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The Places We’ll Go.

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“So be sure when you step, Step with care and great tact. And remember that life’s A Great Balancing Act. And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! (98 and ¾ percent guaranteed) Kid, you’ll move mountains.”

Dr. Seuss 
Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

I don’t know what I want to say today. My mind is fuzzy and, quite honestly, I’m exhausted. Some Tuesdays make me feel like this. The past weekend, I haven’t felt like I have succeeded. My depression was telling me that I was worthless and no one could ever help me. That I was alone and feeling all of these emotions because I deserve it. I thought of Jensen and could only think how poorly he would be thinking of me. I wouldn’t be the role model I had always wanted to be for him. And there were moments this weekend that remind me of those first few days after getting back from the hospital. Ones where I didn’t feel good enough to keep fighting… to keep living.

It’s scary to feel like ‘A Great Balancing Act’ isn’t tipping in the right direction. Maybe I’ll be the unlucky percentage once again.

Then there are moments and decisions that bring the scale back with a great force. Ones that make you smile and feel so strong that you’ll actually move the biggest mountains. They’re the ones I feel I could hear Jensen cheering for me. I don’t have to watch my step carefully, I can blindly jump in these times and take the good feelings in. It’s when I actually feel like I’m doing my best for him and that these bright moments will always outshine the dark ones. Just like love overpowers grief.

Yesterday I had this moment. But instead of blindly jumping, I was intently focused on one little boy’s foot.

 

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At forty-two weeks, Jensen would most definitely be experimenting with standing and trying his very best to stumble walk. I would encourage him to keep standing and have him practice walking with me by putting him on my feet. We would take big steps together. He would learn to walk and I would beam with pride. Before, when I looked down, I saw my naked feet and the empty floor. I don’t have him looking up at more or I can’t help him learn to walk. It was empty just like everything else feels. Now, and forever, he’ll be walking with me through life.

I will always take the steps that he was never able to.

Just as he would be getting to a point where he would start learning how to walk, I’m at a point in this grief journey that I’m starting to get better with my stumbling. I never expected it to be a straight and narrow journey. In fact, I thought it would just go downhill from the second he was born. How would there ever be a way I could smile when my child died? I’m not saying I’m full of smiles all the time. Heck, I was just at a spot on Friday where I thought my life didn’t matter. But I will tell you, if there is anything that gives me strength it’s Jensen and knowing that I’ll forever be his mom.

Now, with this new tattoo (which is my third for Jensen), I feel that with each of my decisions that the scale judges, I can literally see him making them with me. I can see those steps. He’ll be on the upward hills and the downward spirals. Through each, he’ll be there with every step, cheering me on. Yesterday and today, I find myself just staring at my feet and marveling his footprint. Of course it makes me laugh because he had my feet. I can see my little mini-me mimicking my every move. But it’s heartwarming to know this is just another way I can honor him. It’s another way I can bring just a little more of him into this world and leave his footprint everywhere I go.

Cue all the feet pictures in the future.

Happy forty-second week in heaven, Baby J. You are beyond loved and missed every second of the day. All I wish I could do is pluck you from heaven and hold you in my arms. I hope with the big decisions I’ve made today that you are cheering me on. My soul feels you close to me and now I can see it with each step I take. And oh, the places we’ll go. I miss you. I love you.

The Birth Plan.

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This time last year, I told my OB-GYN my birth plan.

There was no way I was going to be induced. From thirty-seven to forty weeks, the ridges on the brains get deeps. Plus, I just wanted Jensen to come out when he wanted to. He was supposed to be safe inside my belly. I didn’t want an epidural, I felt like I need to be this strong woman and give birth naturally. His cord was not to be cut right away. In my birth research, I read when you delayed cord cutting the blood in the placenta would make its way back to the baby. They really needed that blood and I’m sure I could have given you the scientific reasonings while I was still pregnant. He was to be placed on me right after he was born. I wanted that skin to skin contact and him to know I was his mama. Those are crucial bonding moments I did not want to miss you on. Plus I wanted the first thing he heard to be me whispering, ‘you are so loved,’ in his ear. His eyes were not to be wiped with that goop stuff. There was nothing going to damage them and I didn’t want his eyesight to be even more blurry than it would have been. There was only to be a certain amount of people in the room when he was born and afterwards. I didn’t want to be bombarded and wanted Jensen to spend his first days of life relaxed. There was a few more on the list, but these were the really important ones.

