Who Gets In Your Bucket?

I feel the need to write tonight, but I'm not sure what.  I should really be working on my maid-of-honor speech for my little sister's wedding, but just can't focus.  Hannah read a wonderful article with me today, "Who Gets In Your Bucket?" by Doug Manning.  If you're grieving or know someone who is read it. (I typed it below because I find typing to be strangely therapeutic)  I don't think she could have picked a better day to give me the article.

I am once again at a point where my bucket is full and overflowing.  There are other times it has been full and overflowing, but it was slowly receding, I would say mostly from evaporation.  This week, some people came along and dumped in a few more cups.  I didn't have room for them, but they're in there now - the "safe" person who announced her pregnancy and the "lost friend" who had a healthy little boy today.

Really, I think I would like to move to an island, away from everyone I know here, restricted access.  No, that would probably be to much of a hassle for me and I hate fish, but it would be nice if only for a short while.



Who Gets In Your Bucket?
by Doug Manning
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

The best way I know to picture how we receive help from others in grief, is to imagine you are holding a bucket.  The size and color doesn't matter.  The bucket represents the feelings bottled up inside of you when you are in pain.  If you have suffered a loss, hold the bucket and think through how you feel right now.

What is in your bucket?

Fear.  Will I survive?  What will happen to me now?  Who will care for me?  Who will be with me when I need someone near?  Most likely your bucket is almost full just from the fear.  But there is also:

Pain.  It is amazing how much physical pain there is in grief.  Your chest hurts, and you can't breathe.  Sometimes the pain is so intense your body refuses to even move.  There is enough pain to fill the bucket all by itself.

Sorrow.  There is devastating sadness; overwhelming sorrow.  A gaping hole has been bitten out of your heart and it bleeds inside your very soul.  You cry buckets of tears and then cry some more.

Loneliness.  There is no lonely like that felt when you are in a room full of people and totally alone at the same time.  Loneliness alone can filly any bucket ever made.

I could go on, but that's enough to get the idea across, and hopefully get you started thinking through your own list.  What is in your bucket?

Now pictures someone like me approaching you and your bucket.  I also have a bucket.  My buckets is full of explanations.  I am armed and ready to explain why your loved one had to die, how they are now better off and how you should feel.

I am also well equipped with new ways to look at your loss.  In politics they call that "spin doctoring," but most human beings seem to know this skill by instinct.  I have almost a bucketful of comforting words and encouraging sayings.  I can also quote vast amounts of scriptures.  I seem to favor the ones that tell you not to grieve.

So we face each other armed with full buckets.  The problem is, I don't want to get into your bucket.  Yours is scary.  If I get in there, you might start crying and I may not be able to make you stop.  You might ask me something I could not answer.  There is too much intimacy in your bucket.  I want to stand at a safe distance and pour what is in my bucket into yours,  I want the things in my bucket to wash over your pain like some magic salve to take away your pain and dry your tears.  I have this vision of my words being like cool water to a dry tongue.  Soothing and curing as it flows.

But your bucket is full.  There is no room for anything that is in my bucket.  Your needs are calling so loudly there is no way you could hear anything I say.  Your pain is far too intense to be cooled by any verbal salve, no matter how profound.  The only way I can help you is to get into your bucket, to try to feel your pain, to accept your feelings as they are and make every effort to understand.  I cannot really know how you feel.  I cannot actually understand your pain or how your mind is working under the stress, but I can stand with you through the journey.  I can allow you to feel what you feel and learn to be comfortable doing so.  That is called, "Getting into your bucket." 

Anyone want to join me in my bucket? 

Yeah, I didn't think so. 

Who You Gonna Call?

Sigh...I'm not sure where to begin tonight.  I need to get some things out of me, but they are hard and angry and complicated and I don't want to sound like someone just spewing nonsense, but I suppose I sound like that most of the time already.

I've been really struggling lately with the feeling of loneliness and just plain old being forgotten.  I don't know how many times I've heard from people that I haven't seen in a while, "I know this is a difficult time and I just wanted to give you your space."  What a crock.  I think it is really code for "I'm too lazy to put any real emotional effort in to our friendship/relationship."  

