Steps Back into Life
My first steps back into life were quite lonesome. I had Tony and my grief counselor, but that's really it. And as I think about it, I am still taking steps.
The first steps really involved myself and relate directly back to clinging in the pit. I would say that my steps back into life and climbing out of the pit are one and the same journey. It's funny, as I think about my steps, I literally think about my steps. In the early days, I went for a quick 12 minute walk each morning when I got up, just to get me out of bed and get my heart pumping, to experience something other than my couch, to experience the outside world, literally. Those walks progressed into evening walks with Tony and our dog, Desda. They were a crucial part of my steps back into life. It was a time for me to learn to enjoy the little things again, to spend some time with the one other person who knew exactly what I was going through. It became an everyday ritual for us, like clockwork. My anxiety levels would raise to unimaginable heights if we didn't go, so we went, no matter what.
In regards to the rest of the world, it's hard for me to go back to that place. There is so much heartache and sadness that goes with that place. "Normal" people have no idea how to deal with the idea of a child who has died so unexpectedly, one they were never able to hold. And, because of that, it was like everyone was trying to bring my attention to other things, things that really had no meaning to me at the time. I remember receiving texts from friends and family about random things they had just seen on a TV show, or what was going on with so and so and could I believe that? I hated those texts and those communications. I did not give a damn about those things. My son just died and you want to tell me about how a show you just saw reminded me of...whatever. I still don't care about those things that much, but I can at least incorporate them into conversations now. I didn't care about small talk and if that is all someone wanted to do with me, then I couldn't be around them. Small talk was beyond my abilities. I have never been good at it to begin with, but it was impossible. I stopped communicating with those who wanted to make small talk. I cut myself off from them. They weren't comfortable with Alfy, I wasn't comfortable with them.
There were a rare few who would actually ask me about Alfy and my grief and those were the people I stayed in contact with. If not for them, well, I'm not sure that I would have ever learned to communicate again. They would ask about my grief, which is incredibly hard to talk about, but at least they asked. They asked about Alfy, also incredibly hard to talk about at times, but they asked, and that was so important to me.
I have found that balancing my new self with old friends to be incredibly challenging. I think the loss of Alfy and my grief are just too hard for some people to deal with. I try not to surround myself with those people. At times, I have to, family obligation, but if I can help it, I make that choice. And, there are a few times where I choose to be around people who have no idea what my grief and loss are like, almost like a small reprieve from my own reality. I have a hard time saying that, I feel like I'm disrespecting my own son, but I've also decided that those individuals, while probably for the most part good, really aren't worthy of know Alfy or my grief. I don't know if that makes any sense at all, but it's how I function right now.
I am still taking steps, sometimes small, sometimes leaps, sometimes forward, sometimes back. I have by no means figured it out. I'm still figuring out who is safe, who isn't, my own boundaries on what I will and will not share and with whom. I'm still making that walk back into life. It's a hard one, the hardest one there is I imagine.
My biggest fear in this journey is that I will somehow let others forget, or let myself forget, Alfy and my grief. I don't want to forget him, I just don't want it to be so hard all the time. I also fear the people I will lose because they are unable to handle the hard that is now me. "I have a son, his name is Alfy and I am a mother. If you can not recognize that, then you don't deserve to be a part of my life. I don't expect you to be comfortable with it, but I expect you to acknowledge it and at least try if you want to continue in my life." I wish I could say that to everyone I know. I've said it a few and I suppose I'll keep trying, at least with those I care about. It's just hard knowing that some of those people will respond in the way you are dreading, unable to acknowledge Alfy, unable to acknowledge my grief and they will slowly disappear, some already have. But, there are those who surprise you too, and I will hold on to those people tightly.
Like I said my steps are continuing, a little different each day. We'll see what tomorrow's steps bring.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Friday, January 18, 2013
Walking with You Series - Entry #2
Clinging in the Pit
The early grief was not all that long ago for me. Several months. Honestly, most of it is a haze. I remember the days in the hospital and the days leading up to Alfy's funeral and the day of the funeral and after that time melt together. The first week I remember sitting on the couch, willing myself from bed to the couch and maybe a shower in there somewhere. I remember a Saturday, it would have been April 14. It was a cold, gloomy, damp day. Tony wanted to put something on the smoker and he did and it rained on him most of the afternoon. I made chocolate chip and peanut butter chip cookie that day. It was a good thing I did because I think I lived off the cookies for the next month. I remember not having an appetite. Really, I haven't gotten my appetite back until the past few weeks, almost nine months later.
