This Christmas

It’s been a while since I’ve written. Over the past few months, I’ve had a few different blog posts floating around in my head, but I never took the time to sit down and write them. This one, I knew I had to get out. I waited until Christmas was largely over – partly because I needed to see how this latest Christmas would play out, and partly because I knew that people wouldn’t want to read my sad thoughts when there is so much merry to be had. It’s the extra dose of grief that parents missing a child get to carry at the holidays.

I come into every holiday season with a healthy dose of apprehension. I never know what the holidays will be like. Will this be the year when I can find some joy in Christmas again? Or will it be weeks of survival mode, trying to survive and make it to January?

Our first Christmas without Vivienne was incredibly painful. She was supposed to be born on December 22^nd, and so the holidays came with a fresh round of loss for us. I wanted no part of Christmas that year, and I spent most of it in tears trying to figure out how I was even supposed to go on living.

Our second Christmas, I tried. I did the decorations, I went back to church, back to the holiday parties, and I tried to find the Christmas spirit. We developed our new traditions – putting the ornaments on Vivienne’s tree, picking out toys to donate in her memory, lighting a candle for her at the Christmas dinners. There were fragments of joy, but it was still a sad holiday season.

This year, I tried again. I did the decorations, I went to church and the holiday parties, did our Vivienne traditions, and even watched a holiday movie or 2. And at every step, her absence stood right beside me, never failing to make me recognize who was missing. Her absence was a presence throughout the Christmas season.

As we decorated the tree, I stood there and looked at it, knowing that there should be a 2 year old beside us helping to hang the ornaments.

As we went to pick out toys for Toys for Tots, I wondered what types of toys she would like and had to acknowledge that I would never get to buy her one.

As I looked at Facebook each day, I was reminded that we’d never hear her Christmas list, get a picture of her screaming on Santa’s lap, or hear any “out of the mouths of babes” funny quotes from her.

As my husband baked the Christmas cookies, I saw the absence of little hands ready to decorate the sugar cookies and “help” make the cookies.

As I sat in church on Christmas Eve, I watched children run up for the children’s sermon. Seeing all of the little girls in their special Christmas dresses just reminded me that I’d never pick out a special outfit for Vivienne, dress her up, and take her to church on Christmas Eve.

And as I watched my family open their presents on Christmas morning, I wondered whether this is the year she’d be into Christmas. Would she have a Christmas list, understand Santa, and get really excited about her presents? We’ll never know.

This is my reality. This is my Christmas. For each year that we celebrate, there will be a baby who doesn’t turn a year older. She will never sit on Santa’s lap. She will never decorate the tree, and she will never open a present.  Each year, I will recognize that my family will always be incomplete. This year, we miss having our 2 year old. Next year, we'll miss our 3 year old. And so it will go year after year.

I’m guessing that each year, I will find a little more joy in Christmas. But each year will also contain countless reminders of who is missing the whole way through. I recently read something that called it the “undercurrent of sadness” which feels about right. We may be smiling, celebrating, and singing “Joy to the world!” but there is an undercurrent of sadness to all of it. An incomplete family. A full season of thinking about what could be this year, but isn’t.

Remembering

It's no secret that the holidays are hard. You never realize how kid focused this holiday is until you try to avoid everything kid focused. There are constant reminders each and every day of all that we are missing with Vivienne and our other children. I used to celebrate Christmas. Now, I try to survive it.

It has been very important to us to make Vivienne a part of our family Christmas. We don't brush our children aside on any other day of the year, and we certainly won't do it at Christmas. We started some traditions last year, and this year continued all of those while adding a few more.

First, there are her Christmas tree and her stocking. Last year, each member of our family bought a Christmas ornament for Vivienne that now hangs on her tree. It was one of the few peaceful moments we had this Christmas - taking out each ornament, remembering who bought it for her, and knowing how loved she is. There is an angel that lights the top of her tree, and her halo forms a reflective heart on our ceiling, which I love. Her Dad and I made the candles immediately next to her tree - 1 for Vivienne, and 1 for our other 3 babies. These were lit at every Christmas dinner, so our children were there with us. Her stocking hangs over our fireplace with our stockings. Each year, her Dad and I write a letter to her, which fills her stocking.