I understood some space in the beginning.  We were headed into uncharted territory and I did need some space.  I wasn't yet comfortable with the emotions I was feeling let alone comfortable enough to share them with someone else.  My confidence and self-esteem had been shattered like a broken mirror.  I no longer recognized who I was.  But that's been changing.  I have surprised myself with what I've been able to do lately.

And with the new found confidence (albeit small amount) comes the anger, if you didn't get that already...It has slowly seeped into my every pore.  There are times I feel like it will just come oozing out like the pink slime on Ghostbusters II.  If that really happened, there would be quite the pink slime river under our house.  My in-laws had a punching bag in their garage.  It now lives in my garage.  I bought some training gloves on Friday so I could start using the bag when I feel the anger is about to explode out of me. 

I've also been hearing about how others think it's so hard to know what to do.  Really?  You think trying to figure out what to do with me and Tony is hard?  Seriously?  Try delivering your first child, knowing that he or she isn't going to cry, isn't going to feed, isn't going to grow, isn't going to be coddled and passed around and ooooed and awwwwed over, isn't going to give you their first smile, isn't going to celebrate a first birthday making a mess of a cake, isn't going to laugh, isn't going to learn to crawl, isn't going to learn to walk, isn't going to call you mommy, isn't going to give you a hug, isn't going to give you a kiss, isn't going to say those three little words, "I love you."  Try letting the nurse take your child out of your arms, for the last time.  Try knowing you will never physically see your child again.  Try burying your child.  Try that and then tell me that knowing what to do with me is hard

I was thinking of all the people that have recently made me angry and a quote from the stoner movie Half Baked came to mind, "F#ck you, f#ck you, f#ck you, you're cool and f#ck you, I'm out."  That pretty much replays over and over and over again in my head these days.  

I'm out.

Tears

In the past month or two, I have been putting myself "out there" for the world to see more and more.  I've been returning to activities that I had completely shut out of my life, like family dinners, work, social functions with a few friends, you get the idea.  I've noticed a common theme in those situations that I have been mulling over for a while.

Inevitably someone asks, "How are you doing, like how are you really doing?"  Or, maybe it's a variation of that like, "It's good to see you" followed by a hug that lasts longer than it once would have.  These moments usually bring me to tears, which then invokes the response, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry."  I always say, "It's okay, I don't mind."  I don't think people realize I really mean that.

I have come to the conclusion that tearing up or crying at times like those are the best way I know how to share Alfy with others.  He isn't here for them to hold, hug or play with.  I can't give them that, but I can give them my tears.  They are all I have left to physically share with others.  It's not easy sharing tears.  Tears make people uncomfortable.

Tears are interpreted as signs of sadness and hurt, but there is so much more to them than that.  We fail to recognize the beauty behind them that accompanies our grief.  Those tears are not just about the sad moments that occurred, at least not for me.  Those tears include the moments that made me smile, like the first time I felt him kick and actually knew that it was a kick because I could feel it on the outside of my belly or the first time Tony and I heard his heartbeat and saw his "heart flap" on the ultrasound.  

So, the next time you bring tears to my eyes, please don't be sorry.  Just know that I'm taking an opportunity at that moment to share my son with you.

No More

Today, a friend and colleague of mine, came in to work about noon.  I could tell she had a bad morning, she looked good but there was just something.  Our friend, and boss, filled me in briefly on what was happening.  My friend, Mandi, her best friend unexpectedly lost her husband last night due to complications from a kidney failure they didn't even know existed until this past weekend.  Mandi's friend has a 2 year old daughter and is 15 weeks pregnant.  I do not know this family but my heart breaks for them and for my friend Mandi.  I don't understand why such bad things happen to good people.  

