Capture Your Grief

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October 1, 2012

Day 1: Sunrise 7:02am EDT

 This is the view from what would have been Annabelle’s room. It faces east and is bathed in morning sun. Watching the sunrise from her window gives me hope that I can make it through another day. #captureyourgrief


 They say you can never know a person’s journey until you’ve walked in their shoes – or in this case – seen life through their eyes.  I’ve never understood that statement more than now. 

“Perinatal Loss” (Miscarriage, pregnancy loss, stillbirth and infant loss) is a topic covered in a shroud of secrecy and silence. It’s the club no parent wants to be a part of; and in many cases, a topic no one wants to discuss. Babies dying do not make for comfortable conversation.  But just because something is hard, doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be talked about.

Carly Marie Dudley, the beautiful artist behind www.carlymarieprojectheal.com  is encouraging grieving parents to do just that this month. To talk about grief and loss through pictures.  Project CAPTURE YOUR GRIEF is a 31 day photograph challenge where parents who have had any type of perinatal loss can share their images and feelings, and use this as an outlet to help their healing process.

I’ve always wanted to participate in a photograph challenge, and usually start out with the best of intentions (like downloading the Project 365 app to my iPhone every January 1st), but somehow lose interest or get wrapped up in other things and let it go. But this one is different; and I think I can do it. Why? Because it’s a way to keep Annabelle with me. To give voice to her name. And to help me heal. Just the simple act of taking five minutes each day and doing something small and quiet for my little girl brings a smile to my face, and lets me know that it’s okay to remember her positively.  It’s another gift she’s given me.

Participate or just follow along on the Capture Your Grief Facebook event page, Twitter, Instagram or Pinterest using the hashtag #captureyourgrief

Annabelle and I will be there.
















"Write It Down"

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Thursday, September 27, 2012

In our last bereavement group session we were assigned a piece of homework; to write a letter to either a caregiver, a family member or friend, or to our child about our experience losing a baby.
Try as I might, I do not yet have the courage (or the words) to write to Annabelle (that is what this blog is intended to help me find). Instead, I chose to try and capture some of the emotion both my husband and I feel for our nurse, Eveline, who guided us through the darkest night of our lives.

This is our thank-you to her: 
 
I read a quote online recently that defined a nurse as “a unique soul who will pass through your life for a minute and impact it for an eternity.  An empowered individual whom you may meet for only a 12 hour period, but who will put you and yours above theirs”.  As we look back on the night that led to Annabelle’s arrival and departure, we have come to realize that truer words were never spoken.

When we first met you that night, I’ll admit: I didn’t want to like you. I didn’t want to embrace your kind words, gentle spirit and caring touch. Because, in my mind, to do so meant I had to acknowledge, and in some way, accept why you were there.  That you were going to guide us through moments we did not want to experience, and help us face a reality we did not want to exist. 

We were afraid and alone and in uncharted territory. We didn’t know what to expect; what to do, or how to cope. But you did. You’ve been there before. You’ve seen parents like us before. And you knew exactly what to do – and what to say. And while we never knew how painful a journey this was going to be for us, we can’t even begin to understand what it is like for you.  As parents about to lose their child, we were allowed the luxury of breaking down and crying; of getting angry and saying bitter things; of wanting to curl up in a little ball and hide; but you didn’t. You had a job to do. We watched as you fought back tears and forced a smile to your lips so that you could care for us in our time of need.  I’m not sure either of us will ever fully appreciate how much strength and courage that takes. To constantly be the quiet, calm voice of reason in the midst of chaos. To look into the eyes of parents who are about to lose their baby and tell them it will be okay. 

That night, in the late dark hours, when my pain had hit a threshold I could no longer bear, you were there. You held my hand. You advocated for me and stayed with me until I could find sleep.  You gave Aaron the comfort and peace to know that he could leave for a while and go give our eldest daughter a sense of normal on the most unnatural of days.  You gave us kindness and respect that neither one of us expected, and we are so very, very grateful.

When it came time for Annabelle to be born, you were there by our sides. I have a very vivid memory of you being the one to present her to me. Placing her on my chest and wrapping her in my arms.  You told us she was perfect and beautiful, and that we should be proud of her. You told us to talk to her; that she could hear us and that she knew we were here and that we loved her.  And through the tears and grief, we did. Our little angel spent a perfect 20 minutes of life knowing nothing but pure unconditional love. 
We have both often said that you were our guardian angel that night…and that we wouldn’t have made it through that night without you.  We look at you as one of the many gifts our sweet Annabelle gave us.  She needed us to know that even during the darkest, most somber moments, there is joy and goodness in this world. She needed us to meet you.  And she needed you to meet her. You are the only person in this world other than us who got to know Annabelle. You, like us, were there for her first breath and her last. And you let her live that short life with grace, dignity and love.  She left an imprint on your life that night, just as she did ours; and we will always think of you when we think of her, and that will make us smile.

Eveline, you have a compassionate and caring nature that cannot be taught in school; and a wisdom that reaches far beyond your years.  You were the perfect person to accompany us on this journey, and it gives us comfort knowing that we have someone out there other than us to share Annabelle‘s brief presence in this world. 

