Other people's words

I lack words, so I decided to look for some from other people.  Here are some of my favorites:

•  ”A person’s a person, no matter how small.”  ― Dr Seuss

•  “Hope is the feeling that the feeling you have isn’t permanent.” ― Jean Kerr

•  "If you know someone who has lost a child or lost anybody who's important to them, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died, they didn't forget they died. You're not reminding them. What you're reminding them of is that you remember that they lived, and that's a great, great gift.'" ― Elizabeth Edwards

•  “If I had lost a leg instead of a boy, no one would ever ask me if I was ‘over’ it. They would ask me how I was doing learning to walk without my leg. I was learning to walk and to breath and to live without Wade. And what I was learning is that it was never going to be the life I had before.” ―Elizabeth Edwards 

• “Some people say it is a shame. Others even imply that it would have been better if the baby had never been created. But the short time I had with my child is precious to me. It is painful to me, but I still wouldn't wish it away. I prayed that God would bless us with a baby. Each child is a gift, and I am proud that we cooperated with God in the creation of a new soul for all eternity. Although not with me, my baby lives.” ― Christine O'Keeffe Lafser, An Empty Cradle, a Full Heart

• “Monday, June 9: People think they know you. They think they know how you're handling a situation. But the truth is no one knows. No one knows what happens after you leave them, when you're lying in bed or sitting over your breakfast alone and all you want to do is cry or scream. They don't know what's going on inside your head--the mind-numbing cocktail of anger and sadness and guilt. This isn't their fault. They just don't know. And so they pretend and they say you're doing great when you're really not. And this makes everyone feel better. Everybody but you.” ― William H. Woodwell Jr.

•  “Words are like nets - we hope they'll cover what we mean, but we know they can't possibly hold that much joy, or grief, or wonder.” ― Jodi Picoult, Change of Heart 

•  “Deep grief sometimes is almost like a specific location, a coordinate on a map of time. When you are standing in that forest of sorrow, you cannot imagine that you could ever find your way to a better place. But if someone can assure you that they themselves have stood in that same place, and now have moved on, sometimes this will bring hope” ― Elizabeth Gilbert , Eat, Pray, Love (I dislike quoting this book, but this one quote isn't bad.)

•  “And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window, so, for that pleasure . . . And your friends will be properly astonished to see you laughing as you look up at the sky! Then you will say to them, 'Yes, the stars always make me laugh!' And they will think you are crazy. It will be a very shabby trick that I shall have played on you...” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

• Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief. ― C. S. Lewis 

• It's so curious:  one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief.  But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.   ― Colette 

• The world may never notice
  If a Snowdrop doesn't bloom,
  Or even pause to wonder
  If the petals fall too soon.
  But every life that ever forms,
  Of ever comes to be
  Touches the world in some way
  For all eternity

No words

I have this unbearable desire to talk to someone, and no words to say. 

I don't know how to share what I feel, how I miss my daughter, the fear and guilt I have of moving forward, the way loneliness seeps in.  I want to talk to someone, anyone, everyone, and I have no words.

Wandering among the stages of grief

So, I thought I had gone through the stages of grief already, yet I find myself recently wandering back among the middle few.  Now, granted, there are several different models of the grief stages, but I prefer the seven stage model.

According to this model, the stages of grief are:

1) Shock and Denial--did that on July 22 before Charlotte was born.  I couldn't deny it once I held her.

2) Pain and Guilt--did that on the 23rd, after we left the hospital.

3) Anger--did that sporadically the week after.

4) Depression and Loneliness--did that before I sent out the reading from the horribly titled Empty Cradle, Broken Heart book.
 
5) The Upward Turn--did that as I started to write my journal.

6) Reconstruction and Working Through--did that totally as I wrote my journal and started to share it.

7)  Acceptance and Hope--did that as I reflected at the end of my journal.


OK, so don't people usually go from 1 to 7 with relative order?  Why did I go from 1 to 7 only to loop back and hover between 3 and 4?

I am so ANGRY at the majority of people in my life.  I'm usually NOT one to talk about my feelings, particularly my problems, so I can understand why people wouldn't come running to ask me how I feel...at first...but then I went out on a limb...several limbs, in fact, basically begging people to ask me questions.  I told people that I wouldn't bring it up on my own, but that I really wanted to talk about it, so please ask.  This is incredibly out of character for me, which, to me, makes it that more important!  Most people aren't doing it.  At all.  Even a little bit.  I'm so ANGRY that people aren't willing to make themselves a little uncomfortable in order to be there for me.  I know it's weird to ask, and it's uncomfortable to not know what to say, but BELIEVE me, it's worse for me!!

This leads me to #4...I feel SO lonely.  When everyone in my life refuses to ask, basically pretending like nothing's wrong, I feel ridiculously isolated.  It's not fair.  It's not right.  Is it just that I've surrounded myself with people who don't REALLY care so much about me?  I feel like maybe I don't have any real friends at all.  Even my family...not so much.  I mean, my family. Really?  The people who care the most about me (or should) can't go outside of their comfort zones to be there for me when I really, truly need them?  Really?

I individually emailed or spoke to everyone in my family, to clarify again that I wanted to talk about what happened, that I wanted to share my daughter with them, but that I needed for them to initiate the conversation...and I actually got one response back that basically said to join a support group.  Awesome.  You don't want to be there for me, so you're going to send me to talk to strangers instead.  Yup.  That's exactly what I need.

So, does this mean I'll get a second upward turn?  I went through the first seven stages in a week and a half, then I've spent the last two weeks careening between 3 and 4.  I need a turn.

