Bitterness

Out of all the emotions that I have been working my way through since October, bitterness has always played just a minor role.  There have certainly been times when it has wormed itself into my thoughts along with a touch of resentment, but overall I just don't find it to be a particularly useful emotion. 

There are several people close to me who have had children recently or are expecting a new baby soon.  During the first month or so after we received our diagnosis, seeing babies or other pregnant women nearly broke my heart.  That was when the bitterness was worst...I was almost angry at them for their healthy babies or their "normal" pregnancies.  In my mind, I would ask a hundred times why our child was going to be taken from us so soon and longed to know what we had done to deserve such unthinkable heartache.  It wasn't that I ever wished to trade places with anyone else, because I wouldn't wish this sort of pain on anyone...I just couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that everyone else was getting these healthy, perfect babies and we would soon be planning a funeral.

Thankfully, that phase was short-lived and I can honestly say I've moved beyond it.  It is still painful, but there is no longer a bitterness or resentment to accompany the ache when I see someone else's newborn or learn of a new pregnancy. 

Although we miss Aaron and will continue to miss him every day of our lives, we are so very thankful for him.  He taught us more about life, love and faith than some people are able to share with others in a lifetime that lasts a hundred years.  He helped us find a strength within ourselves that we had no idea existed.  He showed us how important it is to cherish every day and every moment because nothing is a guarantee.  He gave us the opportunity to truly learn what "unconditional love" really means, even though we thought we already knew.   

Although he weighed just over four pounds and had the tiniest little feet I have ever seen, Aaron Michael left footprints on our hearts and in our lives that have forever changed us.    

Kind of Jumbled

The last few days have been a struggle...not that I think that's going to surprise anyone, but I've been a little surprised at way that those struggles have presented themselves.  Honestly, I initially had no real intention of posting anything tonight because I am simply not thinking clearly enough to be sure that I can write anything that makes sense.  But I got some encouraging words from one of the moms I met online recently who made it a point to tell me that my words have been helping her as she prepares for the birth of her little angel in just a few weeks.  That made me remember how difficult it was, in all of the blogs that I stalked before Aaron's birth, to find anything that other mommas had written in the days immediately after their babies left them.  I suspect the reason for that is because most of them felt exactly the way I've been feeling lately.

Of course I am sad and of course I am grieving for my son, but I am also struggling to figure out how to incorporate that into my daily life.  If Aaron had been our first child, I kind of feel like I might have just spent the last ten days curled up in bed but the fact is that Tori and Abby still need their parents.  If we sat around and cried all day, they would be terrified and probably traumatized, so we try our best to save most of our emotional moments for the evening after they've gone to sleep.  I've said before that the world hasn't stopped turning just because our baby died (though I certainly wish it could've paused for me to catch my breath) so we are left trying to figure out where we fit in a world that is still basically the same, while we will never be the same again.

Those of you who know me personally know that I really really like my "to-do" lists and my Post-It notes.  For whatever reason, I thought that last night would be a good time to sit down and start making a list of all the things that will need to be done in the near future...turns out it was actually a really stupid idea and just caused me more anxiety than I need.  I know that it is my way of making sure that things don't get forgotten, but I probably could've waited a bit to put it all on paper.  It also makes me realize that I don't actually want to do any of the important stuff that I should be working on...the only things from my to-do list that I feel like doing are the ones that are much less critical.  For example, I don't want to pay bills or look at taxes.  I don't want to wash the dishes or tackle our mountain of laundry.  I don't want to sweep the floor or unpack our hospital bags.  I want to work on the blankets I've been making.  I want to sort all of the kid clothes in the garage so I can finally take some to a consignment store.  I want to scour the internet finding stuff for Abby's birthday party.  I want to shop online for supplies for the bracelets I've started making.  I want to spend several hours Facebook-stalking and talking to the other moms I've met in the last few months. All of the things that I want to do are just busy enough to keep me distracted, but don't really require a lot of brain power. 

I am trying to be kind to myself and just try to roll with whatever doesn't send me into a panic...as long as I've got the bare minimum done right now (by that, I mean we're all bathed, fed and clothed and the bills are paid on time), I figure I'm going to try to cut myself some slack.  That's actually what we've been trying to do yesterday and today - we haven't left the house and we haven't done much besides color, read stories, bake cookies, and watch cartoons.

