Tag Archives: grieving

Father’s Day.

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Three months ago I was planning Mother’s and Father’s Day gifts; Father’s Day more in particular. I imagined getting baby and navy blue paint to put on Jensen’s feet and showcase them in crafts for Anthony and my dad. A canvas and a mug for them both, with touches of Jensen everywhere. Of course they would get a picture of them and Jensen in a frame, I would fill all our walls up with Jensen’s face. We would get fun little first Father’s Day cards for Anthony and a grandpa card for my dad. It would be the first of many perfect Father’s Days for our little family.

Instead, I broke down at Hallmark. Well actually my breakdown started in Hallmark, then I ran to the bathroom in the mall to really get into it. I felt pretty pathetic sobbing in the stall, everyone in there had to hear me. At first I was okay. The cute cards got to me a little bit, but I was focused on the ‘adult’ looking cards for my dad and Anthony. Then it all happened too fast for me to comprehend at that time… Little kids came running in, right in front of me, picking out the cute cards I had my eyes one. They excitedly picked out their favorite cards having their mom read them out loud to them. Their smiles lit up the room. Except for the spot I was standing. I stood their paralyzed with my tears building up. Somehow I kept it composed long enough to buy my cards and run.

I’ll remember to just DIY my cards for the next occasion or order them online.

But this post isn’t about me, nor is this whole day. It’s about the two amazing fathers I was blessed with in my life: my dad and Anthony.

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My dad, my superhero.

This is my favorite picture of my dad. I know you can’t see his face and I know I have a thousand pictures of him and I together, but this is the one. My dad has always been my biggest cheerleader, my protector, and the best guy I know. Everyone says that about their dad, but it’s true for me. Even when I’m so mad at him I can’t even look his direction, I still know I would be able to go talk to him about anything. He’s the first person I call when something truly does not go right because he makes it better. My childhood was a dream and it’s because I had him, well mom helped too.

I can just remember when I was first pregnant how scared I was to tell him. For some reason I thought he would be disappointed or mad. I remember puking up water on the stairs before I told them and he came along to help clean it up. He never asked me if I was or pushed me to tell him. When I did tell him, he just smiled and said, “I’ve known all along.” He was there to find out Jensen was a boy and was always wanting to know how my appointments went. When we found out Jensen would most likely have Down syndrome, he told me Jensen was loved no matter what. The moment Jensen was born, he was in the room. He talked to Jensen and held him. He cries with me and listens. Jensen is so lucky to have him as his grandpa. We even got him a #1 Grandpa grill spatula.

There’s no rulebook on what to do when your daughter’s son is stillborn or what to do when your grandson is stillborn. My dad has had a tough role to play since Jensen has been born: grieving his grandson and watching his daughter crumble to pieces. Through it all he’s been so gentle, patient, and kind. He’s handled losing Jensen with such grace that I don’t think I’ll ever have.

I’m so blessed to have the dad that I do.

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A+D=J

On our way up to stay with Anthony on New Years Eve, I cried. It was funny, Jensen was kicking and dancing away all day. I remember feeling every kick and just crying for some reason. Halfway up, I called Anthony and just kept saying I didn’t want this year to end. It was such a great year; I graduated, I met Anthony, I bought a house, I got pregnant, and he was my Jensen. Anthony listened, as he always does, and just reminded me we were going to meet the best part of our future. Our Jensen was to be born in April and that I should be happy because we were going to have so many good parts of 2016. He calmed me down, made me laugh, and we took this picture.

Let me tell you, Anthony is my rock. On day one when we found out about our little Bebe, he was scared, but excited. Through all the good news and the bad, the multitude of appointments, and all my pregnancy hormones, Anthony was right beside me. He read Goodnight Moon and Go Dog Go to Jensen and made sure I took my prenatal vitamins every day. When we got bad news, he told me it would be okay and Jensen was still our perfect boy. We went to baby class together, did the baby shower registry, and planned every last detail. I tried my best to prepare him for our little bundle, but I could never have prepared him for Jensen’s passing. Nor could I have prepared him for this grief that is so woven into our every day lives.

Anthony’s first Father’s Day is without Jensen physically here. It hurts me. We shouldn’t have to spend tomorrow without Jensen, he should be almost three months old. I know he would have been the best daddy in the whole entire world and at the same time, he is.

There’s a difference in parenting when you’re a bereaved parent. We can’t physically hold Jensen or feed him, but we parent him in all other sense of the meaning. Anthony loves Jensen, cares about his legacy, and still does everything he can for him. Sometimes my grief and I take over our relationship, but he’s right here to help. As I’ve said before and will always say, Antony is my rock. I know Jensen is so proud of his daddy. He showed it every time he would hear Anthony’s voice and feel his presence.  As much as I know how proud Jensen is of Anthony, I know the love between them is so strong and so endless.

