Tag Archives: grieving

The Difference of a Year.

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This is the first ‘bump’ picture I took with Jensen.

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It was taken one year ago. I was six months pregnant with him and going through a lot at this time. At this time I had already known for two months he was my little boy. But I had found out so much more on that November day. Less than a month before this picture was taken I learned Jensen had a 99% chance of having Down syndrome. This was hard for me at that time.

I questioned if I had done something wrong.

I was terrified of an extra, teeny, twenty-first chromosome.

I started researching and educating myself on how to better mother a child with Down syndrome.

I joined a support group.

I read and followed different blogs.

I worried I wouldn’t be enough for him.

I fought for him from the pressures of people who had no right to tell me what I needed to do with my baby.

It’s sort of crazy to think I waited six months to take a belly picture. Honestly, I just thought I’d have millions of pictures of him with all the years that we should have had. Plus, this is when I first started to like my pregnant body. I could see my bump and see when he’d move. Seeing me get bigger only meant Jensen was growing like he was supposed to. With every ultrasound his body grew bigger and heart beat stronger.

This time last year, everything was perfect; even with it not going as I planned. I was just so ecstatic to be his mommy. Every day I would wake up and tell him how loved he was. I dreamed of seeing him for the first time and wondering how he would look. My love grew deeper and deeper. I looked forward to checking my pregnancy app to see what new things he was doing and what I could be doing to better prepare. Then every night, he would be read to and sung a sweet lullaby before he kicked me until I slept on my left side. Those were the perfect days. I looked forward to seeing him twice a week and all the seconds in between. Even though I didn’t understand why he was given this diagnosis, I was blessed to have him. I was blissfully happy.

Crazy how much can change in one year.

I’ve been at a loss of words this week. There’s been a lot going on and the Jensen sized hole in my heart has been stinging. I keep thinking how today I would be dressing him up in a little Steelers outfit and going over to his grandparents house to cheer them on. I’d love to see him grow outside the womb physically and mentally. Deep down, I know he’d be so curious and smart. He’d want to learn, play, and make smile. Instead all I can do is cry and wonder why. Why I was so scared of not being enough for him. Why I didn’t take more pictures of my belly. Why I worried so much.

Why did he have to die.

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.

Nine Months.

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In my house there’s a room that remained empty for almost nine whole months. There are white squares on the wallpaper and one navy and orange wood wall. The curtains are drawn and frame a picturesque, snowy backyard. Its grey rug in the middle of the room calls out to be sat on. It yells for you to read all the books packed away in storage. Although it looks like any normal room, there should be a crib, a changing table, and bookshelves full of adventures. Instead, the only signs that it was anyone’s space is his name, weight, and birthdate written on the chalkboard paint right as you walk in.

For all this time I hated its emptiness, but there was no way I could take seeing his empty crib. It stayed waiting for Jensen and all his things. A nasty reminder of how life should have been.

Recently, I’ve gained the courage to actually use his room. The first step in this process has been putting up a big piece of furniture, a futon. In fact, it’s a grey futon with navy and orange pillows. My mom and dad came over to help me put it up. We decided the best place for it to sit was where Jensen’s crib would have welcomed his dreams every night. I truly believed that seeing his room being used would help heal my heart. That it wasn’t just a room that held stillness. As we assembled and centered it on the wall, the room started closing in on me. This just wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

I took a huge deep breath and tried once again to accept my reality.

Yes, I had to accept Jensen wouldn’t be using this room. At nine months old, Jensen isn’t in there standing on his crib mattress, waiting for me to pick him up. Instead of him crying to wake me up, there’s nothing but silence. There would be no bedtime stories or a room full of toys. I wouldn’t hear him jump out of his bed as he grew older. He wouldn’t race to his window to see if the snow had covered the street beside us, hoping school would be canceled. There would be no slamming of his door or sneaking out of it. None of these dreams will ever become memories. The futon in his room would always remind me of that.