Peace Be With You

One week ago, we welcomed Aaron Michael into our arms.  Today we laid him to rest, trusting that he will now rest peacefully in the arms of God. 

Despite the cold rain that fell all day today, we have been surrounded by nothing but warmth and beauty from all those who celebrated Aaron's life with us.  Father John conducted a Mass that was truly beautiful and was exactly what we had wanted for our son.  He has treated us with so much compassion and done absolutely everything in his power to help two grieving parents celebrate their child.  He spoke from his heart and his sincerity was evident in every word that he spoke.  The woman who helped coordinate all the elements of Mass is one of the kindest souls I have ever met; she shared a piece of her heart with me and worked so hard to make sure everything today was as perfect as it could be.  The folks from the funeral home have truly been a blessing throughout this process and have gone above and beyond more times than I can even count to help us honor our little boy.  The sweet ladies who prepared a small luncheon for our friends and family to enjoy following the burial provided us all with a place to meet and spend some time together after saying goodbye to Aaron. 

We also had so much support from family, friends and coworkers who came to celebrate Mass with us...and so many more prayers from those who couldn't join us today.  I don't know that I have ever been one who can honestly say that I've ever personally felt the power of prayer before, but that is the only explanation I have for the peace and comfort that we have felt today.

We are, of course, grieving the fact that we never got to bring our son home, but at the same time Chris and I both feel calmer tonight than we have at any point during the last week.  We truly feel that we have passed Aaron's spirit into the arms of God and that his earthly body is resting comfortably in its proper place here.  The peace that has brought to both of us is like nothing I could ever have expected.  Truly, I expected to battle a lot of emotions today, but I did not expect peace to be at the forefront.  

I know that in the weeks to come, this peace may sometimes be overshadowed by the grief and the loss that we will continue to feel for the rest of our lives.  We will never forget that our sweet son was taken from us in time that we felt was all too short, but my hope is that we will always be able to find our way back to the peace that we feel tonight. 

(I do plan to post all of the details from Aaron's service, maybe later tonight or tomorrow, but this was on my heart and I wanted to share it, perhaps to help others who are grieving our loss alongside us tonight.)

"How're You Doing?"

I honestly have no idea how to respond when someone asks "How are you doing?"

There are some who are asking because they just do not know what else to say.  There are others who are asking because they care and are curious, but wouldn't know how to respond if I told them what was really in my heart.  Then there is a select group who are asking and who genuinely want to know how we really are doing and are prepared for whatever answer I give.   (I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in this assessment, if you've ever been on the receiving end of this question in a similar situation...you have probably already figured it out.)

For now, each group gets a different answer.  The first group will get the standard, "We're doing okay, really."  The second group gets the slightly more honest, "Well, we're as okay as we can be."  Then there's the third group.

The third group has only a handful of people in it and they are probably the only ones who will ever get the truly honest answer when they ask me this question.  Some days, the honest answer is one of the above.  Right now, the honest answer can vary from day to day, hour to hour, and even minute to minute. 

I have moments that feel shockingly normal.  For just a split second, life feels like it hasn't really changed forever.  Almost as quickly as they come, those moments pass and I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt and betrayal for even having those moments.  I do believe that someday we will find a "new normal" but for now, I'm not ready to feel normal.  These moments make me feel like I'm not grieving my son like I should or that I somehow love him less when I have them.  

There are also moments of devastating, crippling grief.  These are the times when I can't stop the tears and the sobs just won't let me catch my breath.  These are the moments when I am hurting and angry and there is a real physical ache to have my baby back in my arms.  In these moments, the thought of "normal" doesn't even exist for me and I can't imagine a world where it would exist.

The rest of the time...I just feel numb.  It's like I am just existing in some weird "twilight zone" where everything around me looks just like it always has, but nothing is actually the same.  I find myself frequently just staring into space...I have no idea what I am thinking about or where my mind has gone, but I'm not really here at those times.  This is when it is easy to lie and say, "We're okay."  It's less painful than stepping outside of my numbness to find an honest answer.

I know, in my heart that we are not okay and I suspect that even when I tell people this, they probably know it isn't true.  The reality is this:  we get out of bed each morning, we all get fed and dressed.  Then we try to get out of the house for a little while.  We'll come home and eat the food that friends and family have lovingly provided for us (and thank God for that!!).  Then the girls take a bath, get their story time and go to bed.  Chris and I stay up for hours doing random things until we are finally so exhausted that we have to try to get some sleep.  We wake up in a few hours and do it all again. 

