Mother's Day

Mother’s Day is a difficult holiday for me, as you would expect. Losing a child makes the holiday complicated enough, but adding infertility to the equation makes it an incredibly painful day. I recognize that the rest of the world sees me in this grey area – I’m a mother, and yet I’m not. Whenever I say that to people, they immediately disagree with me. “You ARE a mother!” they say. And it’s true, I am. But I also know that in my everyday life, people do not think of me as a mother.

I get it. I really do. There are many maternal experiences that I just don’t relate to because I haven’t lived them. I don’t know what it’s like to be so tired because of a fussy, colicky baby who won’t sleep. I don’t know what it’s like to manage the terrible twos. I never have to run out of work to pick the kids up from daycare. I don’t watch Baby Einstein or The Wiggles (or whatever is popular with kids these days) because there are no children in my house. And I’ve never had anyone call me Mommy. I know that I live in this in between world where I know I’m a mother and the rest of the world sees me as one only when prompted, but I don’t have any of the “mother experiences” that other mothers do.

Just recently, I had a conversation with someone who asked me the dreaded “do you have children?” question. I talked about Vivienne, as I always do. They asked if we planned to have more children. I said we wanted to, but it was proving to be difficult. And their response was “I hope it works out. You’ll be a great mother.” Not you ARE a great mother. You WILL be. Because parenting a child who isn’t here doesn’t count in the same way.

That was an experience that really summed up how I feel about Mother’s Day. I talk about my daughter freely because she was, is, and will always be my daughter, whether she’s here or not. People will recognize her, offer their sympathies, but then go on to say that I’ll be a great mother some day. I live in between the definitions, and so a holiday that doesn’t include much grey is a difficult one to work with.

Mother’s Day actually wasn’t supposed to be like this at all. You’ve probably never researched the history of the holiday, assuming, like I did, that it was invented by Hallmark or American Greetings. In fact, it is credited to a woman who wanted to honor her own mother, who had lost 8 of her 12 children. But you’d never know that by how it is celebrated now. Today, we have cards to honor the mothers of children here, but not the mothers who only hold their children in their hearts or the mothers who long to parent a child that their bodies won’t let them have.

And so I’m left unsure of how to manage through this holiday. When they ask the Moms to stand and be recognized at church, it doesn’t feel right to stand. But sitting doesn’t feel right either. And so I stay home. My husband and family struggle to find an appropriate card or gift that recognizes me as a mother, but doesn’t imply that our children are here. I know it’s a difficult task. I can’t really leave my house on that day because of everyone enjoying their Mother’s Day with their children, another painful reminder of things we miss with Vivienne. And so I put my head down and power through, like I do with most holidays. Except that this is a holiday that smacks me in the face with the inconsistency in how I see myself and how the world sees me.

Walking and Remembering

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. I know that it’s a topic that people don’t like to think about – we like to think that medical advances have put us past a time where babies die. As much as we wish that to be true, it isn’t the case.  One in four women will experience the loss of a child through miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, premature births, illness, and stillbirth. As you all know, I am that 1 in 4. Four times over.

October is filled with many events to honor and remember our children. Yesterday, Gordon and I were honored to organize and host such an event. The Walk to Remember has happened in Cleveland for several years, but this year, the family who sponsored and hosted it in the past had moved away. Gordon and I always look for ways to honor Vivienne by remembering her and helping others, and this seemed like an opportunity she was surely sending our way.

Yesterday, we honored 79 babies, represented in the hearts above. Grey skies and rain could not keep us from a day to remember our children. We read each baby’s name, knowing that behind each name was a child who changed a family and a community forever. I know that I am forever changed by being Vivienne’s Mom, and by being Mom to her 3 siblings. I’m also forever changed by reading and writing each of those 79 names and in knowing so many of their parents. It was an emotionally powerful day to gather with so many who understand the journey that comes with losing a child and to think of all of those children we will not get to know in this lifetime.

Last night, as I thought back on the day, I was struck by all of the emotions I was feeling. I thought about how different this gathering was from most social gatherings I go to these days. Generally, I feel awkward and uncomfortable at most social gatherings. Much of it has to do with being surrounded by pregnancy, babies, and small children, and with me being unsure of what to say to people.