My two boys. My perfect little family.

Related to Father’s Day, I submitted to Still Mothers a post I wrote about Anthony and his grief. I’d love, if you haven’t, for you all to go read it. I’d really like to say it was an honor to have them publish it on their site and let my family’s story be seen by so many other people. The post, in short, is really about a bereaved father’s grief and how society really needs to take in account that these dads really are hurting too. That not only a mother has lost a child, but the dad too. Click here if you want to check it out.

I’d like to wish all the fathers out their a Happy Father’s Day, especially my dad and Anthony. All you guys out there fathering your own, not your own, or just being that father figure in another’s life has so much impact on this world. To all the bereaved fathers out there, I see you. I see your grief and I want you to know you are as much as a father as any other father. You love and care for child while they’re waiting for you in heaven. You are not forgotten nor should you ever be overlooked. Your child loves you, that you should never forget. If you know a bereaved father, tell them Happy Father’s Day. That will mean more to him than anything on this day.

Ten Weeks.

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Everyone hates Mondays. It’s the start of the week and we all have to go back to work. The day drags and usually everything goes wrong. Ten weeks and one day ago, I had the worst Monday in the whole entire world. For some reason though, every Monday since, I wish the calendar stopped turning. Jensen was born on a Tuesday, ten weeks ago to be exact.

On Monday nights, I watch the minutes pass by until it hits midnight. It’s silly, I know the day is going to change, but I want the Groundhog Day time repeat to happen. My mind cannot comprehend that another week has passed since he’s been gone. I don’t understand how I haven’t lost my mind or how my body hasn’t just stopped working. How is my heart still beating when I’ve had death inside me? Death stole my Tuesdays, as well as the fifths of every month, all April, and especially Jensen’s birthday. When I think about it, it stole away everyday…

In the past (roughly) forty-eight weeks, my mind and body have been focused on one special, little boy. It’s gone from nurturing to caring to grieving, all in a relatively short amount of time. Even in the ten weeks Jensen has been gone, all my thoughts are on him. There’s not a second that goes by that he’s not in my brain. This whole time I’ve put him first, not that it was even hard to do. He’s my child for goodness sakes.

Today, I was told one thing and asked another that completely challenged me.

The first, “Jensen is taken care of.” This was not said in a malicious way, nor did I take it that way. But let me tell you, it shook me to my core. My mind cannot accept he is taken care of without me. It hurts when I think that his needs are met in heaven and I’m not there to provide them. He is taken care of. I swear, I’m just sitting here taking that in again. The pause just filled with tears and trying to understand that. Jensen is in heaven and there’s nothing I can do about it. He is there and he is content. Besides having him here physically, what more could I want?

The second, a question. “How do you see yourself?” Broken. Depressed. Missing. Sad. Insecure. Questioning. Shaking. Tears. Stressed. I’m sure I could go on and I did when I was asked. It was after I described all my emotions and feelings that I realized I haven’t really looked at myself in a mirror since the day I found out Jensen’s heart stopped beating. Right now I’m remembering looking in the mirror soon after he was born, maybe three days later. It was the first time I was alone and I was going to take a shower until I looked at myself. I remember looking at my stomach, still swollen, but not Jensen’s bump. At that time I was still in shock, so I pressed where his butt usually sat. It was empty, my whole body was empty. I looked at my face, staring into my eyes. Emptiness turned into hatred. How could my body do this to me, to my baby? I’ll never, ever forget that moment. It took everything out of me not to break that mirror. Not to shatter the person looking back at me.

I went a little off from the question asked to me today, but it all connects. The past, almost, ten weeks from the mirror moment that’s the only image I’ve had of myself. Danielle post Jensen was this empty girl filling with hatred to herself, but so full on her love for her son. It still holds true to now, especially when I think back to that moment. It saddens me. I struggle to find love for myself, the only person that is accountable for getting up every single day. The person who through this huge loss, radiates love to someone so far away. I’m the reflection in the mirror, maybe I needed to shatter the mirror because I’m broken inside.

All these conflicting, pent up emotions about Jensen and myself came out today. Of course my emotions for Jensen are shown everyday, but I push down any about myself. I felt everything, like I felt I needed to do. Instead of looking in the mirror, I took pictures of myself. Mind you, this is the first time I’ve really looked at myself for the past ten weeks. When I have put makeup on to meet people, it’s been without the mirror. Who knew selfies could be some sort of therapy for me during this time.

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If I was an artist, I’d name it after how I describe my three selves: Danielle after Jensen.