So the answer to the question is this:  We are functioning, but we are not okay. Not yet. 

So Many Questions

One of the hardest conversations I have ever had in my life started this afternoon with my oldest child telling me, "Mommy, I just want to cry because I miss my baby Aaron so much."

I have posted several times in the last few months about how we have handled all of this with both girls and our approach has always been pretty straightforward.  Despite the honesty that we have maintained with them, we are still very careful that they will rarely see us cry about all that has happened.  It isn't because we want to hide the sadness or tears, it is because they are still babies themselves and we don't need to add any stress beyond that which is unavoidable.

So when Tori climbed into my lap this afternoon with tears streaming down her sweet little cheeks and told me that, I was caught a little off-guard.  Thankfully Chris and Abby were both nearby and we got to turn it into a fairly positive family moment, but it was a rough one.  I scooped her up, hugged her tight and told her that it was perfectly fine if she felt like crying because it's okay to be sad.  We let her know that Mommy and Daddy are sad too and sometimes we have to cry just like she does.  We also made it a point to tell her that it's okay to be happy too, because Aaron is safe in Heaven with God and knows that we love him very very much.  Abby was snuggled into Chris's lap and would occasionally come over to pat my cheek or look up and say "Heaven? God? S'okay Momma."  

I honestly can not remember the whole conversation or exactly how it went because I was so moved by her emotions and overwhelmed by my own - my intense grief over the loss of my son, but also the equally intense love I have for all three of my children.

We ended up spending nearly 45 minutes comforting her and answering so many questions.  She wanted to know if God was going to hold him and snuggle him for us, if he would give him kisses good night, and if God had a special crib waiting for Aaron in Heaven.  She wanted to know how Aaron got from here to Heaven and if someone had helped him get there -- then she said she thought that maybe Grandma used her wings to fly down and pick him up because if he tried to get there himself he might get squished by a car or truck when he crossed a road.  She wanted to know if Aaron could hear us in Heaven and wanted to know why we can't hear God talk to us but He can hear us talking to him.

We have tried several different times to try to explain what will happen at Tuesday's funeral and struggle with explaining the casket to her, but we've let her know that we'll be going to church to pray to God and ask him to always keep Aaron safe for us.  We've let her know that when people die, their angels go up to Heaven and we bury the box so their bodies can rest safely here.  (To this, she responded adamantly that Aaron was in Heaven, not still here.  So we left that one alone for now.)  She knows that the toys she and Abby got for him were sent to Heaven with him.  She and Abby both plan to release a balloon for him at the cemetery on Tuesday...Tori thinks he would like a blue one and Abby insists that he's getting pink. 

She also decided tonight that he needed something else to to snuggle, so we suggested that we could get him something and put it on top of the ground where we will bury his box.  She tapped her chin thoughtfully for a minute and informed me, "Umm...no I don't think that's going to work.  But, we can do this - let's bury them in the sand next time we go to the beach when it gets warm and then Aaron and Grandma can come get them from the beach!!  But you have to put them in a box first so it doesn't get dirty!!!"  I have no idea where she came up with that plan, but it seemed important to her...so looks like we'll be burying something on the beach next time we go.

She did eventually get settled down and we went on with our day.  There were a few more random questions since we went to purchase a crucifix and a rosary for Sunday's service, but overall she seems to be satisfied with her answers for now. 

Empty

I've been staring at a blinking cursor on a blank page for a few minutes now and can not, for the life of me, figure out what it is that I want to say tonight.  Honestly, I had hoped that we would be in bed by now but a combination of insomnia and a 3.5 year old who woke up covered in urine and vomit delayed that a bit.  It isn't that we aren't tired, because we are and we absolutely need the rest. 

But as long as I'm awake, I can find something to work on or something to do...anything to keep my mind busy.  I even rearranged our computer cabinet and organized our tax documents tonight because I ran out of legitimate tasks that actually needed completed right now.  It's just easier to keep making up excuses to stay awake than it is to decide to get some sleep.
 
When we start preparing to go to bed, that's when I start to feel the panic rise up.  In the dark, in bed...all I can think about is the baby that is supposed to be sleeping in the pack-n-play at the foot of our bed just like his sisters did.  It helps me remember what his weight felt like against my chest but that also reminds me that my arms are so empty without him.  Going to bed forces me to realize that I can roll over and sleep in any position I want because there is no longer a big belly or a baby forcing me to sleep on my side.  As much as I hate sleeping on my side, I loved feeling him shift around inside of me and feeling his little hiccups bounce around.  Now there is nothing there but the memory. 