 

Our other tradition is to give our children gifts. We can't give the traditional gifts of toys and cute outfits. Instead, we give gifts to charities in their memory. This year, their gifts included a coat for Coats for Kids, a toy for Toys for Tots, and donations to Ronald McDonald House, the Sweet Pea Project, and our church. It's the only gift we can give.

This year, we were so touched to receive many gifts that honored our children. Two special gifts came from our parents - a snow globe/music box from Gordon's parents (the inscription inside reads "If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again.") and a Precious Moments figurine from my Mom (it shows a Mother handing her baby to an angel and is called "Mommy's Love Goes With You.").

My sister and niece also gave us touching gifts that honor all of our children. As I've mentioned before, each of our children has a symbol (Vivienne is a rainbow, Baby 2 is a sunshine, Baby 3 is a heart, and Baby 4 is a four leaf clover). Our niece made us a beautiful painting that honors all of them, and my sister gave us a very special ornament that hangs prominently on our tree.

 




And last but not least were gifts from some special friends who understand what Christmas is like after a loss. Ornaments and special sayings that will decorate our home at Christmas and year round.

 

There were countless other recognitions of our children this year. Some people wrote Vivienne's name in our card (which I really loved), there was a Poinsettia plant at Christmas Eve service in her name (and my Dad's), a secret Santa gift that included a V charm for my bracelet from a dear friend, ornaments for us to put our good wishes in for 2013, and a beautiful ornament from my husband.

All of the gifts are really wonderful. But knowing that people remember Vivienne and our children at this time of year is beyond priceless. Incorporating them into Christmas is really the only way for me to survive this holiday - remembering and honoring them the best I can. And knowing that other people do the same touches my heart in a way that I could never explain.

It's the Little Things

In the months after Vivienne died, I found myself constantly thinking of the big milestones we would miss having with her – first birthdays, seeing her take her first steps, or going to her first day of school. I still have those moments, but they have been overtaken by thinking of all of the little things we will never get to experience with our little girl or our other children. Every day, there are thousands of things that remind me of what we are missing with them. Small, inconsequential, mundane moments that most people probably don’t notice with their kids – I’m aching for them.

I drive to work and think about what it would be like to have her in the back seat, babbling or fussing, as I drive her to Grandma’s house. I come home and think about what it would be like to see her face smiling back at me. I eat dinner and wonder what foods she would like and not like. I have a day off and I think about what it would be like to spend the day with her – doing some shopping, going to the zoo, hanging out and playing at home. Every day, a thousand little things cross my mind that I’m missing with my children.

I even have dreams about these everyday activities. Recently, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling sad and empty because of a dream I’d had. In it, I was buying baby clothes for Vivienne. That was it. I have dreams about the incredibly simple act of buying clothes for my daughter, and they wreck me.

We recently took a vacation, and while it was nice to get away, it also came with the thousands of reminders of what we will miss. We’ll never see our children light up with excitement at the prospect of swimming every day. We’ll never take them to the beach and build sandcastles. We’ll never see them get over-excited over an ordinary hotel room. We’ll never get to calm them during a meltdown over having to leave the pool. I know that those of you with kids cringe at that last one. I’d give anything for it.

The holidays come with this overwhelming mixture of big and little things.

For Halloween, I not only thought about how I would never take my kids trick or treating or take pictures of them in costume to show to everyone. I also thought about how we’ll never have the conversation “what do you want to be for Halloween this year?” We’ll never go shopping for the costume, and watch Vivienne proudly display it. We’ll never have those arguments over not being able to wear the costume all of the time or having to wear it even if it’s itchy or uncomfortable.

For Thanksgiving, it’s not just about not having her there for the big family meal. It’s about never doing the drive to our family’s with her, not getting to watch our family members hold her and play with her, and never seeing turkeys made from her handprints.

And Christmas isn’t just the loss of visits to Santa and opening presents on Christmas morning. We’ll never pick out a special Christmas outfit for her, see her in the Christmas play, sit down with the toy catalog and make a list for Santa, have the conversations about whether or not Santa is real, bake Christmas cookies with her, decorate the Christmas tree with her, have her join us for the annual girl's Christmas shopping day, or watch her play with the boxes and wrapping instead of her new toys. One holiday, thousands upon thousands of things to miss.