What do I see? My beautiful mother-son necklace from Mother’s Day. Under eye circles. Unkept hair. No smile. The eyes that have seen too much for one person to have ever seen. My literal safety blanket. I see sadness. I see someone who doesn’t sleep at night.I see the glassy eyes, tears always on the ready. When I’m sitting here looking at myself, the only trace of happiness I see is my necklace. It scares me looking at myself and it deeply saddens me. On the other side, I don’t feel anger or hatred. I don’t see a body or face that would purposely let her son go. It’s not a face that would accept death.

As this tenth week of grief begins, I’m learning that I have to reaccept and love myself. I’m Jensen’s biggest advocate and living for the both of us. It’s impossible to keep hating myself and denying myself basic needs while endlessly devoting my love. It keeps coming back to love. Love for Jensen. His love for me. The thing is, Jensen’s cared for in heaven. His soul thrives in the next life. He’ll wait for me, but in that time whatever he wants he has. Me on the other hand, I have to set reminders when to eat. My needs are instantly met like his. I’m constantly mothering my son, who’s not here on this earth. Yet, I’ve completely forgotten about myself.

I look and see my picture, challenging myself to view myself as another person. What do I see then? I see a mother who’s lost their child. I see someone’s girlfriend. I see a daughter. I see a sister. I see someone who has experienced a lifetime in a short amount of time. I see strength. I see love.

Jensen, my love for you continues each and every second of the day. I’m trying to let that love spill over onto me, just as you would want it to. Each day of my life I honor and remember you. You are my sunshine and send the birds that wake me each morning. I’ll be better for the both of us. Ten weeks in heaven for you, Baby J. I know you spent it dancing in the clouds.

Dreams.

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There are two things I know to be true for tomorrow. First, it will be a beautiful day. June is in full swing with the warm, summer weather. A great day to be outside and swimming in the pool. It’s the kind of day I would wish and wish for in past summers. Second, storm clouds will be following me the entire day. Tomorrow marks ten weeks without Jensen.

In times like these, our memory and brains are always searching for a relatable situation to help guide us along. Honestly, there is nothing like having a child die. All the BIG, “life-changing” emotions and situations that have effected me in my life, tended to fizzle out. I have been excited to go to new places, sad during certain events, and really angry. In time, all those intense emotions just where there then left definitely after ten weeks. During the past ten weeks, my emotions and thoughts have not lessened. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

Each day that passes is hard. The initial shock of everything that happened has wore off and all those emotions have surfaced. It doesn’t feel like I should be moving forward without Jensen. Last week, I couldn’t stop crying. Getting out of bed every single morning felt like it was all I could do. There was a time I looked to the backseat where Jensen’s car seat should have been. When I turned around, I imagined Jensen sitting there so contently with a pacifier in his mouth and a big, grey sunhat on his head. In this image, he was content with just being in the car with us. Everywhere I look, the images happen. Instead of having a storm following me tomorrow, I should be playing with him and celebrating him being ten weeks old.

I don’t think this type of grief will ever really go away. How can losing a child not effect the rest of your life? I’ve read it can take around five years to really be able to consistently have good days. Like, returning to normal but not. Believe me, you can’t return to normal after losing your precious child. I believe a new normal will re-emerge, where there’s more good days than bad. Where not all my thoughts are consumed by loss. I know I’ll think of Jensen every single day for the rest of my life. The difference is, I’ll be able to separate all the good things I love about Jensen from death’s ugly grip.

After a week full of tears, today has been peaceful. Probably the calm before the storm, but that’s just the way I think now. It started off so beautifully. Anthony made me breakfast in bed; eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. The look on his face, he was so proud of himself. I hope my smile was a big enough “thank you” to him. It was one of the moments I always pictured Jensen helping him with. My boys. I picture Jensen with a big smile, trying to carry the red tray and Anthony right behind him making sure he doesn’t spill it everywhere. The both of them just trying to start my day off beautifully. Big smiles would fill the room.

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Obviously this morning I instantly was thinking of that dream I have. I was surprised grief didn’t set in, instead I was able to live in the calm before the storm. Our end tables got stained, I cleaned the house, and only cried one time. A semi decent day without the waves of grief crashing down. This type day hasn’t really happened since Jensen’s been born. There’s been fleeting moments, but not a whole day (knock on wood). I felt like I needed to honor Jensen today in acting out a dream I wanted with him. A simple, little dream really. I picked flowers, lilies, from outside and put them in a vase. Little boys always try and give their mommas flowers. I needed more Jensen today and bringing the beauty of the flowers inside helped with that.

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I believe Jensen gave me this beautiful day. Him and his dad must have teamed up to make me smile and feel comfortable today. Maybe it’s because I’ve allowed myself a good day. Grief is hard, hard work. Living day to day with this heavy loss tugs on my soul. Today wasn’t about Jensen’s death, it reminded me of Jensen’s life. It was warm, beautiful, and made me smile. It started and it will end with thoughts of my little man.