I’m not sure there will ever be enough words for Aaron and I to convey just how grateful we are for all you’ve done for us – and for Annabelle.  We hope this letter serves as a start.  That it helps inspire you to continue to help others as you’ve helped us. And that while no one should ever have to meet such an angel in such dire circumstances, we are so very glad we did.

xoxo,


Saying Goodbye...Part One

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Saturday, September 15, 2012

"On the night you were born, the moon smiled with such wonder, that the stars peeked in to see you, and the night wind whispered...life will never be the same.  Because there has never been anybody like you, ever in the world." ~ Nancy Tilman


Goodbye my sweet Annabelle Joy.  It's time for you to be free.

Love you always and forever,
Mommy








Old Ghosts

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Friday, September 14, 2012

"In the end, it is important to remember that we cannot become what we need to be by remaining what we are."  ~Max DePree

We're here, again. The place where it all began. Where it all ended. I can feel you here with us, yet I am acutely aware that you are gone.  The last time we were here I was pregnant with you.  I joked that my full, round belly made it harder to move around; to get close to the sink; get in (and out) of bed.  I loved the way you kicked when I swam in the lake.  How I felt weightless yet full of life.

As I walk inside our cottage today, my hesitant, small steps full of trepidation, I feel sad. Empty. Alone.  My hand instinctively reaches to my now flat belly, yearning to feel you again, knowing I never will.  It took me a while to be able to walk into the bedroom and stand in the very spot where our lives changed.  But I did.  At the foot of the bed, where I changed your big sister's diaper and felt my water break. I will never forget that moment; those few seconds in which you announced that, ready or not, you were coming.  I cried then. I tried to tell you "no, it was too early.  You're not ready. We're not ready. It's not time.  You have more growing to do. You're still too small". 


But you knew different. You knew that you'd grown as big as you could grow. That you weren't meant to stay inside for another 16 weeks. You had another purpose. You couldn't be who we wanted you to be. You needed to be what you wanted to be, and you needed to show us that it was okay. And that we needed to let you go.  Three days later, we let you go.

I am crying now as I did that day. Crying for you and for us.  For all the moments we will never share; all the things we will never see you do.  And I'm crying at your beauty. Your strength. Your courage to give up so much of yourself for us.  And somewhere, deep down inside, a small part of me is smiling. Smiling because I took another baby step forward. I wasn't sure I could do this; face this place, this room, these memories. I wasn't sure I could be here without you.  But I am.  I'm here for you. For Audrey and Daddy- who love this place so dearly. And for me. 

We came here this weekend to heal.  To exorcise old ghosts and make this beautiful place happy again.  And to bring you back here. To lay you to rest on the waves of the lake that sits right outside our door.  To make you a part of this land and to make this land a part of you. So that when we visit again we will be coming to see you and so that you can see us; in the waves and the sand that your big sister will splash in. In the sun that rises and sets on the horizon outside our window.  In the moonlight that dances on the water when Daddy and I sit out at night; in the stars that shine brightly on us...and maybe, just maybe as we introduce this place to a future younger sister or brother. 


Fly high my baby butterfly. Mommy loves you. I'll see you again soon.


New Beginnings...

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September 8, 2012

I'm standing on the far side of the playground, watching you play. It's your first day here and while I know you are scared, you are being brave. Being the big girl we've raised you to be. Showing us that you will not let your fear prevent you from living.  It's a big step for someone not quite three yet.  And it's a big step for me to let you go.

Change is good. Or so they say.  And we've put you through some big changes lately, not the least of which being your new school.  Deep down I know it was the right decision. For you. For us. You will flourish here. Grow and learn and experience new things. And you will do it with the grace and courage in which you approach everything.

As I watched you take your first hesitant little steps away from me and towards the playground, my heart filled with pride - and sadness. Happy from the smile on your face at the sight of bikes and sandboxes and slides and jungle gyms. For the friends you will make and the fun you will have.  But at the same time, sad. Sad at the thought of your little sister - Annabelle. The beautiful little spirit girl you never got to meet, who will never take those same steps. Never bask in the excitement of new experiences, new playgrounds, new friends.  A little girl who will never be more than a memory in my heart.

I miss her. I feel lost without her.  Hurt at what our family will never have because she is gone.  I feel like hiding. Like letting my grief and hurt win. But I want to be strong too. I need to be strong. For you. For me. For her.  I want you both to know that no matter what, mommy will be there, to help you and to guide you.  And right now I feel like I've failed at that.  That my grief, my hurt, my sadness have taken away my ability to see the joy in you. To laugh with you. To play with you.   But you remind me that life has to go on. That it's okay to laugh, to be silly and to play.  To put one foot in front of the other and walk...even if only a step at a time. 

Not that long ago I watched you take your first steps.  And with each hesitant, wobbly step you took, I held my breath. Hoping and praying you wouldn't fall...and cheering you on when you stood tall.  In some ways I feel like the tables have turned. That you are now the grown up, watching me take those first few #babysteps, just as I watched you take yours. Hoping and praying that I won't fall; and cheering me on when I stand tall.

I am taking these steps for you. Because you are my daughter and because I promised to always be there for you.  To guide you. Teach you. Love you.  And I do.  Deeply. Madly. Truly.

You've stopped running and are standing in front of a giant, brightly colored jungle gym. It's big. Way bigger than the one you are used to. And I know you want to climb it. To conquer it. To get to the prized slide at the other end of it. But you're unsure how to do that.  Just as I am unsure how to go on without Annabelle.  But rather than walk away and let your fear win, you move forward and place your tiny hands on the ladder...and begin to climb.  And as I close my eyes and hold my breath, hoping and praying that you don't fall, I am reminded: you can do this. And so can I.
 







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