You can ask about her. You can say her name. Piper. It's like music to my soul that I already sing on repeat to myself. Often loudly and out of tune. It's permanently on the tip of my tongue like any first time mom eager for a change to discuss their child. This current ramble was inspired by my friend Mere who shared something she had read from another wise momma surviving child loss. You saying her name does not bring it up or remind me because I didn't forget. I didn't forget the love or the pain.
I can imagine people are afraid to spark the pain that acts as an undertone to my journey. But here it is dear friends, my forever permission, to speak of our child. No matter how much time has passed or how many children we may have, she will always be our first born. It's why we say it aloud and often in our home. It's second nature to our families to speak of her. It's not shuddered against. It has no shock value. My Mom once said that her name, Piper Kai, sounded like a spice. I don't know where that memory came from but how perfectly ordinary. I live along with the pain. It ebbs and flows. Sometimes consuming and other times almost unnoticeable but it never leaves. Grief and the loss of your loved one will never go away. Hearing her name makes me feel like everything is real. Because I didn't forget. If you say it and tears well up in my eyes. That's OK, it's for appreciation. It's for the memories I have and those imagined. It's gratitude. It's pain and love all rolled in to one big complicated ball. It's a welcome reminder how she existed. Although you did not have the pleasure of meeting her. Rest easy, Piper. All my love.
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Throat. That's how I fill in the blank but two of my sassier girlfriends have used other more imaginative parts of the anatomy to complete the mad lib. I've struggled to write this post. Mostly because I've read a lot of articles titled "What not to say to a grieving someone" and can check off nine out of ten. Also, I try to stay away from telling people what to do because I almost never know what to do. And lastly, if you are reading this you may have said one or more of those things to someone. Gulp, even us. Again here comes a choice. I choose to believe people are good, kind-hearted and well intended. Anything and everything said to us after our baby died was meant to comfort. I wanted to share some things I found helpful and a little hurtful.
Two weeks after Pipes died, our friend Jen, asked me if anything made me feel better. It caused me to dig deep, waay deep. I have never felt like her death was my fault. Yes, there is guilt and sadness but I worked very hard to provide a safe, happy house for Piper. In the coming weeks I held fast to that thought. It's terrible but not my fault. If it wasn't my fault whose was it? A difficult thing for me was when people named our creator. "It was God's will". So I don't know a lot of things and in this case the answer to that. When I get to heaven I'll try to remind myself to ask him but I'll probably be having a dance party with Piper so I may forget. The dreaded "at least". Any comment that begins with an "at least" is especially hard for me. 'At least she didn't suffer' or 'at least she didn't have brain damage' makes me feel a little woozy and at times violent. 'At least's' are like playing with fire. It leads me on a slippery slope of playing out sad scenarios. I cannot change the ending so why indulge. But for me the hardest is when I've been met with silence. Like time just skipped a beat. Like I had been smuggling a watermelon rather than carrying our girl. I am guilty of the silence. A friend of my husband lost a child later in pregnancy, and I saw this woman frequently after their loss and you guessed it---I said nothing. I told myself it was because it would be too painful for her but in reality it was too uncomfortable for me. It's a messy, tragic thing to loss a child at any stage in life. To lose anyone ever but even more so not to acknowledge their life. I am thankful for the brave people who navigated some painful encounters. Including those who might have suggested it was the all mighty's will. Because in my book for what it's worth: something was better than nothing. It mattered and we noticed. Rest easy Piper Kai. Ever had a panic attack? It's like being trapped in your own body with fear so heavy you can't move. Mine always start out with a tingling in my hands then blossoms to sweat and a crushing feeling in my chest. It's 0 to a 100, real fast. You feel as if you might die. In fact, in the midst of my most recent one, I asked my Mom aloud if she thought I might be dying. The worst thing about them is not knowing what will trigger one. It's another betrayal, this time of my mind.
