One year ago today we met our sweet little boys. And we watched them go. What a blessing, what a curse.
Today was far worse for me than I had anticipated. Thankfully I have an amazing husband and am blessed with friends and family. I'll perhaps post more later about this anniversary day but for now I'm exhausted and emotionally spent. Goodnight.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Grief is not Linear
I fear I've let too much time pass to go back and recount the past five or six months of not writing. As hard as I tried, I could not sit down and write. In February I fell into a depression that lasted nearly six weeks. I could not physically sit down and face the blog - I never even typed in the address and pulled it up. The period of depression was set off by a series of bad events that all occurred at about the same time. As a result I rarely returned phone calls or emails, dropped out of a pilates class I had been going to every week for six months, got nothing done around the house and basically wasted a lot of time. The stress literally shut me down and it took winter's end to pull out of it. I commented to a friend during that time, I'm not okay - but I will be. And I am.
I have learned grieving is not a linear process - you do not proceed along a line that draws you farther away from the beginning point. Rather it's a circle. Or as my friend Magaly said, "it's like circling a doughnut - sometimes you fall in the hole." Well, I feel in the hole.
Since January first I've been trying hard not to relive the events of last year. I have not let myself look back at dates or events - marking their anniversary. I've tried hard to not give power to dates. Any random day is hard enough and grief comes and goes without warning or any concern for whatever else I have going on in my life. It is hard to believe they were not always dead.
The curious thing about the loss of a baby, or babies, is that you begin to wonder what it is that has this grip over you. I don't miss their voice or their smell or them walking through the door or their stuff or anything else that you might think would be worth missing or grieving over. The reality is, everything's the same - yet everything is different. I am sad for them. I wish they could have had a chance at this crazy word. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity to live on this Earth and their lives were so brief and incomplete and they will never get that opportunity again. It pains me. I grieve because while I am still whole there is literally a physical part of me that is missing. I grieve because they were my children and maybe that's reason enough.
Despite me having a blog for the world to see, the rest of my grieving has been very private. It is never a topic of conversation among my family and I rarely talk about it to friends. I do not tell people who don't already know and when the dreaded "how many kids do you have?" or the joking "will John be your only one?" come up - I spare folks who do not know the discomfort and I lie. I'd love to explain to them why it looks like I just had a baby, when my son is nearly three, but I don't.
I think about what has happened every day. It's just there. Not just on Mother's Day or on Easter or during the celebration of a birthday - but every single day. And I think that's pretty normal. I imagine people probably think that I've moved on but there is no moving on - just moving forward.
And just a quick rant for the record so I can shake a few things off my chest... Having another baby is not going to solve my problems and it won't bring back the children I've lost. When someone loses their spouse would you tell them to pull themselves together and start dating? No? So don't tell me I should just have another baby. That's not going to "fix" anything. Second, God did not want my babies. I know you mean well and you're trying to make me feel better, but, God is not a baby napper. Shit happens and God didn't have anything to do with it. And lastly, please don't share the drama in your life; I cannot take it. It's like adding a weighted vest to a drowning man. I may be strong but I'm not invincible and sometimes the added weight will make me fall in the doughnut hole.
I'm not sure how much I'll continue to write. We'll see. Things are good around the Mueller house. The grass is finally green. John is now three. Aaron is busy. The house is getting finished - no, really, it's almost done. The sun comes up. The sun goes down. We are looking forward to summer. Hope this post finds you all doing well. For those of you who also carry a cross, may your load be light and your terrain flat. Forge ahead. Peace out.
I have learned grieving is not a linear process - you do not proceed along a line that draws you farther away from the beginning point. Rather it's a circle. Or as my friend Magaly said, "it's like circling a doughnut - sometimes you fall in the hole." Well, I feel in the hole.
Since January first I've been trying hard not to relive the events of last year. I have not let myself look back at dates or events - marking their anniversary. I've tried hard to not give power to dates. Any random day is hard enough and grief comes and goes without warning or any concern for whatever else I have going on in my life. It is hard to believe they were not always dead.
The curious thing about the loss of a baby, or babies, is that you begin to wonder what it is that has this grip over you. I don't miss their voice or their smell or them walking through the door or their stuff or anything else that you might think would be worth missing or grieving over. The reality is, everything's the same - yet everything is different. I am sad for them. I wish they could have had a chance at this crazy word. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity to live on this Earth and their lives were so brief and incomplete and they will never get that opportunity again. It pains me. I grieve because while I am still whole there is literally a physical part of me that is missing. I grieve because they were my children and maybe that's reason enough.
