The nursery is ready for the new baby.
Henry's bed has been disassembled; the crib is up. His clothing is stored; hers is washed, folded, and waiting for her in his old dresser. We did leave a number of his things out, comfort items for us, but the room is most certainly not his anymore.
It was difficult, but not impossible.
Both Mr. Smak and I expressed an unexpected sense of relief at "the putting away" of his things. It brought a physical reality to the emotional moving on that we are all doing.
I see, as the months slip by, my connections to Henry weakening. It's not intentional, it's the way of all things. The longer he's gone, the less I remember. The less I miss him. The less I spend time thinking of him, thinking of sickness, thinking of his death, of the lessons his death taught me.
I have struggled with guilt over this, while knowing that this change is normal, natural, and out of my control. We were talking about it yesterday, and Mr. Smak said, "Just because you miss him less now, doesn't mean you loved him any less then."
I thought about that all day...it was so profound, and comforting.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
The Nursery, part 2
So this weekend we tackled Henry's room. We packed up his dresser full of clothes, and several toys, before we had to stop. It was okay. It made me remember a lot of things that I had been tucked away in my memory, and it made me sad, but I felt ready to do what we did. There's a good bit left to be done, we will get to it when we get to it.
The baby's due date is less than 8 weeks away. Henry's illness and death has tainted the joy of this approaching event, but no more than the way it has tainted the rest of our lives. I find myself thinking things like, "If I buy a bunch of diapers and the baby dies, I'll just have to return them." My next thought is "What the hell is wrong with you to be thinking that way?!" followed closely by "Why wouldn't you think that way, after what you've been through?" I'm doing my best just to follow my instincts, both maternal and self-care, and so far it is working for me.
We haven't named the baby yet. Historically, we always have a name by now. There have been multiple names, and multiple lists, and a lot of toggling of positions, but we don't have one. I wonder if we're just not ready to commit yet.
I have knitted the baby a sweater, and a pair of booties. I haven't yet purchased a single thing for her. The girls are eager to start; today may be the day.
The baby's due date is less than 8 weeks away. Henry's illness and death has tainted the joy of this approaching event, but no more than the way it has tainted the rest of our lives. I find myself thinking things like, "If I buy a bunch of diapers and the baby dies, I'll just have to return them." My next thought is "What the hell is wrong with you to be thinking that way?!" followed closely by "Why wouldn't you think that way, after what you've been through?" I'm doing my best just to follow my instincts, both maternal and self-care, and so far it is working for me.
We haven't named the baby yet. Historically, we always have a name by now. There have been multiple names, and multiple lists, and a lot of toggling of positions, but we don't have one. I wonder if we're just not ready to commit yet.
I have knitted the baby a sweater, and a pair of booties. I haven't yet purchased a single thing for her. The girls are eager to start; today may be the day.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
The Nursery
Henry's room looks the same as the day he died. Ok, not entirely true, it's a little cleaner, but his bed, toys, clothes are all where they should be.
I don't go into his room often, but I crave it at times. It helps me feel close to him, to dust his dresser, touch his blankets, look at his clothes. I'm always sad when I do it, but I usually only go there when I'm already sad.
His ashes are in there as well, in a handsome wooden box with his name on it. I've only picked up the box twice since he died. It is not soothing to me to hold it, but I like it being in the house.
We're T-minus 13 weeks to baby, presuming she shows up around my due date, which the other three did. I've written before that I wasn't ready to prepare for her, plan for her, get excited for her arrival. Lately, I've been feeling like it's getting to be time.
I had thought that cleaning out Henry's room and preparing for the new baby were flip sides of the same coin. They aren't. I went into his room this morning to try to make a stepwise plan of what to do to begin the transition from his room to hers. I couldn't. I don't want to put away his toys. I don't want to store his clothes. I don't want to paint his walls. I don't want to give up the closeness, the connection that his room gives me.
I was waiting till I was ready. I don't think I'll ever get there.
I don't go into his room often, but I crave it at times. It helps me feel close to him, to dust his dresser, touch his blankets, look at his clothes. I'm always sad when I do it, but I usually only go there when I'm already sad.
His ashes are in there as well, in a handsome wooden box with his name on it. I've only picked up the box twice since he died. It is not soothing to me to hold it, but I like it being in the house.
We're T-minus 13 weeks to baby, presuming she shows up around my due date, which the other three did. I've written before that I wasn't ready to prepare for her, plan for her, get excited for her arrival. Lately, I've been feeling like it's getting to be time.
