Tag Archives: baby loss

Eleven Months.

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Here’s a little secret about me that I don’t think I’ve shared with you all. Usually I don’t share because it makes me feel like a crazy person. Heck, I know grieving does a lot to a person, but I feel like this throws it over the edge.

I put on children’s shows and movies so Jensen can watch while I’m doing things around the house or when I leave. Last night and today has been all about the Magic School Bus.

Normally, I always have music or the television going because I can’t stand the silence. Then one day (it started around the holidays) I put on a cartoon because I wasn’t really watching, but I thought if Jensen was here and I needed to do dishes, this is what I would put on. For the past three or four months, this is become a part of my normal routine. If someone randomly stops over, I rush to the remote to turn it off so they don’t realize that I just have talking animals on.

It’s silly, but it helps.

The most common statement I hear loss moms say is they wish they know what their child would be doing at a certain age or during the day. Obviously, we all could imagine it. A Google search would tell me what Jensen would be learning and trying right now, but of course it’s not the same. Each child is an individual and has his or her own likes and dislikes, as well as a developmental schedule. So Jensen could be walking from chair to table back to chair or he could be looking at me like there’s no way in heck that I’m going to walk without your help. I don’t know that fact because he’s not here. But I can imagine and picture what he would be doing.

This is why I have children’s cartoons on. It would be something I could control with him and it brings something tangible I can have right now.

As I’m defending myself, I’m feeling like I’m an even bigger loon than before…

Anyways, in the past eleven months, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that there is a lot of things that happen out of our control. Jensen dying was a horrible tragedy that no one could have prevented. That doesn’t mean I’ve come to terms with him dying or that it gives his death a reason. It doesn’t and it never will. Grief isn’t controllable. Trust me on that, I’ve tried to fight against it and it doesn’t help anyone. People’s idiotic comments are going to happen, unfortunately. Time isn’t stopping and it definitely doesn’t heal all wounds. There things (and more) are all out of our hands.

Yet, there’s another side to this ‘it happens out of our control’ fact; there are things we can control.

I can say his name, loudly and proudly, with no one holding me back. We control how we rise after the fall. I can continue breaking the silence around miscarriage, stillbirth, and child loss at any age just by continuing to share my experiences. When I hear inconsiderate comments, I know that another person doesn’t have this understanding. Although I might be angry with their comment, I’m the only person who dictates my reaction and feelings. (Admittedly I’m still working on this, but I know I can eventually be good at this.) With that, when grief has me down, I can choose to work with it to help be gentle on my heart. I can not be mad at myself or judge my actions while I’m grieving. And I can watch the Magic School Bus and picture Jensen chasing the cats around my living room.

This is my journey and yours is yours.

There is no right or wrong to this life we never imagined living. All we can do is be gentle on ourselves and support one another.

That’s what the last eleven months has taught me.

As I said in my last post, I’ve been vividly remembering this time last year and wanted to share this bump picture with you. He was so heavy in the last month. I can remember literally holding my belly and him with my arms while I walked. He was head down and always laid on my right side, butt right below my hips. I miss his weight and feeling him get comfortable. Sometimes at my expense, but I didn’t mind. There is never enough seconds you can spend with your child.

How I wish I just had one more.

Happy eleven months in heaven, baby Jensen. I wish you were physically here with me watching Magic School Bus and cuddled on my chest. We would have the curtains open and getting all the vitamin D our bodies needed. Of course you’d want to play and I would love to be chasing you around the house. Learning what you want to rip apart first. I wish I had the rest of my days with you. Keep sending me love and strength to keep going. I’m taking each of my steps for and with you. I miss you. I love you.

The Reason I Keep Going When I Know It’s “Not Going to Get Better.”

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This was Jensen one year ago today.

I was getting ready for my baby shower and asked the ultrasound technician to try to get as many pictures of him as she could. Jensen was posing on this day. He let her take pictures of his face, after he played hard to get and covered it with his hand. She kept trying to trick him so she could get a profile shot, but he wouldn’t cooperate.

That doesn’t sound like he was like me at all.

In a really nice, motherly voice I asked Jensen to please let mommy see the side of his face so all his family could see when they came to celebrate him. Within five seconds he rolled and let her take that picture. Then another one and another one. He stroked his hand on his chin and put his fingers in his mouth. I saw my son, so lively and with so much personality.

I’ll never forget this day. 

He was alive and growing perfectly. I was happy. Life was good.

I knew that in the next two months my life would be forever changed, but had no idea it would in the way it did. There was no sign he was going to be born silently. Jensen hit all his milestones and was monitored twice a week. All these precautions and the worst still happened. The doctors and books I read never prepared me for this type of motherhood. I was thrust into this dark and isolating world where babies die and moms had to live without them.