He actually hadn’t been prepared for me to tell him all of this, but I needed to make sure he knew what I expected. I can remember the first thing I told him was the only thing I was scared of was bleeding out and dying… because then I wouldn’t see Jensen grow up. There was never even a little part of me that thought anything would go wrong with Jensen, just that I would mess up.

After I told him all of this, he laughed at me and said these things sometimes don’t go as planned…

Well, my birth plan didn’t go as I planned.

I’ve talked about flashbacks before, a lot actually. Mostly about the time between I found out he didn’t have a heartbeat until I went home from the hospital. In all, that time frame is about twenty-nine hours. Oh my gosh, that’s horrible. In just a little over a day, I had found out my child died, gave birth, was released from the hospital, and back home. Like it was just a routine day at the hospital.

To say my birth plan didn’t go as planned is an understatement. There’s only two things that went ‘as planned.’ One, I asked for the epidural too late. I only got the little test tube of it. Before she could put the whole dose in me, I was already pushing. So, I still felt everything and it didn’t even hurt. Maybe it did? But the pain of knowing my child was dead hurt a lot worse. The other thing? There were only three other people (besides me, the nurses, and my doctor) in the room with me for when he was born. Two of them left for chunks of time. Then I only had three other visitors. Three of those people I’ll never talk to again. One of them didn’t even speak to me at my son’s funeral.

Heck and here’s another kicker, the one thing I was so scared of didn’t happen. Man oh man, am I glad I didn’t hemorrhage and die so I couldn’t see Jensen grow up. How was that the only thing I was afraid of? Was I really that selfish of a person to only worry about myself dying?

The birth plan doesn’t matter. Worrying about all those little things mean nothing. How mad would I have been if he would have lived and not one of those things was done just as I wanted? And for what? Temporary blindness? Extra blood? Instant bonding? Feeling like a ‘strong’ woman?

Looking at it that way makes me want to cry, laugh, and scream at myself. God, my birth plan should have just been get him here alive. That’s it. It doesn’t seem like such a difficult plan. Women give birth to living, healthy babies every second of the day. They have their birth plans and they get followed perfectly and their baby is fine. Why I couldn’t have I been her? Can someone please just wake me up from this horrible nightmare and put Jensen in my arms.

I don’t want to be brave or strong anymore. I want to be the girl who had her screaming baby placed on her chest. I want to have made sure everyone followed what I needed to be done. I want to live the life I should have had. I don’t want to know this world that I have been so forcefully shoved in.

But these things don’t go as planned.

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As I tried to calm myself down after writing this post, I came across this picture. During Jensen’s baby shower I had my guests write ‘Advice for Mom’ and ‘Wishes for Baby.’ I took a picture of this one and the last line made me stop.

You are so loved.

Although, I didn’t get that part of my birth plan, I know Jensen knew how loved he was. He was surrounded by love for everyday in his thirty-eight weeks and two days. His life was beautiful and happy. It’s the one gift I was able to give him.

Forty Weeks.

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Today I was asked to describe the last forty weeks in a couple of words. After only a second of thinking I could only say one thing, I’ve survived. Admittedly, I laughed after saying this. It seemed a little dramatic, even for me. I hurt every single day. Tears come and go, most of the time I don’t even notice they’re there. I scream in pain, questioning everything. And yet, I see the continuance to live. There’s been growth and relationships gained. I’ve laughed out loud in spite of everything. But, there really is no other way to describe what it’s like to lose a child. When I got home, I was curious to see how they defined this word that’s meaning seems so simple. There was two that jumped out at me.

sur·vive:

  1. continue to live or exist, especially in spite of danger or hardship
  2. remain alive after the death of (a particular person)

See, as a definition it seems so simple. Almost like we’ve always had an idea what this word means, but you don’t truly know it until you’ve been in survival mode. There have been times in this forty weeks where I have just simply existed, even when I tried the exact opposite. Grief, anxiety, and depression are hardships I live with everyday, on top of feeling Jensen’s absence. Yet, I remain and I have to continue on. So surviving really is the right word to describe all of this.