But yesterday was different. I was still surrounded by pregnancy, babies, and small children, but it wasn’t uncomfortable for me. It wasn’t until late in the day that I realized it was because at this event, I was a Mom. Let’s be honest, most places I go, I’m the sad person that everyone wants to make sure is doing OK. But, because I don’t have a living child, most people do not think of me as a Mom. At an event to honor my children, and being with other Moms who understand, I am a Mom. And it’s amazing how much that washes my discomfort away.

I’ve also had a hard time reconciling why we stepped up to host this event. I do this for Vivienne and my other children, there is no doubt about that. But I have to think about whether that is really true, because let’s be honest – I can’t actually do anything for Vivienne or my children. They don't need anything from me. Hosting this walk doesn’t do anything for them – it does something for me. I desperately search for ways to parent my children, even though there really is no way that I can. In the end, the walk helps me more than my children. But I do get some solace that it was an event that helped others. And that is definitely a way that I can honor my children.

Next up in October remembrance month is Monday, October 15. At 7 pm, we ask that you light a candle for all of the babies gone too soon. Load your photo onto Facebook and tag any loss parents that you know. You can make their Facebook wall and newsfeed a ray of light for these parents who will grieve for their children for the rest of their lives. For one night, we see the light of our children played back to us by others. We see people remembering them and recognizing the impact they had on our lives, and that is an amazing gift for any Mom.

A Defining Moment in Time

While many of us have momentous moments in our life (both good and bad), I’m not sure that everyone has a moment that defines time for them. As I look back at my life, there are certainly moments that are seared into my brain – graduating from college, my Dad’s death, my Mom’s breast cancer diagnosis, and marrying my husband. While all of those moments are markers in my life, the death of my daughter is a definer in my life. All of my life can be organized in one of 2 time periods – BV and AV (Before Vivienne and After Vivienne).

The day of her birth and death aren’t just a date for me – they are a marker of time much like BC and AD are for everyone else. Everything changed on that day, including me. As I think about who I am, there is the Me that existed Before Vivienne and the Me that exists now After Vivienne. They are not the same person. The experience of bringing her into this world and saying goodbye to her changed almost everything about me and how I look at life.

I suppose this is true for anyone who goes through a truly tragic event. So much in a tragedy forces you to evaluate what you believe in, who are you, and what your expectations are for your life. It requires you to put your life back together from scratch, and it changes everything.

In my Before Vivienne time, I was an optimist. I believed that if I wanted something enough and was willing to work for it, it would happen. Good things came to people who believed and worked hard. I operated under the illusion that I had some control over my life and that as long as I did what I was supposed to do, things would work out.

I have to admit that the AV Me looks at the BV Me like a stranger. I don’t know that person anymore. As I think about BV Me, there is a mix of jealousy and pity. I envy the innocence she had that allowed her to be so positive and believe so strongly. And I pity how foolish she is for thinking that way. Poor BV Me who doesn’t know that life can be so cruelly unfair.

Not everything about AV Me is so negative. Sure, there are the waves of sadness, bittnerness, and anger that come with this new person. But the AV Me is also stronger, more understanding, and more appreciative of what matters in life. This new Me chooses not to take some things so seriously – work, keeping the house perfectly straightened, and caring what other people think of me. I have seen the real value in family and friends who have stood by us. I find more purpose in helping others – mostly other Moms who have been through a similar experience, who I can help by listening and understanding. In AV time, I have a clearer understanding of who I am than I did at any point in BV time.

I am grateful for the lessons I’ve learned since Vivienne’s death. I’d still go back to BV time and the Me that existed there in a heartbeat, but that isn’t an option. I live in AV time now. All I can do is continue to learn about this AV Me and hope that the good points will outweigh the bad.

The New Normal . . . So Far

It’s been a year. I’ve been writing for 9 months about this “new normal” of mine, and trying to figure out what it is. The short answer is that I don’t know yet. I’m still very much a work in progress. I’ve learned a lot over the past year, but I know that I’m still nowhere near level ground. It will likely take a lifetime to figure out my new normal, but here is what I can say it is so far.