Somehow death stole my son and I’m never going to stop feeling that pain. I had thirty-eight weeks and two days with Jensen. This might sound like a short amount of time, but this was Jensen’s forever. It was my son’s whole life. That fact doesn’t get easier with each day that passes. There’s not a cure-all or replacement for a baby dying, nor will there ever be. It’s the reasons why I’ll never be move on from my son or this grief journey.

I’ll never have my Jensen back.

Death will have always entered my body and not have taken me.

The memory of that silent delivery room will not fade away.

I can’t forget feeling the painful emptiness that took over my stomach in the days following his birth.

My physical body may have healed, but inside will always feel like a fresh wound.

Time doesn’t solve these problems.

I know that. I’m not okay with the fact and I don’t want to accept any of this, but I’m here living this life. There are times I want to quit. Just clock out forever because what makes me so special to live and Jensen not? On average, I ask myself that around 50 times a day and my answer is always the same.

You can’t quit on Jensen. You can’t let him see you fail. You have to take the steps he’s never going to take. You are his mom. You feel so very deeply because you loved him so much. You have to keep going. 

The eleventh month mark is in just a few short days. I don’t know what this last month of the year is going to hold for me. It’s been an intense lead up to this point of time and I’m guessing it’s not going to be the best month.

There is a lot going on in my head. The memories of this month last year have become very tangible again, which I wasn’t expecting. Like today, it’s hard to remember and almost feel that pure bliss I felt on this day, exactly, last year. My mind is going to revisit a lot of days this month, especially in the weekend that led to Jensen’s birth last year.

Hopefully I’ll be able to put them to words. Not only will it help me try to calm myself and figure the thoughts out, I think it’s going to be beneficial for others to be in this loop. I have a feeling I’ll discover more. About what? I don’t know. But it’ll be here in writing.

Grey Woods Design.

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Tuesdays are always emotional days for me.

I’ve talked and wrote about them extensively throughout the past forty-seven of them. On the day he was born, I knew I’d always have trouble tackling them. It was the day my life had changed on. They’ve transformed into a day I’m forced to begin my grief week again, instead of being happy Jensen’s getting bigger and learning how to do more.

There hasn’t been one that I haven’t cried or been so angry about all the weeks that have passed. Some have brought me smiles as I remember the moments I had with Jensen and all the love he still brings me. If there’s one thing that’s for sure, it’s been a year full of eventful Tuesdays.

Including this very special one.

On the Valentine’s Day post, I shared a picture of Jensen bear and the love wood slice. Although starting an Etsy shop had been on my mind for a few months before that, I wanted to see if anyone would actually be interested in what I was creating. Honestly, I didn’t think anyone would. Grief has a great way of making people’s confidence go down the drain… and all parts of the self, but I’m not getting into that today.

Since that post, I’ve been trying to make some more things that my heart was telling me. I pulled out two pieces of wood that I’ve had my eye on for a while and then ideas started pouring out. Some that I haven’t even posted yet. Once I was pleased with what I made, I took pictures, uploaded them here, and started the process of making listings on Etsy. As anything, I’ve written and reread through everything to make sure it was as perfect as it can get.

I thought, as a pretty sentimental person, that I would  open shop on a Tuesday; I thought it’d be good to have another positive one in the books.

Everyone, I want to introduce you to my Etsy shop, Grey Woods Design:

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This little shop’s purpose is to help me be able to create through my grief and keep my mind busy when I’m home alone. More important, it’s going to be my labor of love. I am hoping it’ll give me some kind of spark in a way that I’m able to mother this concept I have imagined then created. I’m very anxious about how the shop is going to go, but I am SO excited to get my first order and help others remember and honor their child. Of course, this is for living children as well. But, it’s another way I can share a part of Jensen and I’s story and breaking the silence around baby loss.

One more thing I’d like to share with you all is why I named the shop what I did.

Grey. Obviously for Mr. Jensen Grey. I wanted and had to include my baby in this little business. Seeing a part of his name on there makes me feel like his legacy is continuing in a different way. It honestly makes me instantly smile when I see the color grey or the word. Just was the perfect part to add there.

Woods. All but one listing on the Etsy shop is made from wood. I wanted to be able to have that connection there. It’s also used because my life sort of revolved around wood products with my job, my house, and nature. Which, nature has always been a connection to Jensen and so it fit.

Design. I think this is pretty self-explanatory.

That’s the quick description of how I came up with the name. I absolutely love it. It is a perfect tribute to Jensen, but also to my creativity and lifestyle. Starting this venture (like I said before) is terrifying, but, like in all things I do, I hope it will be able to help someone and make them smile. That’s really what helps me heal. Knowing that Jensen and I can make a positive impact in someone else’s life is such a gift to this pained mama.

I hope you all are able to check Grey Woods Design out and let me know what you think. It’s always such a stabilizing thought knowing I have your support in this grief journey. Lately it’s been really rough and I’ve been quiet, but I’m still taking those steps with Jensen right there with me.