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Today when I walked in and seen the image above, I smiled and then cried. No matter how much this futon reminds me of all things I don’t have with him, he is so present in this home. In the navy and orange, I see the color of crayons he would pick. The squares on the wall could only help grow his imagination, maybe he’d even become a better drawer than me. Who knows, maybe when he would have been older, he would have wanted this very futon in his room. He probably would think it was cool to have some place to hang out and play video games. I cried today because I wish I knew him at nine months and everyday of his life. His room would’ve become such a huge part of his childhood and now it’s up to me to use it.

I can’t bear to use see any other colors than the ones I picked out for him. It will always be Jensen’s room. My hope is to use his space to be close to him and do what I can in his honor. It took nine months for me to put a futon in there, so it might take nine more for me to actually sit there for a while. Everyday I’m doing my best for him and for me. Even if that means accepting what shouldn’t be.

Happy nine months in heaven, Jensen Grey. You are loved and missed beyond what words could ever describe. I hope you like the futon that occupies your room. It really is comfortable and I could really see me sitting there and watching you play. I hope you have your big nine month sticker on and sending me a most special snowflake. I miss you. I love you.

PTSD: Part Three

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In November I started talking about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and how it effects women who have experienced pregnancy and infant loss. When I started these postings, I really thought I would be able to delve into them during the holidays. They went hand in hand with how I was feeling, but I couldn’t put it in words. I was feeling everything so deeply and at the same time, I was so busy I couldn’t get it all out. Honestly, I had forgotten that I needed to continue these, until last night.

I’d also like to say, I am in no way am I a trained psychologist. I’ve honestly never even taking a psychology class in college. This is just me making a connection with a very real life disorder and sharing my journey with you all. A lot of women who have experiences loss do go through these same symptoms. Not everyone is the same and not everyone goes through this journey just like the next. If you don’t feel like you’ve been through this, you’re not alone. If you do feel like you go through one symptom a day, you’re not alone. Although I’m here to talk about anything with you, this is not by any means a diagnosis.

To refresh your memory and incase you want to go back and read, these are the four symptoms of PTSD and how I have experienced them post loss. I found these symptoms 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.

If you read my post yesterday, I’m definitely feeling some negative energy. I keep telling people that I feel so cynical now. Every day I expect the worst, but then think the worst has already to me. There are times I really don’t believe I’m ever going to feel better. That’s hard to type for you all to read. I want to everyone to believe that I’m going to keep surviving each day and to know when I have good days. Yeah, I smile and laugh more freely now, but I always feel the negative right there.

It was so difficult to experience the holidays with this cloud looming over me. The strange thing is, it’s almost as if the fog or numbness from the loss has worn off and I’m just feeling everything head on. Like I’m playing football without pads or jousting without armor. Although I really just ignored Christmas, the change of the year was definitely negative for me. I didn’t/don’t believe the world around me is magically going to get better. There are times that I don’t really believe what I do to help is actually helping. This is going to sound crazy, I know deep down that I’m helping myself heal, but my body is just producing all this bad energy. That’s truly is only way I know how to explain it.

Like I said in the beginning of this post, I didn’t even really think about continuing this, even though I’ve wanted to, until last night. For those of you that don’t know, I’m an avid reader. Well I was an avid reader before Jensen was born. I read Jensen children’s books every night before bed and read a handful of big chapter books during my pregnancy. Knowledge has always been so powerful for me and escaping to these worlds where I can learn more about different ways fascinates me. Anyways, I put off reading after he was born. The time I knew I should escape, I couldn’t let myself. I was afraid that my love for reading was going to change and it’d cause me nightmares. There was so much negative to an activity I loved to do. Then a book I preordered with Jensen came in the mail and I read it in the span of a week. I felt so much better reading, but hadn’t picked up another book throughout the holidays.

Again, I was being so negative with myself. I hated this world I was stuck in, but no other world had Jensen in it. When I got a notification that one of my favorite books from high school was turning ten years old, I figured I’d purchase that addition and try reading. Jay Asher’s Thirteen Reasons Why was one of the first books I read that really talked about the dark and gritty. It’s also the first one I really, really understood the dynamic of loss. Of course I’ve read books before that had characters die, but this one was centralized about Hannah Baker. If you don’t know the story, she commits suicide and tells her thirteen reasons why via cassette tape. Each of her reasons are people and their actions that impacted her decision of taking her own life. Suicide is a serious issue and I know you’re wondering how it connects to me and pregnancy and infant loss.