Jensen, thank you for giving me this day. I know you see my hard days and only wish I had good ones. My heart is so heavy, but continues to love you so very much. I hope as you turn ten weeks old in heaven, they hold you while they dance and sing you the sweetest lullabies. I hope you smile and are warm. Jensen Grey, I hope you’re swaddled with our love and hear every word I whisper to you.

Space.

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Near the end of my pregnancy, I was in hardcore nesting mode. All of Jensen’s clothes were washing, the diaper bag in my car, his car seat set up, the house almost ready, and I counted how many packs of diapers we had over and over again. I had to know we were prepared for Jensen and his first nights at home would go perfectly. An unrealistic expectation, of course, but I had to be sure I thought everything was good enough for him. Even though the house wasn’t done, his nursery and where he would be was all set. My world was revolving around he would be, his space.

As all moms do, I put him before myself and didn’t really care how my space would be. If he was content, I would be happy with whatever. I put myself on the back burner, not that I would have changed a thing looking back. Even after Jensen was born, I was still obsessed with his space. I couldn’t comprehend his space having to change or how it would impact me. His nursery isn’t set up, the swing isn’t in the spot I knew it would go, and his pack-n-play isn’t peacefully sitting in my bedroom. It’s been a week and a half since we moved in and I’m still looking at all those places. All the places he needs to be.

It’s okay I can’t put those places where he should be out of my head, I’ve had to refocus on how he is incorporated in our home. His urn is always in the room I’m in. It might sound crazy to you, but I do move his urn around the house. I have an ultrasound picture on the wall right beside his footprints. His silver J will be hanging in my built in bookcase. Jensen’s bedroom still has his colors on the wall, navy blue and orange. I’ve planned on ordering more remembrance items to display in the house. Every item that I bought with him safely in my belly has a story. I’m still making space for him and probably always will.

Yet, this week I was motivated to make space for me. Space to collect my thoughts, journal, and remember him in. It might technically be classified as a space for him, but it’s intent is for me. In my Mothering Your Heart workshop, we’re focusing on space. Again, I am so thankful for the loss community to help me manage my grief and help me along through this process. It’s helped me realize everything I’m going through is ‘normal’ and okay how I process it. I think space is different for everyone. For me, I had to physically make space to feel like I was connecting to Jensen. My house is so new to me and there’s no where I can really retreat from everything. So I had a huge motivation factor to help push me make space for Danielle. After 38 weeks and 2 days of pregnancy and a little over two months of grief, this momma needed a place to tackle grief and honor her baby.

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That is my safe place. Yellows to brighten my day, words to help me think positive, and comfy seats to welcome my thoughts and emotions. All things to try to make each day a little more bearable. Safe from triggers, negative energy, and loss. It’s the one part of the house I didn’t have planned while Jensen was with me. That spot was supposed to house his pack-n-play. I wonder if he would like the yellow? Or would he be mad that I created this space for me? Sometimes I see it and feel guilty. I would never have bought this little space if he wasn’t here…

I second guess every move I make now that he’s not with me. Doing everything for him came so naturally. Now refocusing my attention on myself just feels wrong. My brain is at constant battle with itself. I don’t want to move forward, but I know the whole world keeps spinning. The whole world is trying to pull me along, but I want to stay stuck. Staying stuck thinking about my little Jensen is much more appealing than playing along with everyone else. I try to play along, then I retreat. I have to create this space for my reality. My two yellow chairs bring me comfort and give me the space I need to retreat from the world.

Jensen would have loved my space. He would be so happy I’m making space for myself and trying to care for my heart. I know he guided me to all the elements that occupy this little retreat.

Oh little love, how I wish I could still have you here. I’d much rather be creating space for the both of us, making sure everything was perfect for you.

Two Months.

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Sometimes there are no words to accurately put together a feeling. Sure, there are basic feelings: happy, sad, angry,  etc. Grief takes every emotion known to humans and mashes them all together with no rhyme or reason. Today is one of the days where I can’t even tell how I’m feeling. I’ve smiled and have been able to get some pictures hung up. Tears have also stained my cheeks. In the moment I feel my breakdown coming, I run to the shower. Somehow it feels like the water from the shower hides the tears.

This thought makes me laugh. The only person I’m trying to hide my tears from is myself.

If you haven’t guessed already, today Jensen is two months old. Sixty-one days have passed since he’s been born. At two months old, babies are into complex designs. Which means they are looking for detailed objects instead of plain. Their brains are wanting to process more. He’d be able to differentiate different voices, look at the details in my face, and I’d see his face light up when he sees something new. I would do anything to see that look. Just as I would do anything to have those sixty-one days with Jensen.

Thinking about milestones during pregnancy always excited me. At my baby shower, I received the little month markers. They were shaped as ties. I looked at them and just knew Jensen would updating all our friends and family with these ties. It was another item that I had so many dreams about. Just a simple picture. All the pictures coming together to form a little story. The story of Jensen’s first year of milestones. I wish I could remember what color tie he would have on his picture for today. They’re packed away in the basement with all his other belongings.