Despite me having a blog for the world to see, the rest of my grieving has been very private. It is never a topic of conversation among my family and I rarely talk about it to friends. I do not tell people who don't already know and when the dreaded "how many kids do you have?" or the joking "will John be your only one?" come up - I spare folks who do not know the discomfort and I lie. I'd love to explain to them why it looks like I just had a baby, when my son is nearly three, but I don't.
I think about what has happened every day. It's just there. Not just on Mother's Day or on Easter or during the celebration of a birthday - but every single day. And I think that's pretty normal. I imagine people probably think that I've moved on but there is no moving on - just moving forward.
And just a quick rant for the record so I can shake a few things off my chest... Having another baby is not going to solve my problems and it won't bring back the children I've lost. When someone loses their spouse would you tell them to pull themselves together and start dating? No? So don't tell me I should just have another baby. That's not going to "fix" anything. Second, God did not want my babies. I know you mean well and you're trying to make me feel better, but, God is not a baby napper. Shit happens and God didn't have anything to do with it. And lastly, please don't share the drama in your life; I cannot take it. It's like adding a weighted vest to a drowning man. I may be strong but I'm not invincible and sometimes the added weight will make me fall in the doughnut hole.
I'm not sure how much I'll continue to write. We'll see. Things are good around the Mueller house. The grass is finally green. John is now three. Aaron is busy. The house is getting finished - no, really, it's almost done. The sun comes up. The sun goes down. We are looking forward to summer. Hope this post finds you all doing well. For those of you who also carry a cross, may your load be light and your terrain flat. Forge ahead. Peace out.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas everyone. I just wanted to make a quick post to tell you all how much Aaron and I appreciate your support this year. We have been blessed by the thoughts and prayers of new friends and old friends, family and strangers.
A special thanks to my girlfriends who have dared to be there for me. It's a scary thing to get involved with someone who is grieving and would have been much easier to just take some time away from me - but you didn't! Every time you said you were thinking of us, or offer you made to take me out (that I probably turned down) or simple note to say hello - it helped push me farther along in this journey. I'm blessed to have you in my life. Never underestimate the small stuff - indeed it makes all the difference.
Christmas is a magical time. Especially in a home with a two and a half year old! John has continued to make us laugh and amazes us with his energy everyday. We're so thankful for our healthy little boy!
The photo above was taken by my uncle Ben at the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in La Crosse, Wisconsin. This statue was donated by a family who has a similar experience to ours. We were blessed to have Charlie, Harry and Cal remembered in a Novena of Masses in December.
I imagined this Christmas to be different - but life has moved on. Someday I will know our three little boys. If God made this Earth then he is also fully capable of making Heaven. One day I will know them. Until then I will enjoy every second of this life I've been given; waiting for the day when I will see them again.
Merry Christmas to you all. May the joy of the season warm your hearts and feed your soul.
Blessings,
Kellie
Monday, November 15, 2010
Remembrance
Yesterday was a Remembrance service at Mayo for patients who had died in the hospital the first half of the year. While I imagined it to be more therapeutic and healing, it really just tore some fragile scabs off healing wounds. A few words that stuck with me from the service:
"Every man can master a grief but he that has it." William Shakespeare
"The Gift" by Lois Tschetter Hjelmsted
It is a gift -
This reminder of mortality
This thing that slows me down
This reflective summer.
I know things about myself
I could not otherwise have known -
Pain can be endured
Uncertainty can be tolerated
Loss can be processed.
I know there is a well-spring of
Strength
Courage
Joy
Within me.
I know that time is not forever,
There is
An urgency
A poignancy
A preciousness
To life.
I know that I do not fear
Suffering or death
As much anymore.
It is a menace
It is a sorrow
It is a loss of innocence
It is a gift.
"Every man can master a grief but he that has it." William Shakespeare
"The Gift" by Lois Tschetter Hjelmsted
It is a gift -
This reminder of mortality
This thing that slows me down
This reflective summer.
I know things about myself
I could not otherwise have known -
Pain can be endured
Uncertainty can be tolerated
Loss can be processed.
I know there is a well-spring of
Strength
Courage
Joy
Within me.