Renaming a store

I want to share an anecdote about buying the box to hold my daughter's cremains.  This is not, generally speaking, the story subject which begs for humor, but some of the absurdity was hard to ignore.

The funeral home that cremated my daughter said that we could purchase an urn from them, but that they were basically limited in selection, expensive, and not particularly attractive.  He suggested that we go to a Hallmark-esque store and find a box or container that we actually liked, and they would place the cremains within.  I really liked the funeral home guy.  I expected to see a stodgy old man with a melancholy voice and perhaps a flower in his lapel...a la Dan Ackroid in My Girl.  The guy we met with looked like a linebacker, had a sweet smile, and was wearing gym shorts.  He also didn't charge us for their services. 

With his advice in mind, I went on an internet quest to find the perfect box.  I don't know how people were able to find memorial gifts before the internet.  There are no "Sorry Someone Died" stores.  That's an employee discount I think most of us could do without.  There are, however, internet shops which are geared toward people like me, and really in all kids of loss.  I was able to get a wind chime and Christmas ornament this way, which was really satisfying.  No box, though.

So then I went on the Things Remembered website.  Boxes galore.  I settled on a box that, two weeks ago, I would have absolutely hated.  Had I seen it in a store I probably would have pointed it out to someone, rolled my eyes, and even stuck out my tongue.  As one of my friends said, which really touched me, it's right that my daughter should change my point of view on the world a bit.  It is in a heart shape, filigree, with an angel on the lid.  Everything I used to hate.  It was perfect.  It also wouldn't ship for two weeks. Not good enough.

So I went to the Things Remembered store in my local mall.  I've decided they should rename this store "Shiny Shit We Engrave".  They had the box I wanted, and I had already decided on an inscription.  Then, as a matter of routine and policy for the store, she asked the occasion for which I was purchasing said box.  I guess people don't normally buy themselves shiny shit with inscriptions, and they're normally gifts.  When I told the clerk it was a memorial box, they realized that's not an option on their list.  Really?  A store called Things Remembered doesn't occasionally sell stuff for memorials?  I don't buy that!

So, while we waited for the box to be engraved, I took Mia to the playground in the mall.  What else does one do while waiting for the box to hold a child's ashes? 

Frustrated

Dear friends and family...especially family:

Please give a shit.  Not even a whole shit.  How about half of one? 

Sincerely, me


OK, so I'm having a bad day.  We sent out an email to our family members about what we need from them in terms of support.  We asked that they let us know they care.  We asked that they ask us about Charlotte.  We let them know that we have pictures and my journal that we really want to share, but we need them to ask to see them...we need them to take that initiative so we know they really actually care and want to understand.

We sent this email out to ten family members...our siblings and our parents. 

...no one responded.

I feel like I'm begging my family to care.  I feel like I keep asking for support, and none is coming.  My family is supposed to care about one another...why, when I'm specifically asking for help, is none being offered?  If we were being vague or hinting that we needed something, I could understand being ignored...but this just seems like deliberate hurtfulness.

I know my family members are good people.  I'm trying to remind myself that this is awkward for them, that they might not know what to say...but that excuse only carries me so far.  My daughter died almost two weeks ago.  How long will I have to wait for them to support me?

Grief Guidance

Sharing Grief

My different reactions to my miscarriage versus my stillbirth astound me.

When we miscarried three years ago, I completely shut myself off.  I didn't want to talk about it.  I didn't want to be asked about it.  I didn't want people to acknowledge it.  I knew that people didn't see that baby as a baby.  In a way, I didn't really, either.  I loved the child that died, but I didn't feel the intense connection and bond.  When I grieved, I was mourning the connection that didn't have a chance to grow.

With Charlotte, it's an entirely different concept.  I don't just want to talk about it, I feel like I need to talk about it.  I feel like I need people to ask me about Charlotte and my experiences, because I need them to see my daughter as I did, or at least to acknowledge that she was a person, a little girl.  I need them to validate my grief, in a way.  I need them to recognize the void that her death created for me.  If I don't talk about it, it's as though it wasn't real, wasn't important.

When I wrote out my experience, I didn't plan to show it to anyone, save maybe my husband.  I'm grateful that my change of heart came later.  If I had written it to be read by family and friends, I don't think I could have or would have been as honest and detailed as I was.  Now that it's done, I feel like I want to pass out copies to my loved ones en mass.  This goes especially for the ones who just don't seem to get it.

People fall into three, distinct categories.  I don't think any of the people in any of these categories are bad, just misguided.  They have a skewed view of our emotions and/or are uncomfortable dealing with our grief.  In select instances, the person may be too selfish to try to be what we need, and instead are what they find easiest. The three categories are:

1) People who pretend it didn't happen.  They don't ask questions.  They avoid the topic of babies and children all together.  They fill silences with chatter about irrelevant things, just to avoid the silence.  They don't want to acknowledge that anything happened, that grief is necessary, that we need to express our sadness.

2) People who want to fix it.  They provide solutions.  They offer platitudes intended to placate us.  They're anxious for us to get over it.  They also don't understand what we need, and they have no interest in letting us grieve.  Our emotions are to be rectified, and our loss is thus belittled.

3) People who want to support us in grief.  They ask questions.  They listen.  They let us cry.  They might even cry with us.  They help us by seeing the value in what we lost, which lends authority and weight to our feelings of grief.  These people don't always say the right thing, and they are not always comfortable, but they genuinely want to be what we need them to be.

Now that I have my story on paper, I'm hopeful that, if people are willing to open themselves to it, they can maybe move to the third category of support.  Maybe if they can look through the filter of my eyes, they can understand a little more easily why we ask for the support that we do.

We need our loved ones to share our grief, not ignore it or fix it.