And so these become the latest things for me to grieve. Every day, a thousand things to mourn that I’ll never get to do with my children. Beyond the big milestones of birthdays and holidays, I’ll never buy toys or necessities for my children. I’ll never watch them play outside in the leaves and the snow. I’ll never have them running around the house playing, singing, and getting in the way. Everyday parenting moments stolen from us, and each one feels like another loss.

Still No Joy in Christmas

In the years before my children, I loved Christmas. I would put up my Christmas decorations on the earliest possible acceptable day, l would only listen to the radio stations that played all Christmas music all the time, and I would watch every Christmas movie I could find.

Last Christmas, I didn’t put up all of our Christmas decorations. I didn’t listen to a single Christmas song or watch even 1 Christmas movie. For the first time in my life, I did not go to church on Christmas Eve. Vivienne had been gone for 4 months, and her due date was on December 22. The Christmas spirit or any joy for the holidays was impossibly hard to find. I told myself it was OK to take a year off.

This year, I decided to push myself a little and got out all of the Christmas decorations. It didn’t take long for a complete and total emotional breakdown. I can’t even pinpoint it to one thing. In so many ways, this Christmas was supposed to be different.

Last year, I was in the depths of my grief. It was supposed to be the best Christmas we could ever have imagined – our daughter’s first Christmas, having welcomed her just days before the holiday. It was harder than I could have imagined to make it through that holiday without her, but I still had hope. We were getting ready to try again, and I believed that next Christmas would be different – we would have some joy in celebrating with Vivienne’s little brother or sister.

This Christmas was supposed to be different. It should be a time of letting some joy back into our lives. In many ways, it feels worse than last Christmas. Last Christmas, I had some hope that next year would be different. Now I know better, and I can’t find that same hope anymore.

So as I started putting up some decorations, I was reminded of all of the things I’m missing this year. I don’t have my 1 year old daughter playing with the ornaments, getting ready to see Santa, or picking out my favorite pictures of her to go on our Christmas cards. I don’t have the rainbow baby that we tried so hard for over the last year – a new life that would put at least a little joy back into Christmas. And I don’t have the hope that next year will be different. This could be our Christmas from now on – always grieving what could have been, but never seems meant to be.

I can’t quite decide what to do with myself now. It doesn’t feel right to put the decorations up, and it doesn’t feel right not to. Either way, it’s a reminder of all that is missing. I wanted this Christmas to feel like a step forward. I wouldn’t take another year off, I would move myself forward, whether I wanted to or not. Instead, I’m realizing how much more I’ve lost and wonder whether I’ll ever be able to find joy in this holiday again. 

Father's Day

A couple of days ago, it was Father’s Day. I wanted to write a post about it, but just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t really sure why, and it took me some time to realize that Father’s Day was a lot more complicated this year.

For me, it’s been a sad holiday for years now. My Dad died on July 13, 1999. I remember that it was about a month after Father’s Day, and as was typical for me, I was late in getting his Father’s Day card to him. I never got to give it to him and instead had to put it in his casket to be buried with him. I’ll always wish I’d given him that last card, and so the holiday has represented sadness and regret ever since.

This year, I felt differently about it. I still miss him, still wonder what he’d think of my life today, and I still regret not giving him his last Father’s Day card in time. But this year, I felt some measure of relief, which was a strange feeling. It gives me comfort to know that my Dad went ahead so that he could greet Vivienne, hold her hand, and tell her about our family. It was this weird feeling of not exactly being happy that he’s gone, but being happy that there was someone with her who I was so close with. When I was pregnant with Vivienne, it made me so sad to think about how my Dad would never get to meet her. Now, it gives me so much comfort to know that she’s with him. It changed my perspective on Father’s Day this year. I miss them both like crazy, but it gives me some peace to know they have each other.

This year was also the first Father’s Day for my husband. I know the world doesn’t see us as parents in the traditional sense, and that comes down harder on the Dads than the Moms. If you only knew how much he does to guard and defend his daughter’s memory, you could see what an amazing Dad he is. But that’s hard for people outside of our little world to see. So he’s left, much like I was, to find ways to celebrate a holiday that doesn’t feel like it’s meant for him.

