Tag Archives: grief attack

So, Are You Back to Normal Yet?

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It’s been thirty-two weeks today and I often wonder if this question will ever lessen its sting.

Truthfully, no in the normal most people know and quite frankly I don’t want that back.

I’m never going to be back to the ‘normal’ many of my friends and family knew me as before. Like any major trauma, losing Jensen has irrevocably changed my whole being and outlook on life. It’s hard to grasp that I’ll never be the same girl who was carefree and never thought any bad ‘things’ could happen to her. The girl who breezed through life and could let things roll of her shoulders is gone. That playful spirit was taken when I hit rock bottom, when those five, haunting words were spoken to me. So, no, I’ll never be her again, never the old-me of normal.

With that all being said, I never want that normal back without Jensen. Of course if he was here, there would different changes in my life, but not this. I wish I didn’t know child loss or this type of depression or this anxiety, but it’s my reality. Even though I focus on the struggle while I write, there’s so many other traits that make this new Danielle’s normal beautiful. Although I wish those things weren’t apart of my life, I also know admirable things about myself now. I know this type of love for a little human, who through all the tears makes me smile. I know strength, even when I feel weak. I know how painfully beautiful it is when the world crumbles around you. I know how perseverance feels, when I’m picking up all those crumbs. I know the deep pulling of sadness and how sweet happiness can feel when it comes. I know how precious life is. I know I can look at myself and see the body that created life. And I know that even death could never break the bond of mother and child.

Normal is different now. It sucks to that my new normal isn’t normal for everyone else. I can understand why that’s so hard to understand on the outside. Before, I wouldn’t be able to get it either. I wouldn’t understand seeing loss posts everyday or why I continue to write about Jensen, grief, and loss in general. Honestly, I’d probably think I was going crazy beforehand, but this is real.

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This is Danielle now. She is a mother to Jensen. She is grieving. Her heart is heavy and her mind is weary. This is her new normal. This is her screaming out and healing in the best way she knows. It’s her wanting to tell you all about Jensen and all the goodness in his life. She can smile through the pain. She can see the world and feel happiness and sadness both at the same time. Danielle carries her son in her heart and wants to share their story. This is not typically normal Danielle,  this is her trying her best to live after loss.

I challenge you to ask this question differently. Instead of asking if I’ve regained my normalcy, ask me how my new normal is going.

To my Jensen, happy thirty-second week in heaven. It’s another beautiful Tuesday you’ve sent me. I’m so proud of you and am so grateful for all the signs you continually send me. I will always carry you in my heart, untill I can have you in my arms. I miss you. I love you.

Reliving the Moment.

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Did you know a lot of women who have went through pregnancy loss also suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)? Before Jensen was born, I only thought veterans or people who went through a really violent experience only had PTSD. The weeks following his birth, I knew I would be going through postpartum healing, grief, and probably depression. I didn’t really think it would be much more than being really sad. Honestly, I felt so strange and different when I was feeling so much more than that. It wasn’t until after I talked to my therapist that I realized that a lot of what I was going through was the same symptoms.

Before I go on, I just want to say I’m in no way comparing my situation to a veteran or person who’s been through a war. That doesn’t mean I’m downplaying the tragedy and trauma I faced though. They’re different types of PTSD, but they’re both very real and affect a person’s everyday life.

There are four general symptoms of PTSD that can be found on the Department of Veterans Affairs:

  1. Reliving the event.
  2. Avoiding situations that remind you of the event.
  3. Negative changes in beliefs and feelings.
  4. Feeling ‘keyed’ up or being on the lookout for danger.

At thirty-one weeks post loss, I’m constantly facing each on of these. Sometimes all of happen them in one second and other times it really just is one that I can’t shake off. It’s very unpredictable lately.

For the next few weeks, I’m going to refer back to this list in certain posts. I want to be able to focus on each on when it happens or when it’s feeling most raw to me. Even though I’m experiencing all these feelings, sometimes one hits more than others? Maybe that’s not the best way to explain, but I’m not sure how else to do it.

Anyways, I want to talk about the first symptom on the list: reliving the event.

This past weekend, my brain has been focused on a single moment. I’m not really sure what brought it on, but it’s demanding to be present. This moment is being freeze-framed in my mind over and over again. It’s different then any of my flashbacks that I’ve had before, since it’s not triggered by sight or sound. The moment is a feeling that consumes me and is hard to pull away from. My latest flashback is the moment Jensen was born.

My mind has completely blacked out the time I walked back to the delivery room to getting wheeled out of that room. The only break in the blackness is only ten minutes at the most that I have little pieces of. Before this weekend, it was the last few pushes, the guy beside me yelling out 4:25, and me asking if he had ten fingers and toes. That’s it. It’s all I had remembered until I held Jensen bear. Logically I know the moment he was born only lasted a few seconds. Not to get too detailed in hopes I don’t trigger anyone else, my brain knows I pushed, he came, and was delivered. My mind is now sending me the feelings I had, but shock blocked them out.