Instead of going through ties, I’m going to go through a lot of candles. Actually I’ve went through two today. It’s one way I can connect to Jensen. The flame brings me peace and centers everything. I watch as the flame dances, it reminds me how Jensen would dance in my belly. Here is my photo for today…

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This is my calm space, his flame brings me so much comfort and love. The flames has been dancing all day. Poe and Leo leave his urn alone and have been cuddling with me all day. They must know I need comfort and to feel their warmth. I really want to just be holding Jensen, have him looking at my face, and taking in the complex details.

Usually I reflect on how I’ve processed my week on Tuesday, the actual weekday Jensen was born. It’s my therapy day and a way to track how I am. Today I find myself reflecting on the past month. It’s only my second month without Jensen. I laugh at myself when I say only since it feels like an eternity. This past month has been so much harder. The shock and disbelief of him not being here has gone away. I’ve turned to being angry and am in pain. I physically find it hard to breathe sometimes or catch my breath. Every little thing can set my anger off, which makes me want to distant myself from others. Being in a group of more than three people gives me anxiety. In the first month I found it to be okay since it was distracting me from Jensen’s absence. Now it’s just always there. I hate that I am pushing people away, but I cannot let myself be in a vulnerable situation.

As the day is coming to a close, I’m trying to prepare for month three. I’m anxious to see how I do with swimming. When I was pregnant I looked forward to having Jensen in the pool. He definitely would have been a little fishy. I want to purchase a new, comfy chair for my bedroom for reflections each day. It will be a place where I can just read, write, or think about Jensen. I’m trying to find new outlets for my grief and anger. There has to be something I can do to lessen the intense feelings of being mad. Even if it’s just going on a walk or creating something. By just preparing myself for the next month, I feel a little more at ease.

Month three is another month without Jensen physically here. It’s another month of missing my guy. I know it’ll be a lifetime of missing him. I hope to learn more about myself, continue to grow, and mother Jensen to the best of my ability. They’re probably celebrating his two month anniversary up in heaven. I hope he sees me trying my best and he’s still and always wrapped in the warmth of my love.

Jensen, Mommy loves you so very much. Continue dancing in the clouds and growing your angel wings.

Move-In.

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Almost one year ago, I bought my very first house. The three bedroom house needed a lot of work, but I was more than excited to do the complete tear down. I pictured where everything would go and what room would be what the very first second I walked in. It was going to be my very first house and all my own. This little three bedroom home would be the start of my future.

Three months after buying and tearing it mostly down, I found out Jensen was growing in my belly. My very first house all on my own became a house all about the baby. Every room I was imagining a lifetime of memories: first bath, first steps, first day of school. It was all unfolding. The back left bedroom would be the perfect nursery. It had a beautiful window that outlooked the backyard. It was nice, big, and full of personality. That would be my little baby’s room.

All during my pregnancy, we worked on the house. In my head it was closer and closer to the perfect family house. Our little guy loved to come work on the house. The sounds never made him upset. It was like he wanted the house to get done and he loved the work. I can remember being eight months pregnant working, not too hard, but trying to get everything perfect for him. Everyone was helping me out, not letting me lift things too heavy. I would tire easy, then his little kick would get me through the tiredness. He was just as excited to be in here. When Jensen was Jensen and not a little girl, the planning really started. We painted his room blue and orange on one wall and put wallpaper with squares up on the rest. I painted the closet grey. The curtains navy blue with orange accents everywhere. The grey crib with the bright orange and dark blue would welcome his sleep every night. It was unraveling so perfectly. Our little family home would soon have baby Jensen to house.

Then came the smack.

We didn’t get to bring Jensen home. His crib wouldn’t be welcoming his sleep every night. We wouldn’t be able to give him his first bath. His first steps wouldn’t happen here. The floor wouldn’t have little footprint smudges everywhere. All the hopes and dreams for the future ended all in that one second. My little, perfect family home of three became Anthony and I’s home filled with dreams of Jensen that would never happen.

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Our first night, officially staying in the house was Tuesday night; Jensen’s eighth week in heaven. I was so excited to finally stay in this house that I’ve practically tore down and rebuilt. It was so relieving to see all the hard pay off. For it to finally mean something. For our future to be starting. I’d like to say blood, sweat, and tears built this house, which it did, but it was built on the foundation of love and dreams.

The house is filling up with furniture, wall decorations, and kitties. It’s still filled with love, hope, and dreams. Every wall is the color I wanted it to be. The floors are exactly what I pictured and the kitchen came out way better than I expected. All the decorations look exactly how I wanted to when they go up. Anthony and I smile at each other while the cats are running around. We’re trying to play ‘normal.’ An outsider looking in would believe this is the perfect little starter home for a young couple.

