Thursday, May 24, 2012

Right Where I Am: 4 Year, 5 Months, 7 Days


His pictures are dusty, like everything else in the house. Some nights I forget to turn the memory lamps on until I find myself stumbling in the dark. His garden needs weeding, mulching, tending, though I’ve purposefully put that off until his birthday next week.

He feels far away. Distant. Separate. Sometimes he feels unreal.

When Henry was born and diagnosed and taken away and sent home with oxygen and sheets of follow up appointments, all I wanted was normal, a normal baby, a normal life. My life is normal now, ordinary, full of figuring out what to have for dinner and running errands and defusing or waiting out tantrums. It’s filled with snuggles and reading stories and early morning (and middle of the night) wake ups. It’s normal, but he’s gone. I laugh. I watch my girls grow and change and amaze me. I notice the beauty around me and the abundance and the fullness of my life. And he is gone.

In this month of May, as his birthday looms close, I am wound tightly. The missing bubbles more to the surface, needing more attention. May is still tender; December still a month of apprehension.

On Tuesday, he will (would) turn five. He should start kindergarten this fall. Friends announce kindergarten screenings and open house on Facebook, and I remember watching with him as our neighbor started kindergarten, remember telling him how she would help him on the bus his first day. It seems so long ago that I was doing that. It seems so strange he will never get on that bus.

I’m still working on letting go of baby stuff he used (or never got to use). I'm still working on letting go of jealousy and resentment. I’m realizing how much his death affected my ability to talk to other moms when my oldest daughter was born, how that still affects me today.

Where am I right now? I’m here in this blossoming spring, here with my garden filling up, here with two little girls who get out in the dirt and should have tubbies every day. I’m here trying to figure out what it is I want to do with my life. I’m here trying to find balance between being with my girls and making space for me. I’m here still sorting out with my husband who we are now as individuals and how we work as a couple. I’m here, uncertain how much some of this has to do with losing a baby and how much it has to do with having a baby at all or having two little ones running around.

I am here, where from the outside it may look like I "got through it", and maybe this is what getting through it is, getting to this point where the missing is part of the ordinary, where the missing becomes almost like breathing, something your body does with out thought or excess energy. There are moments and days that still sear and sting and wipe me out, but they become rarer. And I bounce back more quickly, either because I’ve had practice or because my well has refilled some and I have reserves again.   

I am here, 4 years, 5 months, 7 days since I held him for the last time. That he is not here can never be normal, but that he is not here is part of my normal. I feel this, though it still confounds my brain sometimes. 

—part of Angie's Right Where I Am 2012 project
Right Where I Was (2011)

23 comments:

  1. All that you write is so familiar. Liam's box that holds his ashes sits dusty on my nightstand. His garden needs weeding ... and new plants. Thank goodness for perennials! I miss him without feeling unable to function everyday, as if the missing is a part of my day now, in the background.
    Sending you peace as Henry's birthday approaches. ((((hugs)))

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  2. I'm still working on letting go of jealousy and resentment too. This falls so near his birthday, and I hope you have a beautiful day remembering him. Sending love, and thinking of you. <3

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  3. My daughter's death and my son's birth has affected how I speak to other mothers as well. I wonder where, exactly, I fit in. Sending peace as Henry's birthday approaches. I hope the day is gentle.

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  4. "and maybe this is what getting through it is, getting to this point where the missing is part of the ordinary, where the missing becomes almost like breathing, something your body does with out thought or excess energy" - Sara this is so beautifully and aptly put. Your whole post spoke to me, but this, the normalcy of the missing, the way it weaves into daily life - yes and yes and yes.

    So much love to you and to Henry and your girls.

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  5. Confounding.

    It is, isn't it? You live through it and go through each day, and then suddenly it's like the sun shines exactly right on their tree and you think "how can i have a tree and no baby? This is just isn't possible. How can anyone live with this type of crazy".

    But you just do. . .

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  6. I'm still working on the jealousy and resentment and talking to other moms. I find this terribly hard.

    The idea that missing has, somehow, become part of our autonomic nervous systems, something akin to temperature regulation or breathing, makes perfect sense to me.

    I can't quite believe that Henry will never get on that bus either.

    And yes, normal. Normal but they're gone.