I think our hallway at work is cursed.  I didn't tell Amy or Mandi that today, but I think it is.  Amy lost her mom, Carrie, in February to cancer.  I lost my son, Alfy, in April for unknown reasons.  Mandi lost her friend early this morning.  They always say bad things, including death, comes in three's, I hope it is done with us for a while.  We have had to deal with more death than most people our age.  Please let it be done for a while.

Tonight I will say a prayer for my friend Mandi, her friend that has suddenly lost so much and the friend she lost today.  

I Don't Want To Go

My boss, also my friend, told us at work yesterday, or maybe Tuesday, that she wanted a list of conferences that we think we might like to go to for work by 10am today.  I knew my answer almost immediately, but didn't discuss it with her until this morning.  In my field and at my school, we are very fortunate to be given a travel stipend for conferences and professional memberships, so normally this is something I would jump on.  In fact, I had been in Tampa, FL the week before Alfy was born attending a national conference for work.  Along with the professional development side, I love that I can see and catch up with friends I have made over the years at other schools I have worked at. 

I don't know which, if any, conferences I will go to this year.  At times, we are asked to go by our director to represent our areas and I will try to do so if asked.  But if I was given the choice today, I would choose none.  The reasons I don't want to go are all over the board, but some of them surprised me.

I don't want to go to any conferences because I don't want to see all the people who last saw me pregnant.  I'm guessing there are many that are not aware that we lost Alfy.  I know some are, I've heard from those I was closest too.  I think the majority would just assume I successfully had a child though.  Today, I know that I couldn't handle "Congratulations" over and over again and the questions that follow and me explaining that our precious Alfy is no longer with us, that he was stillborn at 28 weeks.  I had that experience once this week and it was hard.  Today, I can not handle doing that over and over again in a matter of a few days.

I don't want to go to conferences because I irrationally relate my travel to Tampa to the loss of Alfy.  I mentioned in another post, grief is not rational.  I think this is the perfect example of one of those moments.  I did have concerns about Alfy's movements before I left for Tampa, but I called the doctor's office, I did what they said and it eased my concerns.  And, had I actually gone in to the doctor, they most likely would have found the heartbeat and sent me home.  That is how one would rationally think about travel.  

Had I not traveled, I would have made sure I went to the doctor that week.  The flights, the salty restaurant food, the hours spent on my feet, the swelling from all of it, the lack of sleep, somehow they all contributed to the loss of Alfy.  That is the irrational side of what I think about travel.  So, no, I don't want to travel or do anything right now that I, even if irrationally, think may have contributed to losing Alfy.

I don't want to go to conferences because there is a part of me that hopes that I will have that reason I crave so much.  Maybe, just maybe, there might be another life in the making.  And, even if it seems totally irrational to most, I will not put that new life in jeopardy by traveling.

I don't want to go to conferences because I can barely wrap my mind around the hopefulness of why I don't want to go.  I'm scared of the hope, of the future and therefore, in a long drawn out way, of conferences.  Last time I allowed myself to hope and envision my future, it was all pulled out from underneath me in one quick swoop.  If I don't hope like I did, then if it all gets pulled out again, maybe it won't hurt as much.  There it is again, the irrational side of my grief breaking through.

Okay, the last paragraph makes me angry.  Angry at my loss, angry that I even think about not hoping as much.  Why shouldn't I hope like everyone else?  Because, I know better than most the pain caused by the hope being torn apart.  It's not fair that I can't give that same hope to the possibility of another new life. 

Road Rage

Today I have discovered that in addition to "Trainwrecks" I am now having fits of what I would compare to "Road Rage."  The sadness is still very close to the surface, but now anger lies close.  Sometimes it can be all consuming, irrational and dangerous, just like road rage.  It is directed toward those who probably don't deserve it, to those that don't realize that they are somehow hindering someone else's path to where they are trying to go.  And once the fury sets in, look out.  Now, I haven't actually taken my fury out on anyone or yelled at anyone or said mean and nasty things to anyone, but the thoughts run through my head.  Why in the world do I have to work so damn hard at a time when I am so vulnerable?  Why can't people stop being afraid of me, of Tony?  Why in the hell should I have to be the one to reach out to others?  Why does life have to been so flippin' hard?  Why me? Why us?  It's not fair.  It sucks.  It's horrible.  It's awful.  It makes me so angry sometimes I just want to scream and punch something.  I hope Tony's parents still have the punching bag in their garage, what a pleasant surprise that would be.