I know it was a hard day for him. I did what I could, but I also know that I can’t give him the one thing he wants on that day – to hold his baby girl. I think it was just as hard watching him on Sunday and wanting to make it better as it was living through Mother’s Day myself.

It was a complicated day. Comfort in knowing that my Dad is with my daughter. Sadness that this isn’t a happy celebration for my husband. And regret for so much that I wish could be different.

Milestones

I’ve had to pass a few milestones since Vivienne died. The 19^th of every month is a bit like a milestone—each one representing one month further from the time I held my daughter. We passed Thanksgiving, which was difficult because of its family focus. Then we hit our due date, which began the time we thought we’d have her with us. Immediately after that was Christmas. We did everything we could to incorporate her into our Christmas traditions, as did our families. The day was hard, but it was easier because she was a part of it. But of all of the milestones we’ve passed, the hardest so far was Mother’s Day.

The day alone was actually not so bad. Gordon and I made an agreement to shut ourselves off from the world. I knew it would be too hard to be around all of the happy mothers celebrating with their living children. I didn’t go to church, where I’m all too familiar with the ritual of having the mothers stand up to be recognized. What do you do when you can neither sit nor stand? So, we stayed home for the day. We did some work in the yard where I was visited by a butterfly that sat by me while I did my work. I never doubted for a second that this was a message from my little girl in heaven—flying by to wish me a happy Mother’s Day. I made Gordon come look at the butterfly, watched it fly from plant to plant and around me, took pictures of it, and yes, I talked to it (I’m sure my neighbors think I’ve lost it). It was as close as I’ll get to my daughter paying me a visit, and it made Mother’s Day a little easier.

While I can tell you that the day of Mother’s Day wasn’t so bad, I cannot say the same for the build up to that day. I’ve heard many loss moms warn me that the build up to a big day is often worse than the actual day, and for Mother’s Day this year, that couldn’t be more true.

It started on Monday. I was in a really bad mood—no good reason why, and no explanation for it. I was just grouchy. On Tuesday, I could not stop crying. This was when I realized that Mother’s Day was affecting me more than I knew. I felt this way for the rest of the week. The week leading up to Mother’s Day felt like I’d taken a hundred steps back. I felt like I was right back to the day we lost her—the grief and the sadness felt just as raw and just as fresh. Once again, I laid in bed, crying and telling God that I couldn’t do it. I was back into the feeling of not knowing how I would ever survive losing her.

On Sunday, that feeling lifted a bit, and things have gotten a little easier each day since. But, I have to admit, I’m a bit haunted by last week. It was a reminder of how far I’ve come in the last 9 months, and how far a milestone can make me fall. Knowing that the anticipation of a day can send me right back to the weeks immediately after August 19^th and that I can feel those feelings just like I did in those early days is something that was a bit unexpected. If Mother’s Day can cause those feelings, I can only imagine what her birthday will do. It’s 3 months away. That’s an anticipation that’s been building for a while, and I know it will last longer than a week.

Am I Really A Mother?

This Sunday is Mother’s Day, and I’m not really sure what to do about that. I am a mother without a child, and I’ve come to realize that I sit between 2 groups—the Moms and the Non Moms. So for someone who doesn’t quite fit into the Mom group, you can see how Mother’s Day would be the most dreaded day of the year.

In a lot of ways, my husband and I operate as our non-parent friends do. It’s easy for us to make plans, we don’t have to think about getting a babysitter, our sleep isn’t disrupted by a fussy baby, and we’re not tuning into Baby Einstein or Disney Channel. Our lifestyle is that of non-parents.

But, we are parents. We have a child, she just isn’t here with us. So that makes me a Mom, right? But I’m a Mom who can’t participate in playgroups or child-rearing discussions. A Mom who can’t give parenting advice from personal experience. A Mom whose child will never call her Mom. I feel a bit like an imposter in this Mom group, like I’m a Mom by technicality only. I’m a Mom who just can’t feel like Mother’s Day is for her.