I know that time is not forever,
There is
An urgency
A poignancy
A preciousness
To life.
I know that I do not fear
Suffering or death
As much anymore.
It is a menace
It is a sorrow
It is a loss of innocence
It is a gift.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Awareness
I was hoping to make this post in October but somehow didn't get it done. Today I received an email from a woman in San Diego whose friend just lost her triplets on Saturday. I knew it was time to make this post. I am thankful she contacted me as I will always feel a deep kinship with mothers who have also lost triplets. I have read countless blogs and forums from triplet mothers and each testimony helps in knowing I am not alone.
October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. I spent the month really thinking about awareness and the importance of it. All thoughts go back to one main idea - sharing your story. I have learned and benefited and at times been carried by the stories of those who not only lost their children but who have not been able to have children of their own. These stories have helped me to feel less alone. They helped me understand the pain of infant loss is real. They have humbled me. I have been awakened to a world that is not as innocent and fair as it appears to be. Some stories seemed to be sadly repeated over and over while others blew me away. Each story was unique and personal, and some downright shocking.....
I had not seen my grandparents between the time that I had the boys and their funeral. As I walked up to them at the cemetery the first thing my grandpa said was, "We have a little boy buried right down there." What! I'm 31 years old. Except for 6 years of my life, I have lived within 12 miles of my grandparents and I was never told of this little boy, Rodney, who would have been my uncle.
As we lay with our three boys in the delivery room our deacon, who had been with us most of the morning, said, "I don't know what you're going through right now but I lost all 5 of my babies." I have no idea how she was able to sit and comfort us that day. It pains me to think about it. In the hospital that night our priest told us that he and his wife lost their third child. We also learned two of Aaron's grandmas lost children to miscarriage. By the time we went home from the hospital there were at least five people who had come out of the woodwork - I knew this was just the beginning. As my friend Magaly said, "You're now part of a club you didn't want to join." So true.
In the weeks after the boy's death I received cards and emails from several women I have known for many years, all sharing with me that they too had lost a child. Women, and men, who have carried this around most of their adult lives in silence were now saying, "Welcome to our club." It was as though I thought I was walking alone through a deep dark forest and people started slowly emerging from hiding. I am thankful for each and every one of these parents for contacting me because each story lessened my pain and allowed me a community in which to grieve.
Perhaps the stories that have humbled me the most are from those who have tried their damnedest to have children and for whatever reason have not been able to conceive. As one of my new friends said, "FAIR is a four letter word in our house." They have opened my eyes to the quiet suffering infertility creates that is often overlooked by the joy of adoption. While adoption may be a choice for some, it is the last hope for many after all other attempts have failed. And why does this happen to some of the best people I know? How about the story of another friend who after 10 years of fertility treatments, scars on her abdomen from all the shots, twenty pounds of extra weight from all the medications, 28 fertilized eggs - and she and her husband have one little miracle boy. Perseverance - I think so. These are stories I never would have had the privilege of hearing had I not suffered myself. I earned the right to hear them because I have found people are reluctant to share with you when you're unscathed in life.
Awareness is sharing your story. Sharing it for so many reasons that heal and give hope to a world in pain. This is tough stuff. This breaks up marriages, this makes people bitter, this medicates people. It is only though healthy sharing that we begin to heal and are able to better support those around us who suffer.
JK Rowlings gave the commencement address to Harvard students in 2008. She talked about two themes, one of them being imagination. Here is a quote that I thought about this past month while pondering the theme of awareness:
"Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathize with humans whose experiences we have never shared."
Maybe awareness is about expanding our imagination. It is helping someone who does not know the depths of child loss begin to try to understand the pain their friends and family members feel. The stories broaden our imagination - we begin to understand pregnancy and birth and life with new undertones and character. We also begin to understand the suffering of all people with a new perspective and hope our expanded imagination will make us more compassionate human beings.
Awareness. I think about all those women of my grandmother's generation and before who were told the best way to heal is to act like it never happened. Who were lead to believe nobody cared and that they should not burden society with their story. I think about the women of my generation who have dealt with loss in silence putting on a happy face and downplaying their hurt only to be dying inside. Pregnancy and Infant loss affects 2,000 people in the USA everyday and each person has a story. I am so happy my story has helped connect me to others and lead me to new friendships. I am thankful for every person who has so graciously shared their story with me. Whether you contacted me in private or I just read your story on a blog or online forum- sharing your story has helped my heart to heal.