Wholeness.
Holding on to hope.
Rush.
Push.
Release.
Hopes being crushed.
Emptiness.
Silence.
Final confirmation he was gone.
Loss of him and myself.
Blackness.

When I look at these feelings wrote out, they just look like words. I can understand someone who hasn’t gone through stillbirth not really understand them or someone who isn’t me. I mean feelings are personal and each of these words bring tears to my eyes. These emotions and ‘words’ happened within seconds, it’s a lot to process. Obviously, since it’s taken thirty-one weeks for my brain to catch up with itself.

Wholeness and emptiness are really sticking out to me. At one moment, his weight was right there. There was still hope, that I knew couldn’t be true. It’s like Jensen’s body held hope, wholeness, and everything that I ever wanted. When he was born, it all went away with him. I first felt the emptiness of where his body had inhabited for months, then the deafening silence. It was all so final and happened too quickly for me to even process.

As the flashbacks keep happening, I can feel the emptiness again and I can’t catch my breath. I literally start hyperventilating, even now when I’m trying to recall it.

It sucks.

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Feels like I’m living a nightmare, which I really guess I am. I lived through my worst nightmare and it doesn’t seem real that I haven’t woke up yet. The moment he was born was the best and worst of my life. Jensen was perfect and his body was beautiful. My body let me deliver him, complication free. That moment brought his birth and it could have easily been just the best day of my life. I see the beauty in his silent birth, but the darkness of the nightmare overshadows that moment. I also relive that silence and release of the physical connection we had. Death is ugly. The loss of my son hurts, so does the loss of my identity as a person and the hope I had in the world.

Reliving his birth is hard. I’m triggered by silence, even now and probably for the rest of my life. There will be moments of hope, wholeness, and release that I will encounter again that will most definitely bring me back to this. But somehow I continue to survive. Somehow that release didn’t take me too. You can look at that good or bad because I’ll always have to live knowing that my heart didn’t stop when his did; that somehow the silence didn’t kill me…

If you’re around me or anyone that’s working through trauma, just know these little triggers bring them back to the worst moments of their lives. Don’t encourage me to just move on from them, let me talk them through with you. There will be tears and moments that I can’t say anything, this is when I need you the most.

Happy Anniversary.

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Today is a very special day for my family.

Twenty-four years ago, two people declared their love, said their vows, and walked through the doors a young, married couple. Their love story began years before and even survived through a war. Their story was exciting and now they were going to embark on their biggest one yet. Nine short months later, they brought home a baby girl and then sixteen months after that, a baby boy. As their children grew, they were able to teach them what true love really looked like. Even through the ups and downs, they were there to support each other because true love never fails.

Everyday of each year they would make sure to give their children everything they could, but they also taught them something special every seventh of November. Their anniversary was always their big day. They could take those twenty-four hours and make it the best they could for each other. No matter how many Sweetest Days or Valentines Days they missed, their would always be presents on their anniversary. If not presents, little getaways where they could really focus on each other. This taught the children that love really is special and worth it once you have it.

If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m of course speaking of my parents; Jensen’s grandma and grandpa.

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Last year for their anniversary, I gifted them with little football booties and a grandparents sign. It was the moment we could all freely talk about the little life growing inside of me with all of us knowing. Of course, mom and dad already had known, but Logan did not. I can just see the pure joy in their eyes when I recall that moment. The little football booties sat in their bookcase for the longest time (we had to put them up because of their puppy dog) and the sign is still there. Everything felt like it was on track, that life was going how it needed to be. I remember thinking of how Jensen and I were going to be able to make them their gift the next year.

From then to now, a lot has obviously changed with me, but their love has carried on.

I’m sure this year has been one of the hardest on them. With the mix of grieving their grandchild and not knowing how to help their daughter, it has to be complicated for them. They helped so much during my pregnancy with getting things for Jensen and helping me finish my house. Every time my dad would talk, Jensen would listen intently. He would kick then when he started talking he would stop then start back up again when my dad would finish. When he was born, mom and dad were there and they got to see and hold Jensen. They protected my heart, helped me plan his funeral, and have supported me through my grief and Anthony leaving. No matter how hard it has been for me, they’ve been right there.

There is no way I could thank my parents enough. My whole life, I’ve only ever known my parents being in love. Of course there were hard times, but love prevailed. It really helped me know what kind of relationship I wanted to strive for. They are able to lean on each other and support each other in parenthood. No only that, but as I just said, they’ve made me the person I am today. They both made me want to be the as amazing as they were to Jensen. I wanted to give him everything I could, just as they did. They are my mentors, role models, and most of all my loving parents.