I thought this might be a good time to share as my anxiety has been a bit heightened. The holiday season peaked and I should have known a panic attack was on the horizon. Christmas yielded my worst panic attack to date. I awoke with an anxious sort of pain. I wanted to get the day over with, survive it so I could mark it off. Truthfully, it began Christmas Eve but I pushed forward and brushed it aside. I knew it was there as my jaw hurt from clenching it in an unnatural way. While sitting with my family, Christmas morning, participating in our typical traditions I thought of my girl and the magnitude of her absence. In hindsight, the thought that really set me off was, this is permanent. She will never be at a Christmas. As it spiraled out of control, I thought about how I will feel this way for the rest of my life. I realized that I had left my medication at home then, boom. Panic. I ran the gamit of techniques to calm myself until I ended up announcing I was having a full blown panic attack. I darted upstairs, got sick then hid in my Momma's bed with her or Beau stroking my back for the better part of an hour. I had to resort to my stand by medication, that my dear Beau had retrieved. As I settled, the embarrassment came. I cried aloud for my child and myself. I was fearful I had in fact ruined Christmas. But my strong, beautiful family handles things in stride and when I emerged, still on edge, they resumed Christmas without making it a big deal. I'm a worrier by nature. It's a product of my love for order and control. My husband will gladly tell you allll about it. In an unconscious effort, I married one of the most free spirited, naturally happy men. Child loss results in complete and utter chaos which manifested itself in increased anxiety and the occasional panic attack. I had my first one maybe three weeks after Piper's death at my in-laws, triggered by nothing more than leaving my house. Had another one about a week later, while attempting to go in to our local Walmart. Someone please make a joke about how Walmart incites panic in all of us. Getting in and out of my car three times before I sat there paralyzed for a solid 30 minutes. Yes, I've tried regular medication but couldn't manage the side effects. I have a small dose of medication I can take if I am able to identify a moment of anxiety. It mostly makes me feel better just carrying it around because the thing about panic attacks is, there is no set trigger. They don't happen as frequently as I widen my circle of comfort but they do happen. Things I find helpful in the midst of an anxiety attack. I plan my escape route. And sometimes act on it, running out of stores and leaving a cart full of things. Im a big fan of getting outside when panic rears its ugly head. I've set a time trial record for sprinting out of the lunch room to cry in my office. Shortly after Thanksgiving, I had Beau pull over so I could pace the side of the road in an attempt to extinguish mounting panic. I excused myself and hunched on the porch for a minute during this most recent one. I play worse case scenario. I hyperventilate and faint (hasn't happened). I threatened a nurse recently that if she shut the door on me I was going to pass out. Oh well, brain reset. I've laid on the floor and once in the grass. I figured it would cause less trauma fainting from there. I talk myself through them. I acknowledge the anxiety, tell my husband or some poor innocent by stander (nice nurse,sorry). I tell my counselor. Again, the call it like it is game. You name it then it has less power. Embracing it can help. Fighting is only seems to ecalate it for me. I move. I run, straighten up the house, write, anything that redirects your mind. Similar to exercise, a transfer of energy. The thing that sets me off the most is when I let myself really dwell on the fact that her death is permanent, no one can fix it and nothing will change it. Yeah, sorry that's some heavy stuff right there. When it's too much to manage I hibernate for a bit. I control what I can control. I don't manage large groups as well or as often. I get dodgy and fearful people are uncomfortable with my pain or the ugly cry. I sometimes avoid places that trigger anxiety. You can handle what you can handle that day. I still have to grocery shop but my neighborhood one brings about uneasy feelings so I go elsewhere. I changed doctors offices and gyms. Why not, still accomplishing same goals. There are no grief rules. No play book, unfortunately. If you witness someone having a panic attack, ask them how you can help. Don't be offended if they prefer to be alone. Give them some space. I have posted a lot of raw feelings on this page and am not shy but this one is hard for me in a different way. It is embarrassing. It is embarrassing to lose control in such a manner. To have something that no one else can see, render you useless. If you came across me in person, you'd never guess I struggle with anxiety. I clean up well. I happily socialize and mange a career. thought I'd better share just in case you find me laying in the lawn somewhere. It's me not you, carry on, I'll be OK. Probably should put this in writing for a few readers (not you Mom), not a doctor or even close. Personal accounts on my personal blog about living with anxiety. Miss you extra, rest easy Piper Kai. I stood in my kitchen today, coffee in hand and stared blankly at the calendar on the fridge. January 11, 2017. Six months. It's been six months since I've heard the words or rather saw the head nod between the midwife and the nurse confirming there was no heartbeat. I'm so sorry hun, is what I think she said as I began screaming, alone in a hospital bed with my 36 week belly. Six months since my daughter died. I wanted to cry, yell, scream and break things but I didn't. I stood there dressed for work in total shock.