On top of it being Tuesday, the number forty has really been speaking to me. If we’re just talking about pregnancy, forty weeks is the week to get to. It’s the due date we all know. Jensen’s was April 17. Today there’s more to this number and my grief. Although I try to stay away from talking about faith and religion, I think it’s necessary for me today.

As always this is not to make anyone uncomfortable, just how I make the connection and sense of things.

In the Bible, the number forty is pretty significant. On the top of my head, I can think of at least ten times forty is mentioned. Each time it is, it’s always a period of testing. Just one example is Moses. I mean his life was split up into three forties full of trials and testing, I’m also watching the Prince of Egypt, so it’s all coming back to me. Anyways, the past forty weeks for me, have been full of those tests and trials. I mean I didn’t lead the Israelites from Egypt, but I’ve led myself this far. Every day there seems to be a new challenge for me. I test myself and question my purpose. As a collective, I never thought I’d make it to forty weeks in the beginning. It’s strange for me to think another child could have grown in this amount of time.

I test my motherhood each day. There are trials and errors of how to work on my grief. Honestly, everything since Jensen has been born has been a test. I’m still getting to know Danielle after Jensen. It’s hard living with a self you know nothing about. Anxiety. Heck, anxiety is always testing me and making me trust myself again. Even other people, unknowingly, test me. Maybe that’s more on myself and testing how I react now. Even Jensen has been testing me, in good ways. Testing me to see if I see his signs. Fun fact, my Netflix has randomly been turning on and changing to cartoons. Wonder who would want to watch that? He’s also led me to certain books, this time Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. Who, in fact, named on of the characters in the books Robbie Jensen. So, Jensen ultimately rewards me after every test, but still.

Alright, so I’m guessing you’re wondering where I’m going with all of this. If you’d talk to me in person, I would be talking for hours. Anyways, through trials and testing, we see progress. Not necessarily results right now, maybe I’ll see some at the forty-year mark. Even though I describe this time as survival, there has been so much progress. I’m not healed completely, but I’m healing. There are parts of me I never knew before, but I do now. I don’t like the pain I feel, but I see what I’ve learned from it. Saying that, I don’t see Jensen’s death as a learning experience, but the way I’ve lived or survived or whatever this is, has taught me so much about me.

I’ve said this over and over, I NEVER THOUGHT I’D MAKE IT TO THIS POINT. When I was preparing for New Years Eve, I thought my heart would stop at midnight. I didn’t think it could take that hit. But I’m here. Jensen’s love for me has driven every step and it’s made me want to do better for him. Maybe that’s cliché, but I’ve survived these forty weeks of trials because of love. Because his light is so bright, that it leads me to the next test. His love has given me a deeper sense of faith and it’s shown me that I have to trust in this unknowing, to me, life plan.

What I do know today, at week forty, is that although I’m extremely uncomfortable with grief and not knowing where my life is going, I somehow feel I’m on the right track. I don’t feel pressure to move on from anything or to get to anywhere quickly. I’m not ready for another relationship or to even think of having another child. There’s nothing wrong with trying to figure out who I am again and what mothering Jensen is going to look like in this next forty weeks and beyond. I don’t think this is the end of my trials and testing. It’s going to be lifelong for me and maybe at forty months I can look back on this post to see how far I’ve come. No matter what, the love I have for my son will continue flowing through me through every step of my life.