Unapologetically Real.

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Throughout this journey I have been unapologetically real about my grief.

I’ve said it over and over again, I want to be able to show others what it’s like to grieve your child. In my case my only child. I’m not crying for help or even wanting to be pitied for feeling how I do. This isn’t to get ‘likes’ or ‘views,’ this is real life. These are real emotions and thoughts. This is me trying to figure out how to live my life after loss. How to somehow accept that I have to live the rest of my life without the one little human I care more about than any other person.

This is hard.

And it’s not getting any easier with time passing by. The phrase ‘time heals everything’ is complete crap. I’m almost a year away from the last time I felt Jensen move, until the last-minute he was present on this earth. Somehow it’s already almost a year and when that year passes, I’ll have to gear up for year two and the rest of my life.

I’m absolutely terrified for what the future holds because I have no control over it at this point. Exhaustion cripples me every single day and I can’t think far enough ahead to articulate what I need to do to help future Danielle. For a person that likes being in control, these waters are scary. I’m literally swimming with the two meanest sharks I’ve encountered: grief and depression.

Honestly, I’m not sure if this gets any better for me. I know I’m not comfortable with this grief. Every morning when I wake up, it just sits so heavily on my chest. For almost eleven months, I haven’t even been able to take a deep breath. Not that I would even pause to let myself take one. Every second of the day, I’m always moving. Trying to outsmart grief and depression because I don’t want to face them. These thoughts I have are drowning me and if I stop to think and really focus on them, they actually will.

With all my might, I’m not allowing myself to go down that rabbit hole (or shark’s mouth, whatever metaphor works).

Down the Rabbit Hole.png

If I go down that hole, I’m afraid I won’t come back out. I don’t feel strong like Alice or any shark hunter to claw back to the surface. Maybe it’s not the fear of rising back out, it’s more of being terrified to see who I really am. Learning how to love myself through this has not been easy. It’s not been fun to love a body that betrayed me and the thoughts that tear me down. There’s fear in never finding joy within myself again. I’m terrified that Jensen wouldn’t even like or love me with the person I’ve become. Just thinking about falling down and having to decide whether I get up or stay down there exhausts me.

I don’t know where I”m at with my life right now and I’m not ready to decide. Each step I take is weak and questionable, but on the bright side, I’m taking them.

Another child or getting into a new relationship is not going to help me right now. It’d only complicate things way worse. Heck, I don’t even like myself how could a partner or another child want to be around me? I’m not upset with this. I don’t want these things. The two constants I’ve had in this journey have been Jensen and myself. And although I’m not comfortable in my grief, I have to find joy in myself. Outside forces aren’t going to magically make me better.

I’m trying to love this new Danielle with self-care and being Jensen’s mom. The fact that I have to live my life for Jensen keeping me going. There is nothing wrong with that fact and it doesn’t make my life less.

A Bag of Dreams.

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Since the end of last April, there has been an unopened bag addressed to me. In that moment my mom threw it to me, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rip it open and pull out its contents. That bag held my last happy buy. It was supposed to be opened right around the time Jensen was due. They were the last few clothes I thought he needed before he arrived. Every stitch filled with hope and excitement for the months to follow.

But, it was packed away so I wouldn’t be smacked in the face by the innocence I once had. It would throw me back to the day I purchased them, two days before Jensen was born. I was so excited on that day, I would have never thought everything would change in the way it did the very next day.

For almost ten months it sat on the shelf. Each time I saw it, I got closer to the bag. My mind knew what was in there, but my curiosity wanted to touch what I had last got him. It also hurt me to see it just sitting there, waiting in my parent’s basement. They didn’t deserve to be just ignored there when they were intended to be worn. So, I brought them home and to the closet I knew they would be housed.

Admittedly, I threw the bag in the closet and broke down. I was angry. My son would never wear these clothes and by this time, he would have outgrown them. I didn’t want to see them. Why go even through them and be taunted by their existence and Jensen’s absence?

The bag just sat there again.

I’ve never had the urge to go through his things, until today. When I got home, I walked into his room and just sat there. There was nothing out of the usual about today to make me feel this way. Screams were building in the back of my throat. Until something else became louder. I looked at the closet door and could almost hear the bag sitting there, calling out to me. Like a crazy woman, I answered the calls and ripped the bag right open. And the dreams of last April came tumbling out.

After I had went through each item (not all are pictured here), it hit me… these dreams should have been made a reality by now. Each should have been worn and dirty. They should be packed in a big ‘used Jensen clothes’ tote. I wanted them to smell like him and there to be a stain that housed a memory. The soles of the shoes need to be rough and dirty, not smooth and spotless. He should be the one laying on his rug looking up at me while we play. It shouldn’t be the image I have here. This pile of clothes, although beautiful, completely broke me.

I sat there with them, for longer than I care to admit.

