I did not lose Piper, she died. I didn't misplace her or forget where she was. The memories died too, before they hatched into a reality. It's a dangerous game letting her grow up in my head. It brings me joy, comfort and a whole new level of pain each round.
I have this perfect image of a blonde, diapered baby running back and forth to the ocean's edge like a sandpiper. I wonder if she would have been bold and willful. I sometimes dare dream of her first day of school. Pig tails and a too big backpack waving to me from the classroom door. I think she would have been smart, loved to read. I close my eyes and see her stand on her Daddy's feet to dance. I see his face too, the way I'd know he'd adore her. She looked just like him with my lips. I wonder if she would have liked peanut butter sandwiches and demanded the crusts be cut off. I picture her Halloween costumes and Christmas outfits. I wonder if she would have been afraid of the mall Santa or the Easter Bunny. I can see her surfing with Beau, me terrified ashore. I just know she would have inherited my competitive nature and her father's love for life. I picture her attending high school and buying her prom dress. Recently the thought of her never getting married, wrecked me for days. I imagine all of the birthday parties and trips to the zoo. Me holding her and rocking her to sleep. Kissing boo-boos and playing dress up. I see a little, blonde sandpiper. I haven't looked at the pictures we have of her but I'm thankful they are there. One day I might. But now, I don't think my heart can take it. So I close my eyes and dream of her. The imagine of her sleeping, all warm and pink. She isn't lost. She is here, imprinted on my soul. Forever perfect. Rest easy my little sandpiper.
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I don't even know how long it would take me to chronicle all of the things I have felt guilty about since losing my daughter. I feel guilty for smiling in pictures, for attending social events, for exercising, and going to the store. I feel guilty when I think I want more children or don't think I could mange another pregnancy. I feel guilty when I'm happy and when I'm not. I feel guilty crying then in the absence of tears think how I am a bad mom for not mourning her. I am walking an exhausting, emotional tight rope that will span a lifetime.
"Guilt is both a cognitive and an emotional experience that occurs when a person believes that he or she has violated a moral standard and is responsible for that violation. People can feel guilty about something they actually did or didn't do." therapy.com Guilt is a typical response of being a devoted parent. I'd venture to guess it provides you an element of control over the uncontrollable. It's the tendency to think if I do everything right, then no bad will happen. My mom friends worry about everything. Is she eating enough? Is he sleeping enough? Is that a bug bite or a hive? They feel guilty when they travel or drop their kids at a babysitters'. They feel guilty when they work late. I won't lie and say guilt is a new emotional experience for me but I will share the guilt I feel now is on steroids. I've talked about how I don't feel guilty about Piper's death but I do feel guilty for my life after. I worked hard to provide my girl with a happy, healthy environment. I took all the vitamins, stayed away from microwaves and sushi. And given a choice, I would have gone in her place. Perhaps the most heavy one, is the guilt, I feel when other's encounter me in public. I imagine they look at me and wonder, how I am standing, clothed, clean and sometimes smiling. Depending on the day, I do too. Now I'll assume this is mostly in my head but I forgive them for the side eye and whispers because what I lost, is so great, you cannot imagine going on with your life. Living after your child died is unimaginable, but here I am. Proof that the world goes 'round. So when you see me at the pub or in line at the Food Lion, I too, am shocked. There is no hiding our tragedy. I paraded around with my very large midsection, had baby showers and made plans. This cannot be an internal struggle where I wait for the storm to die down, my loss is obvious. When your child dies it is beyond difficult to give yourself permission to live again. I feel as if we have violated the natural way life should occur in outliving my child. How am I to function in a world where she does not live? It sounds impossible and depending on the moment feels that way. So there is the guilt. The guilt for creating a new version of your life. The mother's guilt. The only way I can manage it the guilt is to justify it. It may look different to a lot of people but I know I would have kept on living my life with an infant. Choosing to live your life to honor your child is a challenging choice. There are still days where I only go through the motions and there are days when I am as close to 'me' as I am going to get. By forcing myself to participate in life I happen to find moments of joy and peace. My life has new meaning now that I live it for Piper. I try to feel all the feels and experience this new life