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Jensen Grey, you are so loved. I hope the past forty weeks in heaven have been peaceful for you. Today wasn’t so bright here on earth, but I bet heaven is warm and bright where ever you dwell. I wish you were here, so my tests would be learning all about you. In some ways they are now and I know you’re helping me along the way. I miss you. I love you.

Don’t Put a Timeline on My Grief.

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Don’t put a timeline on my grief.

In the past thirty-nine weeks, I’ve lost my son, gave birth, moved in a new house, and gotten out of a relationship. Those are three, big life changes in nine short months. I have learned how to live with the biggest hole in my heart. There’s literally been days I’ve had to crawl in the shower to get the tear stains off my cheeks. I’ve experienced every single emotion, sometimes all in one second. The weeks have both dragged on and went entirely too fast. I’m exhausted and sick. Most days I get so frustrated with myself that all I can do is sleep. Depression and anxiety are in constant battle with each other, every second with grief being their puppet master. There’s time I just want to rip my skin off so I can have some type of emotional break.

Yes, I still cry. Every day tears run down my face. That’s because every, single day I’m missing out on something Jensen would be doing. When I am vulnerable in front of you, it’s not a cry for attention. It’s letting you know I need you here with me and I’m comfortable with you seeing me at my weakest. This isn’t the time to kick me while I’m down. It’s when you’re supposed to lift me up. Tell me some way Jensen has positively effected your life and if he honestly hasn’t, just say his name. Remind me why I’ve come this far because it really isn’t for me. It’s for the little boy who can’t take these steps in life.

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Thank you Gina, Everett’s mom, for this beautiful picture and reminding me to keep going on the worst days.

Just because the year changed to 2017 at the stroke of midnight on New Years Eve doesn’t mean my 2016 was magically erased. I am still at battle with all those things. The year change is nothing but a switch of a few numbers and the official passing of times. There wasn’t a person who came to my home and told my body to forget everything that’s happened. Or say, well it’s the new year and enough time has passed for you to be healed. It’s such a ridiculous notion.

Don’t put a timeline on my grief.

Nine months is such a relatively short amount of time in the span of life. And you know what? If I’m still crying every day at age ninety, I have every right. My innocent child died. It is the saddest tragedy that anyone could through. It doesn’t help when people make you feel bad for how you’re grieving. There shouldn’t be a set time where you’re just supposed to act like nothing ever happened. I’m sorry, but if you feel that way I’m not the person that should be involved in your life. There is no reason I should be apologetic for my grief. I will remember Jensen for as long as I live. In the time he’s been gone, I’ve said his name multiple times a day. This doesn’t mean I’m stuck in society’s timeline of grief, it means I love my son and that’s the way I show it. There will never a day where I’m embarrassed of him or will stop loving him. It sounds like a ridiculous to say, but when is a person is pushed to move on they’ll snap back.

I’ve lived more in the past thirty-nine weeks than a lot of people. You can say I’m damaged, but I’d tell you I’m healing. Grief has no timeline. There’s no set steps that a person has to go through. By limiting a person to the five steps in a certain amount of time only makes them feel like they’re not grieving right. I and so many other people are uncomfortable with how life has treated them. Of course I want to be happy. I should be happy with Jensen who’s testing his limits and giving me a ornery little smile. But I can’t bring him back to have that. There’s so much love in me for him that it pours out and sometimes my brain doesn’t know how to process it. It wants to give it all to him, but he’s not physically here. That is so hard on my motherly instincts.

If you can imagine just one whole day knowing your child is not alive and will never come back, you would understand. You wouldn’t want to put a timeline on my grief. Crying every day wouldn’t be weird. Still grieving at nine months wouldn’t be a huge deal. This life, although very uncomfortable, would make a little sense to you.

So please, don’t put a timeline on my grief.

Goodbye, 2016.

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Well in all my efforts to stop this day from coming, its here. The last day of 2016. Jensen’s year has come to an end and I’m being thrown into a new year. I don’t think it’s completely hit me yet, but when the clock hits midnight I’ll be numb.