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Well first, let me tell you how it directly connects to Jensen. In the book, you’re reading the protagonist’s point of view on how he views Hannah, as well as hearing her story. His name happens to be, Clay Jensen. I completely forgot that before ordering the book. My heart skipped a beat reading his name over and over again. All the other words blurred together as my eyes instantly went to the name I constantly say and write. That’s an obvious one, but then, in the last chapter there’s another part that blew me away. Clay’s locker combination is 5-4-23. All random numbers, except, Jensen’s birthday was the 5th of April, which is the fourth month of the year. So this might be pushing it, but this year I turned twenty-three. Kind of crazy, right? What’s more crazy is when I finished my marathon read this time around, I ended at exactly 4:25am. The minute Jensen was born… Just thought I’d take a second to share that with you all.

Now back to all seriousness…

The book is a work of fiction, but I know what it’s like to be in that dark place. To think you are all alone in this world and that when you finally reach for help, you get told to move on. Of course the world is different to me than it would be for a high schooler. There’s more experience and years, but it doesn’t make that loneliness more than the other. But I kept thinking of how PTSD after losing Jensen has brought all these negative feelings and beliefs in my life. I question,” Why Me? Why Jensen?,” over and over sometimes. At times I don’t want to reach out and spread this darkness. But what happens when you keep it all inside?

There’s a lot of statistics and facts I know about losing a child. One I do not know and have not looked up is that suicide rate among grieving mothers. In the book, Hannah contemplates how she wants to kill herself and she mentions running her car off the road. You wouldn’t know this, but I’ve thought those same things. I’m not suicidal by the way, but I wonder what that release of pain and darkness would feel like?

As much as the negative and darkness cloud my life, there’s one big shining light. It’s the light I see when I drink my chocolate milk in the morning and every night as the flame dances on top of his candle. I would do anything to have Jensen back with me, to have him physically light up my world. Unfortunately, I’ll never have that. But I do have him and moments full of blinding light and love. I have hope that I will see him one day, but I’m not going to rush to get there.

Post traumatic stress disorder is real for mom’s who’ve lost their child. I’ve never lied to you guys on this journey and I won’t stop now. A book triggered me last night to think of everyone in the world who can’t stop those negative thoughts or who’ve felt so alone they didn’t know what else to do. These go hand in hand. Or, as Hannah would say, “everything… affects everything.”

Even if you’ve found my page and have not experience the loss of a child, but are still feeling completely alone, please reach out to me. There is hope and one day there will be a light so blinding that you’ll want to share it with the world. It might not feel it in this moment or the next, but I promise you, you are wanted and you are loved. You belong right here and maybe it feels like this suffering will never end, but there are people (like me) that will help you through every step of the way.

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-Eight Weeks.

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The past two days have been a whirlwind for me. Christmas was hard, as expected. I woke up with a lump in my throat. There wasn’t a happy little boy waiting in his crib to be picked up. I didn’t get to help him rip through all the wrapping paper on his presents. So many things I had planned for his first Christmas that just didn’t happen. They couldn’t without him here. I had to pretend the day wasn’t even Christmas to get through it. Yet, I made it, only to awake the next morning with a high fever and cold chills. My whole body ached. I slept for more than half of the day, which I desperately needed. Some part of me thinks yesterday physical pain was reflective of how my I would feel emotionally today.

What makes this Tuesday, thirty-eight weeks, such a triggering day? More time has passed than Jensen was alive. I had thirty-eight weeks with him and now another has come and went. It seems outrageous that this time has come so quickly. I hate that it’s been this long, even though I knew it would happen at some point. (Sometimes I wish you all could see the pauses I take while writing. This is hitting me really hard.) Honestly, I didn’t really think I would be able to make it this far. I wonder how my heart hasn’t stopped even though his did. It seems weird to think, but how does that happen. How does my heart keep beating for thirty-eight week when little heart that was inside me stopped?

