids!!! I've done my best to avoid them for over a year now. They are excruciating the way they depict and portray pregnancy and childbirth. Today I returned home from shopping, emotionally irritated and angry. Everywhere my eyes were I saw some kind of report on a celebrity giving birth. One of the accounts said "delivery room drama" and I just wanted to shake whoever wrote that and scream, "Drama? Is the baby living? Then where's the drama!!!?"
It was horrifying having to divide time in the delivery room between welcoming Tesslee into this world, taking all of her beauty and birth in and having to let go, say goodbye and make arrangements for her body, simultaneously. There are no words that begin to express how horrifying it was and continues to be.
I am releasing this bitterness into the universe. I am done with it and moving on with my evening.
It was horrifying having to divide time in the delivery room between welcoming Tesslee into this world, taking all of her beauty and birth in and having to let go, say goodbye and make arrangements for her body, simultaneously. There are no words that begin to express how horrifying it was and continues to be.
I am releasing this bitterness into the universe. I am done with it and moving on with my evening.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Thoughts
It always feels like someone is missing. I feel like I live in a foggy version of reality. It hurts my heart that the people who know my family naturally see nothing different than what they have ever known. Four kids. And those that don't know our family see four kids, but they don't know our story. Every scenerio that plays out haunts me... When I'm sitting in church with four kids beside me, my family is much larger than represented. Sometimes I purposely leave extra spaces on our bench for Vick and Tess , just trying to visualize how it SHOULD look. When I set the table for dinner, I have to really think. All these different numbers are swimming around in my head. 4 kids here... 5 that I have pictures with... 6 that are mine forever, 5 plates to set out if Mike is working, 6 if he's home, and 8 if we were blessed enough to be all together. It's so confusing and heart-tugging. Tonight 2 things pricked me really hard and are eating away at me, though I didn't have the energy to mention it t the time. At our dinner gathering I was asked to gather my kids for prayer, and all I wanted to scream was IF ONLY I COULD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU DON"T KNOW HOW CRAPPY IT IS TO NOT BE ABLE TO GATHER MY KIDS!!!!!!!!
The other thing was a question to a quiz we played about our fathers for Father's Day. The question was, "What was the day and time you became a father?" And the correct answer was supposed to be the birthday and time of your oldest child. I had to bite my tongue, but I held it as I listened to excruciating statements contemplating this. I did hear someone mention conception, which I was happy was represented, but in the end the right answer was the child's birthday. I know with all my heart that I became a mother the moment my first child was conceived, the very moment my womb carried life. That made me a mother. Not when my healthy, full term child cried for the first time. I was never forced to think about that until Tesslee's heart was silenced. I realize that my family has never been forced to view life in this way, but I was Tesslee's mother for every second she was alive. And I carried my precious Victor for the 6 weeks he was given here on earth. It was at his conception that I became a mother for the 6th time. Its weird to be blogging over this type of stuff at 1:00 am, but I feel caught in a strange world where I see everything differently, but must continue on in the old world with these trivial mundane things that torture my heart when I hear them. I cannot believe how much my losses have changed me, altered me to the core. Its overwhelming for my emotions.
My mind often ponders on the nature of these two incredible spirits. They are celestial beings. I like to think that Victor is this incredible spirit who had some very important work to do, and that he could only be spared for a blink of time because of his greatness.. That's how I choose to consider miscarriage. One day I hope my children's short lives make perfect sense. Until then, I will think what I will to make the separation the least painful as possible.
The other thing was a question to a quiz we played about our fathers for Father's Day. The question was, "What was the day and time you became a father?" And the correct answer was supposed to be the birthday and time of your oldest child. I had to bite my tongue, but I held it as I listened to excruciating statements contemplating this. I did hear someone mention conception, which I was happy was represented, but in the end the right answer was the child's birthday. I know with all my heart that I became a mother the moment my first child was conceived, the very moment my womb carried life. That made me a mother. Not when my healthy, full term child cried for the first time. I was never forced to think about that until Tesslee's heart was silenced. I realize that my family has never been forced to view life in this way, but I was Tesslee's mother for every second she was alive. And I carried my precious Victor for the 6 weeks he was given here on earth. It was at his conception that I became a mother for the 6th time. Its weird to be blogging over this type of stuff at 1:00 am, but I feel caught in a strange world where I see everything differently, but must continue on in the old world with these trivial mundane things that torture my heart when I hear them. I cannot believe how much my losses have changed me, altered me to the core. Its overwhelming for my emotions.