Tears ran down my face as I folded them back and put them in their bag, forever unworn by the person that was intended to wear them. Not knowing what else to do with them, I put them back in the closet where they’ll continue sitting until I find what’s best for them. I shut the door, closing back up my hopes, dreams, and innocence. As I turned around I, once again, faced my reality. I faced his nursery, that doesn’t look like his nursery. Grief and exhaustion overwhelmed me as I walked into my living room. I wish I had the energy to keep being strong.

This reality sucks. 

This Tuesday feels different. It’s the first one I woke up and didn’t think about how many weeks it’s been since Jensen’s been born; I thought how close his birthday is getting.

Six. More. Weeks.

I’ll have a one year old, who will forever be thirty-eight weeks and two days, in six weeks. Time is so unbelievably cruel in this way.

Happy forty-six weeks in heaven, Baby J. Gosh, I am so lucky that you’re my son. If I had a chance to do it all over again, I would always pick you. I’ll always wish and wish and wish some more to have you back with me. For now, I’ll keep fighting and saying your name. I miss you. I love you.

If You Wouldn’t Say It to a ‘Normal’ Mom, Don’t Say It to a Bereaved Mom.

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Throughout this post, I’d like for you to imagine saying these things to both types of moms. This list has been on my heart for the past few months and I hope it will be able to help the way we speak about miscarriage, stillbirth, baby, and child loss.

‘Isn’t it time to move on?’

Have you ever been in a conversation with a mom whose child just learned how to walk or talk? It’s a pretty big deal. They’ll show you pictures, videos, and give you the whole back story on the event. Before Jensen I would just start nodding my head, like yes I hear you and I am so glad your son or daughter has hit this milestone. BUT I would never say, ‘isn’t it time to move on from that huge, important moment of your baby’s life?’

Why? Because it’s rude and obviously means a lot to the mother. It’s a proud moment for her baby and her motherhood. You wouldn’t say this to a mom at this time or any time in her child’s life. So, why would someone say this to a bereaved mother? We only had a short amount of time with our babies and will NEVER get anymore. Yes, we play the time we had with them over and over. We’re just as proud as our babies and want to talk about them. It’s not right or fair to tell a mom to ‘get over’ their child.

Calling a baby an ‘it.’

There have been plenty times in my life that I pass by a stroller, see a baby, and don’t know if it’s a boy or girl. I’ll look at the mom and say your baby is so beautiful. More than likely, she’ll let me know if the baby is a boy or girl or give me some type of clues to the baby’s gender. Then we go merrily on our way.

Calling a baby ‘it’ is just inconsiderate. IF you don’t know, ask. I’m telling you they will let you know. When a mom is pregnant and knows what the baby is, she will call the baby by his or her name and use the pronouns she needs to. So what makes it different when the baby dies? Jensen is still a boy and definitely not an ‘it.’ Calling him ‘it’ devalues his life and makes a disconnect to his humanness. Believe me, I know it’s sad he died, but calling him an ‘it’ does not make him any less of a baby. I’m still connected to my son and always will be.

‘You’re not going to get rid of or donate their things?’

Of course moms donate and sell some of their babies clothes after they grow out of them, but I’m sure special ones are kept. Just like certain blankets, toys, and shoes are too. These hold special memories to a mom that they want to be able to show their child when they grow up. Whether this be the going home outfit or their first birthday crown. It’s not weird that a mom does this at all.

If a loss mama decides to keep her child’s belongings, it’s not weird. They’re not ‘holding on’ or ‘stuck in’ the past. It’s a happy memory we have with our babies. This could be from the baby shower or the first outfit we bought. Instead of showing our babies who have passed when they’re older, we can maybe show future children or others who ask about our children. A lot of these ‘things’ hold sentimental value just like it does for a living child.

Whispering a child’s name.

‘How are you doing? You know with… Jensen.’

Imagine hearing your baby’s or any word whispered or mouthed to you. It instantly feels like it’s a bad word. One that needs hidden and shouldn’t cross anyone’s lips. The name is said almost secret like, wondering what it’ll unleash after it’s said.

The truth is moms love to hear their child’s name and be able to talk about them; no matter if they’re alive or dead. A person wouldn’t go to a new mom and whisper their baby’s name, they would say it proud and full of excitement. This isn’t any different for me. Jensen is not a bad part in my life nor does it unleash a huge cloud of darkness. If you want to know about him or see his picture, I’ll show you. It lets me show him off and hear that beautiful name I chose for him.

‘The pictures you post are disturbing.’

I feel like this is self-explanatory, but I know there’s some people they don’t understand this one. This is really close to my heart because I am terrified to share Jensen’s picture with the world due to nasty comments.