The early grief was almost like being numb when I look back. I know there were lots of tears and day of sobbing until you think you couldn't anymore, but it was so "normal" for me that I almost became numb to the process. There was a day in May when I was reading the news and I read about something that happened on April 27 and I had thought, "What day is it? April 27 has already passed, there's no way that's possible." I looked up the date and sure enough, it was May. I had no idea where the past month had gone. I had few definitive memories after losing Alfy, just a haze of being. I continued this way well into July, even after I had gone back to work.
I do remember days here and there in the haze. Tony and I really made a point to do things with each other this past year and for that I am so thankful. We went fishing all the time at the lake down the street, we visited the Omaha Henry Doorly Zoo, we took a trip to Adventureland in Des Moines, IA, we went out to eat at least one night a week. We made time for each other, to enjoy each other. Those are the days that gave me hope that we would get out of the pit.
There were also the dark, hard moments. I remember sitting in the shower crying for what felt like hours, lying on the floor crying, breaking down in random stores because someone just walked by you with a newborn. I started keeping a journal after I lost track of April. There are lots of memories written down in it, 50 or 60 pages worth. I haven't gone back to read it, but I'm glad that I have some record of the early days. I haven't written in it as much, is it crazy to say it's become extremely hard to find the time? I need to get back to being better at taking some time just for me.
The pit for me was just a haze. Writing in a journal helped me with the pit and taking time for myself helped me while I was in the pit. The climb out is a long slow climb, one I didn't realize I was doing until I had reached the top and thought, wow, I have come out on the other side. My grief counselor and my husband are probably the two people I have to give the most credit to in getting me out. Without having them to talk to and be with, I don't know where I would be now. I think the most important part of being in the pit and climbing out, do it on your own time and do what you need to for you. No one else knows exactly what you're going through. Don't compare yourself to others either, you will experience grief in your own way and that's okay.
Most importantly, there is no right or wrong way, there is just your way.
I wanted to take a quick moment to thank all of those who read Alfy's story. Thank you for letting me know that I'm not alone in this walk.
The early grief was not all that long ago for me. Several months. Honestly, most of it is a haze. I remember the days in the hospital and the days leading up to Alfy's funeral and the day of the funeral and after that time melt together. The first week I remember sitting on the couch, willing myself from bed to the couch and maybe a shower in there somewhere. I remember a Saturday, it would have been April 14. It was a cold, gloomy, damp day. Tony wanted to put something on the smoker and he did and it rained on him most of the afternoon. I made chocolate chip and peanut butter chip cookie that day. It was a good thing I did because I think I lived off the cookies for the next month. I remember not having an appetite. Really, I haven't gotten my appetite back until the past few weeks, almost nine months later.
The early grief was almost like being numb when I look back. I know there were lots of tears and day of sobbing until you think you couldn't anymore, but it was so "normal" for me that I almost became numb to the process. There was a day in May when I was reading the news and I read about something that happened on April 27 and I had thought, "What day is it? April 27 has already passed, there's no way that's possible." I looked up the date and sure enough, it was May. I had no idea where the past month had gone. I had few definitive memories after losing Alfy, just a haze of being. I continued this way well into July, even after I had gone back to work.
I do remember days here and there in the haze. Tony and I really made a point to do things with each other this past year and for that I am so thankful. We went fishing all the time at the lake down the street, we visited the Omaha Henry Doorly Zoo, we took a trip to Adventureland in Des Moines, IA, we went out to eat at least one night a week. We made time for each other, to enjoy each other. Those are the days that gave me hope that we would get out of the pit.
There were also the dark, hard moments. I remember sitting in the shower crying for what felt like hours, lying on the floor crying, breaking down in random stores because someone just walked by you with a newborn. I started keeping a journal after I lost track of April. There are lots of memories written down in it, 50 or 60 pages worth. I haven't gone back to read it, but I'm glad that I have some record of the early days. I haven't written in it as much, is it crazy to say it's become extremely hard to find the time? I need to get back to being better at taking some time just for me.