Everyone has told us in these last months how incredibly strong we are ... tonight, I don't feel strong.  I feel empty.

I was looking for a quote tonight and this is what I found.  I want to believe it, with all my heart I want to believe that all of this grief and this pain is all for something greater.  On the good days, I am even comforted by the thought.  On the bad days, it's harder.  Today is one of the bad days...today, I just want my little boy back in my arms. 

Time Marches On

I'm not sure I even know what it is that I need to say tonight, but I feel like I have to try.  I can almost guarantee that it won't be eloquent and it might not even make sense, but that's okay.

It's been three days since we had Aaron...in some ways, it feels like it's already been ages ago but in other ways, it still seems like it was just yesterday.  In an even bigger way though...it's hard to believe that we had him at all and that he's really gone. 

We weren't exactly prepared for him to make his arrival as quickly as he did, so I think that contributes to the feeling of shell-shock that we both have right now.  It just seems that, all of a sudden he was here...and then he was gone.  And in reality...that is kind of what happened.  Although we were incredibly blessed and grateful to have 22 hours with our little guy, that is still just the blink of an eye when it comes to spending time with your child. 

It just doesn't seem possible that our baby died three days ago and yet life continues to go on in such a normal way.  What I'd really like is for the world to just stop for a little while to give me a chance to sit down and cry and not have to continue doing all of those things that need to be done.  There is, however, a part of me that knows if I allow the world to stop for too long, it just might not get started again too easily. 

While I feel like silently falling apart on the inside, the world continues moving on.  It is almost like I am watching everything happen in front of me, but I'm underwater and just moving forward takes so much extra work.  I see everyone else going on with what appear to be very normal days, but for us there is nothing normal about them at all. 

Today, we decided that we had to get out of the house for a little while.  We stopped at Burger King to grab lunch and we were "those people."  The ones with the two year old who keeps trying to sneak off and the four year old who had a total meltdown and cried loudly in the middle of the restaurant; she has never, ever done that before.  She freaked out because we packed up their food and told them they could finish in the car because lunch was taking so long and we were nearly out of energy to handle it well.  As we walked out of the restaurant, three different people commented to us, "Aww...someone's upset."  and "Aww, the little queen looks unhappy." and "Aww...must be naptime."  We said nothing, just smiled and kept walking.  But what I wanted to scream was, "No! She isn't tired and this isn't a tantrum...her brother is dead and we all feel like screaming and crying just like she is doing."  Then we went to Target to pick up my prescription and a few groceries (oddly, they were part of an extreme coupon trip that Chris and I had planned to do on date night Tuesday).  The girls weren't particularly well-behaved there either and we had another meltdown, but to anyone watching us...it would have appeared just the same as any other toddler freaking out on any normal day. 

I have been so absorbed these last few days in this whole list of things that need to be done and phone calls that had to be made. I'm a little more okay when my mind is busy and I'm actively working on something, but when I stop and have time that isn't occupied by details or by my girls...that is so much harder.  A perfect example - I didn't go to bed last night until 5am.  I was up working on drafting his birth announcement/memorial card, finalizing funeral selections, sending emails ...I wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway, so I thought I should at least put that time to use.  My hope had been that I would be so tired that I could just fall into bed and sleep, but it didn't happen that way and I'm glad I have a husband who is always there for me.

I knew ahead of time that this period would be hard, but I wasn't prepared for how much "normal" would still try to exist.  I think that is part of what is leaving me feeling so unsettled right now...our life has been forever changed, but when we came home from the hospital...everything still looked the same.  Our daily routine hasn't changed much, our bills still need paid, our pets still need care, our children still need our love, the laundry still needs done, the dishes still get dirty...and the list goes on.  It feels like the world doesn't even know that our precious baby is gone and it hurts so much to try to figure out how to function in that world. 

I know it isn't entirely rational and I know that we have literally hundreds of people who are praying for us and hurt deeply for us.  We are truly and deeply grateful for all of those prayers and there is no doubt in my mind that those prayers have helped carry us through. It's just hard to stand here and watch life continue to swirl around me while I feel so lost.