My new normal is:

Being able to cry, hard, in a split second. It doesn’t take much to take me there, and I’ve learned that I can cry freely in front of anyone (friends, coworkers, strangers, even my boss).

Spending large amounts of time focusing on just breathing. Breathing is often a very conscious act for me.

Extreme introversion. I’ve never been terribly social or out-going, and I’ve only gotten more introverted over the last year. Part of it is that I recognize who really matters, and part of it is self-protection.

Recognizing that there are 4 types of people in my life:

·                            People that truly understand

·                            People that genuinely try to understand and actually empathize

·                            People that pretend to try to understand, but judge instead

·                            People who just don’t care

I’m learning to emphasize the first 2 and get rid of the latter 2.

Getting advice from anyone and everyone. Everyone has an opinion about how to manage my grief, how to cope with infertility, and what I need to do now. In the end, only my opinion counts for me.

Coping with changed friendships. I’ve had many close friendships change over the past year – some got stronger, some just changed, and some went away. There is more loss that comes with loss than most people recognize.

Living broken, but living. (Sarah, that one’s for you!)

A stronger, but changed faith. I've had my bouts of serious anger and questioning with God over the past year, and I know I'm not done. But today, I can say that my faith is stronger, but different in many ways from the faith I had before.

Experiencing multiple contrasting moods in a 5 second span – happy changes to guilt which changes to sadness which changes to bitterness in seconds flat.

Knowing what it’s like to miss someone so much that it physically hurts to the very core of your soul.

Feeling such bitterness and jealousy when I see or hear of someone who is pregnant or a small baby. I hate this ugly side of grief, but I can’t deny that it’s part of my normal now.

A stab in the heart every time someone asks “do you have any children?” And the moment where my heart stops as I know what will come next when I answer the question openly.

Balancing between not wanting people to forget my daughter, but not being defined solely by my loss. It is an impossible tightrope to walk.

Being able to count on 1 hand the people I really need in life and knowing they’ll be there in a hot second if I needed them.

Knowing that when life gets bad, there’s only 1 person I want to see, and fortunately, I married him.

An Identity Crisis

There’s a song in A Chorus Line that has a verse that goes: “Who am I anyway? Am I my resume? This is a photo of a person I don’t know.” I’m relating to that line a lot these days. I know I’m not the person I was before losing Vivienne, and I’m struggling to figure out who this new person is. I have to say, I just don’t feel like myself anymore.

I don’t react to things like I normally would. I expected that I’d have more patience with people, but I find the opposite to be true. I have little to no patience for trivial things. I react quickly and more strongly than I would have before. I’m quick to judge that something isn’t worth worrying about and how, in the grand scheme of things, it just doesn’t matter. I know that probably seems like a positive—don’t sweat the small stuff, right? Problem is that when you lose a child, the rest is all small stuff.

I’ve always been an introvert, but I’m now on the extreme end of that scale (this blog representing an effort to move away from that). I don’t like being around large groups of people, and I sometimes struggle with what to talk to people about. My grief and loss are always on my mind, but there’s really only so much that can be said about them. And while they consume my life, I know that they don’t consume the lives of others. It’s one of the things I’m working hardest on—being a better listener and recognizing that everyone has their struggles.

I used to be a relatively optimistic person. I always had faith that things would work out the way they were supposed to. Now that optimism is tempered with the knowledge that bad things happen. Really bad things. When people tell me that “everything will be OK” or “you’ll have another baby” I always respond with “well, we’ll see.” I don’t have the same belief that everything just works out.

I find that I’m never really present in the moment with what’s happening around me.  So much feels like an out of body experience, and I always feel like I’m watching my life happen from afar. It’s when I’m most aware that I don’t know who I am anymore. As I watch myself react and respond, I can’t help but think “who is this person?”

I don’t know how I’ll work through this identity crisis and figure out who the new me is. I’m determined to make the new me a better person than the old me. I know that it’s one of the greatest ways I can honor Vivienne, which has become a driving force in my life. I hope that this new me becomes more familiar to me over the coming months. It will be nice one day to look in the mirror and recognize the face looking back at me.