Today I am unable to find any peace in my loss, only sadness and anger, mostly anger.

Friend Void

Today I went to a baby shower.  I can't believe it, but I did.  My dear friend Linz will be having a baby boy in about a month.  I had received her invitation a few weeks ago.  Her sister-in-laws threw the shower for her.  I emailed one of them, Julie, and told her I wasn't sure if I would be able to make it.  She was so gracious in her response to me.  I imagine she is a wonderful sister-in-law to have.  I sent an email to Linz too.  I explained that I wasn't sure if I was going to be there for her or not.  As I call them now, it was going to be a game-day decision.  That's how I make most big decisions these days.  Anyways, Linz responded to my email.  It was very touching.  I think it helped me to make the decision to attend.  I love my friend very much and I wanted her to know that I support her.

I hadn't spoken with Linz since April 12.  She brought me a basket full of things we used to love in college and some books, one of them being my favorite.  Linz came over and sat with me for the afternoon.  I think it was probably close to four hours.  She texted me once since then, asking if Tony and I wanted to go to a baseball game back in May.  I turned down the offer.  I wasn't ready to face any part of the outside world at that point.  I saw her a couple of Sundays ago at the Weezer concert.  Tony picked out Linz's husband in the crowd.  We watched him head back to his seat and I saw her.  We didn't go up to them.  It was not a time or place I could handle.  I think I cried during every other song at the concert.

My friend has grown so much since I've seen her last.  Or should I say her little boy has grown so much?  The emotions I feel when I see her are almost more than I can bare.  I am happy for her and I think it's wonderful she is going to be a mom.  She's going to be quite good at it.  But it hurts too.  I didn't get to be that big or have a baby shower.  At times I am ashamed of it, but I will admit that I am jealous of her.

The loss of Alfy has created a void in my life, really a few of them.  I am without my son.  I will never again hold him, hug him or kiss him.  I will never hear his laugh, see him smile, watch him grow or even see his beautiful brown eyes.  That is the first and most evident void.  But there is another one that you don't hear about.  But, I guess who would I hear it from?  It is a lonely void.  Most of my good friends (and tons of acquaintances and people I knew from some part of my life or another) have had successful pregnancies, even the ones who seemed like circumstances weren't in their favor.  It creates a distance that I have not been able to close, with any of them. 

I have been trying to slowly work on it.  I think that is why I went to the shower today.  It's hard and frustrating and exhausting.  I read somewhere, or maybe was told, about a hard time Baby Loss Moms (and couples) reach around three months.  The cards and flowers stop coming, the phone calls or texts of support stop coming.  I am experiencing that now.  It's been four months and five days.  I have been there for a while, but I am just now starting to face it, trying to fight through it.  

I find myself constantly asking the questions, Why should I have to reach out to others?  Why does it seem our friends give up so easily?  Why does it seem they forget that we still need support?  Why does it seem like we are forgotten?  Why have they left me floundering?  Rationally I know none of those questions are true.  But grief is anything but rational.  I know that my friends are trying to respect me, my space, my feelings.  I need them to push a little harder right now.  But how do you tell them that?  I respect that they think it will be "hard and scary" for them, but I don't believe they have any idea what "hard and scary" really is.  

Sometimes I wish one of them would just show up, unannounced, not give me the opportunity to say no, say "I want to hear it all, right now.  I want to cry with you.  I want to know what your days are like.  I want to recognize that you are a mom.  I want to help you honor your son, Alfy.  And there's now way out until we do that."  But, I don't think that will happen unless I do it.  I struggle with the thought that many of my friends may not want to hear my story because they are pregnant or have babies close to Alfy's age.  I guess I just need a little push.

By the way, the baby count for 2012 is up to 32.  Stupid Facebook.