extra, for her. I am a mother. She is forever a part of me, a bond not even broken by death. So I go on telling myself how Piper died but I am alive. The guilt is all part of the game. Sometimes I have to give myself a good pinch and yell in my car. Rest easy Piper Kai. I had another blog post all ready to go today about 'guilt' but something happened earlier while I was working my part-time job at the rehab hospital. You see I work mainly in a pediatric setting but will pick up shifts in adult rehab facility. I like the change and lately the anonymity that comes along with working on a unit that I barely know anyone. A sweet nurse, kindly asked me as I was leaving for the day, "So, how old is that baby now?" I paused to make sure I hadn't in fact died. I've been told congratulations from some poor, unknowing strangers or Beau has been asked how she's doing but I hadn't had anyone ask after her in that way. I thought 4 months, she should be 4 months. But should I count from the day she died or her due date? Then she'd be 3 months, cooing and smiling. That always messes me up. Like when I've been asked her birthday and her death day on forms. Should I draw a little arrow to reverse them because Piper died before she was born? I mumbled something how she had passed in July, I'm doing as well as expected then high tailed it to my car where I sobbed for 15 minutes before I could navigate home. Sometimes an encounter like that will leave me breathless and out of sorts for the rest of the day.
I've been back at work for over a month. All that know me or have read about how devastated I was to have to go back, I thought I'd grace ya with a little update. Now I had planned on transitioning to part time after Pipes but came back with some more hours. My job has been gracious in letting me have some flexibility. The first few days were horrible, awful, terrible. You get the idea. I cried on the way to work, at work and all the way home. Gone was the safety of my home and the freedom to participate in my organized grieving. I could no longer at any given moment dissolve. The very first day back I awoke with the thought: I should be readying Piper for a drop off at a grandparents'. Open the flood gates and just rip my heart out because I'm certain it's not beating anyhow. I faced some rough moments of being congratulated on the baby and more chit-chat then I had heard in over three months. I was anxious, overwhelmed and sad. I felt foggy and inefficient. I continue to struggle when I work with babies born in to not ideal situations. I question the universe and it's fairness. As the weeks tick by, I still have tough days. Sometimes the act of normalcy for a ten hour shift, leaves me emotionally exhausted. Slowly, I've began to stabilize. I want people to know that it does get easier. I believed no one when they said this and you won't believe me either so here it is in writing. When you are on the roller coaster from hell, can't get off, but it does go up. I forced myself, little by little, to list why I am thankful for being at work. Try it, it's hard. I was and continue to be grumpy about it. Here are a few things: I get to be around bright women who lift me up. They know what happened and can respect my distance and need for professionalism. Getting up and going to work, gives me a sense of routine. A sense of purpose. I cannot care for Piper earth side so helping other families is fulfilling. I get to play with adorable children and provide interventions to hopefully make their future's brighter. I'm making money that will allow me to travel, eat, live and ok, buy cute hats. I went to school for a looong time and should put all that education to good use. Having something outside of the home, gives me unique experiences to bring back to the table. It distracts my mind so that I am not constantly crying or binge watching Parks and Rec. It allows for some compartmentalization. Here is my pain and it can coexist with a functional life. It's putting one foot in front of the other, although heavy, it's in the right general direction. Sometimes the the hard thing is the right thing or some grown up thing like that. Being a working Mom of none is hard stuff. I miss you so much and everything that was to come after you. Rest easy, my sweet baby girl. Infant loss and awareness month. I had no idea this was recognized in it's own entire month because I lived in a happy, blissful pregnancy haze where nothing could happen to MY baby. Well, it did. I am now the scary statistic, the one in four women who experience loss. The one in 160 who experience stillbirth. The one in 2,000 that experience a true knot. If you are sensing bitterness, you'd be correct. I'm experimenting with the anger stage right now. Be careful, this might not be for the faint of heart. Strangers and people I have known for years, opened up their lives to me and shared their own stories. It took Piper's death for other women to share or maybe for me to actively listen. The topic is glanced at, carefully out the corner of your eyes as to not really see it. Why? Because is horrid. Hearing about how my child died, or any one, ever, must