I guess our reality is hard for other’s to see. It’s hard to see a baby that isn’t here physically. They don’t see the little, blue urn with two silver birds on it and the candle that’s usually is burning. Our decorations with J’s, his name, and the ultrasound pictures would have people believe the baby is on the way. The boxes in the basement full of Jensen’s would let them wonder why we didn’t have them back in his nursery. No one wants to think of the bad.

In all honesty, I wish I could tell you my first night here at the house was great. I wish I could tell you it’s all that I imagine and that everything feels perfect. It’d all be a lie. That first night was so hard. I saw where Jensen should be every time I turned my head. This house has an emptiness that cannot be filled, not that I’d even want it to be filled by anything else. I couldn’t fall asleep, it felt like the first night after he’d been born. It was quiet even with the tick of the fan and the television on. I guess the first night here in the new house was a way I stepped into my new reality that I’ve been trying to fight back.

Move-in day is the next step in this horrible grief process. It’s apart of the acceptance step in the rational part of my brain. I see his nursery, still blue and orange with the playful wallpaper. The backyard that the window frames begs to be looked at by anyone that walks in the room. My memories from when Jensen was here floods me every time I walk in there. It’s the stillness of the room with the flood of internal emotions that takes me by surprise every time. Jensen’s room will always be that.

I was afraid I would resent this house and his room because he wasn’t here. It’s hard because he’s not here, but so is every single day. I pray every day for strength and courage to go on. This first night I prayed I would make it through even though it hurt so much to be here without him. I dreamed that night of Jensen and being in his room together. Jensen knew how much I loved this house. We built it together. In the midst of his absence, love is still shining through.

Love will keep me in this house. Love will keep me on my feet.

Treading.

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The waves of grief have been so hard ride.

There are no words to describe Jensen’s absence. It’s everywhere, at all times. Life without Jensen is painful and full of longing. The very air that used to bring me life, suffocates me. All my joys have become burdens. The burdens have become even worse. My thoughts are consumed by him and how he’s not here. Babies should never be taken from their mothers. A mother should never have to live without her child.

Yet, here I am. I’m in the after. I’m drowning in the waves of grief. Tears constantly fill my eyes and it’s hard to take breaths. I feel as if I’m spiraling down and down and down. When everyone is around, it feels like their words are in hyper speed flying right past me. It’s hard to look at those I love; I’ve changed. It reflects sorrowfully in their eyes.

I wish I could scream out to them, but I can’t. My words would break them. They can’t understand the words that I constantly keep pushing down more and more and more. Those words, their eyes would reflect something worse than sorrow. They wouldn’t know me, the words would show them how much I’ve really changed inside. All those thoughts and words are true. I am at battle with myself to show them how much I’ve changed or continue trying to imitate my ‘before’ self.

Oh my before self. The self I’ll never get back, not that I even want her back. Danielle before Jensen is different from the during Jensen and the after Jensen. I could go into an in depth self analysis of my three different selves for all of you, maybe I will in the future. Maybe when I can forgive this self or completely damage it. Whatever happens first. As for now Danielle after Jensen, well, I’m just trying to make it through each day.

I try to see all the good in life. I smile when I think and talk about Jensen, until I look and feel. Then it all hits again. He’s gone. What did I do wrong? Everyone tells me I didn’t cause this, but then what did? I’m struggling to fall asleep. I can’t wake up. I’m not hungry and drinking water feels strange. My body is going through the motions, but my brain is refusing to sense them. I snap at the ones around me. My head is constantly hurting. Wait, how am I still awake? I just want my baby. The reality I’m stuck with me right now is hard. Grief wrestles me down and I spend all my energy trying to face it. This can’t be me right now. I’m trying to have the mentality of Danielle during Jensen. I like her the best.

When Jensen was here, I felt pure joy. My days were full of hopes, dreams, and baby kicks. I planned Jensen whole entire future from the second he was born to the day I died. I’m sure he would have rebelled and wanted to change it a smudge, but I know what’s best for him. All the bad ‘what ifs’ or ‘what could be’s’ didn’t even phase me. I would have Jensen, what more could I ever want? Danielle during Jensen was the highest, high in my whole entire life. Nothing could ever have brought me down.

Babies don’t die, until he did.

Then I fell and fell and fell from the greatest, tallest high in my life. I don’t remember the fall, just the smack. Reality hit. My baby, my Jensen died. All the nice phrases that I usually use to comfort myself seem silly at this moment. Well this week actually. Yes, I believe wholeheartedly Jensen is an angel in heaven. I know all he ever felt was love and warmth. He knew peace. He knows me. He is beautiful. He has this HUGE personality. He  is my everything. All those wonderful facts about my baby does not take away the moment his heart stopped beating. Nothing can take away that one single moment.