Grief makes you question everything in almost a wave type fashion. Things you’ve thought you’ve come to terms with, come up back up during certain days. Questions you though you’ve let go are asked again. I keep replaying everything in my mind. From the day he was born and how I was feeling last year, it’s all just crazy. How can everything change in just one short year? Last year was such a happy time for me and this year was just sad. There’s no other way to describe it. I look at me now without Jensen and I hate this. I wish this wasn’t my life. All of this doesn’t help with this particular week and events that I’m right in the middle of. With Christmas, this day, and New Years coming up, I’m just thankful I haven’t pulled out my hair yet.

I don’t know how present I’m going to be for the rest of the week. There’s a fog around me and I’m trying with all my might to stop the year from changing. Ridiculous right? I can’t fathom that I’m leaving 2016 without Jensen. My future was always supposed to have him here with me. This last year was supposed to be the happiest in my life. Somehow 2016 feels safe to stay in no matter how horrible it was. It will always hold Jensen. This year will have always taught me love and perseverance. It was the year I learned I could survive anything thrown at me. I wish it turned out to be a different year, but I could never hate it.

This is Jensen’s year.

And because it’s Jensen’s year and has been so impactful on me, I’ll always carry 2016. This year has seen the best and worst of me. It’s opened up a world I never thought I would be apart of. It made me feel lost and found again. It’s brought me wonderful friendships and has let others dissolve. It shown me the harsh reality of this world. It’s allowed me to grow. It welcomed the best little guy I’ll ever know. It’s been full of love and loss.

Since today is such a big day of this grief journey, I wanted to share something special with you all. As I wrote about this year and how I’ll always carry it with me, I kept thinking of this picture. Those little, big hands hold my heart. They hold this year and all that it has brought. I see those hands and wish they could have squeezed my finger or searched for mine as he would begin to walk. Oh how I wish 2016 would have turned out so differently, but I will always have Jensen and the love he brings to me each and every day; no matter the year.

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A Very (Dreary) Christmas Eve.

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Last year, Jensen woke me up with his kicks that grew stronger each and every day. I can vividly remember talking to him while rubbing my belly and imagining how very different the next Christmas would be. My thoughts went to him standing with the help of the couches while he tried to stumble over the lights of the Christmas tree. We would make cookies and he would lick the icing. The rest of our family would come over and he would play with his second cousins. I would read to him in a whisper when his bedtime would come. Prompting him to dream so very sweetly for when he would wake, he would find Santa had carefully placed presents under the tree he had been so amazed with the week before. Each present would wait for him to try to open them. I imagined this Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with so much happiness and love just as I had while I grew up.

Instead, this Christmas Eve is nothing like that.

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I knew this year would mark a change of how I would celebrate Christmases, but I never could imagine them being filled with tears. Honestly, I didn’t know there could be this much sorrow through the holidays. My brain would never have been able to wrap itself around the fact that babies could die and instead of a house with a bustling eight month old, it would be empty. Stockings were not hung and there are no presents underneath the tree for Jensen or I.

For the past eight months, I almost always say how hard this is on me and for all the people who are missing their loved ones. It is so exhausting. My body is completely run down and this morning I woke up with no voice and a sore throat. Awesome. I’ve been a little sick since I’ve been home from vacation, which makes me feel horrible since I haven’t downloaded all the beach pictures and the babies names in the sand. Seriously, I feel like a hole in this tightly woven net of the moms in the baby loss community. I don’t want to blame this on Jensen and his absence, but it’s engulfing me. There isn’t anything I want more than to have him in my arms and since I can’t have that, I just want to sleep for years on end. Hence why I haven’t got much done this week.

In my last post I said that grief makes a person broken, but still functional. Then I ate my words. I’m not functioning right now. Autopilot has taken over so I don’t feel the sting of all these emotions at once. It’s why my body is run down and I haven’t gotten those pictures downloaded. My mind is focusing on the pain on my body and not how sad I feel. The names, although so beautiful and I feel so blessed to have helped all these mamas, it breaks me seeing all of them. I wanted to write a post about it when I posted them, but I feel like I have to say this now. With each name that I wrote and saw the waves take away, I kept thinking of the untouched sand after. Their names made such an impact while everyone walked along and read, but when it was empty…. It just bothered me. I wish I could engrave their names everywhere I go. Each are so important to me and knowing how much love is behind them all.