be gut wrenching. I know it is for me. But it happens and people need to be able to talk and hear about it. For the record, my record, I think sharing is the best form of therapy. I like to have it all out in the open and from what I am learning other people need to talk about their loved ones too, whether it's been a month or 20 years. Lots of love for all the people who have listened to me share about my daughter. I hope this month gives freedom to all the families to talk and cry out loud. Sometimes light blooms from the dark or some cliche like that. But awareness can bring empathy, fund research, encourage prevention and give some grieving mamas a moment to tell the whole world about the beautiful thing they did. I was really hesitant to attend the Walk to Remember put on by the hospital. Not only was I having a bit of anxiety about being near the hospital I delivered at, I was anxious about the whole thing. All those feels. Good thing my sister-in- law, Carly, gave me a gentle nudge and we attended along with my niece and some tribe members. It was lovely to be surrounded by people who wanted to honor, love and send positive energy out in to the world. It did my soul some good. Something pulled me in here to write this tonight. I had no intention of including this in my public rants but I am really striving for a raw look at what this journey looks like for me. I am equally thankful and pissed off this month exists. I am happy my daughter was so beautifully remembered and I'm sick that she isn't here with me. My heart felt like it my burst from all the sadness, love and courage that walk acknowledged. So I guess my point, yes I do have one, is you can feel whatever you want. I pile on the emotions like a buffet. Today I am mad, a little sad and a side of OK. I hope that my strength continues to be my badge but I want people to know the struggle is real, present and daily. Rest easy PKB. A bit of the lovely tribute, Carly, made to Pipes: "Kai means ocean. Our family often finds ourselves on the beach, whether on vacation, on a walk, or just to watch the waves meet the sand. There is something powerful, beautiful and even breathtaking about the ocean. We each time, are reminded of our sweet Piper Kai. She never did take her first breath, but Piper Kai will always be loved beyond measure by her mother, father, grandparents, family and friends. We will never forget her, her beauty and how she has in her own way shaped our lives." So all the feels. The Piper pudge is the extra inches of love I can pinch on my stomach. OK, pinch all around. I have affectionately named it, so I can be nice to myself. I spent 9 months eating ALL the carbs racking up nearly 50 lbs. Big shout out to my Mom's banana pudding. Aside from the first trimester nausea, I generally enjoyed being pregnant. My husband thought I was a fox. I adored that big belly and all of her wiggles. And let me be clear right now, I was not all belly. My pinky toe gained weight. I suspect most women are mean to their bodies and participate in negative 'self-talk'. Me included. I'd wail about how my jeans were too tight or this shirt gives me back fat. I'm guilty of cornering Beau and demanding, "Does this make me look fat?", on more than one occasion. I've counted calories and adhered to regular exercise. I've chatted with other moms who have lost children about the body after baby, without the baby. The weight gain, hips widening, breasts swelling then deflating, the stretch marks. It's a constant reminder of how you spent the last months and the child who is not here. There's this feeling of betrayal. That your body did not carry out the job you had entrusted it with. It can spiral into a special kind of negative chatter. After Piper, I saw myself in a different light. It was delightfully surprising. I'd think, I'm a warrior. I grew a human being. This body survived growing, birthing and losing a daughter. I'd want Piper to love herself for no matter how she looked or what she weighed so I'd better start right now with myself. I can make this choice for her. All the ladies, please be gentle with yourselves. I can tell you there are worse things than your jeans not zipping. I run to eat so I am no stranger to the game. I know with diet, exercise and time my Piper pudge will begin to fade. And I'll miss it. But I hope my warrior mentality sticks around. Rest easy Piper Kai. Sometimes I feel as if losing Piper only happened to me, grief is a selfish beast. But Beau lost our girl, too. When two who should have been three, become two again. It's tricky business. So I've been dating my husband. It's like starting all over again with these new versions of ourselves. In the first few weeks I had to remind myself to ask him about his life. I debated setting an alarm in my phone to remind myself to do this simple act because when you are grieving, chit-chat is not on the agenda. Also, not on the agenda: wife chores. I don't know who does what in your house but this type-A Momma has done the laundry, grocery shopping and yelling at the cable guy for roughly 6 years...Those were hard to do with my face in brownies and ugly crying.