People always say to me, “I can never imagine what you’re going through.” and I believe them. I never want them to know this; no one should be without their child. People should not feel like they’re drowning in grief, this shouldn’t be the price of love. Love should always result in hugs and happiness. In this seven weeks and two days, I have said the one sentence no one imagines they could say. My child is dead.

Pause. Let that set in.

My child is dead.

Imagine saying that and it being the truth. Saying it out loud is even worse. It’s the worst sentence in the world. It’s the worst fact in my world. Thinking of that one phrase has allowed me to say that sentence. I can’t imagine going through this, but I am. I couldn’t imagine saying that sentence out loud. Even though it’s true. If you want to try to imagine what I’m going through, not that I want you to, try saying that sentence and feeling it. Imagine your whole world crashing around you. Imagine all your hopes and dreams gone, in an instant. I know you can’t. I wouldn’t have been either if you would have asked me seven weeks and four days ago. I feel almost cruel putting these words together. Then I remember these words that are just words for others, are my reality.

On goes this vicious cycle.

Jensen. Love. Happy. Smile. Smack. Pain. Anger. Sadness. Tears. Breathe. Say his name. Jensen. Love. Happy. Smile. Smack. Pain. Anger. Tears. Breathe. Say his name.

I’ll keep reading his name, telling his story, and talking about him. Please keep asking all about him. Ask about me, don’t be afraid of my process. One day the smack will ease. The pain will stay. The anger will lessen. The sadness won’t be as overwhelming. Tears will always come. This is the result of love. Jensen will always bring love, happiness, and smiles. My love is endless. My happiness will stay. Smiles will be longer. This process begins and ends with Jensen. He’s my whole world.

I’ll choose to tread. I won’t let these waves of grief drown me; no matter how hard they try to pull me down.

Forty-Seven Days.

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The day Jensen was born was beautiful. Our window revealed a cloudless sky with the sun shining bright. It was so bright and happy outside, I think God made the whole day beautiful because he was welcoming this pure soul. I remember just wanting to paint it black because it was so bright out. It would have been a day where Jensen and I would be sitting outside, watching everything go on around us. I’d probably would have been reading to him and telling him about all the things we were going to do when he got here.

That wasn’t the beautiful day I had though. I sat in the hospital, crying; trying to make sense of everything. I didn’t understand how the world could still be spinning when mine had just violently stopped. How couldn’t everyone feel my pain, it was radiating off of me. My baby was gone and he took a huge part of me with him. I was just a shell full of anger and sadness. How could the earth be so beautiful THAT day, when the most beautiful thing had left? Honestly, I was so angry it was nice outside. It was storming inside my hospital room. That window taunted me.

Today is one of those beautiful days. It reminds me of the day Jensen was born, but a little warmer outside. I keep taking in all the sounds: the birds are chirping, kids are playing, and my family is talking. I’m making no sounds. Here I am sitting outside, thinking about my Jensen. My thoughts always go to what we would be doing. I’d probably be doing what I wanted to the day he was born. Just sitting outside and reading to him. Taking all of his features in. A perfect day.

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I know he’s here with me, I just wish it could be in my arms. Sundays are family days and I’m missing the most important part of my family. I’m stuck here in the after, wishing I could be in the before with him. It makes me feel better to look at the clouds. I know Jensen is dancing with them. He sends me the birds and I swear he runs around with Finnick. Jensen’s spirit is always playful and peaceful at the same time. He makes himself known.

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I’ve been reading You Are Not Alone: Love Letters From Loss Mom to Loss Mom by Emily Long, a lot lately. The book is a huge group of letters from mothers that are on this journey of grief with me. I read them when I need support. Which is like more times than I can count on my fingers each day. It just allows me to feel everything. Cry with other moms, think about Jensen, and just feel. This book has been such a blessing to me. 

Although each letter is different, they all have some of the same themes. Three of them have been able to keep me from breaking down every second of the day.

  1. Love.
  2. It’s not my fault.
  3. It’s okay to feel however I need to feel.

Today I’ve needed all three of these themes. It’s a day that reminds me so much of April 5, 2016, the day my baby became an angel. Beautiful days like today we’re supposed to be happy and I feel about a thousand different emotions. I keep telling myself and reading that it’s okay not to feel just happy.

It’s been forty-seven days since this journey has started and it’s okay I still am the girl that wants to paint all the windows black. It’s okay to be content sitting outside, listening to the birds chirp. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be happy the sun is providing me warmth.It’s okay to laugh at the dog running on the pool. It’s okay to feel all this love between Jensen and I.

It’s okay to just be.

In my forty-seven days, I’ve learned to just take everything as it comes.

Grandma’s Belated Birthday.

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For as long as I can remember, I have loved birthdays.