I had thought that cleaning out Henry's room and preparing for the new baby were flip sides of the same coin. They aren't. I went into his room this morning to try to make a stepwise plan of what to do to begin the transition from his room to hers. I couldn't. I don't want to put away his toys. I don't want to store his clothes. I don't want to paint his walls. I don't want to give up the closeness, the connection that his room gives me.
I was waiting till I was ready. I don't think I'll ever get there.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Fall
Henry's diagnosis and relapse both occurred in October.
Who doesn't love fall? The gorgeous blue skies, the turning leaves, the crisp smells in the air. This year, I've liked fall again, the first time since his diagnosis. I haven't had an immersive fall experience, ie hiking and biking and spending time on those beautiful days outside, but that's been because of a busy life and a pregnant body. I can imagine myself loving fall by next year.
This year we traveled to the mid-west to spend time with my in-laws and extended family. I hadn't been there since we traveled with Henry, within 6 weeks of his death. He really enjoyed the trip, and though the rest of us knew the end was coming, at that point we didn't know how quickly. Generally, he was feeling pretty good then. It was a blessing that his deterioration was so brief.
I was surprised by my response to being out there. I avoided the activities and places that made me remember him; they were too painful. I completely lost it one day and had to excuse myself for quite a time of private sobbing. That hasn't happened to me for a long, long time.
I realized that though he's been gone for two and a half years now, it was the first time for me that he was dead, out there. The first time I saw my in-laws' home with photos of their dead grandson on the walls. The first time I saw all the cousins out trick-or-treating, without him. The first time we saw the extended family since he died.
The firsts have always been the hardest.
Since we've been back, he has stayed in the forefront of my mind. His presence generally comes and goes; for most of summer I did not dwell on him regularly. Since our trip though, he's in my thoughts all the time.
I still can't believe he's gone.
Who doesn't love fall? The gorgeous blue skies, the turning leaves, the crisp smells in the air. This year, I've liked fall again, the first time since his diagnosis. I haven't had an immersive fall experience, ie hiking and biking and spending time on those beautiful days outside, but that's been because of a busy life and a pregnant body. I can imagine myself loving fall by next year.
This year we traveled to the mid-west to spend time with my in-laws and extended family. I hadn't been there since we traveled with Henry, within 6 weeks of his death. He really enjoyed the trip, and though the rest of us knew the end was coming, at that point we didn't know how quickly. Generally, he was feeling pretty good then. It was a blessing that his deterioration was so brief.
I was surprised by my response to being out there. I avoided the activities and places that made me remember him; they were too painful. I completely lost it one day and had to excuse myself for quite a time of private sobbing. That hasn't happened to me for a long, long time.
I realized that though he's been gone for two and a half years now, it was the first time for me that he was dead, out there. The first time I saw my in-laws' home with photos of their dead grandson on the walls. The first time I saw all the cousins out trick-or-treating, without him. The first time we saw the extended family since he died.
The firsts have always been the hardest.
Since we've been back, he has stayed in the forefront of my mind. His presence generally comes and goes; for most of summer I did not dwell on him regularly. Since our trip though, he's in my thoughts all the time.
I still can't believe he's gone.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Updates
A news-y post, unusual for me. But lots of small things I want to record.
First and foremost, the ultrasound went well, we are expecting a baby girl. The inevitability of a new addition to our family grows with my figure, and I am admitting a joy I have not felt often in the last few years. It's a good feeling.
There are some reading updates I wanted to give:
A blog: a fellow grieving mother referenced this blog post. It is very raw, and very real, and very touching.
An article from the New York Times on what it is like to parent a child with a terminal illness. This, unlike the previous one, did not leave me in a puddle of tears, but was equally raw, and real, and touching.
And two books. The first, called The Leftovers, by Tom Perrotta. I've not read his work before, heard about this one on NPR. It's the story of a the people left behind in a town after what appears to be The Rapture, but there doesn't seem to be a real pattern behind who disappeared and who didn't. Though I expected some sarcasm, the book is a real exploration of grief and loss and unmet expectations. While far from profound, I definitely found it thought-provoking. Much more than a religious rapture, it made me think about a disaster's effect on a community, ie the Japanese tsunami.
The second I'm not finished with yet. I'm probably the last person in America who has not yet read The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Technically, I'm listening to it on audiobook, anyway. After hearing many many people rave about it, I'm a bit disappointed. The reading is quite entertaining; there are several readers with different voices doing the narration. I also find the subject matter interesting, but the characters are so very unbelievable and caricatured to me that I had trouble with the first third of the book. I'm about 2/3 of the way through now, and the storyline, even with it's predictability, is getting good enough for me to forget some of my objections. I'll definitely finish it, but not a big fan.