In most things that I've read since loosing Piper, in big red letters it says watch out, marital issues ahead. There are and have been bumps and pain and all the things that come with child loss. But above all else there is love. There are the hugs at 4 a.m. There is the kindness, there is the laughter and there is us. Forever changed but making a choice to survive this together. Oh and by the way, Happy 3rd Anniversary to you babe! Thanks for being the most amazing father to our girl. The best way you could show her how much you love her is by loving me. Rest easy Pipes. Mom and Dad love you. Return To Work. I have to go back tomorrow. I have to sit in the last place I was exactly three months to the day that I lost you. I sat in that office chair willing you to move. I still can't seem shake the fact that I should have spent the last three months at home with you. Learning your tiny baby habits and keeping you mostly to myself. Probably not sleeping and arguing with Daddy about the last person to change a diaper. I would have held you during your nap times because you are only little once. Also, to make sure your were breathing. I hear that's a first time Mom thing to do. I would have breathed in that just washed baby smell. Every coo and smile. I do not think I'll ever by ever to rid that feeling when I am home alone you should be here too.
I would have worked some after you had arrived. I would have packed you up and shipped your off to one or more willing grandparent to fill your days being spoiled. I don't know what to do with my life now that I'm forced to live it without you. But we both know simply existing is not an option. Living is the choice.Tomorrow, I'll have first day butterflies but I'll go and smile and work and cry in the car. I'll let your light shine through me. You may not be here but I am still your Mom. I miss you everyday. Rest easy Piper Kai. Grief is a sneaky bitch. I'll be minding my own business and there it is staring at me, taking my breath away and threatening to bring me to my knees. It's unfair and does not discriminate. It does not care where I am or whose company I keep. It manifests in so many unpredictable ways it's impossible to brace yourself fully. I've gotten really good at crying publicly without apology. I like to tell people I am going to cry before I do it so they can brace themselves, fully.
I've read the seven, well-defined, linear stages of grief. My personality continues to partner with my new normal and they like to check things off of lists. The numbers are irrelevant because there is no order. Grief is messy. It comes in waves. I will not hide my grief as I did not hide my love. {Lindsey M. Henke} I hold strong to this affirmation. I will not hide because hiding indicates fear or shame. Grief is not something to solve but incorporate into your new path as it is life long. Just as my love for my child. Whoever said 'time heals all wounds' did not lose their child. It will scar, the pain lessens but it will not heal and putting such an expectation upon yourself is unnecessary. Despite the challenge, I give myself permission to grieve. I let it out and name it. The waves come less frequently as I continue to embrace my grief. My choice to grieve breeds my choice to love. My daughter gave me the gift of knowing a true, pure and fierce love. I will choose to make it tangible in that I continue to love and respect myself. I choose to love and encourage a whole marriage. I choose to love when it is difficult. So hug someone. And also sorry Mom for the swear word, it was warranted. Rest easy Pipsqueak. Yesterday around 11 a.m., I received a phone call asking me to be a part of a parent panel for the Star Legacy Foundation, dedicated to stillbirth research and education. The foundation was hosting a retreat in Toana, VA and their goal is to educate health care professionals on stillbirth. The audience would comprise of mostly labor and delivery nurses. They needed me to be there at 5 p.m. A family had an unavoidable event leaving them unable to attend and a bereavement group counselor referred me {see can't stop talking in groups, see internet ramblings}. In a knee-jerk reaction, I agreed. I thought how lovely a room full of strangers is going to let me talk for an undetermined amount of time about my beautiful child. And they can't leave. Then I hung up and had a panic attack in my car. How am I going to stand up exactly ten weeks to the day I gave birth, share my story and answer questions? I'm going to ugly cry. I'm going to faint. More panic. Then I knew I'd do it for Piper. I had vowed to live my life and celebrate hers. I showered, dressed and debated mascara.