October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. I spent the month really thinking about awareness and the importance of it. All thoughts go back to one main idea - sharing your story. I have learned and benefited and at times been carried by the stories of those who not only lost their children but who have not been able to have children of their own. These stories have helped me to feel less alone. They helped me understand the pain of infant loss is real. They have humbled me. I have been awakened to a world that is not as innocent and fair as it appears to be. Some stories seemed to be sadly repeated over and over while others blew me away. Each story was unique and personal, and some downright shocking.....
I had not seen my grandparents between the time that I had the boys and their funeral. As I walked up to them at the cemetery the first thing my grandpa said was, "We have a little boy buried right down there." What! I'm 31 years old. Except for 6 years of my life, I have lived within 12 miles of my grandparents and I was never told of this little boy, Rodney, who would have been my uncle.
As we lay with our three boys in the delivery room our deacon, who had been with us most of the morning, said, "I don't know what you're going through right now but I lost all 5 of my babies." I have no idea how she was able to sit and comfort us that day. It pains me to think about it. In the hospital that night our priest told us that he and his wife lost their third child. We also learned two of Aaron's grandmas lost children to miscarriage. By the time we went home from the hospital there were at least five people who had come out of the woodwork - I knew this was just the beginning. As my friend Magaly said, "You're now part of a club you didn't want to join." So true.
In the weeks after the boy's death I received cards and emails from several women I have known for many years, all sharing with me that they too had lost a child. Women, and men, who have carried this around most of their adult lives in silence were now saying, "Welcome to our club." It was as though I thought I was walking alone through a deep dark forest and people started slowly emerging from hiding. I am thankful for each and every one of these parents for contacting me because each story lessened my pain and allowed me a community in which to grieve.
Perhaps the stories that have humbled me the most are from those who have tried their damnedest to have children and for whatever reason have not been able to conceive. As one of my new friends said, "FAIR is a four letter word in our house." They have opened my eyes to the quiet suffering infertility creates that is often overlooked by the joy of adoption. While adoption may be a choice for some, it is the last hope for many after all other attempts have failed. And why does this happen to some of the best people I know? How about the story of another friend who after 10 years of fertility treatments, scars on her abdomen from all the shots, twenty pounds of extra weight from all the medications, 28 fertilized eggs - and she and her husband have one little miracle boy. Perseverance - I think so. These are stories I never would have had the privilege of hearing had I not suffered myself. I earned the right to hear them because I have found people are reluctant to share with you when you're unscathed in life.
Awareness is sharing your story. Sharing it for so many reasons that heal and give hope to a world in pain. This is tough stuff. This breaks up marriages, this makes people bitter, this medicates people. It is only though healthy sharing that we begin to heal and are able to better support those around us who suffer.
JK Rowlings gave the commencement address to Harvard students in 2008. She talked about two themes, one of them being imagination. Here is a quote that I thought about this past month while pondering the theme of awareness:
"Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathize with humans whose experiences we have never shared."
Maybe awareness is about expanding our imagination. It is helping someone who does not know the depths of child loss begin to try to understand the pain their friends and family members feel. The stories broaden our imagination - we begin to understand pregnancy and birth and life with new undertones and character. We also begin to understand the suffering of all people with a new perspective and hope our expanded imagination will make us more compassionate human beings.
Awareness. I think about all those women of my grandmother's generation and before who were told the best way to heal is to act like it never happened. Who were lead to believe nobody cared and that they should not burden society with their story. I think about the women of my generation who have dealt with loss in silence putting on a happy face and downplaying their hurt only to be dying inside. Pregnancy and Infant loss affects 2,000 people in the USA everyday and each person has a story. I am so happy my story has helped connect me to others and lead me to new friendships. I am thankful for every person who has so graciously shared their story with me. Whether you contacted me in private or I just read your story on a blog or online forum- sharing your story has helped my heart to heal.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Somewhere New
Time has been kind to me. So has my faith. The two in concert with one another have helped me to get to this new normal. In a packet sent home from the hospital with us there was a pamphlet for grandparents and it it it said, "parents can grieve deeply for 2 years after the loss of a child." While I believe you cannot put a time frame on grieving, you may as well have locked me in the loony bin if I were to grieve deeply for two years. That was a really dark place and I'm glad to have exited it's doors shortly after the last post I made. I did my time and I do not believe I am "grieving deeply" anymore. Rather I have moved on to a more emotionally stable place. It still hurts, of course, it likely always will. And there will be dark days, of course, but folks - I'm no longer there. I'm somewhere new.