And one I intend to read: The Marriage Plot, by Geoffrey Eugenides. His characters are the opposite of caricatures, I'm so glad he is publishing a new book. I may or may not like it, but his writing is so good that I'll enjoy reading it either way.
First and foremost, the ultrasound went well, we are expecting a baby girl. The inevitability of a new addition to our family grows with my figure, and I am admitting a joy I have not felt often in the last few years. It's a good feeling.
There are some reading updates I wanted to give:
A blog: a fellow grieving mother referenced this blog post. It is very raw, and very real, and very touching.
An article from the New York Times on what it is like to parent a child with a terminal illness. This, unlike the previous one, did not leave me in a puddle of tears, but was equally raw, and real, and touching.
And two books. The first, called The Leftovers, by Tom Perrotta. I've not read his work before, heard about this one on NPR. It's the story of a the people left behind in a town after what appears to be The Rapture, but there doesn't seem to be a real pattern behind who disappeared and who didn't. Though I expected some sarcasm, the book is a real exploration of grief and loss and unmet expectations. While far from profound, I definitely found it thought-provoking. Much more than a religious rapture, it made me think about a disaster's effect on a community, ie the Japanese tsunami.
The second I'm not finished with yet. I'm probably the last person in America who has not yet read The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Technically, I'm listening to it on audiobook, anyway. After hearing many many people rave about it, I'm a bit disappointed. The reading is quite entertaining; there are several readers with different voices doing the narration. I also find the subject matter interesting, but the characters are so very unbelievable and caricatured to me that I had trouble with the first third of the book. I'm about 2/3 of the way through now, and the storyline, even with it's predictability, is getting good enough for me to forget some of my objections. I'll definitely finish it, but not a big fan.
And one I intend to read: The Marriage Plot, by Geoffrey Eugenides. His characters are the opposite of caricatures, I'm so glad he is publishing a new book. I may or may not like it, but his writing is so good that I'll enjoy reading it either way.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Rainy weekends
A long time since my last post. The catharsis of blogging, the need to explore my feelings, both for myself and to share with readers, greatly lessened. Hard to say why.
Grieving continues, it always will. I do feel that I have plateaued, that this may be where I land. When I am busy and engaged in life, most days I feel mostly happy. Sometimes, even when busy and engaged, the grief is there very close to the surface, like a non-healing wound covered by a very thin layer of recovery. It's a wound that I am used to, that I can live with, that I can cope with and still get through my day.
Too much quiet is still very hard. Lazy rainy weekends, sleepless nights, too much car time, all give my mind opportunity to re-enter the deep well of grief that will never dry up. Avoidance is useful. I still knit, a lot, to fill that quiet with a little noise. I watch more TV than I ever have. At a grief group, one bereaved family last fall related how they went to go stay in a hotel for a holiday weekend, just to not be home and deal with the emotions there. They looked around at the hotel lobby at the other patrons and wondered to themselves, "What are you all running from?" I think about this often. Those people who schedule every second, who overcommit, who never take time for themselves, I used to see as superhuman, as better than me, an introvert who enjoys quiet/lone pursuits. Now I wonder what void they are trying to fill, what it is they don't want to think about as they sit in their living room at night.
My life continues to have many many blessings, and now one more. We are expecting a baby in February. After what seemed a rocky start, all seems to be going as planned. I am most definitely avoiding getting emotionally committed to this child, which seemed appropriate early on, but now that I am visibly pregnant and feeling the baby move seems less so. The emotional roadblocks are everywhere; for now I am intentionally ignoring them. I know that I'm not stunted, I will be ready when the time comes, but for now thoughts of getting the baby's room ready, or of even having the joy of another baby when my last baby was Henry, puts me in a tailspin. Additionally, we have our official ultrasound next week. My conscious self is excited, wants to see the baby and find out the sex; deeper, I'm treating this like one of Henry's MRIs, waiting to hear the news that all is so very not well, while trying my damnedest to be optimistic but already feeling that pain.
It looks to be a rainy weekend.
Grieving continues, it always will. I do feel that I have plateaued, that this may be where I land. When I am busy and engaged in life, most days I feel mostly happy. Sometimes, even when busy and engaged, the grief is there very close to the surface, like a non-healing wound covered by a very thin layer of recovery. It's a wound that I am used to, that I can live with, that I can cope with and still get through my day.