It just hurts. I hate that his name and his friends names were erased with the next wave. The erasing of his name reminds me of the lack of presents under the tree. How many times would his name be written if he was here? During December I had thought of just getting empty boxes, wrapping them up, and writing his name on the tag just to have there. Like it should be. It’s so hard to know how I envisioned it, but no one else can see. I’m stuck in these two realities.

I don’t like to talk about religion on here, but I want you all to know I’ve been praying for each of us. My heart is so heavy and just knowing my heart isn’t the only one that’s this heavy breaks me sometimes. I pray for us to have seconds of this pain easing. I pray for us to always see the light our children have shown us. I pray for us to feel the love we have for them and know they continuously send us their love as well. I pray for some peace of mind. There’s so many of us with questions that will always go unanswered and it really can drive you mad. Lastly, I pray for Jensen. I pray and pray and pray that he sees me doing my best. That even though I’ve cried enough to fill all the oceans in the world, it’s all because I love and miss him so very much.

As always, if any of you need to talk or just anything, please feel free to reach out to me. I’m always just a message away. I’d also like you to know that I’ll be thinking of you and our angels through these hard times. I promise you all that they will never be forgotten. And remember, do what you need to do for you! You are the one who has to go through this holiday season without your child. That is the hardest task anyone can go through. Be gentle on your heart and mind. You are never alone.

Broken, but Still Functional.

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Grief has an interesting way of showing itself.

Admittedly, I have been going back and forth if I’ve wanted to write about this or not. Over and over again I have told you all that I want to be completely honest about everything in my life that grief effects. So here I am with this little story.

To have this little incident makes sense, I have to give you guys a little background. Last month sometime, I signed up to be apart of a remembrance ornament swap. I thought it would help me be creative and keep my mind off the dark clouds surrounding upcoming holidays. It honestly gave me a lot of joy knowing I would be helping another mama out. I poured my heart into the ornament made for a little girl. It had pinks and polka dots on it. Something completely different from I had prepared for with Jensen. While I was creating, I thought of how the person making mine would connect with Jensen in a different way.

It makes me heart warm when I know he’s touched another person’s life.

Anyways, when I went to the post office yesterday, I knew the package in the mail was from the ornament from the swap. I rushed home to open it. There was white tissue paper that surrounded the smaller box inside. I ripped all of it out and proceeded to open the little on. Then came even more tissue paper until I felt it. The sparkly, white, glass bulb had Jensen’s name scripted in red on one side and a beautiful quote was on the other. I was in awe of how much love was put into this ornament. It would fit perfectly on my tree and I knew I had just the right spot.

Carefully I picked it up and crept over to the tree. I adjusted the branch to be in the right position. Just as I was about to put the ribbon over the tree branch, the bulb slipped right out of my hands. It was the longest fall to the floor, but I couldn’t catch it in time. His brand new ornament laid on the ground with the top right completely broken.

At first I wanted to scream and cry at the same time. How is this my luck? It was so carefully delivered and just as I was going to give it a spot on the tree, it crashes on the floor. My thoughts instantly went to getting down on myself. I couldn’t believe that right there was another thing I had broken. It was just another way I had let the person who made the ornament and Jensen down. There was so much guilt and anger raging inside me… until it turned into something else.

I had to start laughing.

This is my life. Sometimes it feels as if everyday has so much uncontrollable chaos that I just have to embrace it. In that moment, that ornament signified me more than anything else had for a while. There was a huge chunk missing from it, but it was just as pretty as it had been just moments before. It was still made with love and Jensen was present. Instead of its outside being smooth, it was jagged and could cut you. It’s insides were shown from the outside. You could see the brokenness at first glance. Broken, but still functional. What better way to describe me in the past eight months than that. Instead of putting it in Jensen’s drawer for safe keeping, I swept up the broken pieces and put it in its rightful spot. The brokenness makes it even more special that I will never hide it, just as I will never hide my grief and pain.