Here's a little more clarification on some previous posts (I figure if close friends have asked me these questions then others are likely wondering as well):
The choice not to try and keep the boys alive: I am sure people are wondering if Aaron and I ever regret the decision to not intervene and keep the boys alive. Sure, we think about it. We wonder. We always will. How could we not try to save them, if there was even a 1% chance shouldn't we have done everything possible for our children? If you dare to venture out to the world of child loss you'll discover what happened to us is not rare. I found other parents who lost all three of their triplet babies. Some delivered at 23 weeks, some at 24, some at 25. All of them intervened and while their babies lived a month or two or three in the NICU, ultimately they all died. Call it a mother's instinct but I know they would not have made it. I also truly believe if they were born at 26 weeks they all would have been fine. If we were even a week further along our decision would have been different. We could have had more time with them, but if the outcome were the same in the end, I wouldn't have wanted to see them suffer and build up false hope. We were in the perfect place to have tried. We have 100% coverage and wouldn't have paid a dime for their 3 million dollar NICU bill. It was not a factor at all, thank God. Our decision was the right one for us and we are still at peace with our choice. I give the credit to my husband on that one because I was not exactly in the best place to be making a decision like that at 2am while on a narcotic drip and using a bed pan.
Will they put me on best rest if I get pregnant again? No, and I shouldn't have been on it with the boys either. Best rest is to take pressure/weight off the cervix. I do not have cervical issues, which is why I was in a great position to have triplets and be able to carry that weight.
If an infection could cause a leak then shouldn't you have been on antibiotics? Well, that sounds like an easy fix but it's not. First, it would be extremely difficult to determine what bacteria to give antibiotics for, thus taking the chance of actually making things worse by killing the good bacteria. And two, the amniotic sac is not vascular so it is extremely difficult for the antibiotics to get there and be effective. Who knows if it was caused by an infection after all. There is a chance that my violent vomiting the previous week was too much pressure and could have created a leak. I'll never know.
If not an infection, what else causes premature rupture of membranes? After more research I have discovered this is a really tricky complication. Research has proven there may be a genetic link (which could explain why my sister delivered her girls early because of the same thing and why it happened with John). There is not a gene that says "you're going to experience PPROM," but research is showing that genetic variants relating to the inflammatory response may play a role in premature rupture and also genes relating to the cellular matrix of the sac itself (remember tinsel strength from high school physics?) may contribute. So, I could have a bacteria that does not bother most people, but my inflammatory response to it weakens the sac. Or, the amniotic sac around the baby that my body builds is not strong enough and thus can thin and spring a leak. Either way, there's not much I can do about it. Nor is there anyway of preventing those problems from being an issue with future pregnancies.
Will we try again? Of course, we do not want John to be our only child. If he is, great. But we are lucky to not have to deal with loss after years of infertility or pricey procedures. I really feel badly for parents who go through this and then have to face the challenge of getting pregnant again. Our doctor told us to ideally wait at least 9 months, although there isn't that much difference between waiting 6 and 9 months. Will we ever be emotionally ready? Not really, but we'll know when the time is right. I need to get my house painted first and lose this weight.
Am I going back to work? No. I was told to stop working at 20 weeks and I gave up my business with the last listing transferring the day of the funeral. I really don't have "work" to go back to. I still have some properties I manage but I will not be working with buyers or sellers anymore. I need to get through this child bearing era and then I will decide what to do with myself. I have never not worked, nor do I intend to stay not working, but for now it's the best choice for me and for our family. I have about five years worth of neglected projects to deal with and a husband with a crazy schedule. I'm happy with our new pace and the time I have for myself to heal emotionally and physically.
Does having John make this easier? Yes and no, depends on how I look at it. Seeing him makes me realize what we are missing. Watching him grow bigger makes me realize his brothers are not here. But, how can I discount the joy and fortune of having him. Even if he's the only child we have, we still have one and to many people that would be a dream come true.
Hopefully that answers a few more questions or clarifies a few logistics. I'm going to keep posting, hopefully more frequently. There are a few topics I'm ready to tackle now.