This year was different from I thought it would be. They still were given a handmade gift from me and I even think Jensen put his little touch on there; a smudge that looked a lot like baby angel wings. Instead of holding Jensen, Jensen bear was held and loved on. We were able to talk about the past, the future, and of course Jensen. I wish he would’ve been there, stealing the show and in some ways he still does. There was the obvious missing piece, but there we were. Able to smile, cry, and celebrate their twenty-four years of marriage and all that comes with it.

Happy twenty-four years of marriage, Mom and Dad. You’ve given me the very best and I know how much Jensen loves you both.

Seven Months.

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I don’t know how to begin my post today, but everything is telling me to start typing away. Seven months is a long time to live without half of your heart. In the scheme of life, it’s a short amount of time, which makes it feel more horrible knowing how many more there will come without him.

If Jensen was here, there wouldn’t be a lot of words, just a picture of him smiling and me telling you more about him. What tastes he likes, how big he’s getting, and I’m sure I’d tell you he’s still dancing to Usher. Maybe that picture would be outside on this beautiful day. I think he would be being held by his grandparents, since they’d be celebrating their anniversary this weekend. For some reason, I can imagine them matching with their outfit colors. All I see is smiles and feel like it’s a playful moment between the three of them.

Such a peaceful moment I vividly see, that will never happen.

My life, seven months post loss has one foot in the harsh reality that is and the other envisioning what it would be like if he was here. Seeing those dreams and feeling these emotions afterwards it what makes things complicated. Admittedly, it’s nice to see him in my mind. It keeps his spirit lively and lets me escape the dread momentarily. The feeling part is what’s worse. A mix of letting happiness fill my body when I hear his laugh, that I’ve never heard. Then when it stops… That silence and stillness that I absolutely hate pulls me down; drowns me in the sea of grief. I literally can feel the sobs coming on when that happens, like I’m coughing up salt water while my body convulses.

This life is hard.

Usually, I try to find some good in all of this. I’ll say holding Jensen bear has helped and so has seeing Jensen’s candle on. This morning I woke up feeling lighter than I usually do on the fifth of every month. I dreamt of him last night and this morning’s stillness felt peaceful. Maybe he wanted me to be reassured that he’s still right here with me. As the morning has come to a close and the afternoon welcomes me, I’m waiting for some of the flashbacks of this day in April. They usually hit on these big trigger days. When that happens, I won’t be able to find any good. Instead of holding Jensen bear and finding comfort, I’ll be upset in wondering how much heavier he would be at seven months old. Anything good in life now comes with a double-edged sword.

When I let myself predict how the rest of this days goes, I think it’ll be better than the last few months. Not because I’m ‘getting over’ his death or I’m completely ‘healed,’ it’s more of my body preparing for the rest of the next two months. As I said on the first, there are things coming up that will sting. I feel almost as if my brain is protecting me today by keeping itself busy. I’m not sure. Living with grief is different each day.

In honor of his seven months in heaven, here is a picture you’ve never seen before. It’s of his nose, lips, and of course his big cheeks. Today when looking at his ultrasounds, I was drawn to this one. Looks like he’s trying to look up at me and I can imagine him looking up at the tree outside of his window. Seeing the beautiful orange leaves and the bright blue sky. He’d be such a curious boy, always listening and wanting to learn more.

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Happy seven months in heaven, Jensen Grey! Instead of gold confetti this month, I hope you’re celebrating in a fall wonderland. There are orange leaves surrounding you and you’re watching them as the fall all around you. I hope the angels are singing sweet lullabies to you and the wind carries their voices down for me to hear. Celebrate and let the love I have for you surround and warm you. I wish you could be here with me.

I miss you. I love you.

Introducing… Jensen Bear.

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In the last few days of my pregnancy, I could tell Jensen was going to be a healthy sized baby. The ultrasound ladies would let me know their guesses to how big he would be at his birth. Each week he got bigger and bigger. I felt his weight in every set and sometimes had to hold him in my belly. During those moments, I thought how much easier it would be to be able to hold him my arms and how happy I would be when I did.

But, that moment never came for me.

I don’t like to talk about this part of our story, but maybe I will another day. When I got home from the hospital, I didn’t want to feel his weight . It hurt too much to think about. At the same time, I knew one day I would, but wanted to make sure it was a special moment. That’s when I found out about Molly Bears and knew that’s what I needed. It would help me feel Jensen’s weight and to cuddle something at home in the place where Jensen would grow up.

On the next sign up date, I had my credit card ready and typed super fast so I could fill one of the one hundred and twenty-five spots. I hurriedly typed in my information, Jensen’s information, and what I would like my very own Jensen bear to look like. There were only two things I asked for: a grey bear and something navy and orange. After I finished the form, I found out I had a spot and the waiting process began.

Fast forward six months.