My mind often ponders on the nature of these two incredible spirits. They are celestial beings. I like to think that Victor is this incredible spirit who had some very important work to do, and that he could only be spared for a blink of time because of his greatness.. That's how I choose to consider miscarriage. One day I hope my children's short lives make perfect sense. Until then, I will think what I will to make the separation the least painful as possible.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
To Be Understood
I have never felt so alone, so abandoned by my family- those who mean the most to me, those I care the most about, those who wish they could make it all better but can't, those who don't understand because they have never been there. Of course, I would also hate if any of them were there and understood this.
It is so lonely here. I put a smile on for my kids, for the neighbors, for the scouts and parents, but I am weary of it. I just long to be understood that I am not ok, that I think about my babies all the time, they are always on my mind, both of them. As I interact with my kids (dress them, feed them, play with them) I see my two on the other side and long to have these experiences with them. I hug my husband knowing that by hugging him I am also hugging a literal, tangible piece of my babies. My heart hurts for them deeply, and deeply is not the word. There is no word that describes it. I came across a picture of Tesslee's urn. I miss it so much. The beautiful white marble was so smooth and comforting to hold. I miss having her remains in my possession. It is a good thing she is buried.
It's hard to not be understood, or to feel like I can't respond honestly because if I did it would scare them. It's hard to be hurting this much and the ones I love most don't ask how I'm doing, either because they are oblivious to my pain, or they don't know what to say so they don't bring it up at all. Either way, it hurts and I am lonely. I came across this quote that describes exactly how I feel. It's nice to have a familiar friend in words. I wish that everyone would read this just to have a better idea of how a mom feels everyday her child is not in her arms.
I long to be understood, to have a friend who understands exactly why I am hurting, the conflict inside, the daily struggles, someone who knows my deep love for my babies, both of them, who I cannot fool with my smile. Someone who knows that I am not ok even though I say that I am. Someone who remembers on their own that we should be meeting our little Vick in 3 more weeks without me having to look desperate and bring it up so people will remember. Someone who understands my pain.
“The gap between those who have lost children and those who have not is profoundly difficult to bridge. No one, whose children are well and intact can be expected to understand what parents who have lost children have absorbed and what they bear. Our children come to us through every blade of grass, every crack in the sidewalk, every bowl of breakfast cereal. We seek contact with their atoms, their hairbrush, their toothbrush, their clothing. We reach for what was integrally woven into the fabric of our lives, now torn and shredded. A black hole has been blown through our souls and, indeed, it often does not allow the light to escape. It is a difficult place. For us to enter there is to be cut deeply, and torn anew, each time we go there, by the jagged edges of our loss. Yet we return, again and again, for that is where our children now reside. This will be so for years to come and it will change us profoundly. At some point in the distant future, the edges of that hole will have tempered and softened but the empty space will remain – a life sentence. Our friends will change through this. There is no avoiding it. We grieve for our children, in part, through talking about them and our feelings for having lost them. Some go there with us, others cannot and through their denial and a further measure, however unwittingly, to an already heavy burden. Assuming that we may be feeling “better” six months later is simply “to not get it.” The excruciating and isolating reality that bereaved parents feel is hermetically sealed from the nature of any other human experience. Thus it is a trap – those whose compassion and insight we most need are those for whom we abhor the experience that would allow them that sensitivity and capacity. And yet, somehow there are those, each in their own fashion, who have found a way to reach us and stay, to our comfort. They have understood, again each in their own way, that our children remain our children through our memory of them. Their memory is sustained through speaking about them and our feelings about their death. Deny this and you deny their life. Deny their life and you no longer have a place in ours. We recognize that we have moved to an emotional place where it is often very difficult to reach us. Our attempts to be normal are painful and the day-to-day carries a silent, screaming anguish that companies us, sometimes from moment to moment. Were we to give it its own voice we fear we would become truly unreachable, and so we remain “strong” for a host of reasons even as the strength saps our energy and drains our will. Were we to act out our true feelings we would be impossible to be with. We resent having to act normal, yet we dare not do otherwise. People who understand this dynamic are our gold standard. Working our way through this over the years will change us as does every experience – and extreme experience changes one extremely. We know we will have recovered when, as we have read, it is no longer so painful to be normal. We do not know who we will be at that point or who will still be with us. We have read that the gap is so difficult that, often, bereaved parents must attempt to reach out to friends and relatives or risk losing them. This is our attempt. For those untarnished by such events, who wish to know in some way what they, thankfully, do not know, read this. It may provide a window that is helpful for both sides of the gap.” { …Author Unknown… }
It is so lonely here. I put a smile on for my kids, for the neighbors, for the scouts and parents, but I am weary of it. I just long to be understood that I am not ok, that I think about my babies all the time, they are always on my mind, both of them. As I interact with my kids (dress them, feed them, play with them) I see my two on the other side and long to have these experiences with them. I hug my husband knowing that by hugging him I am also hugging a literal, tangible piece of my babies. My heart hurts for them deeply, and deeply is not the word. There is no word that describes it. I came across a picture of Tesslee's urn. I miss it so much. The beautiful white marble was so smooth and comforting to hold. I miss having her remains in my possession. It is a good thing she is buried.
