It's been awhile...

So, it's been awhile since I've posted in my blog. We're doing well here. Jack and I are staying busy, although I make an extra effort to stay close to home b/c of gas prices. I have thought about how great it would be to live on a large piece of land in the country, and then I realize that there are great benefits to living in town. Everything is within a few miles of our home. Now, if only they would improve the sidewalks on some of the main roads, and we can ditch the car all together. :)

I recently read this list (below, in purple) of what to do/say and not do/say when someone has lost a child. I think it's hard for people to read me, b/c I often appear "just fine", when really, I'm a mess inside. Other times, I really am doing okay. I don't blame others for not understanding, but I can honestly say that one of the most difficult aspects of losing Bernadette is the feeling of isolation. Of people unintentionally saying the wrong things, of people not realizing what hurts. Of people not talking about this terrible experience b/c they don't want to make me upset. Or maybe they have forgotten. Again, I don't have the expectations that I once had. I've realized that I would be equally clueless if I had never experienced something like this. I do appreciate all of you who have asked me how I am doing. And I mean how I am really doing. I got off the phone with my friend Mandy a few weeks ago, and I just felt this huge weight being lifted off of my shoulders. I was so grateful for her honesty and willingness to talk about my loss. For being the one instigating the questions, not waiting for me to bring it up (b/c oftentimes, I'm afraid that the other person isn't interested if she doesn't ask about it). And for reminding me that she is always available to listen if I needed an open ear. Even though it's been 8 months, I still feel very haunted by Bernadette's death, although it isn't as constant as it once was. And I can't say enough how comforting it is to be able to talk about it. If it seems that I talk too much about it or if the subject is getting just plain old, I apologize. My loss is something that hardly ever leaves my mind, so it is a very natural process for it to overflow into my conversations. I am sorry if it feels uncomfortable or gets old. Hopefully, someday I'll be able to just keep my thoughts to myself. :)

I talk to several moms online whom I've become close to, and I've noticed that it is not uncommon for those who have suffered infant losses to have a VERY hard time around other babies. At first, I thought I was nuts, and I tried to force myself to be ok around other infants. But then I realized that it is very normal to have this reaction. I can't express enough how my heart crumbles into pieces when I see or hear about other babies who are close to Bernadette's age. It's not about jealousy or envy. It's about having the reminder of my loss being shoved into my face. The reminder of what is missing in my life. And I suspect this doesn't change even after having subsequent children. Undoubtedly, time will heal, but even after 8 months, it is still very painful. My baby should be making faces at her big brother, receiving hugs and love from him. She should be learning to crawl (ok, maybe not yet, since she will have spent much of her infancy in a hospital crib). She should be drooling and squeeling. Not buried 6 feet underground.

Anyway, here is the article. Maybe it can help those who have friends in similar situations as myself:

	Written by Elspeth Ludemann. First published in "North and South" (New Zealand) in March 1991). My child has died - what can you do to help? Please don't ask "how are you?" unless you really want to know the answer... "How are you?" has become a meaningless greeting to which the expected answer is "fine". But I am not fine. At best I'm a bit fragile and a lot of the time I'm far worse - I feel upset, hurt, bewildered, angry, guilty. But these and other normal feelings which follow the death of someone you love are not the things of polite conversation. So if you are not prepared to hear about them, choose another way to greet me. Don't expect too much of me too soon.... If I'd broken my leg I'd have a plaster cast on and you wouldn't expect me to get back to normal for months. You can't put broken feelings in plaster and you can't see the scars. But they need time to heal and I need time to come to terms with the realisation that "normal" from now on is life without my child. Don't ignore the death or the child that died... You wouldn't have any trouble talking about good news. If I'd just won Lotto it would be the first thing you would mention. Bad news is different - you probably don't know what to say or how to say it. But the death of my child is the most important thing in my life and it helps to acknowledge that. Be honest, and try to avoid platitudes... "This is awful, I don't know what to say" is far more help than cliched phrases that aren't true anyway. Time alone doesn't heal, the fact we've got each other is irrelevant because two drowning people can't save each other and there is no comfort in the thought of this misery being God's will. Don't think that having, or being able to have, other children will lessen the pain of my child's death... A child who loses a favorite toy will not be placated by a substitute. And so it is with people. I loved my child for who he was as an individual, not as an interchangeable piece in a set and mourning for him, at least at first, will strain rather than strengthen bonds with other children. If you want to help, make specific offers not empty promises... Saying "if there's anything I can do" might make you feel good, but I'm unlikely to take you up because I probably don't know what I need and I'm unsure what your "anything" means. However if you turn up with food, an offer to baby-sit, or just a listening ear, your kindness will be gratefully accepted. Practice, don't preach... However weak or strong my faith, and whatever your beliefs, this is no time for sermons. Be sensitive... I find it hard to believe life in the outside world is still going on when my private world has collapsed. I hope my child's death won't leave me bitter. But it will take me time before the weight of my own feelings lightens enough to allow me to share your joys or sorrows. Don't expect me to follow a prescribed pattern of grieving... Denial, anger, guilt, depression and acceptance are all stages in the grief process but no two people will go through them in the same way. I'll have good days and bad days, sometimes I'll cope with a lot, at other times I'll be phased by little things. It may seem illogical to you, but then feelings often are. Don't confuse control with coping... A stiff upper lip probably means I've got a tight rein on my feelings, not that I have come to terms with them. You may not be comfortable with crying or screaming but they are far healthier than numbness, which is a sign of denial. Keep in touch... I'll always be grateful for the practical and moral support you gave immediately after the death and I know you have to get on with your life. But grief doesn't end with the funeral and occasional phone call, note or visit will let me know you haven't forgotten. The death of my child has left me emotionally and spiritually shattered. It will take time to put the pieces together again, to rebuild relationships. But when things get really bad, knowing there is a friend who cares may be all I need to tip the balance in favour of recovery.

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By the way, here is a video John Mark took on Jack's birthday. We had a low-key weekend, but Jack seemed to enjoy himself regardless...



I also have a bunch of beach photos and will post them soon.