Here's a little more clarification on some previous posts (I figure if close friends have asked me these questions then others are likely wondering as well):
The choice not to try and keep the boys alive: I am sure people are wondering if Aaron and I ever regret the decision to not intervene and keep the boys alive. Sure, we think about it. We wonder. We always will. How could we not try to save them, if there was even a 1% chance shouldn't we have done everything possible for our children? If you dare to venture out to the world of child loss you'll discover what happened to us is not rare. I found other parents who lost all three of their triplet babies. Some delivered at 23 weeks, some at 24, some at 25. All of them intervened and while their babies lived a month or two or three in the NICU, ultimately they all died. Call it a mother's instinct but I know they would not have made it. I also truly believe if they were born at 26 weeks they all would have been fine. If we were even a week further along our decision would have been different. We could have had more time with them, but if the outcome were the same in the end, I wouldn't have wanted to see them suffer and build up false hope. We were in the perfect place to have tried. We have 100% coverage and wouldn't have paid a dime for their 3 million dollar NICU bill. It was not a factor at all, thank God. Our decision was the right one for us and we are still at peace with our choice. I give the credit to my husband on that one because I was not exactly in the best place to be making a decision like that at 2am while on a narcotic drip and using a bed pan.
Will they put me on best rest if I get pregnant again? No, and I shouldn't have been on it with the boys either. Best rest is to take pressure/weight off the cervix. I do not have cervical issues, which is why I was in a great position to have triplets and be able to carry that weight.
If an infection could cause a leak then shouldn't you have been on antibiotics? Well, that sounds like an easy fix but it's not. First, it would be extremely difficult to determine what bacteria to give antibiotics for, thus taking the chance of actually making things worse by killing the good bacteria. And two, the amniotic sac is not vascular so it is extremely difficult for the antibiotics to get there and be effective. Who knows if it was caused by an infection after all. There is a chance that my violent vomiting the previous week was too much pressure and could have created a leak. I'll never know.
If not an infection, what else causes premature rupture of membranes? After more research I have discovered this is a really tricky complication. Research has proven there may be a genetic link (which could explain why my sister delivered her girls early because of the same thing and why it happened with John). There is not a gene that says "you're going to experience PPROM," but research is showing that genetic variants relating to the inflammatory response may play a role in premature rupture and also genes relating to the cellular matrix of the sac itself (remember tinsel strength from high school physics?) may contribute. So, I could have a bacteria that does not bother most people, but my inflammatory response to it weakens the sac. Or, the amniotic sac around the baby that my body builds is not strong enough and thus can thin and spring a leak. Either way, there's not much I can do about it. Nor is there anyway of preventing those problems from being an issue with future pregnancies.
Will we try again? Of course, we do not want John to be our only child. If he is, great. But we are lucky to not have to deal with loss after years of infertility or pricey procedures. I really feel badly for parents who go through this and then have to face the challenge of getting pregnant again. Our doctor told us to ideally wait at least 9 months, although there isn't that much difference between waiting 6 and 9 months. Will we ever be emotionally ready? Not really, but we'll know when the time is right. I need to get my house painted first and lose this weight.
Am I going back to work? No. I was told to stop working at 20 weeks and I gave up my business with the last listing transferring the day of the funeral. I really don't have "work" to go back to. I still have some properties I manage but I will not be working with buyers or sellers anymore. I need to get through this child bearing era and then I will decide what to do with myself. I have never not worked, nor do I intend to stay not working, but for now it's the best choice for me and for our family. I have about five years worth of neglected projects to deal with and a husband with a crazy schedule. I'm happy with our new pace and the time I have for myself to heal emotionally and physically.
Does having John make this easier? Yes and no, depends on how I look at it. Seeing him makes me realize what we are missing. Watching him grow bigger makes me realize his brothers are not here. But, how can I discount the joy and fortune of having him. Even if he's the only child we have, we still have one and to many people that would be a dream come true.