No one would ever go on to a mom’s post of their new, day old, sleeping baby and tell them that the picture is disturbing. I have never seen a comment on a baby freshly born and crying, that it’s gross and needs to be taken down. Mostly because the baby is alive and well and because it’s just something you don’t do. So, why is it so difficult not to say anything when a baby who has passed is shared? For stillborn babies, these are the ONLY pictures we’ll ever have. It’s not like I chose not to have any pictures of Jensen alive. Believe me. if I could, I would.

My son, like any other child, is not disturbing to look at. He looks like a sleeping, freshly born baby. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT HE IS IN THAT PICTURE. I have had children look at his picture and not know he is dead and they tell me how adorable he looks sleeping. Some people are surprised to see his picture and realize he’s a fully formed, normal looking baby. Knowing these comments are made to a stillborn baby or a baby that has passed is ridiculous. You wouldn’t say it to a ‘normal’ baby, don’t say it about a stillborn one.

‘Well it’s not like you’re attached.’

‘It’s going to be so hard to leave them for the weekend.’

‘Well it’s not like you’re that attached to your baby, it should be fine.’

Nope. You wouldn’t tell that to a new mom going away for the weekend. Honestly, you probably would get slapped in the face if you did. A mom is connected to that baby as soon as she knows she’s pregnant. Those months you’re pregnant, the baby is literally with them at all times. Obviously, right? No one would say this to a new mom or any mom. It shouldn’t be said to a mom whose baby died.

Saying this doesn’t soften the blow. It, again, devalues the life of a baby that is so very loved and wanted. A mom is attached to their child, no matter if they’re here or not.

 

Love Day.

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Being a mom has taught me endless love.

Not just on Valentine’s Day, but every single second of each day.

When I imagined Love Day with Jensen, I pictured making him heart-shaped pancakes with strawberries (all cut up and easy for him to eat), doing a mini photo shoot with here at home, and having a mommy-son date night. He would be in Valentine’s Day themed pajamas in the morning and jeans and a button up shirt for the evening. I’m sure there would have been a craft we would have done to give to grandma and grandpa. There would be smiles and giggles. All would be right.

I really miss him.

A weird part of this ‘holiday’ is I’m not even being triggered. Maybe it’s because I’m extremely sick and still trying to get better? Or the weird way it seems like a lot of big days have fallen on Tuesdays? Then I think that today’s not really a holiday, but I still wanted to spend it with Jensen and make it another great day for him. I keep telling myself, ‘It’s just a Hallmark holiday.’ But I realize I’m not sad because I’m not spending it with a boyfriend or a guy. I just want Jensen and all the days I should have had with him. Lately, for me, I’ve been missing him in the smallest moments. Ones where I wonder when he would be crying or get mad at me. He’d pout, fake cry, and turn his face so red. It’d be frustrating in that second, but I want that. And there are others when he’d fall and get back up on his own. I wonder how that first time of him getting back up on his own would feel. Like he could do something on his own and didn’t need me; I’d feel so proud and sad at the same time.

Those are the moments I crave.

Honestly, I’m thankful for today. The day I found out I was pregnant was when I knew what love truly was. I swear I felt my heart grow five sizes bigger. It has only grown and radiated. When I woke up today and saw all those hearts and words of love, I just felt it. There has been lovely loss mamas sending me hearts with Jensen’s name and letting me know he’ll never be forgotten. I received his drawn portrait and am amazed with how adorable he looks in it. There’s a love craft planned for tonight that I’m really looking forward to. Maybe I’ll even have a mini date night with myself if I’m feeling up to it tonight.

I just feel so loved today.

It’s amazing to me how in this darkness of grief we can see light and feel love. How even in our worst days there’s something to smile about. That from this great physical distance between Jensen and I, he feels so very close to me. It’s all from this endless love that one little boy continues to bring me.

Which brings me to something I want to share with you guys…

Jensen Bear with Love Wood Slice.png

I’ve been thinking about starting an Etsy shop to spread the love I have for Jensen. The items in it would be customizable to any child; I promise I’m not that crazy to just offer Jensen’s footprints! It’ll be items like the one with Jensen bear and of course other ones too. I thought today would be the perfect day to share with you all and to see what everyone thinks. You all have helped shaped this journey so much for me that I appreciate your feedback.

I hope you all have a gentle Valentine’s Day full of love.

Happy forty-five weeks in heaven, Jensen! Today I’ve felt all the love you’ve been sending me and I hope you’re feeling all the love I have for you. I know you’re hand making me cards for when I join you in heaven and I’ll be so happy to see them. Thank you for giving me this endless love; I’ll cherish it every day of my life.
I miss you. I love you.

The Rise of a Smile Through Grief.

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During this time last year, I treated every day like it was a gift. I marveled how big Jensen was growing and how his kicks were getting stronger. Sweet lullabies were sung to him as I mindlessly worked or planned his baby shower.

Every morning I woke up with a smile.

