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.
As most of you know, John Paul the Great passed away 2 hours before John Mark and I received the Sacrament of Marriage on April 2, 2005. I was getting my dress on in my mother-in-law's office across the street from the Cathedral. I was alone. The bells tolled, and I knew. I knew he had passed. I remember just dropping to my knees and praying a prayer of thanksgiving that he no longer suffered. Praying for our Church who would undoubtedly feel the gaping hole which had been his great and wonderful papacy. During our marriage ceremony, while my brother Joe began the Prayers of the Faithful with a prayer that our Papa rest in peace, I cried because I knew how much we would all miss him.
I was searching for this song, Homesick, by Mercy Me, on youtube because it has spoken powerfully to me these past 7 months. Seeing this video of JPII hit home because I can see now just how united we all are in Christ. I can see now how Bernadette was welcomed into heaven by all the angels and saints, including our beloved pope. I can't tell you how much comfort I find in that.
One thing that a lot of my friends may not know is that my mother and father lost their first child hours after his birth. They were always very open about it, but being the youngest of six and having a very relaxed childhood, it was just a part of our family's history. I felt no connection towards Emerick, my older brother. I was very sad for my parents, but until Bernadette died, I never really got what it must have been like for them. My mother never even got to see her son. How blessed we were to be able to hold our daughter and say goodbye.
Emerick was also at the gates of heaven to greet his niece. To carry her home. Thank God for that. Thank God for eternity.
This video pretty much sums up our experience. It was very difficult to listen to this couple share their story - many tears were shed because the emotions I experienced during my 20 wk ultrasound and during the subsequent months were precisely what they were describing in this interview. The anger towards God, the fear to hope for miraculous healing, the feelings of complete loss of control. Shattered hopes.
I remember calling John Mark from my car with the news that our baby was sick. Not believing the words coming out of my mouth. It was such a slap in the face when the news just kept getting worse. I yelled at God - why are you letting this happen? What have I done wrong? I have been faithful to you, why aren't you faithful to me? And when she died, I just couldn't understand why he would take her from us when we had done everything we could to save her.
But there's always that quiet voice in my head that reminds me that this life is not ours. That we are called to serve him through every circumstance, every trial, every triumph. Why shouldn't I carry this cross? Since when was I told that suffering wouldn't have a place in my life? We should embrace it and get excited that we are able to participate in Christ's suffering. There is nothing but good that has come from her short life on earth.
Grieving is a very slow process. I am learning to trust again, but at the same time, I am still learning to accept that I have no idea what the future holds for me and my family. I still think about our daughter constantly and wonder what she'd be doing at this very moment if she were here with us. But I've stopped pinching myself, wondering when I'll wake up from this nightmare. I've stopped yelling at God, asking "why me?" A lot of wisdom has been gained...I no longer fool myself into thinking that I know what tomorrow will bring. Which is a marvelous thing really, because that leaves a lot more time for me to enjoy today.
Toddlers just amaze me. I was always a little intimidated with the prospect of teaching a child how to read and count (and I want to homeschool? Hmm...), but it's actually a lot easier than I had imagined. A month or two ago, I drew a "W" and Jack pointed to it and said "double do, double do!" A couple of days later, I drew "W" again with chalk on the sidewalk. He said "Mmmmmm!" I then realized that he was sitting opposite me and was reading the letter upside down. I was just amazed!
Today, he woke me up (way too early, I might add). When Bernadette died, for some reason, he started using a pacifier at night. So, now he just loves his paci. This morning, he had one in his mouth, and he walked over to "the spot" in one of our kitchen cabinets (i.e. the place where we stash them when he's awake) and he said "One paci...want two pacis." He even put the "s" at the end of paci. I handed him a second paci. He said "Two pacis...want 3 pacis!" I was just blown away that he knew what "One, two, three" meant. I mean, how do kids know that numbers are for counting and not just words that go together in sequence? Crazy.
Jack's best bud, Ben, who is 26 months has this thing where he will count to 12 (usually skipping 6 or 7) and then scream "Blast Off!" and run as fast as he can to the opposite end of the yard with his arms shot out in front of him. I'm not sure if it's just a coincidence that children in this town (home to NASA) learn how to count by pretending to be rockets. But regardless, it's to die for. These kids are irresistible.
I am a SAHM to a sweet boy on earth and a beautiful girl in heaven. Hubby and I are devout Catholics who are learning to live each day with gratitude for all the blessings God has given us.