Hopefully that answers a few more questions or clarifies a few logistics. I'm going to keep posting, hopefully more frequently. There are a few topics I'm ready to tackle now.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The Things I've Learned
My boys, Charlie, Cal and Harry are never coming back. Never. No try again. No do over. No better luck next time. I was given a one in eight thousand chance of having triplets and I lost them. I stand defeated and I hate to lose. There are no do overs this time. It's done. I have buried my flesh and blood because of no fault of their own. I have begun to travel down a road that is daunting and dark. To be quite frank, it really sucks. I could write all day about how difficult this is but I'm not sure it would be serving much good. So, if there are lessons to be learned along the way I will share those instead. I can only write of my experience and here is what I have learned about death and loss - so far (although I know my journey is just beginning):
1) The loss of an infant child is real. I'm sure it is logically impossible for some people to understand how it can be so difficult to lose someone you barely knew, had few memories of, or shared so little time with. I am an educated, stable, rational being with a healthy perspective and I can tell you without equivocation that the loss of a baby will rock you to the core. It will send you to places you do not want to go. I am not here to convince you of anything, except that you will likely never understand what a parent goes through unless you have experienced it. There is no time/grief correlation. When you bury a child you lose a piece of yourself that you will never get back. You are changed forever and you would give anything to have your old life back - but that will never happen.
2) I have learned when someone dies the worse thing you can say is nothing. I was really bad at this before. I know now that the simple cards and emails and messages after a traumatic event are like oxygen. I know going to the mailbox or looking at the comments online were the highlight of Aaron and my day for the weeks following the boy's deaths. I know how good it feels when you run into someone who knows and the first thing they say is "I'm sorry for your loss" or "I was sorry to hear about your babies." Automatic comfort. I also have learned when I buy a sympathy card - I now buy two. One for right away and one for later. It gets worse before it gets better.
3) I have learned why some people seem "so strong" or why "they're doing well" at funerals. For me, I think I was out of tears at that point. Impossible to physically cry any more. Second, although I felt as though I was in the moment, it all seemed unreal - like I would surely wake up from this horrible dream. And third, it really feels good to see everyone that cares for you. It is not a facade and it is not strength. It is humanly possible to feel gratitude and happiness along side extreme pain - all at the same time.
4) I have learned the funeral is not the end of grieving. It is just the beginning. When everyone goes home, goes back to work, resumes life as normal - that's when it really starts to hurt. And it hurts bad. The world seems to be spinning around you and you're living in a fog. In the two months following the boys death I didn't get a lot done. I guess I still don't. It was a major accomplishment to shower, write a few thank you cards and maybe scrounge up some food or pay a few bills. Don't ever ask someone in the weeks following a traumatic loss "What have you been up to?" Grieving - it's a full time job. I remember apologizing to a friend that I hadn't returned her phone call because I was having a bad week. The response was, "why, what happened?" As if I was already supposed to be over it and moving on. It takes time - eventually time makes it better but not right away. The first eights weeks were brutal.
5) Public events were hard. I didn't want to run into people who didn't know (and I ran into plenty of them anyways and had to tell the story). I remember thinking I just want to go somewhere that nobody knows me. I imagined that being lost amongst the crowds of New York City might feel pretty comforting. The first two weeks I did not go anywhere, not to John's school, not to the grocery store, not to the neighbors, nowhere without Aaron.
6) I have learned traumatic experiences do not make you stronger. The experience leaves you changed certainly, but not stronger. More empathetic, more caring, more spiritual, yes. But also more cautious, more fearful and more scared that something else will happen and it will be more than you can handle.
7) I have learned the stages of grief are real. It's not just a bunch of hooey you learn in high school psychology class.
8) I have learned watching someone die peacefully is not as bad as it sounds. I always feared being expected to be at someone's death bed waiting for them to pass, afraid I would not be able to handle it. It is okay. It is worth being there for.
9) I have learned there is nothing colder than death. I remember thinking in all the Minnesota winters I have lived - I have never felt a more numbing cold than the bodies of my dead babies. I kept trying to cover them up the night we were in the hospital, hoping more blankets would warm them up. Every time I touched someone's skin in the week after their death I would always think - they're alive - they are so alive.
10) I have learned that people who voluntarily choose professions that deal with death and pain and suffering are angels. They are angles here on earth and their comfort in a time of loss is lifeblood to those left behind.
I would have been induced this week had I carried them to the end and my life would be different forever. I know I have a lot to learn as my journey through life without my sons is just beginning. It's getting better. The breakdowns are less frequent - but when they come they are so dark I wonder if I will ever pull out of it. I do. And I have to keep hoping and believe time will make these wounds scar over. I have stopped listing to Ryan Bingham's The Weary Kind (Crazy Heart) twenty times a day and feel a little more productive each week. I'm finally ready to tackle some projects around the house. After ten weeks I pray to God I have endured the worse, but I know the longer this goes on the more emotionally spent I am. I guess time will tell.