It was never a conscious decision. I was genuinely happy knowing he was growing safely inside my belly and I enjoyed looking at my pregnancy app religiously every morning after I told him good morning, I love you. Even with the storm of confusion with finding out about Down syndrome and being shuttled to the constant appointments, I was thankful for everyday. Last year’s February and March were the happiest months in my life.

Of course everything changed when April came.

Those mornings I woke up in tears or just stone faced. I couldn’t make myself feel or do anything. Honestly, it’s hard for me to comprehend how I made it through the first three months. The body and brain do an amazing job of protecting itself through shock. I don’t think anyone could take losing a child without the fog that surrounds you (and that continues to protect me most days). Smiles didn’t come naturally those beginning months. They were all an act, I knew when I was supposed to act a certain way during conversations. Not that I even knew what anyone was saying to me, but I didn’t want to seem weirder than I already had felt.

The first time I truly smiled after Jensen was born, I instantly felt guilt. I’ve talked about this before, but I feel like it needs to be said again. In that moment, I let my guard down and was able to feel something; glimpses happiness are very enticing. BUT, how could I smile? My child is dead. What a slap in the face to his death. I’m supposed to be mourning, not laughing and having a good time. I would never see his smile or hear his laugh, so why do I deserve to do all these things.

I started to choose nothingness.

What’s nothingness you might ask? I didn’t want to make myself frown or to be sad. That was kind of inevitable. On the other hand, I chose not to smile. I would hear things that would spark a good feeling, but I honestly did not think I was worthy of any good. So I chose the middle ground. I succumbed to shock and feeling blah. To be fair, I was too exhausted to want anything else. I was feeling every emotion, every second of the day. It felt like being on a roller coaster that has constant loops.

Everything was bland. Food didn’t taste like anything. Even when I would eat Nutella (my favorite) there was nothing. Sleep and I had a love-hate relationship. There would be days I slept for hours upon hours, then the next I wouldn’t sleep at all. The hours of sleep I did get, didn’t make me any less tired. Nothingness felt right in those early days and I’m thankful it helped me make it to today. I can vividly remember thinking this would be the rest of my life. There wouldn’t be a day where sleep would welcome me, food wouldn’t taste terrible, or I could ever choose to start my day with a smile.

Until, I dreamt of his.

Jensen has a unique way of letting me know what he wants for me; whether that be a physical sign or putting a message in my dreams. In the dreams he’s in his blond hair is always a little too long, his cheeks still chubby, and his eyes always searching for mine. When our eyes meet, it’s always an instant smile. I’m telling you guys, it would light up a whole entire city. Maybe even the world. The first time I saw it in my dreams, he probably was the ten months old. Yes, the age he would be now. It was gummy and his nose scrunched up which made his eyes squint even more. I can remember never wanting to let go of that moment and I wanted it to be real. Maybe in another dimension it is.

That morning, I smiled.

Fast forward to last night. After I settled in bed, I felt grief starting to press down on me. It has been a rough two days anyways, but nothingness was fighting its way back to the top. Sleep kept eluding me and I just prayed that I would fall under its spell so I could have some relief. In my dreams, each part of my mind was at war with one another. It was a fitful night of sleep, but when I awoke I knew what side won.

The nothingness that I was scared of drowning me was gone. There was grief, there’s always grief and a tugging of sadness, but it did take me over. Yet, there wasn’t an immense amount of happiness. I felt peace and could only picture a blond hair boy with chubby cheeks urging me to keep going on.

Today I woke up with a smile.

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Happy forty-four weeks in heaven, my perfect boy. The weeks seem to be getting closer together and it’s getting very close to your first birthday. With each passing day, I feel myself getting more and more nervous. I’m going to try to choose to honor each day (but one) with happiness and peace in your honor. You make me want to do better. I miss you. I love you.

Ten Things I’ve Learned in Ten Months of Grief. 

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The past ten months have been the most challenging in my life. A parents worst nightmare is to have their child die, but the nightmare doesn’t end in that moment. Learning how to live after loss is unnatural and soul splitting. There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t cried or felt like my whole world was going to crash around me. On the other hand, there hasn’t been a day where I haven’t felt an immense amount of love I have for Jensen.

This whole journey is a learning experience and I don’t think there will ever be a day where I stop learning about loss and love. Today, for Jensen’s ten month day, I want to share with you ten things that have gotten me to this point in my grief journey.

Loss

I never knew loss before Jensen died. My grandmother passed away before I was two years old and I knew people and had pets that had died, but never had felt this deep loss. From the second I found out his heart had stopped beating, loss overwhelmed me and I didn’t even know how to process that feeling. Then there was the realization that I would forever live with the loss of Jensen. I mean obviously, right?

But at that second of finding out he was gone, my body would not allow me to understand that I would lose Jensen at all the stages. Sometimes I still don’t think I completely have come to terms with losing Jensen at older ages because I’m not there yet. At ten months, I know what it’s like to have loss from the moment he was supposed to be born until his ten month day. I relive that loss each and every day. The Jensen sized hole in my heart is with me with every step and I can literally see him with each step I take.

