Dear Analin,
It's been one of those weekends. Nothing major happened, just lots of small things adding up to the point where breathing hurts a little bit again.
We put Christmas stuff away on Sunday. It was no where near as difficult as putting Christmas decorations up. When we put Christmas up, I was in a cloud of pain. I could barely see through it, keeping my face as relaxed as possible for the boys and family. I hadn't been able to believe, at the time, that missing you would hurt that much. I ended up blaming other things and other people. Everything built up in me until I couldn't stop the tears, but it was still a while before I sorted out it wasn't everything outside of me causing the pain, but what was inside.
Taking Christmas down was a piece of cake after that. Even folding away your stocking with all the others wasn't as hard as I was afraid it was going to be. The process wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't devastating.
We saw Athena this weekend as well. I got to feed her and burp her for the first time. I was such a proud (and lucky) auntie. I got her to eat her whole bottle before she fell asleep, and she burped so quickly and easily for me. She is a beautiful five month old baby who is right on target for a two month old size because she was born three months early. Athena is a true miracle and I get to be part of her life. I wish so badly that you could be, too. She's the daughter of my best friend who I've known since first grade. We had so many plans for you, Athena and Xavier, Athena's twin who didn't make it.
On Friday, I got a text from one of my friends. Her five year old daughter had accidentally let a balloon into the sky. "Mommy, is it going up to Joshua's sister?" Her mommy told her that it was. It made my heart so happy to know you were thought about, talked about, and I wasn't even there. It was beautiful to me.
So memories have been the culprit. Memories of what had been and what's been planned. Nothing new, but nothing painless. It's like when you hold your palm over a flame for just a moment. It doesn't hurt very badly. But then you do it again. And again. And again, a million more times. Eventually it starts to hurt, even burn, when at first it had just been a little too warm.
Of course, I am your mommy. A little burn would never stop me from thinking about you or missing you. I love you bigger than words or thoughts. Bigger than you could ever know.
Forever, little one.
Mommy.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Good Grief
Dear Analin,
Your daddy told me something that your uncle had told him. It's an observation he made about how we're handling our grief for you. He said something along the lines of seeing us accept grief as a part of ourselves -as if it were an arm or a leg - rather than looking at grief as something to tackle or to fix.
I think that's a very true observation. From the moment I found out you were gone, I knew I would be okay, that our whole family would. We would hurt, we would be angry, and we would miss you forever, but we would be okay. And we have been. We have been supporting each other through this in every way - pushing, dragging and walking along side each other with every step. Accepting grief as something that will always be with us, rather than something to try to patch over or forget.
I was feeling guilty, admittedly, for not obsessing over you every day, for not being angry or devastated, but for moving on with what I have left in my life, which is still full of love. So many people who have lost their own babies seem bogged down by it, heartbroken in a way that can't be fixed. But I don't think it's something to be fixed. Loss is something to be accepted. It doesn't mean you have to like it, or that all the negative emotions go away. It just means you realize there's nothing to be done, that you still have a life to live, still have others to love and others who love you.
All of this brings me back to how lucky we are. Daddy and I have your two big brothers, and possibly some little siblings to enjoy. I read an article yesterday about parents who lost their baby and cannot have another. I can't imagine the pain of that, or the struggle, and doubt my words here would be much help to them. Or at least, not comforting. Of course, I'm not trying to be comforting. Pragmatic, I guess. Definitely realistic.
Life is not meant to be lived in pain and sadness. I lived that way for so many years. I struggled through clinical depression and won. I felt loneliness cut deep even when I was with people who were supposed to be my family. Then I decided enough was enough and left it all behind to be criticized as I moved through it - another type of hurt.
Having lived through all that taught me so much about pain and grief, and how to find the silver lining, how to smile through it all and find something to be happy about. That's basically where we are now, I think. Even though we're sad, we're still happy.
I love you, baby girl.
Mommy.
Your daddy told me something that your uncle had told him. It's an observation he made about how we're handling our grief for you. He said something along the lines of seeing us accept grief as a part of ourselves -as if it were an arm or a leg - rather than looking at grief as something to tackle or to fix.
I think that's a very true observation. From the moment I found out you were gone, I knew I would be okay, that our whole family would. We would hurt, we would be angry, and we would miss you forever, but we would be okay. And we have been. We have been supporting each other through this in every way - pushing, dragging and walking along side each other with every step. Accepting grief as something that will always be with us, rather than something to try to patch over or forget.