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Thank you so much, Michelle, for this beautiful ornament. Jensen would have loved the glitter and seeing his name in bright red. He would be reaching for it now and wanting to see how the light makes it shine. I am so terribly sorry a big piece of it is missing now. Just know, that it will always have a place on my tree during this time of year and will always remind me of how far I’ve come. Your ornament has touched my heart, but has also taught me even more about my grief. I hope you have the gentlest of holidays.

Peace, Love, and Rushing Around.

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I’m home!

It has been such a crazy week of vacation that I’m glad to be back to the peace that is my little house. Not writing for this whole time has been strange. I’ve felt all these words and emotions built up. I plan on expanding on some of them in the next few weeks, but today is a little catch up.

Tuesday has quickly snuck up on me this week as I figured it would. Thirty-seven whole weeks have passed since Jensen’s silence birth. Even though I had the past few days to relax, I woke up with great anxiety again. I’m missing him so very much. Walking into my house last night, I was glad, but my heart was so heavy knowing I wasn’t coming home to him. I wouldn’t be seeing his excited face as I went to pick him up after a week of not seeing him. Grief didn’t take a vacation as I did. I can’t say it welcomed me home, but it changed and felt different while I was gone and came back.

Today has felt even faster for me. I woke up late and had to start getting things done around the house. My mailbox was full of beautiful Christmas cards from other loss mamas, two new ornaments for Jensen and our tree, and of course bills. It was such a happy welcome home. Each card that was sent to me warmed my heart and the ornaments, they were so perfect. I kept thinking about their warm wishes and the comments and messages I received while I was gone. My tribe of mamas are always showing me they care and Jensen will forever be remembered.

Along with my vacation, I wanted to update you all with all the angel names I wrote on the beach. Well, my phone didn’t take the trip very well. Not to go into great detail, but I wrote all the names and took the pictures in the first few days. Then, all of a sudden, my phone had deleted ALL my pictures from December and eventually factory reset the last day. Frantically, I had my mom and dad help me with all the baby names. I wrote and wrote and wrote as my mom took the pictures and my dad checked them off the list. It was such a rush, but I am 99.9% sure I have all the names as I did before. The pictures are on my mom’s phone and I am going to download them tomorrow and hopefully will have everything on Jensen’s page by Friday.

With all the names, I am going to post about my experience with others while I wrote them. It was an interesting process and there were a lot of reactions from others. There was nobody that came and said they had lost their child, which I am thankful for. But there was a lot of people who went and said your children’s names out loud as they walked across the beach. I said them with them proudly each time. They were very taken care of and the waves washed their names peacefully away.

I just want to again, thank you all for trusting me with their names so I could write them along with Jensen’s.

Since there’s only five days left till Christmas, I wanted to share a very special ornament I received today. Especially since I’ve been slacking off on sharing all the ornaments I wanted to with you, I blame vacation. This ornament is from Lachlan’s mommy and my very best friend, Melissa.

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This beautiful blue and orange sparkly ornament has Jensen’s name on the front and 2016 on the back. It’s personalized just for him and holds so much meaning in my heart. Lachlan and Jensen were born just days apart in April. They should both be eight months old and getting spoiled during their first Christmas. I hate the way Melissa and I met, but I am so thankful for our friendship and to know Lachlan and his family. Friendship in the midst of grief is hard to come by, but here we are finding some kind hope and walking with each other in this unknown future.

Although I haven’t told Melissa yet, when I opened her Christmas care package today on Jensen’s thirty-seventh week in heaven, I broke down in tears. It’s not only an ornament for me to remember him by, it’s one that he would’ve absolutely loved. He would have been amazed that the blue and orange that decorates him room would be on our tree. I see it as a little present for my son, the first I have received for him during Christmas. My heart is truly touched.

Thank you, again, Melissa for this beautiful ornament. It will be one of my favorites to put up every single year. You have been such a great support system for me and I will never be able to thank you enough. Although I know we both would have rather this holiday season to be so much different, I’m glad we’re able to be here for each other.

Jensen Grey, I love you so very much. Happy thirty-seven weeks in heaven. You are the light of my life. Thank you for protecting your whole family through our travels and vacation. I felt your presence as I wrote your friends’ names on the beach. My mind let me know how much you loved playing on the beach and watching the waves come in and out. You give me more strength than I ever though possible.  I miss you. I love you.