Loss isn’t ‘fun’ to learn, but I’ve been forced to do so.

Pain

Immense. Abundant. Heaps. Endless. Masses. Enormous. Infinite. Never-ending.

All those words that could describe the oceans amount of pain I have felt. Even with those words, I would still say there’s more. Then with each wave of pain I get, it stings somehow harder than before. This type of pain is mental, emotional, spiritual, and even physical. It is so exhausting to keep fighting this pain and not just succumb to it. Yeah, there is days where it hurts so much I just lay there and take it.

I almost wish this pain was visual, so others could see it coming on to me. There’s only so many ways to describe it, but if it was my leg bleeding out I feel like others would run over to stop the bleeding. There’s no way for others to really ease this pain.

Longing

Just like with loss, I have never felt longing before. Of course there was times I missed my mom and dad when I was away, but I knew I would see them soon enough. There was never a doubt that I would see them and all that missing them would just fall away. This isn’t the case with my longing for Jensen.

I long to see him smile and to hear his laugh. I long to feel his hand squeeze mine. I long to know what his first word would have been. I long to learn the schedule we would have had. I long to read to him one more time. I long for him every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to sleep.

With each new place I go, knowing he’ll never go there, I long for him to experience it with me. I feel as if I’m just being introduced to longing and it will continue to grow as the years pass.

Grief

Sucks…

Just throwing that out there. It really does though. Grief sucks you in and it decides when to throw you out. It’s like a huge black hole and who knows what you’re going to feel when you’re trapped inside.

Is it depression, anxiety, PTSD, or all of them at once? Will it be me feeling completely numb or feeling everything?

Grieving is hard for anyone in any situation. I hate that I have to be a mother grieving her son. It’s not fair, like most things in our world, but this really isn’t how it should be.

Tears

They sound self-explanatory, but I can tell you all the different tears I’ve encountered in ten months. Heck, I’ll just tell you the tears that I’ve had in the past twelve hours.

Big droplets that form from holding them backs. Hurried sobs because you held them back. Silent ones that flow down your face as you try to sleep. Scattered ones from crying in your sleep and they have no idea where to go. The flood from when you open your eyes when you wake up and they just fall out. Then there’s the nameless ones that just are there and you work/live through them.

Heck, I could have filled a kiddie pool full of tears in the past twelve hours. Imagine the last ten months.

Support

I’ve had support all throughout my life, but I’ve learned that the best type of people support you through the worst of times. Through this ten months, complete strangers have become best friends and best friends have become complete strangers.

Support isn’t trying to fix what is wrong. It isn’t necessarily making everything better for the person in pain. Support is listening and letting the person know you’re always there for them. It’s being their greatest cheerleader and seeing the progress on a day where it feels like you’ve fallen way off track.

Most of all (with child loss) it’s remembering their son or daughter with them. It’s saying their and writing their names down, listening to the same stories, and never forgetting.

Smiles

Of course I knew what a smile was before Jensen died, but I never felt how good it could be to smile during grief. Just because you smile and feel happiness doesn’t mean the death of your child is forgotten or you’re happy they’re not here. You’re having a good moment and this smile just comes from the soul. It brightens your day and feels so much better on your face than just a frown and tears. Not that those frowns and tears are bad, but the smile does feel good.

On my bad days where I feel strength, I look for what makes me smile. Seeing Jensen’s face and his drawers full of his stuff makes me smile. Knowing his life means so much lights up my day. Leo and Poe’s antics make me laugh. The support I have can cheer me up and I know they love to see me smile. Seeing how far I’ve come and knowing I’m still taking steps towards living brings me a peaceful grin.

A (real) smile there is lightness throughout this black hole of grief.

Growth

This ones a little more difficult.

I long to see Jensen grow. On each of his month days, I wonder how much he would weigh and how long he would be. I’ve wondered when his first hair cut would have been. Honestly, I could go on and on with this. I won’t today, but you get the picture.

The growth I’m talking about here is the growth in myself. It’s how my strength has grown to not only take on the stresses of everyday life, but to also hold the weight in my heart. My voice has grown to be able to shout from the rooftops all about Jensen and the taboo of pregnancy and infant loss. I’ve probably grown in ways I don’t even know yet, but I feel it. There’s apart of me that screams that I could have grown these ways without Jensen dying, but I can’t change that. It’s not a good that has come from Jensen dying, it’s a positive that has grown through the grief I’ve had to endure.

Motherhood

It’s an invisible motherhood, but it’s my mine. I have been a mom since the moment I knew Jensen was inside of me and I’ll be his mother forever. No one will ever be able to take that away from me.