Too much quiet is still very hard. Lazy rainy weekends, sleepless nights, too much car time, all give my mind opportunity to re-enter the deep well of grief that will never dry up. Avoidance is useful. I still knit, a lot, to fill that quiet with a little noise. I watch more TV than I ever have. At a grief group, one bereaved family last fall related how they went to go stay in a hotel for a holiday weekend, just to not be home and deal with the emotions there. They looked around at the hotel lobby at the other patrons and wondered to themselves, "What are you all running from?" I think about this often. Those people who schedule every second, who overcommit, who never take time for themselves, I used to see as superhuman, as better than me, an introvert who enjoys quiet/lone pursuits. Now I wonder what void they are trying to fill, what it is they don't want to think about as they sit in their living room at night.
My life continues to have many many blessings, and now one more. We are expecting a baby in February. After what seemed a rocky start, all seems to be going as planned. I am most definitely avoiding getting emotionally committed to this child, which seemed appropriate early on, but now that I am visibly pregnant and feeling the baby move seems less so. The emotional roadblocks are everywhere; for now I am intentionally ignoring them. I know that I'm not stunted, I will be ready when the time comes, but for now thoughts of getting the baby's room ready, or of even having the joy of another baby when my last baby was Henry, puts me in a tailspin. Additionally, we have our official ultrasound next week. My conscious self is excited, wants to see the baby and find out the sex; deeper, I'm treating this like one of Henry's MRIs, waiting to hear the news that all is so very not well, while trying my damnedest to be optimistic but already feeling that pain.
It looks to be a rainy weekend.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Reflections
We had our last bereavement group of the season last week. The group is ever-changing, but there has existed a core of 4 familes for a few months now. There is a kinship there that I've not achieved anywhere else. We all know. We all get it. Our children were different ages, different sexes, died of different causes, but the shared experience gives us an instant understanding of one another that few others will ever have.
Last week our moderator asked us to reflect on how we have changed, what we have learned, from our experience as a bereaved parent. There were several things mentioned, and much overlap as expected. These stood out for me:
1. We see the world differently now. Not better than we did before, but differently. We feel more now. When I used to read a news story about a tragedy, whether a child lost or a natural disaster, it was a news story. A bit of pity flashed in my brain, and was gone. Now I feel it. The tsunami, Japan's earthquake, the local teen who died of a seizure in the bath tub...those things hit me in a way they never did before.
2. Grief is what it is. You can't control it. You can't outrun it. You can't out-think it. My mind spent a lot of time trying to find a way to get away from grief. Nothing worked. Knowing this doesn't make it easier to deal with grief. I guess that's the lesson. Nothing does. It is what it is.
3. Finally, what I'm still struggling to learn: life goes on. Not his life, but everyone else's. And I need to make a decision every single day on how to deal with that. As one father put it, "My other children are still growing up." We didn't get the choice on whether or not our children would die, but we are blessed with having other amazing, vibrant children to love the rest of our lives. I cry that Henry never got to go to school, but I will go this week with my middling on her field trip. I don't want to miss out twice. And I don't want her to miss out on having a present mom.
Being a bereaved parent hasn't made me a better person, but I'm different than I was.
Last week our moderator asked us to reflect on how we have changed, what we have learned, from our experience as a bereaved parent. There were several things mentioned, and much overlap as expected. These stood out for me:
1. We see the world differently now. Not better than we did before, but differently. We feel more now. When I used to read a news story about a tragedy, whether a child lost or a natural disaster, it was a news story. A bit of pity flashed in my brain, and was gone. Now I feel it. The tsunami, Japan's earthquake, the local teen who died of a seizure in the bath tub...those things hit me in a way they never did before.
2. Grief is what it is. You can't control it. You can't outrun it. You can't out-think it. My mind spent a lot of time trying to find a way to get away from grief. Nothing worked. Knowing this doesn't make it easier to deal with grief. I guess that's the lesson. Nothing does. It is what it is.
3. Finally, what I'm still struggling to learn: life goes on. Not his life, but everyone else's. And I need to make a decision every single day on how to deal with that. As one father put it, "My other children are still growing up." We didn't get the choice on whether or not our children would die, but we are blessed with having other amazing, vibrant children to love the rest of our lives. I cry that Henry never got to go to school, but I will go this week with my middling on her field trip. I don't want to miss out twice. And I don't want her to miss out on having a present mom.
Being a bereaved parent hasn't made me a better person, but I'm different than I was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