The pit for me was just a haze. Writing in a journal helped me with the pit and taking time for myself helped me while I was in the pit. The climb out is a long slow climb, one I didn't realize I was doing until I had reached the top and thought, wow, I have come out on the other side. My grief counselor and my husband are probably the two people I have to give the most credit to in getting me out. Without having them to talk to and be with, I don't know where I would be now. I think the most important part of being in the pit and climbing out, do it on your own time and do what you need to for you. No one else knows exactly what you're going through. Don't compare yourself to others either, you will experience grief in your own way and that's okay.
Most importantly, there is no right or wrong way, there is just your way.
I wanted to take a quick moment to thank all of those who read Alfy's story. Thank you for letting me know that I'm not alone in this walk.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Walking With You Series - Entry #1
Walking With You Series - Introduction and Where Are You Now?
I was reading an article on Still Standing Magazine yesterday and found a blog that mentioned this series. I did some research last night because the idea of having some topics already laid out for me to write about seemed comforting. If you are interested in visiting the sight and participating, or just reading, I would highly encourage you to visit Sufficient Grace Ministries.
Introduction and where I am now? Where do I start? I am a 30 year old woman who lost her first child, her son, Alfy, just over 9 months ago. I don't know what else to introduce about myself at this point. As I said, I lost my son just over 9 months ago, April 5 my husband and I were told our baby no longer had a heartbeat (we didn't know the gender) and Friday (Good Friday actually), April 6 at 11:05am I delivered a beautiful 1 lb. 11.6 oz, 13 1/4 inches baby boy. On Tuesday, April 10 at 1:30pm we laid our son to rest. I am not able to type Alfy's entire story again, but if you would like to read it, please visit his page.
In my last blog post I spoke about being in the acceptance stage of grief. I think I am there, not all the time, but probably more of the time than not. Some days I go through every stage of grief, over and over again. Some days I get stuck in other parts, denial, anger, bargaining, depression. I would still consider myself in the depths of grief, in the trenches, trying to find my way.
This probably doesn't seem like much of an introduction to me or where I am, but it's really all I can manage tonight. Last night I succumbed to my grief, the overwhelmingness (is that really a word?) of it all, the sadness, the heartache, the pain, the feeling of your soul hurting so much that you think might die from the heartache. I do that every so often. The feelings don't overwhelm me as much as they once did though and I forget how exhausting it can be.
If you are reading this as part of the series, thank you for walking with me.
I was reading an article on Still Standing Magazine yesterday and found a blog that mentioned this series. I did some research last night because the idea of having some topics already laid out for me to write about seemed comforting. If you are interested in visiting the sight and participating, or just reading, I would highly encourage you to visit Sufficient Grace Ministries.
Introduction and where I am now? Where do I start? I am a 30 year old woman who lost her first child, her son, Alfy, just over 9 months ago. I don't know what else to introduce about myself at this point. As I said, I lost my son just over 9 months ago, April 5 my husband and I were told our baby no longer had a heartbeat (we didn't know the gender) and Friday (Good Friday actually), April 6 at 11:05am I delivered a beautiful 1 lb. 11.6 oz, 13 1/4 inches baby boy. On Tuesday, April 10 at 1:30pm we laid our son to rest. I am not able to type Alfy's entire story again, but if you would like to read it, please visit his page.
In my last blog post I spoke about being in the acceptance stage of grief. I think I am there, not all the time, but probably more of the time than not. Some days I go through every stage of grief, over and over again. Some days I get stuck in other parts, denial, anger, bargaining, depression. I would still consider myself in the depths of grief, in the trenches, trying to find my way.
This probably doesn't seem like much of an introduction to me or where I am, but it's really all I can manage tonight. Last night I succumbed to my grief, the overwhelmingness (is that really a word?) of it all, the sadness, the heartache, the pain, the feeling of your soul hurting so much that you think might die from the heartache. I do that every so often. The feelings don't overwhelm me as much as they once did though and I forget how exhausting it can be.
If you are reading this as part of the series, thank you for walking with me.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Acceptance?