As I said in my last post, it’s terrifying to leave the year without Jensen. There’s so much unknown in the future and I don’t know how much more hurt I can take. I read and hear this next year will be a better one and good things are coming. With each of their words I just want to scream out, they don’t know that for sure. The same things were being said to me last year, right smack dab in the middle of my pregnancy. This past year was supposed to hold all those things and even more, but we all know it didn’t turn out the way anyone thought it would. And yet, it doesn’t make this such a horrible year.

Just yesterday, someone told me this next year would hold better things for me. Almost immediately I thought, 2016 holds so many good things. There’s no part of me that wants to ‘try for a better year.’ No other year in this history of the world will ever have had Jensen physically in it. I know everyone sees the tears and loss I’ve had. It’s strong and it’s very uncomfortable. I get it. But there has been so much love, strength, and support I never have had before. Jensen has impacted so many people in the past (almost) nine months. He’s made me smile everyday and most of the times through tears. Maybe that means I’m comfortable in my grief, but I would beg to differ.

Honestly, I can’t say that 2016 was this perfect year. My son died. That is so life changing. His dad left, which has brought good and bad to my life. There are times where all I could do was lay in bed. I’ve cried enough tears to fill an ocean. Friends have left and people sometimes look at me in the craziest of ways. A pain I never knew existed was introduced to me. This year was my ground zero and I have to leave it without Jensen. Those are the bad things that’s went on. Looking back on those brings me to tears, so maybe I could fill two oceans instead of one.

Yet, through this pain, I’m still holding on to it. But why am I?

Mostly, it’s my fear that Jensen will be forgotten. It’s knowing that his first birthday will come and he won’t be there to smash his cake. I’ll be a mama to a one year old that’s not here anymore. Will anyone know what April fifth is when it comes but me? Then there’s outside pressures of people wanting to put a timeline on my grief. I’m so afraid that I’ll get to his birthday and everyone will be so impatient with it. They won’t understand why I’m still so sad. I’m terrified that I’m going to be more alone in this. Somehow? Deep down I know some of these are just really out there, but this is grief. This is what it does to one’s mind.

In all reality, I don’t want anyone to forget Jensen. I want people to tell me “Happy Birthday to Jensen” on his birthday. I want to smash his cake for him. I don’t want people to be impatient with me. I know a lot of people don’t understand this complex grief, but I want them to be okay with it. I want patience. I want people to say his name to me. I don’t want them to be afraid. I want them to know these tears aren’t toxic, they’re sometimes the only way I can show my love for him. I want people to see me as the mom I am. I want people to know that I won’t let them forget Jensen. I want them to know I’m terrified of the future, but I’m trying my very best.

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A part of me wants to say, “let me take on 2017.” Let me show the world even more of Jensen and try to do greater things in his honor. Another huge part is saying, stay here forever. There’s a lot of things I wasn’t ready for this year and I grew stronger through them. Maybe that’s what the stroke do for me. Make me an even stronger mom to Jensen and give an even louder voice.

For all of you grieving this New Years Eve, know you are not alone. I am here for you and feel the pain and fear of going into the next year without a loved one. Yet, they’re always with you and you will you carry them in your heart forever. For where there is love, their memory cannot truly die.

Thirty-Six Weeks.

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My chest felt like it was caving in this morning.

‘Another Tuesday,’ I instantly thought after I realized the weight on my chest was the anxiety of the upcoming day. It’s brought me another full week of Jensen being gone and closer to me being here longer than he was, post loss. That’s a scary thought to have. Knowing my heart made it to this point, completely shattered, while his heart had stopped at this time. I wish I could hear that beautiful, strong heartbeat just one more time…

During my usual Tuesday breakdown, I kept saying over and over again how I couldn’t believe this was my life. I say it on a loop nowadays. On top of grief and the week changing, I’ve also been preparing for vacation. We leave early tomorrow morning. It’ll be a long journey, but I’ll be on the beach and relaxing as the waves drift me off to sleep. I can’t help thinking of whether or not Jensen would like the ocean. Or how he would show me his imagination when he built sand castles with a big moat around his carefully placed structures. In some ways I’ll be bringing him to the beach; as well as all his friends up in heaven. His name will be carefully written in the sand and the waves will crash to take a little part of him with them. Or that’s how I imagined it to help lift the heavy weight that is anxiety off of my chest.