    Remembering your dear son Henry. Particularly over these coming days xo

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  7. May and December, months I'll forever link to your little boy. Though the missing goes on all year, doesn't it. You've articulated it perfectly in this post, and said so much of what I tried to say myself!
    Glad to have a friend like you along for this crazy ride.
    xo

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  8. So beautifully written and heartfelt... your words about your son sing with your love for him and the pain without him. I'm so sorry to hear your story. I love your words "maybe this is what getting through it is, getting to this point where the missing is part of the ordinary"... I am only starting to touch that feeling and admire your strength after all that you've been through. Thank you for stopping by my blog and love to you always xoxo

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  9. "That he is not here can never be normal, but that he is not here is part of my normal. I feel this, though it still confounds my brain sometimes. "

    This is it exactly. It is confounding. I had a dream last nigh that I was in a maze. Someone knew how to get out, but it wasn't me. Yet I was in this game, following along, knowing we would get out eventually. I woke up realizing that is so much like my grief journey. Following women ahead of me, watching them grieve, knowing I was normal even as I felt abnormal. I don't mean to babble, just thank you, as always, for your beautiful writing and sharing right where you are. Love to you.

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  10. I've just read through some of Henry's sorry. I'm so sorry he's not still here with you. Thank you for sharing him and your story. It does confound the brain, doesn't it?

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  11. "That he is not here can never be normal, but that he is not here is part of my normal." That really hit me...so true for me as well. I am sorry for your loss thank you for sharing your beautiful words. <3

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  12. This is so beautifully written. Thank you so much for sharing. It is interesting to see people's journeys of grief that are farther out from their loss than me. I especially loved the last two paragraphs. It reminds me of a thought I wrote on my "Right Where I Am" post. I'd love for you to read it.

    Much love and hugs,
    Hannah Rose

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  13. So beautifully written and honest.
    .."I am here, where from the outside it may look like I "got through it", and maybe this is what getting through it is, getting to this point where the missing is part of the ordinary.." I haven't gotten to the point where the missing is part of the ordinary, but I realise that often it appears from the outside that it looks life I've gotten through. Sometimes I want at shout to people to look deeper, that I'm drowning in it still, other times I want to be at that point, where the missing is integrated and the missing is ordinary now.
    I'm sorry that Henry never got on the bus..

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  14. Normal? I used to think I knew what that was. Now it confounds me too. I'm thinking of your Henry as his birthday approaches.

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  15. I can never decide if it is practise or recovery. I mind that one or the other means I can breathe, even though breathing is a relief too. But I know exactly what you mean. Thank you for writing. I'm finding all the 4 year stories are giving me hope.

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  16. I wish you peace on Henry's birthdate. Five and Kindergarten. Oh.

    Thank you for sharing where you are right now. It helps to explain some of what I feel now - the conflict of living with a toddler (and the big emotions and meltdowns and constant constant) with my ideal of what I was missing and how I should be the best mom ever. And how it affects life and marriage and child rearing.

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  17. "He feels far away. Distant. Separate. Sometimes he feels unreal." - oh so familiar... Thank you for sharing your story. Thinking of you and Henry and wishing you peace and comfort as his birthday approaches.

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  18. Beautifully written. I was nodding, reading it. Everything...the distance, the trying to figure things out and strike a balance.

    Five and the bus. Sigh. For me, it'll be nine and a tween. What I wouldn't give to have my tween here bugging me for the latest electronic gadget.

    "I am here, where from the outside it may look like I 'got through it', and maybe this is what getting through it is, getting to this point where the missing is part of the ordinary, where the missing becomes almost like breathing, something your body does with out thought or excess energy."

    So true. Oh, so true.

    Remembering Henry. ♥

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  19. Five feels like a "biggie" to me - it has done since the start. I hope Henry's fifth birthday was everyhtn you wanted and needed it to be.

    I remember reading your post last year and feeling a lot of connection and recognition. I feel it this year too - the tangle it all is now of grief and everyday life and normalcy. Thank you for writing.

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  20. Thank you for sharing; for participating in Right Where I Am. I'm learning a lot and looking forward to reading more of your story, and the stories of others too.

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  21. Letting go of resentment, realizing how Henry's life and death have impacted your relationships with other mothers. I remember feeling this way for a long time. It just all runs together with the other stuff going on in my life and I can't quite believe that any of it is happening. My R would have started kindergarten this fall too--I can't believe she's been gone so long.

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  22. Beautiful post and thanks for taking part in the project. I remember you well from last year.

    "He feels far away. Distant. Separate. Sometimes he feels unreal."

    I feel this some days too, like did this really happen? Is my dead daughter even real?

    Peace to you in the days ahead.

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  23. "I notice the beauty around me and the abundance and the fullness of my life. And he is gone."

    "I am here, where from the outside it may look like I "got through it", and maybe this is what getting through it is, getting to this point where the missing is part of the ordinary, where the missing becomes almost like breathing, something your body does with out thought or excess energy."

    So perfect, and beautiful, Sara. Really. How I wish Henry was here with you all. Getting ready to ride the big boy bus. It does seem so very unreal.

    Lots of love to you, friend.
    xo

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