I was feeling guilty, admittedly, for not obsessing over you every day, for not being angry or devastated, but for moving on with what I have left in my life, which is still full of love. So many people who have lost their own babies seem bogged down by it, heartbroken in a way that can't be fixed. But I don't think it's something to be fixed. Loss is something to be accepted. It doesn't mean you have to like it, or that all the negative emotions go away. It just means you realize there's nothing to be done, that you still have a life to live, still have others to love and others who love you.
All of this brings me back to how lucky we are. Daddy and I have your two big brothers, and possibly some little siblings to enjoy. I read an article yesterday about parents who lost their baby and cannot have another. I can't imagine the pain of that, or the struggle, and doubt my words here would be much help to them. Or at least, not comforting. Of course, I'm not trying to be comforting. Pragmatic, I guess. Definitely realistic.
Life is not meant to be lived in pain and sadness. I lived that way for so many years. I struggled through clinical depression and won. I felt loneliness cut deep even when I was with people who were supposed to be my family. Then I decided enough was enough and left it all behind to be criticized as I moved through it - another type of hurt.
Having lived through all that taught me so much about pain and grief, and how to find the silver lining, how to smile through it all and find something to be happy about. That's basically where we are now, I think. Even though we're sad, we're still happy.
I love you, baby girl.
Mommy.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
New Year
Dear Analin,
We're minutes from the new year. It will be 2014 by the time I finish writing this, we're so close. It has been such a difficult day. I've been pretty terrified all day that 2013 wasn't quite done with us yet. Your daddy and big brother, Sebastian, have been sick. We've had a few trips out on semi-icy roads and I held my breath the whole way.
With this year ending, I'm becoming more certain your loss was for a reason. I know that's horrible to think, and that many people won't agree with me, but I can't help it. Perhaps it's the way your father and I met, or many other thing throughout my life, but I truly believe in Fate. I believe the road we're taken on is intended to be the best for us. Because I believe this, it means I have to see this as not only the best road for me, but also the best road for you.
It's such a hard end to the year. So many people in your family are hurting, but we hope and pray the new year brings us something different, something positive. We have all been beat up this year by many things, one of the greatest being your loss, and other babies. Loss of family units and homes. It's been hard and we are so looking forward to something easier.
We miss you so much at times like this - times you should be with us. But looking forward, perhaps, I'm seeing reasons why you're not. I don't like a single one of them. I don't believe for a minute we couldn't have met the challenges before us with you. Meeting them without you is quite a different challenge, as it is.
Ugh. I have to admit, I'm not entirely sober writing this, so I hope it's not completely crazy. Your big brother, Joshua, is begging me to take him to bed, his first real New Years Night. And all I can think of right now is writing you and letting you know that I miss you so very much it hurts every moment, but I also appreciate you in a way very few can understand, and will be able to keep going with just your memory.
I love you, beautiful girl, on this fantastic New Year Night as it heads into day, and all the others in front of and behind it. I have to take your brother to bed now.
Forever thinking of and missing you. Happy New Year, Analin.
Love from your Mommy.
We're minutes from the new year. It will be 2014 by the time I finish writing this, we're so close. It has been such a difficult day. I've been pretty terrified all day that 2013 wasn't quite done with us yet. Your daddy and big brother, Sebastian, have been sick. We've had a few trips out on semi-icy roads and I held my breath the whole way.
With this year ending, I'm becoming more certain your loss was for a reason. I know that's horrible to think, and that many people won't agree with me, but I can't help it. Perhaps it's the way your father and I met, or many other thing throughout my life, but I truly believe in Fate. I believe the road we're taken on is intended to be the best for us. Because I believe this, it means I have to see this as not only the best road for me, but also the best road for you.
It's such a hard end to the year. So many people in your family are hurting, but we hope and pray the new year brings us something different, something positive. We have all been beat up this year by many things, one of the greatest being your loss, and other babies. Loss of family units and homes. It's been hard and we are so looking forward to something easier.
We miss you so much at times like this - times you should be with us. But looking forward, perhaps, I'm seeing reasons why you're not. I don't like a single one of them. I don't believe for a minute we couldn't have met the challenges before us with you. Meeting them without you is quite a different challenge, as it is.
Ugh. I have to admit, I'm not entirely sober writing this, so I hope it's not completely crazy. Your big brother, Joshua, is begging me to take him to bed, his first real New Years Night. And all I can think of right now is writing you and letting you know that I miss you so very much it hurts every moment, but I also appreciate you in a way very few can understand, and will be able to keep going with just your memory.
I love you, beautiful girl, on this fantastic New Year Night as it heads into day, and all the others in front of and behind it. I have to take your brother to bed now.
Forever thinking of and missing you. Happy New Year, Analin.
Love from your Mommy.
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