After therapy and surviving that breakdown, I was hit with the snow. Today’s snow is the perfect consistency for making snowballs and snow angels. It’s fluffy and packs so very nicely. I was standing outside my car and just could see him picking the snow up. At that same spot, I marked right where he would be with the loops of his J and e’s.

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My snow angel, he’ll forever be.

Somehow by someway, it brings me a little peace to see where he’s marked at my feet. Really, anywhere I see something that reminds me of him lightens the anxiety by a little bit. That’s the amazing part of having victories in the small battles, even the quickest moment can bring you some happiness.A smile can form from tears. Even if that joy is fleeting, having a break from treading those waves is such a relief.

I’m hoping to be able to update you guys about my trip throughout the time I’m gone. If not on here, definitely through the Facebook page or the Instagram feed. The one part of the trip I’m REALLY looking forward to is writing all these beautiful baby names out. It’s honestly been a little mission for me that has got me by the last few weeks and from dipping out on the trip. I really do think Jensen would want me to go to enjoy myself and to mark another beach off his passport.

 

Happy thirty-six weeks in heaven, Jensen Grey. You’re my light that leads me through the darkness of grief. I’ll carry you in my heart forever and just know from sand to snow, you’ll always be with me. I miss you. I love you.

Pressed Love.

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Sometimes the smallest moment can calm the busiest of days.

Today has been high-paced. With only four days to go until I leave, I’ve rushed around my house cleaning and organizing. I’ve been wanting everything just right so I can relax when I get back. To be honest, I got a little off track today. Instead of doing what I had on my list, my books were staring at me. If I had opened them up, all the words written inside of them would have told me to find the right place for them. So embarked my work for today.

I can remember every book I’ve ever bought and read. Usually I can tell you right where they are, but Jensen’s baby books took me by surprise. I had forgotten they were in my bookcase. They’ve just morphed into my normal everyday. Instantly, I put them in his room. Where they should always be, being read and looked through. Surprisingly, I didn’t get triggered seeing them or putting them away in his room. Felt almost like a normal thing to do; picking up Jensen’s things and putting them away. My whole body tensed up when I saw them, but my mind was okay with his books. They still needed to be in their rightful spots.

After getting one of my bookcases done, I had to start on the other one. There were books I read during my pregnancy and that I’ve looked through during my grief. It’s crazy to see how you grow up through certain things, especially with books. Interests change and inside them are underlined or highlighted sentences. I would open them up and flip through just to see what jumped out at me.

That’s when Jensen gave me a moment to slow down my busy day.

Out of a huge, Andy Warhol book fell my little surprise: two perfectly pressed flowers, one orange and one blue. Immediately I knew what they were. They were from the random acts of kindness I did in Jensen’s name over the summer. I didn’t remember pressing any of them, but they instantly brought me to tears. In my mind, I knew it was Jensen picking his mom flowers and bringing them to me. He was telling me to slow down. That it would all get done in time, but to make sure I took time to care for my heart. They not only fell into my hands, but also in my heart. I decided to stop organizing and cleaning for the day and focus on the peacefulness of the snow falling.

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I made Jensen’s favorite drink, just heated up a bit, and framed his gift to me. To me these pressed flowers aren’t just from a bouquet from a random act of kindness, they’re flowers picked from heaven given to me by my angel. He somehow brought me what I had always imagined him doing, just in the middle of winter and through the only ways he knew how. This is what love looks like framed.