My favorite birthday in the whole entire world was when I turned twenty-two and the day I found out I was going to have my little Jensen. We went to the Steelers game and talked about our new secret. Anthony and I laughed and smiled, came up with Jensen’s name, and fully jumped into the idea of our new life. All I wished for was a happy little baby and for our little family to have a bright and happy future.

My least favorite birthday I’ve celebrated was my dad’s last birthday. I know that sounds horrible; it was nine days after Jensen was born so silently into this world. How could I be happy for a birthday? Someone else being able to be another year older, when I was angry Jensen couldn’t be another second older. It was a hard day, but my dad is such a trooper to understand my sadness on his day.

Then yesterday came, May Nineteenth. It’s one of my favorite person’s birthday: my beautiful mother’s. I woke up crying, it was going to be a bad day. A day where I know Jensen would have brought so many smiles to his family, especially his grandma. It hurt all throughout the day. Her smile brightened up the room when I walked in with her big gift bag. She showed me her roses my dad bought her. When she opened her present and read her card signed from Jensen and I, I knew she sensed my sadness. Her smile faded to a frown as she looked to my face. As she came over for what I thought was a thank you hug, became a comforting one.  She’s such a strong mom and grandma.

That moment made me remember the day I told my mom she was going to be a grandma. I was so afraid to tell her. She was asking me every single day if I was going to have a baby, but I just kept telling her not to worry about me and that I would tell her. I finally broke down on September 17 and sent her the ultrasound picture via text. Yes I know, how silly to tell someone they are going to be a grandma.

Then she said the best thing: “This baby is such a happy surprise. You will be a great mother.”

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This is my mom’s favorite picture of our family. She has it on her phone and I gifted it to her in a frame for Christmas from Jensen and I. We have it up in our bookcase. Our happiness from the before shines down on us everyday. I love the before, I loved the during, and I love how strong we are growing.

Although a day late (online), Happy Birthday to my beautiful mother. I know how vibrant I usually am on days like yesterday, I just wish my little love was here to celebrate with us. He always loved hearing your voice.

I know Jensen smiles down on you every single day.

A Beautiful Meeting.

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Grief is a lifelong journey and each days brings the good and the bad. Today was hard, but full of good. On the eve of Jensen being gone for six weeks, I felt an immense amount of sadness. It’s also a day I’ve been looking forward to for a little over a week. Today I met two beautiful souls.

The week before last, I happened to come across another WordPress blog which brought me to an Etsy shop: BurdenBearingBaskets. I feel in love with the beautiful writing and this wonderful idea to show others that you’re thinking about them while their grieving. I looked at their items and had to show everyone around me. The idea of sending a person that’s grieving a basket to let them know you’re thinking about them just seemed so perfect. Then I saw the owners of the shop were in North Canton. Being me, I had to reach out. Something was telling me I had to tell these owners Jensen and I’s story. This is how I met Jessica and Melissa.

Thankfully, they didn’t think I was too crazy and responded to my message. They heard Jensen and I’s story and offered to meet in person since we were so close. Of course I was thrilled. I was looking forward to exchanging stories about ourselves and our babies, and to tell them again how amazing I think their Etsy shop is. Today is the day we decided on meeting. I’m so thankful for this day.

Our meeting was filled with stories, tears, laughs, and genuinely a good time. We were able to share so many things and didn’t have to explain what it all meant, we just knew. Their stories touched my heart and it takes people with the biggest hearts to help others. They truly are beautiful souls. I’ll always cherish our conversation. I know we met in the worst circumstances, but I’m blessed we did. It’s times like this where I really believe God sends people to us. He sees our journey through grief and shows us support is always near.

They also surprised me with some gifts from their shop. I’d like to share with all of you because they’re so beautiful. Just seeing Jensen’s name wrote out so perfectly makes me smile. He’ll never be forgotten and I’ll always be so thankful for meeting Jessica and Melissa and the wonderful gifts.

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All together.

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The most beautiful handkerchief in the whole entire world.

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I’m seriously so in love with every single item. I have them all out in front of me still and tears just keep falling. I see Jensen’s name wrote and know he’s just smiling down. I feel this sense of peace after meeting and talking to Jessica and Melissa. God gets us through these horrible tragedies and sends us beautiful people and signs from above. His love for us is the reason I’m able to have this deep love for Jensen. My little love was such a beautiful gift, he just had to go back a little sooner than I’d ever have anticipated.

Please, please, please go check out Jessica and Melissa’s Etsy shop BurdenBearingBaskets. The items are made with so much love and care, it shines through when you look at them.

I’d also, again, would like to thank Jessica and Melissa so much for everything. You two have touched my heart and made it lighter. I know this journey of grief is hard, but you girls have brought me so much strength, joy, and light today and every time I see these perfect presents.