I texted Beau, It's been six months... Yes, it has. How am I here? I used to keep a diligent mental tally. It's been a week, a month, ok now two months. Breathe. Now back to work. One week, two weeks. Brace yourself, here comes Christmas. It was a survival technique. Along the way I must have stopped but there it was today. Six. Months. That's half a year. So when you reach the age of 30 (gulp nearly 31), you've mostly used up all of your firsts. Your first step, your first day of school, first love, first car, first job. Children grace us with a whole new privilege of experiencing firsts. But when your child dies, your entire life because a different brand of firsts. This coffee is stale. Is the first average thought I had after Piper died. When the grips of grief let up only for a second, I thought of my expensive drive thru coffee. I had used it to bribe myself out of the house. I remember the first time I thought something was funny and wanted to tell someone. But was so distracted by the normalcy that accompanied the thought I've forgotten what is was. The first time I used an emoji. It was the red heart, sent to Jay. The first time I went to the grocery store I required an escort to complete the task. I stumbled around the aisles of an unfamiliar grocery store because I was actively avoiding mine as to lessen the chances of human interaction. The first time I saw someone, called a friend, went to the gym. The first time I drove, was to therapy and I cried the whole way. I remember the first time my husband flirted with me and I looked at him like he'd lost his mind. Flirt? With me? After my kid died, get out of here. The first beer, the first dance, the first good belly laugh. The first day I didn't cry. These firsts are my new path. Every time I do something for the first time, the next time is a little easier. Like the whole walking bit. A friend of mine told me over lunch, action precedes motivation. By going through the motions, you can gain strength and eventually joy. When you are in a sad fog, nothing and I mean nothing, beats your PJs and your couch. So getting out of your bed daily is an amazing feat. I congratulate myself if I've gotten up, showered and fed myself that day. Because winning. Anything else is a bonus. Despite affirmations of strength and bravery, I am often on the edge of an emotional breakdown. Though warranted is not conducive to life. We have survived six months of different kinds of firsts. I'm fast approaching my birthday and you know I thought I'd be a momma to a little blonde. 31, looks different. It's unfair and tragic. After I finish this tantrum and perhaps stomp my foot a bit, I'll go complete another first because my child died but I'm alive. Living is the choice so firsts are the answer. Rest easy, Piper, my first born. I decided to start my new year a little early. I wrote a rage blog about how 2016 could in fact, piss off, but decided against it as starting off a new year sending such negativity in to the universe was not wise or warranted. With much certainty, no one would argue with us that 2016, did not go as planned. But I cannot ignore that I got to spend the first seven months of this past year loving my daughter. In 2016, we got to be a family of three. It made us parents and introduced me to motherhood.
But there will be hard years and there will be joyful years. If everything was cotton candy and roses there would be no comparison or model for balance. Without this trauma, I would not be the same person that I am today. Right now, in this very moment, I know that I am a different woman. In the aftermath, I was fearful that I would never be the same but I can see that it is for the better. My heart knows a new love and strength because it knows pain. I know people will read it and perhaps balk or eye roll at the sentiment that pain causes some kind of awakening. That pain somehow precedes wisdom. Well, I assume this because speculating on other's opinions is not why I'm here or is it very nice. I do not think you need pain to know love but pain is what life rolled at us, so it has been our choice to embrace it and use it to our advantage. I miss you Piper Kai but wallowing in this pain and anger will not get me anywhere. I will not perpetuate more negativity in this world because of you my darling star. I will look to your Daddy and his love for life and carry on with you in my heart because that is what is right and what is needed. My child continues to be my greatest teacher and the lessons learned are great. In discussion with some smart lady friends, I decided not to set resolutions or goals becuase that indicates something is wrong with me or suggests there is an end point. I decided to set intentions, to be kind to myself. I intend to spend 2017 carefully grieving my child. To continue to weave her in to my functional, happy life. I need to be purposeful in my grief to allow for a balance. Too much results in a standstill, too little results in a disconnect. I plan to be in the moment. If this is a little too positive, I feel you. I still think 2016 can piss off but I intend to not grump about it as much. I'll keep the rage blog just in case. Happy New Year, I hope that 2017 rewards you and yours with peace. Enjoy this journey becuase you only get one earth side. Rest easy, Pipes. Motherhood is not going as exepected. I expected to be snuggling my 4 month old. To be dressing her in cute Christmas duds then parading her around. I expected to be a tired, happy, new mom. Instead I find myself grief stricken and having an emotional breakdown because there were no wrapped presents under the tree addressed to her. The things that set me off are really unfair and often bizarre.