Yesterday morning was like any other morning. I was trying to be quiet making my bed so Leo didn’t run under the covers, then I heard my text message notification go off. It had been fairly earlier so I was intrigued with who it was. There was only two words I saw on the preview, bear and delivered. I dropped everything,  Leo ended up running under the covers, and I raced out to my car then to the post office.

In the car, I started getting anxious. It was finally time I got to feel Jensen’s weight in my arms. When I went back to pick my packages up, the mailwoman even said, ‘this one’s really heavy.’ She unknowingly picked up him up and her comment secretly made me so happy. It’s what I would want to hear about my baby, something about him other than death.

I came right home, went to my room where Jensen’s urn is, and opened it right up.

Jensen bear weighs seven pounds and one ounce. His grey fur matches Jensen’s crib and is so very soft. He was a bright orange bow tie right above his blue heart. Holding him, first brought tears to my eyes, but filled my arms. It meant so much to finally be able feel him. My Jensen’s weight was in my arms and I instantly didn’t want to let Jensen bear down. Jensen bear is perfect and even better than I imagined.

Without further ado, everyone meet Jensen bear.

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Thank you Bridget for creating my Jensen bear and allowing me to feel my little boy’s weight for the first time in my arms. Molly Bears is such a beautiful organization and way to honor your sweet daughter. I know you’ve been able to touch so many families that have experienced loss in such a positive manner. You have warmed my heart and filled my aching arms. There is not enough thank you’s in the world.

Thirty Weeks.

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This morning felt like any other day in October. Leaves are changing and falling outside and my house is starting to get more chilly. The birds still haven’t flown south and Jensen was instructing them to sing outside my window. I woke up with supporting messages from friends, family, and my favorite community, just as I had the previous thirty-one days. A smile crept on my face as I looked at the sun peaking through on Jensen’s framed face. Everything was steady.

Then, November hit me like a brick wall.

It might sound silly, but I didn’t realize the month was going to change so quickly. Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness was my focus for last month and I was caught up in all the prompts and posts that I didn’t even look ahead to November. Maybe because my mind has completely wanted to forget the next two months even exist. It hurts being in holiday season without Jensen. I’m not looking forward to Thanksgiving or Christmas, but on the other hand, I’m not trying to buildup the buildup for these big days. Which I’m sure doesn’t make sense, but usually the days right before and after holidays or anniversaries are worse than the actual day itself.

This month is also my seventh month without Jensen. Today is actually thirty weeks, which just seems impossible. At this point on the grief train, I’m smiling, laughing, and participating in life to the best of my ability. BUT, I cry every night, have major grief attacks, and am genuinely sad all the time. It’s probably a huge juxtaposition for everyone around me. One moment I’m crying and the next I’m laughing or I can be chatty for more than half the time then am completely silent having an anxiety attack. It’s confusing for them and it’s hard to process for me.

Before I go on, I’d like to define grief attack. It’s when grief suddenly and ferociously slaps you in the face with agony for however long it wants. They are hard to come out of and it’s sort of like a trigger, but these don’t necessarily come as a result of something else. I’m sure it’s been used before and has been defined, but this is my own little definition.

Back to before, I’m also coming up on some big doctor appointment anniversaries: we found out Jensen was a boy the Monday before Thanksgiving and I told my brother on my parent’s anniversary. Thinking back on those happy moments and knowing what happened as time passed hurts. Last year, happiness radiated off of me. I’m jealous of the innocence I never knew I had before it was lost…

So where am I getting at in all of this?

I’m going to take November as it comes. There will be good and bad days, each that I’ll do my best to embrace. During them, I will honor Jensen and his life as I promised him I would and have in the past thirty weeks. I’m going to be the best mom possible to him, that doesn’t change seven months after a baby is born. With that, even though Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month is over, I will keep advocating for him and his friends. For me every day is a chance I have to share Jensen’s story, show others I have survived stillbirth, and let other families know they’re not alone in any of this.

Although I have no expectations for this month, I do have some things planned. Each day I want to share one thing I’m grateful for, not always in blog form though. There are some posts I’ve been wanting to share with you all, that will be soon. I’m going to start planning a way to honor Jensen and all the babies during a trip I’m taking in December. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get that information out after Thanksgiving and there will be some response. So stay tuned to that. Plus, there is one big surprise that I’ll be getting this week. I can’t wait to show you all! That’s one thing I am looking forward to and have high expectations for.

After brushing myself off from running into that wall this morning, I’m going to try to appreciate this month. November will be what I make it and I know Jensen will be right here with me. I just wanted to say thank you all so much, again, for letting me share (almost) every day of October. It was such a supportive and needed month before this holiday season.

On this first day of thanks,  I’m so thankful for Jensen.

Happy thirty weeks in heaven, my sweet love. I hope you were able to play in the leaves and make everyone around you smile, just as you’ve made me smile. You fill my whole day with warmth and light. I miss you. I love you.