I’m still learning this type of motherhood, which is strange because it’s my only experience. Yet, I’m still here; being the best mom for Jensen I can be. I know it’s not the same as mothering a living child, but I still mother him in ways all moms mother their children. I have sleepless nights and I worry myself sick wondering if I’m doing all I can do for him. He is my motivation and even though I can’t see if he’s proud of me, I know, deep down, he is.

Love

It always comes back to love.

Throughout the good, the bad, and the ugly, love has always been right there. The love I have for Jensen will never cease. The love I have for my motherhood only grows stronger. My love smiling has come back. I love the support and my tribe of loss mamas. There’s a huge hate-love I have for grief, loss, and all the ‘bad’ that was listed above. I hate it because I don’t want it in my life, but I love to see how through these I’ve grown. Through these I’ve learned to love harder and greater. Would I give that all back to have Jensen? In an instant.

But I love this life I have been given. I love the fact that Jensen will always be intertwined in my everyday life. I love that he will forever walk with me. I love that I can share the love I have for him.

Happy ten months in heaven, my sweet boy. I hope you’re smiling down with your (not so) big ten month day sticker. The sun is shining and I know you’ve given me this day of renewal to keep on growing and to keep on loving. Everything I do, I do for you. I miss you. I love you.

My Wishful Response To: “I Can’t Imagine What You’re Going Through.’

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‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through. If I ever lost my baby I wouldn’t know what I’d do with myself.’

What I say:

Losing him isn’t anything I ever expected to experience.

What I want to say:

Imagine walking into a room knowing it’s the last time you’ll ever come into contact with your child. It will be the last time you can see them, brush their hair, kiss their cheek, and tell them you love them in person. You don’t know whether if your brain is going to soak these moments up or just blur them out so it’s not so painful. As you walk out that door, you’re leaving everything you ever loved behind.

Imagine having to pick whether you want to bury your child six feet under the ground or if you want to cremate them. Before you do that, you’ll have to pick their lost outfit. Then when you’ve done that, you have to sign a paper, through tears, saying that you’re allowing your child’s body to be in a casket forever or be turned to ashes.

Imagine you have to attend your child’s funeral. The pastor reads his or her’s names and the dates they lived and died. They’re singing songs and telling you that we all have a season of mourning. You’re so numb in that moment that the only thing you can feel is the tears running down your face and how you’re gasping for a single breath. This time will be a whirlwind and utterly unbelievable.

Imagine now when you walk into your home. There’s an eerie silence that greets you and like an unwelcome guests, stays for entirely too long (it still hasn’t left my house). The house is too clean and there are flowers brought from the funeral. Flowers that will eventually die and all you can think about is how much you hate that things die. There will be plates upon plates of food in your fridge, but you’ll never remember eating them. You won’t remember because your body doesn’t allow you to get hungry right now. I mean, how can you be hungry when your child will never be able to eat again?

Imagine not knowing the days and weeks passing by because it all feels like a cloud. You literally feel dead on the inside and quite honestly, you feel like you want to die to be back with your child. Loneliness sets in and you don’t feel understood by anyone that did before.

Imagine the months that follow. It seems like everyone else has had their closure and are ready to get on with their days. They start to wonder when you’re going to ‘get back to normal.’ Some ever tell you they miss the old you and would do anything to get you back. They question why you’re so sad all the time, like they don’t see the absence that you feel so very heavy in your heart. But with all your questions you start to feel insecure and like you’re not grieving right.

Imagine having to live the rest of your life, never being able to see, hear, or talk to the little one you made. The little one that you gave life and cared for so very much.

Now imagine this… through all of these things, you’re being told you can have another child and that they’re in a better place. You’re told that you should be getting sleep because there’s no child to keep you up through the night. There are people who say they don’t know how anyone can keep going after their child could die (my only other choice is choosing to die). When you talk to others, they don’t understand why you’re still sad. To top it all off, they say they can’t imagine what you’re going through.

No. You can imagine it. It hurts like hell, but you can imagine it.

You just won’t.

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Picture from Saying Goodbye

Today marks forty-three weeks since Jensen has been born; Sunday will be ten whole months. There are days I wake up and I still don’t want to imagine my life being like this. Yet, this is my reality I’m forced to live with. I didn’t choose this and I would NEVER wish this pain and longing on another person.

Although I know people who say they couldn’t imagine living without their child would never mean to hurt me, it hurts me. Believe me, I know it’s literally the worst thing a mother could imagine, but so many moms are living it. It’s not that I want you to imagine the pain, but I want you to halfway understand what I’m going through. Instead of saying you can’t imagine, please just say you don’t want to.

Jensen Grey, you are so very loved. Thank you for giving me the strength every day to keep going on. Even during my hardest days, you send me signs to let me know you’re right here. With each of your cheers, I can hear them within my soul. This life isn’t want I expected, but I would ALWAYS choose you. I miss you. I love you.