I believe, Motherhood starts from the moment of conception, whether your ready or not. It takes command of your body. Giving directions how often to sleep or eat. You love and prepare and take a million trips to the bathroom. Parenting started with providing her a safe and happy home. Piper died in the only home she knew. Nestled under my beating heart knowing only love. It starts with conception but does not end in death. I love her and I'm her Mom. So what motherhood looks like is loving a child I cannot hold. It's channeling all the love I have for my baby in to everything else. It's keeping her memory alive by writing her story, the greateat love story of my life. Its choosing life life rather than existence. Hang in in there my tribe, I promise there is joy and love in my heart. I will never be able to thank you all enough for holding my little family of 3 in your hearts. I'm edging towards this holiday with a survival mentality. And a lot of chocolate. Rest easy my Piper. So I'm on shaky ground. It's not going well. I tend to lean heavily on my writing hoping to live by my words. Sometimes when I don't feel it I'll write it to encourage my path. There will be typos as I type through tears. But I am all aboard the struggle bus right now. The holidays are approaching and I'm having a hard time summoning my good vibes.
I saw the very clear blue line on Thanksgiving day. My lady time was a little wacky and my Beau pointed out I was sleeping a record and average of 12 hours a night. So I checked to make sure it'd be OK to consume the very large bottle of wine with my side of turkey that day. I called Beau told him the surprisingly, joyous news. He said it wasn't a funny joke as we had decided only a few short weeks before we were ready to take the plunge into parenthood. I spent the rest of the day with my delicious secret. Christmas Eve we told our families. We announced at Beau's side during a white elephant exchange where Beau told everyone we had a present that we couldn't wrap. Telling his grandma who is with Piper was pretty special. She told me how bad childbirth hurt. I think she used the expression ripped in two. I can vividly remember being wrecked with first trimester nausea and decorating the tree. I had to lay down every few minutes. Telling my brothers on Cheistmas. Lolly had a plan, we handed out presents youngest to oldest and they went to hand Carly then 6 months pregnant and then handed it to me, then 10 weeks carrying the smallest family member. I planned for them to be best friends. Im strolling down memory lane because I'm hurting. I need to remember Pipers short life. The happy parts. It goes without saying, holidays are hard. But I'll disguise my grinchy heart with love for my family. Ba hum bug, I mean Merry Christmas. Merry christmas and a happy new year, my Piper. Other's people children are their children. Not mine. In the lonely weeks after Piper, I'd seek out my baby niece then only 4 months and cling to her like a tiny life raft. I'd cry over her head as she slept. I breathed her in. She was and is my best therapy. We've been asked, isn't that hard? And the answer is no, I loved her first. She does not represent what I lost but life.
I relish in playing with my friends toddler. She does not know my pain but wants me to marvel at the squirrels. To eat pretend ice cream cones and play hide and seek. Another friends baby girl builds me sand castles to squish and shares her Nemo goldfish with Beau. Our friends four year old who used to rub my belly and give Piper kisses, gave me the greatest gift ever by being the first person to ask where my baby was. His innocent curiosity allowed me my first practice run of explaining her absence. In heaven, I simply said. So in the clouds, he responded then back to his monster trucks. He still sometimes knows the song of my heart shares his spaghetti and graces me with mighty hugs. The baby I want is not them. They give me a glimpse of joy and innocence. In working at a children's hospital, I come in to daily contact with all sorts of sweet babies. Sometimes babies who are born into difficult situations. Sure, it's hard to stomach. It was before my kid died. But it fills a need to nurture and to help. It gives me a sense of purpose and hope. Sometimes a baby will stop me in my tracks, but only for a moment. They are not her. Last week, I passed by the child watch area at the gym and an adorable, blonde baby looked right at me. I only partially smushed my face again the glass so as not to alarm the workers. Those moments ignite a longing to mother a child earth side. A primal urge I choose not to quiet. They are a reminder of what could have been and that's painful. I know everyone's journey is unique to them. I won't speculate on others feelings and I won't lie about the sometimes jealousy I feel of blissful pregnancies or newborns. I could only imagine how difficult it must be to share your joyous news with a child loss parent but I have lived your joy and want nothing more for you. I probably want it more than the average aquaintance because I live in a different reality. But I am Piper's momma, not theirs. I'm beyond lucky that our friends and family let us be the best aunt and uncle we can, to fill our empty arms. Bring on the happy, bring on that joy. Rest easy my Piper Kai. I knew the holidays would be hard but I'm not sure my fragile heart was ready. I've been ugly crying for two days. It's family time and a time of year to be thankful, so pass the mashed potatoes and the tissues please.