It's hard to not be understood, or to feel like I can't respond honestly because if I did it would scare them. It's hard to be hurting this much and the ones I love most don't ask how I'm doing, either because they are oblivious to my pain, or they don't know what to say so they don't bring it up at all. Either way, it hurts and I am lonely. I came across this quote that describes exactly how I feel. It's nice to have a familiar friend in words. I wish that everyone would read this just to have a better idea of how a mom feels everyday her child is not in her arms.
I long to be understood, to have a friend who understands exactly why I am hurting, the conflict inside, the daily struggles, someone who knows my deep love for my babies, both of them, who I cannot fool with my smile. Someone who knows that I am not ok even though I say that I am. Someone who remembers on their own that we should be meeting our little Vick in 3 more weeks without me having to look desperate and bring it up so people will remember. Someone who understands my pain.
“The gap between those who have lost children and those who have not is profoundly difficult to bridge. No one, whose children are well and intact can be expected to understand what parents who have lost children have absorbed and what they bear. Our children come to us through every blade of grass, every crack in the sidewalk, every bowl of breakfast cereal. We seek contact with their atoms, their hairbrush, their toothbrush, their clothing. We reach for what was integrally woven into the fabric of our lives, now torn and shredded. A black hole has been blown through our souls and, indeed, it often does not allow the light to escape. It is a difficult place. For us to enter there is to be cut deeply, and torn anew, each time we go there, by the jagged edges of our loss. Yet we return, again and again, for that is where our children now reside. This will be so for years to come and it will change us profoundly. At some point in the distant future, the edges of that hole will have tempered and softened but the empty space will remain – a life sentence. Our friends will change through this. There is no avoiding it. We grieve for our children, in part, through talking about them and our feelings for having lost them. Some go there with us, others cannot and through their denial and a further measure, however unwittingly, to an already heavy burden. Assuming that we may be feeling “better” six months later is simply “to not get it.” The excruciating and isolating reality that bereaved parents feel is hermetically sealed from the nature of any other human experience. Thus it is a trap – those whose compassion and insight we most need are those for whom we abhor the experience that would allow them that sensitivity and capacity. And yet, somehow there are those, each in their own fashion, who have found a way to reach us and stay, to our comfort. They have understood, again each in their own way, that our children remain our children through our memory of them. Their memory is sustained through speaking about them and our feelings about their death. Deny this and you deny their life. Deny their life and you no longer have a place in ours. We recognize that we have moved to an emotional place where it is often very difficult to reach us. Our attempts to be normal are painful and the day-to-day carries a silent, screaming anguish that companies us, sometimes from moment to moment. Were we to give it its own voice we fear we would become truly unreachable, and so we remain “strong” for a host of reasons even as the strength saps our energy and drains our will. Were we to act out our true feelings we would be impossible to be with. We resent having to act normal, yet we dare not do otherwise. People who understand this dynamic are our gold standard. Working our way through this over the years will change us as does every experience – and extreme experience changes one extremely. We know we will have recovered when, as we have read, it is no longer so painful to be normal. We do not know who we will be at that point or who will still be with us. We have read that the gap is so difficult that, often, bereaved parents must attempt to reach out to friends and relatives or risk losing them. This is our attempt. For those untarnished by such events, who wish to know in some way what they, thankfully, do not know, read this. It may provide a window that is helpful for both sides of the gap.” { …Author Unknown… }
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