The past few days I’ve wanted to share another ornament with you all. As you all know, I haven’t done an amazing job sharing them. I thought this was the perfect one to show today. The little angel in the picture is from Emilia’s mom, Jillian. This little angel shines so bright on the tree. The gold snowflake shimmers and is constantly catching my eye. When I was making hot chocolate, I kept thinking of Jensen. How he shines his light so brightly leading me to what’s best for my day. It was also the first ornament I’ve received from another loss mama. Knowing Jensen was being thought about and how Jillian wanted to comfort me, really warmed my heart. I think of Jensen, Emilia and all their friends watching over us. Some even sending their gifts of pressed love to their parents.

Thirty-Three Weeks.

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There’s a point in everyone’s’ life where they have to decide what direction they want to go in. As much as everyone wants to keep moving forward, there’s always turns in the road. Whether you can ease into them or they’re sharp, you have to make that turn. Then there’s other times when you get lost, and have to turn around. It feels like your backtracking and nowhere near the right path.

Today it doesn’t even feel like I’m on the road. It feels like I’m pulled over and trying to figure out where I’m going  with a huge map on my hood. But at the moment, the map is incomplete.

I haven’t posted it on here, but this weekend Poe, my black cat, got outside and hasn’t come home. It’s triggered a lot of those beginning feelings of guilt, of losing Jensen and now Poe. I keep questioning what more I could have done and why does this season of grief keep getting darker? Sometimes I don’t feel like I deserve anything or that I’m the common denominator in all the negative things that have happened this past thirty-three weeks.

That probably sounds dramatic, but this day last year was completely opposite to today.

On this day last year, I was eagerly waiting for tomorrow. It would be the day I would find out Jensen was a little boy. I was so excited and it would paint a clearer picture of how the rest of our lives would go. As I look back now, I’m so jealous of me then. The road in front of me had unexpected turns, but I felt like I was going forward. There was no looking back. The little life inside of me kept encouraging me to go full speed ahead.

Since Jensen’s been born, I’ve kept saying over and over how love leads the way. Even when today makes me feel completely void of happiness and consumed with the frigid air, love touches and warms me. When I wonder why I should keep going on, I think of Jensen. I take a minute to breathe and look at this face. In it (when everyone would see his chubby cheeks, mama’s nose, and his little pout) I see my world. Even when it breaks me to know he was taken away from me, this motherly instinct keeps telling me to get back in the car and just drive.

To follow Jensen through all the turns and seasons.

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Taken by Mariah’s mama, Nicole, in Las Vegas.

For thirty-eight weeks, the roads on the map of my life were highlighted, then one day it all went black. With each step I take, the world around me becomes lit up again. I’m rediscovering and making a new map everyday. Love is my compass, even though sometimes it spins and spins and spins. There are streets without names, but I know I can always find my way back by looking for Jensen. It’s so hard to feel lost and wondering where the road is going to lead, but I’m still following it.

I’m still surviving. I’m still breathing. I’m still doing the very best I can.

Happy thirty-three weeks in heaven, Jensen. I hope you’re watching over Poe and making sure he’s safe wherever he is. Guide him, as you guide me, back home. Thank you for teaching me love and knowing it’s okay to pull over when I feel lost. You are my favorite person in all the universe. I miss you. I love you.

 

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#WhatHealsYou

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When someone breaks a leg (literally), healing could include surgery, rest, and physical therapy. It could take years for the deep pain of the break to feel like it was almost back to normal. Sometimes, the person might even have a limp for the rest of their life. No matter what you’ve done to heal the leg, it’ll never go back to what is was before.

In a crazy way, that’s kind of how grief and healing after losing a child works.

Obviously, one is physical pain and the other is a lot more complicated than that. But, it’s easier to explain something familiar to an unfamiliar situation. Instead of healing a broken bone in the ways I’ve said, for grief I’ve found ways to soothe myself, I rest a lot, and I go to therapy and support group throughout the month. Shock has fizzled out and there are days were I can feel something else besides deep pain.