Ive added to this post several times over the months and I'm sure it isn't finished. l have the privledge of learning a thing or two from our Piper, although she did not ever take a breath. The most important lesson to me is that love my momma talked about. That love so deep it's physical. That love that sets your soul on fire. I have to love my child from the earth side so it's ever more fierce. To know that there is that love in the world, admist all the hate, is beautiful. I learned that everyone has a story and be careful to pass judgement. I've said aloud that there are 'rubber neckers'. People I harshly named that want to get close enough to see the tragedy but ultimately want to drive on by then call their friends to say, see that wreck that is me, on I-64. Truthfully, everyone has their own story and their own tragedy to contend. It may not be the same but it could be the worst thing that has ever happened to them. Pain is pain. I learned that grief is freeing. After Piper died, people shared stories of their own losses. Ranging from child loss, infertility issues to siblings and parents passing. I welcomed it. In the immediate weeks after my daughter died, I worked hard not to yell at strangers at Food Lion about this beautiful, blonde that is forever sleeping. There's a society cap on sympathy and an overall discomfort in speaking of the dead. Given the freedom, people will unburden. Piper's death invited people to share and mourn their loved ones out loud and to a willing audience. I've learned what love from your community looks like. I like to talk about our tribe because I would not be standing. It takes a strong person to hold you up at your worst. To love you through the pain. It's all the tangible niceness of flowers, food and cards. Also, it looks like patience, prayer and sitting with your friend as she mourns. It's accepting and working with the new version of us. Our community comes up with such beautifully, creative ways to honor Pipes. What for better or for worse really means. I thought I loved Beau before our daughter but the love that I feel after has no measure. To have someone who loves you through the worst possible tragedy, who still loves life and provides you a positive platform on which to rebuild is essential to my very existence. I learned to let the little things go. Piper's death showed me big picture. So the fact that I'm running late, so-and-so did this and Beau said that isn't that big of a deal. This one I'm still working on. My former self was a bit crazy, type A, loony bird. Still is. The process of merging is still on going but it's given a new pause, reflect button. A bit more impulse control. I have a whole new perspective at work. I work in a pediatric setting with all types of kids with exceptionalities that have always required patience. The patience I have been forced to afford myself has overflowed to a professional setting. I can now empathasize with concerned parents because I too am a mama bear. I've learned how much my family loves me, how to find joy, to force joy, to choose happy, to choose life. Rest easy Piper Kai, the best lesson of my life. I'd been journaling about my positive experience two weekends ago but then last Monday happened and I crashed, burned and am in the rebuilding stage. I came off the incredible high of spending an entire weekend with some essential pieces of my tribe and completing the OBX half marathon, four months post baby. Then an unhealthy does of realty hit. You know, the typical life events. Work, errands, Karma Jane to vet. The normalcy led to me being borderline horrible with lots of tears, extra sleeping and plenty of snippiness, aimed mostly at my all too understanding husband. At times, I try and tackle too much normal which results in an odd, emotional fatigue. Now that I've sufficiently whined I'd like to go on to share about a happy experience.
The first few weeks after our Piper died my family coaxed me from the house to take walks. People mumbled things about vitamin D and fresh air. Sometimes I talked, or cried but mostly just truffle shuffled behind them. I stumbled, then walked and eventually ran. I used exercise as a purposeful break from my grief. Every morning I set intentions: eat, shower and exercise. These simple goals were often the only things I could manage to accomplish while Beau was at work. The familiarity of running was like welcoming back an old friend. Maybe not as dramatic as running towards the light but perhaps the somewhat stability that now exists.I began to crave the physical transfer of energy and the outlet exercise provided. Somewhere in the early weeks I decided to follow my girlfriends and sign up for a half marathon. Did you know fogginess is a symptom of grief? I most definitely did not think it all the way through but wanted to honor my daughter in the sense of my gratitude for my life and health. The anxiety started about three days before we were to run the race in North Carolina. Some it was the typical stuff. Have I trained enough? Hydrated enough? Ate the right things? On a bit deeper of a feel. Did I trust my body? It let me down four, short months ago, will it hold up? It took me until a few hours before it started to realize the anxiety stemmed from the deeper meaning of this race. I am moving both physically and mentally, not away from Piper, but towards my new life. Like all of my firsts, this one was brutal. It hurt much more than past races and took me a long time to finish it. If it were not for my friends, I would have succumb to my anxiety at mile 11 and laid down. I cried through mile 12, telling Nichole how much I missed my kid. All my crew crossed the finish line and did so to celebrate Piper's important lesson: you only get one life, keep putting one foot in front of the other, and try to smile when doing it. Maybe this off week was a result of the mental and physical energy it took to complete 13.1 miles. Or maybe the heavy realization that this will continue dictate how I live each moment of my life. That is some serious responsibility. But the race was a good representation of what it is like living without your child. It's rough, slow and exhausting but you finish it. Then you congratulate yourself, eat some carbs, take some pride and figure out the next step. If you stand still too long that becomes your choice. Rest easy my darling girl. |
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