This post is just for me, some venting, I guess that what blogging is though, right?
Mandi reached the milestone of 28 weeks pregnant on New Year's Eve day. The irony of it all. On New Year's Day, 28 weeks and 1 day, 1 day longer than I was able to keep Alfy. Happy fucking new year to me. I try not to think about it, but each day is like a twisted timer now. January 1st, 1 day, 2nd, 2 days, 3rd, 3 days, 4th, 4 days, so on and so forth. I don't think about it all day long, but it does cross my mind, every day.
I realized this week, with the help of my wonderful (truly no sarcasm there) therapist, that I'm starting to move into the acceptance stage of grief. In 18 minutes it will be January 6, in 18 minutes, 11 hours and 5 additional minute, it will be 10 months since I gave birth to my sweet Alfy. The acceptance stage of grief, at least for me, isn't exactly what I thought it would be when I thought about it months ago. I figured the acceptance stage was accepting that my child is gone, but truthfully, I did that a long time ago. The acceptance stage is accepting everything else that goes along with grief and loss, all the other changes that you don't see coming the moment you're told your child no longer has a heartbeat. The friends who have disappeared, the relationships that have changed, the people you've let go, the people who have let you go, the new perspective you have on the world. Everything is now clouded by grief.
Grief itself has taken on new meanings. It is no longer the sob until you think it might never stop (although those still come around once in a while). It now just leaves traces of sadness on everything, music, movies, thoughts, ideas, words, books, conversations, everything. Sometimes it covers it, sometimes just a sprinkle. Acceptance means that I have allowed myself to experience life "normally" again. I still get fits of road rage driving down the interstate everyday, I still have a sense of humor riddled with sarcasm, I still enjoy playing table tennis, I still gossip once in a while and I still take things for granted sometimes, but I think I recognize this flaw much quicker now.
For those of you who are not familiar with the acceptance stage of grief, or grief itself, it does NOT mean that I have "moved on," that I am "over it," or that I am "okay." It does NOT mean that I have forgotten Alfy or that he is no longer a part of my life or that I no longer want to talk about him.
I think it means that I am just more present in me.
Mandi reached the milestone of 28 weeks pregnant on New Year's Eve day. The irony of it all. On New Year's Day, 28 weeks and 1 day, 1 day longer than I was able to keep Alfy. Happy fucking new year to me. I try not to think about it, but each day is like a twisted timer now. January 1st, 1 day, 2nd, 2 days, 3rd, 3 days, 4th, 4 days, so on and so forth. I don't think about it all day long, but it does cross my mind, every day.
I realized this week, with the help of my wonderful (truly no sarcasm there) therapist, that I'm starting to move into the acceptance stage of grief. In 18 minutes it will be January 6, in 18 minutes, 11 hours and 5 additional minute, it will be 10 months since I gave birth to my sweet Alfy. The acceptance stage of grief, at least for me, isn't exactly what I thought it would be when I thought about it months ago. I figured the acceptance stage was accepting that my child is gone, but truthfully, I did that a long time ago. The acceptance stage is accepting everything else that goes along with grief and loss, all the other changes that you don't see coming the moment you're told your child no longer has a heartbeat. The friends who have disappeared, the relationships that have changed, the people you've let go, the people who have let you go, the new perspective you have on the world. Everything is now clouded by grief.
Grief itself has taken on new meanings. It is no longer the sob until you think it might never stop (although those still come around once in a while). It now just leaves traces of sadness on everything, music, movies, thoughts, ideas, words, books, conversations, everything. Sometimes it covers it, sometimes just a sprinkle. Acceptance means that I have allowed myself to experience life "normally" again. I still get fits of road rage driving down the interstate everyday, I still have a sense of humor riddled with sarcasm, I still enjoy playing table tennis, I still gossip once in a while and I still take things for granted sometimes, but I think I recognize this flaw much quicker now.
For those of you who are not familiar with the acceptance stage of grief, or grief itself, it does NOT mean that I have "moved on," that I am "over it," or that I am "okay." It does NOT mean that I have forgotten Alfy or that he is no longer a part of my life or that I no longer want to talk about him.
I think it means that I am just more present in me.
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