1) The loss of an infant child is real. I'm sure it is logically impossible for some people to understand how it can be so difficult to lose someone you barely knew, had few memories of, or shared so little time with. I am an educated, stable, rational being with a healthy perspective and I can tell you without equivocation that the loss of a baby will rock you to the core. It will send you to places you do not want to go. I am not here to convince you of anything, except that you will likely never understand what a parent goes through unless you have experienced it. There is no time/grief correlation. When you bury a child you lose a piece of yourself that you will never get back. You are changed forever and you would give anything to have your old life back - but that will never happen.
2) I have learned when someone dies the worse thing you can say is nothing. I was really bad at this before. I know now that the simple cards and emails and messages after a traumatic event are like oxygen. I know going to the mailbox or looking at the comments online were the highlight of Aaron and my day for the weeks following the boy's deaths. I know how good it feels when you run into someone who knows and the first thing they say is "I'm sorry for your loss" or "I was sorry to hear about your babies." Automatic comfort. I also have learned when I buy a sympathy card - I now buy two. One for right away and one for later. It gets worse before it gets better.
3) I have learned why some people seem "so strong" or why "they're doing well" at funerals. For me, I think I was out of tears at that point. Impossible to physically cry any more. Second, although I felt as though I was in the moment, it all seemed unreal - like I would surely wake up from this horrible dream. And third, it really feels good to see everyone that cares for you. It is not a facade and it is not strength. It is humanly possible to feel gratitude and happiness along side extreme pain - all at the same time.
4) I have learned the funeral is not the end of grieving. It is just the beginning. When everyone goes home, goes back to work, resumes life as normal - that's when it really starts to hurt. And it hurts bad. The world seems to be spinning around you and you're living in a fog. In the two months following the boys death I didn't get a lot done. I guess I still don't. It was a major accomplishment to shower, write a few thank you cards and maybe scrounge up some food or pay a few bills. Don't ever ask someone in the weeks following a traumatic loss "What have you been up to?" Grieving - it's a full time job. I remember apologizing to a friend that I hadn't returned her phone call because I was having a bad week. The response was, "why, what happened?" As if I was already supposed to be over it and moving on. It takes time - eventually time makes it better but not right away. The first eights weeks were brutal.
5) Public events were hard. I didn't want to run into people who didn't know (and I ran into plenty of them anyways and had to tell the story). I remember thinking I just want to go somewhere that nobody knows me. I imagined that being lost amongst the crowds of New York City might feel pretty comforting. The first two weeks I did not go anywhere, not to John's school, not to the grocery store, not to the neighbors, nowhere without Aaron.
6) I have learned traumatic experiences do not make you stronger. The experience leaves you changed certainly, but not stronger. More empathetic, more caring, more spiritual, yes. But also more cautious, more fearful and more scared that something else will happen and it will be more than you can handle.
7) I have learned the stages of grief are real. It's not just a bunch of hooey you learn in high school psychology class.
8) I have learned watching someone die peacefully is not as bad as it sounds. I always feared being expected to be at someone's death bed waiting for them to pass, afraid I would not be able to handle it. It is okay. It is worth being there for.
9) I have learned there is nothing colder than death. I remember thinking in all the Minnesota winters I have lived - I have never felt a more numbing cold than the bodies of my dead babies. I kept trying to cover them up the night we were in the hospital, hoping more blankets would warm them up. Every time I touched someone's skin in the week after their death I would always think - they're alive - they are so alive.
10) I have learned that people who voluntarily choose professions that deal with death and pain and suffering are angels. They are angles here on earth and their comfort in a time of loss is lifeblood to those left behind.
I would have been induced this week had I carried them to the end and my life would be different forever. I know I have a lot to learn as my journey through life without my sons is just beginning. It's getting better. The breakdowns are less frequent - but when they come they are so dark I wonder if I will ever pull out of it. I do. And I have to keep hoping and believe time will make these wounds scar over. I have stopped listing to Ryan Bingham's The Weary Kind (Crazy Heart) twenty times a day and feel a little more productive each week. I'm finally ready to tackle some projects around the house. After ten weeks I pray to God I have endured the worse, but I know the longer this goes on the more emotionally spent I am. I guess time will tell.
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