What We Need the Most

I've been writing about the real and raw feelings of grief for the past few months.  I find it helpful to get the words out and empowering myself to be honest and not hide.  But I have found people still don't know exactly what Joe and I need, even people who really want to help.  It is okay to not know, because who knows how to handle the death of a child?  No one really.  But I thought I would take the time to directly, expressly write down what we need the most right now.  Because we are struggling.  We are hurting.  Deeply.  We feel more isolated in our grief as time goes on, and we miss our girl more and more with each passing day.

People think that those first few days are the hardest, but you are still in shock then.  Your brain protects you a little.  Now, months out, the cards have stopped, the messages come few and far between, and people stop asking how you are.   The doctor's visits are over.  But you are still a mess, maybe even more so because you have missed your child longer and there is less support right at hand.  The full gravity of your loss is clearer than ever.  The shock is gone and what is left is darkness. It is isolating.  It is hard.  And it is no one's fault.  But that is why I thought I would write down what Joe and I need the most.

The Truth May Vary

Incongruent (adj.): in psychology- a type of inappropriate affect in which the individuals presentation (verbal, facial expression, gestures, etc.) does not match their mood, emotions, or thoughts. 

An incongruent affect can be a serious symptom of different mental illnesses.  It turns out, to some degree, a version incongruency is a symptom of grief.  A symptom that I cannot seem to fight back against many days. 

Rooted Fast to the Earth

“My living child is the reason I go on.”  

“My child is my reason for living.”  

Many parents, especially parents who have lost a child but have other living children, say these phrases.  What does that mean for moms like me that have lost their only child?

I think the majority of loss moms would be lying if they said the thought never crossed their mind that they would rather be in Heaven with their child.  I certainly have thought it.  Some days it just crosses my mind.  But on my hardest days, days like today, it lives in my mind.  When your world if full of pain, who wouldn’t dream of being in a perfect place with someone they love more than anything, especially someone who they got so little time with in life. 

So how do I “go on” and what is my “reason for living” when being with Mira would seem so much better at times?  There is a fine line between “I would rather be in Heaven” and true suicidal thoughts.  How do I stay on the side of the line where I keep getting up each day, going to work, cleaning the house, and cooking dinner?  This is one of those rare cases where the ‘why’ is easier to answer than the ‘how.’

I keep going because I will do everything in my power to ensure my parents never the type of pain I feel now, the pain of losing a daughter.  I wish I could stop them from enduring the pain of losing a granddaughter and seeing their daughter suffer, but I cannot prevent that.  I will prevent them from more pain in any way I can.

I keep going because I will not leave my husband without a partner.  He will have a partner to walk his grief with.  He will have a partner to live life with.  He will have a partner to be his reason why, as he is mine.

I keep going because when I see my daughter again, it will be because God determined it was time for me to go Home.  I will not meet her again in any other way.  In these days between saying good-bye to her and holding her again I will do everything in power to ensure her life is recognized and cherished. 

If I could cradle you

Into my arms

I would cradle you

Tight in my arms, always

You are my joy

(Reindeer Section)

But even having these strong reasons to keep going, this determined conviction, somedays that wish to just be with Mira now consumes me.  Today was one of those days.  So, how do I stay on this side of that fine line on these days? 

I think of the people who “see me.”  A friend told me yesterday “I see you.”  These were such powerful words for me. She told me she saw me when I looked fine, when I laughed, and when I appeared to just be concentrating on my work.  She told me she saw my grief through that. She saw that it was always there.  She may have been the one that had the perfect words to say to me (and, oh, how I needed those words this week), but I know there are others who “see me.”  I think of those people. 

I think of Mira.  I think of her life and the miracle that it was.  My child clearly heard my voice and reacted to sounds, but was born with no ears.  My daughter was born breathing after developing inside me with no amniotic fluid to develop her lungs.  My daughter was meant to have life and I made she got it.  I am a mother, and of that I can be proud.

I think of the fact that healing is not linear.  I do not know who originally said this quote, but it speaks so much truth.  On the worst of days, it is so easy to get trapped in thoughts that this will never get easier and thinking that each day is getting worse.  But a bad day, a horrible day even, doesn’t mean I am moving backwards, it just means healing is not linear.  It has peaks and dips.  Am I, over all, doing better than those first weeks of wandering around hold a stuffed bear and barely being able to speak? Yes.  Do I still hold that bear and scream and cry and forget how to breathe some days? Yes.

Even with my ‘whys’ and my ‘hows’ the days are hard.  Some are harder than others.  None are easy.  At least not yet.  I am a different person.  I don’t think necessarily better or worse, just different.  Events in my day-to-day life that I used to handle with no problem or upsetting situations that I normally would get passed/shake off in an hour or day, overwhelm me.  With all my emotional energy being used to keep breathing, keep walking, keep trying, I don’t have much left.  I will break down.  I will fall apart.  I will yearn for Heaven in a new and deeper way than I ever knew possible.  I will keep going.  I will not stop trying.

I felt every ounce of me screaming out

But the sound was trapped deep in me

All I wanted just sped right past me

While I was rooted fast to the earth

I could be stuck here for a thousand years

Without your arms to drag me out

There you are standing right in front of me

There you are standing right in front of me

All this fear falls away to leave me naked

Hold me close, cause I need you to guide me to safety

In the confusion and the aftermath

You are my signal fire

(Snow Patrol)

When I sat down to write this entry, I was not sure if I would share it or just write it for myself.  It makes me nervous to talk about wishing I was with Mira right now.  To talk about the line between being suicidal and longing for Heaven.  To use the word suicide at all.  But if I am uncomfortable talking about these thoughts and feelings (me who has shared so much of this journey, me who does suicide assessments as part of her job, me who is open about attending grief counseling) then isn’t it that much more important to share it? Doesn’t that uncomfortable feeling I have mean that someone who does not typically share their feeling would be so much more uncomfortable talking about this that needs to be said?  Doesn’t that mean that someone who is over to the side of the line where they are thinking about taking action to harm themselves would be so much more nervous to tell someone?  Talking about these thoughts and feeling should not be uncomfortable.  The only way to start making it less uncomfortable, is to start the conversation.  So I share these deep, personal thoughts to bring them out of the dark.  It is easier to heal in the light.

This Is Not Where It Ends

Every day I miss my daughter. I think of her constantly and the ache of being without her is so painful. But I do know I will see her again. I do not think I will see her again. I do not hope I will see her again. I know I will see her again.

Sometimes I feel my heart is breaking

But I stay strong and I hold on 'cause I know

I will see you again

This is not where it ends

(Carrie Underwood)

How can I say this with such certainty? Is it simply because I could not go on if it were not true? Is it just a feeling? Is it because someone told me that and I believe them? No. It is much more. I know I will see Mira again because of two simple (but profound) facts: my daughter is in heaven and I will go to heaven when I die.