Last year, my husband gave me my first Mother’s Day card. We must have been about 8 weeks pregnant at the time, and our thinking was that it was the first of many Mother’s Days to celebrate. But this year, there will be no Mother’s Day celebration at our house. It feels like a day for the real Moms, not the ones who are technically Moms, but don’t really feel like one.

I desperately try to identify with my Mom friends because I want so much to be a member of that group. But, I never really feel like I’m allowed to. I can’t really relate to their struggles as Moms, because I don’t have them myself, and to be honest, each of their struggles sounds like a blessing to me.

Everyone tells me that I am a Mom, and if I’m being honest, it always makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I think because it always feels like I’m posing as a Mom, but I don’t really qualify for this label in the traditional sense. I’ve had a few precious moments where I’ve felt like a Mom, but not enough that I feel comfortable calling myself a Mother. In my daily life, I operate much like a non parent would, a grieving parent, but really a non parent. If I don’t feel much like a Mom on an everyday basis, it’s hard to consider myself one.

Mother’s Day really validates this feeling for me. I’m a Mother who can’t celebrate Mother’s Day, so what does that say about my “Mom-ness”? This Sunday, there will be no expressions of gratitude for all I do as a mother to my child. There will be no handmade drawings or crafts to receive from my daughter. No declarations of “this day is for you!” There will certainly be tears and probably a lot of feeling that I’m supposed to celebrate a holiday not intended for me. Delivering my daughter gave me the title of Mom. Losing her makes me feel like it was taken away. I can easily say that I have a daughter or that I’m Vivienne’s Mom, but if someone asked me if I am a Mom, I don’t think I’d know how to respond.

Surviving Christmas

There’s no getting around it—Christmas is different this year. We’ve gone through some of the motions—put up the Christmas tree and decorations, sent out Christmas cards, and bought the gifts. But, things are different. This year, I’m in survival mode—just trying to make it through the holidays and into 2012. Celebrating isn’t something I’m up for this year.

It’s funny. Everyone says they understand that Christmas won’t be the same this year. But, when I talk about how it’s different, I can see them slowly backing out of the conversation. I guess it’s like I’m infecting other people’s Merry Christmas with my sadness. I realized this at a recent holiday party. Someone asked how I was doing, and I responded with my usual “just trying to survive the holidays this year.” As they nodded at me, the song “Blue Christmas” came on. I commented that this was my theme song this year. And then it happened. First, the pity eyes. Then, the eyes darting around the room looking for any possible exit. Christmas without my daughter is hard enough. But being the sad person in a room full of joy, happy, merry, and bright is a lonely experience.

I can’t listen to Christmas carols, and I’m not watching any holiday movies. In a regular year, my radio would be tuned to the “all Christmas, all the time” station, but I’ve found that each and every song makes me cry this year. For previous Christmases, I’ve parked my behind on my couch to watch Love Actually or The Holiday and wrap presents. This year, I watched House Hunters (generally a Christmas and baby free experience).

This will also be the first year I have not gone to church on Christmas Eve. I have largely worked through my anger with God over what happened. There are still times where I feel I’m being punished for something, but I’m working through that too. I think there will always be a bit of “why me?” that I’ll never understand, and any great cosmic reason for losing my daughter will always escape me. But, my not going to church on Christmas Eve isn’t because I’m angry with God. I just remember the time after losing my Dad when I cried in church every time I went. And those were just regular Sundays. I can’t imagine the sobbing mess I would be if my first journey back to church happened on Christmas Eve. And there I’d go again, letting my sadness invade other people’s happy times.

These old traditions are replaced with new ones. Vivienne’s tree that sits in our living room—soon to be adorned with ornaments given to her by our families. Her stocking hanging over our fireplace that will hold letters that her Dad and I will write to her. Her candle that will travel with us on Christmas, being lit at every celebration so that she is a part of our family Christmas, just as she should be. And her Christmas presents—gifts to charities instead of stuffed animals and toys.

I find myself often saying “this would have been our first Christmas with her.” I always correct myself, and eventually I’ll get it right. This IS our first Christmas with her. Even though she’s not with us, she is everywhere around us. Remembering that is hard to do when the grief is so fresh. That’s all I want for Christmas this year—to feel Vivienne close to us.