Upon my arrival, I was introduced to two more brave families on the panel. I fought waves of anxiety as we were escorted to the front of the room then introduced. I was so thankful there was a chair. I thought if I fainted from the seated position rather than the standing I was less likely to have a head injury. First tears then the story. I told them I am the statistic. I am the 1 in 2,000. [To clarify 1 in 160 births do not result in a living child but Piper's rare umbilical cord accident is seen in 1 out of 2,000]. The more I spoke the louder my heart sang. I hope I did her justice. I led them through my pregnancy and entire hospital stay. I fielded questions and answered them as frankly as possible. They thanked me but it is me who should thank them. This public forum was another therapeutic outlet to share my girl's short, beautiful story. Parents experiencing perinatal loss need the opportunity to separate their child's birth experience from their death. There is already too much overlap. Birthing, holding and saying good-bye to our daughter has allowed me to begin my grief journey on sturdier ground. We encouraged the nursing communities to allow families time to mourn before making big decisions about what is to follow. To celebrate their child's life by making the only memories you'll have of your baby. As I finished speaking, one nurse stood and told me I was the reason she was there. She had been the nurse to walk me teary-eyed in to labor and delivery the day my world stopped. She told me how we live in her heart. In by doing this, she handed me back a piece of mine. Rest easy Piper Kai. I could hardly wait for Beau to go to the gym tonight so I could participate in my 'ritual'. Rituals are my way of organized grieving. My counselor used this term to describe it one time and I held on to it. You see, I like order and control. And who doesn't. I try to take a few moments or hours to allow myself to feel all the feels. Time to reflect, write or cry. I woke up today knowing it was going to be one of those days. A pajama and cookie dough kind-of day.
My rituals vary from day to day but the one I needed tonight was some time in her nursery.I prefer to participate in this alone. Not that I feel the need to hide it but because it's my time. I carefully take out all her tiny, newborn clothes and refold them in her drawers. I read her books and rock in her chair. I hold her hat from the hospital. And I lean in to the grief. Lean hard. Pink and gray. That beautiful nursery. It smells like a baby should live in there because Lolly lovingly washed all of her clothes in the special baby detergent. There are diapers in the drawers. The crib bedding that took me months to pick out. The gray walls and the soft pink curtains. There's the swing that I took out of the box and left on the floor because I was too excited {then too pregnant to assemble}. Her furniture that Beau and I put together the day we got it. There are also things that should not live in there. Her car seat, bottles and high chair are all stacked in a corner. Her bathtub and rubber ducky live in her closet. My brothers, Ethan and Arin, and our dear friend Jason came to our house before we returned without Piper and put all of the things strewn about the house in her room. Her nursery houses my most prized possession. Her memory box the hospital put together for us. You ever play that game in your head. If my house caught on fire what would I grab? Beau and Karma Jane go without saying. But the way I sleep they would have to grab me. But I'd choose that box. In that purple box, lives our daughter's ultrasound photos, hospital bracelet and her hand and foot prints. I can understand the horror that accompanies the thought process of 'why'. Why would I go in there? Doesn't it hurt? Sometimes I feel like putting all of her things on the curb because the thought of her never using them is almost unbearable. But most the time, I crave that nursery, to feel close to her. And I know there will come a day, hopefully, that I will need to prepare that room for subsequent children. Or I will feel strong enough to move some of things. But not today. Today I lean in. Today the choice is to grieve my daughter. Fully and properly. Rest easy Piper Kai. |
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