I can’t tell the future or how my journey of grief and healing will go. There’s not a right way to live after losing a baby. If we keep on the analogy of breaking someone’s leg compared to grief, at physical therapy a person has to find what makes them want to learn how to walk again. Some like the bike and others like the treadmill. With grief, I’ve had to find things that are gentle on my heart. Those soothers are hard to find when everything looks so bleak, but they’re there… I promise.

For me, it’s a few things.

Leo and Poe can make me smile when I feel like nothing else can. They give me motivation to get up every morning and feed them to start my day. Leo gets himself into crazy antics almost every hour, like jumping on top of the shower curtain. Poe, who usually doesn’t want to be held, will come sit on my lap and let me cuddle on him everyday. His purrs are so loud and deep. They both let me care for them in a way I didn’t think I would ever care for anything again.

Hot tea, reading, and writing have saved me. When I can’t stop crying or when I can’t relax enough to sleep, I go to these each time. The aroma of the tea calms me, reading occupies my mind, and writing gets out all my thoughts. I’ve said over and over that it’s been therapeutic to me and that has been so healing. During those times, I feel like time stops and quickens at once. Getting lost in time is sometimes the only thing I know how to do to help.

Human connection. A huge generalization, but so important. I couldn’t imagine being locked up or stashed away somewhere completely alone. Friends, family, and the loss community have been there in different, but important healing ways. There’s understanding from those who have walked my shoes, encouragement and literally being dragged from places by my family, and a sense of trying to understand from friends. Even though grief is so individual, knowing I’m not alone in this journey through all the facets of my support, have helped me soothe and heal.

The last and most important is Jensen and love. I can’t imagine my life without Jensen being in it, which is probably weird to say since he’s not physically here, but he’s all around me. There are days when the only word that helps me is his name; I write it over and over again. I think of all the days I had with him and how the days were filled with joy. Seeing his face each and everyday calms me. He is all I’ve ever wanted. When I look at his urn with his candle lit, I feel a sense of peace. Warmth floods the room and it feels a lot like love. A mother and child’s love is unbreakable. Sometimes I can imagine it wrapping around my heart and trying to put the pieces back together. Love is what makes my world keep turning. It’s what allows me to get up in the morning to feed Leo and Poe. It’s what flows in and out when I read and write. It’s why human connection is even there. More importantly, it’s all Jensen knows and has.

Love is what heals me.

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Gratitude.

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Some days I can’t stand thinking I have gratitude for anything in this world after it took Jensen away. Maybe it’s clouded from the rain or the darkness that has settled in me this evening. Instead of delving into my thoughts, I want to make a list of all the reasons I’m grateful. My mind can’t go any deeper than that tonight.

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I’m grateful for you reading this and saying Jensen’s name quietly to yourself.

I’m grateful for my family and the support they give me.

I’m grateful for this path I’m on, even if I don’t understand it.

I’m grateful for my beliefs and how they keep me grounded.

I’m grateful for the loss community for never letting me feel alone.

I’m grateful for all the pictures of Jensen’s name I receive.

I’m grateful for noise, so the silence doesn’t pull me back.

I’m grateful for the rain as it waters Jensen’s tree.

I’m grateful for Leo and Poe, as they let me be the best cat mom to them.

I’m grateful for the happiness I once had.

I’m grateful for pain and it’s ability to push someone to their breaking point.

I’m grateful for my motherhood.

I’m grateful for the candle’s flame dancing just out of my reach.

I’m grateful for the first time I felt his kicks.

I’m grateful for every picture I have of him.

I’m grateful for his love of chocolate milk, that I still drink to bring back a part of him.

I’m grateful for the thirty-eight weeks and two days I carried him.

I’m grateful for the chubbiest cheeks I’ve ever seen.

I’m grateful for his button nose and pouty lips.

I’m grateful for his curly blond wisps.

I’m grateful for his memory and those who remember him with me.

I’m grateful for the courage he brought me.

I’m grateful for his signs.

I’m grateful for the love that constantly guides me in the right direction.

I’m grateful for being able to carry the most gentle soul and being able to learn all about him.

Most of all, I’m grateful for Jensen.