Wednesday, August 28, 2013

On heartache.

When I was a young child, we were often bounced from home to home, at the whim of my biological parent's willingness (or lack there of) to take care us. When I was about 3 or 4, we finally landed into a stable home with my grandparents. My mother lived there with us until she ran away in the middle of the night. We never ever saw her again. Talk about abandonment issues, right?

My grandparents are incredible human beings. My grandmother was made to mother, she took incredible care of us. For many different reasons, though, we were placed for adoption when I was around the age of 6, and I will never ever forget the heartache I endured from that loss. I cried myself to sleep every night, for what had to have been months. I truly grieved the loss of my Gammer and Gamper, and my heart was broken.

I remember being that small little girl and pressing my fingers to my chest. My heart physically hurt. I wondered if it would ever stop. In time, it finally did. We were able to visit with my grandparents from time to time, and I somewhat adjusted into my new "home". I carried Isaac for about 13 weeks knowing he would die. I was desperate to enjoy the only time I would have with him, but I was insane with irritation knowing other people passed me by often having no clue what was happening. They would chitter chatter to me about my growing belly and coming baby and how excited I must be. I don't think, even once, I corrected anyone by saying "No, actually, my baby is about to die, we are heart broken".

Isaac was born, we said hello and goodbye in 70 miraculous minutes. It was not until then that my heart truly shattered into pieces. I felt that same damn heart ache again, from childhood, and I remember wishing it away with ever single ounce of energy I had in my body.

The truth of the matter is - broken hearts truly hurt. I would sit and think of my baby, and my heart, my chest was ache terribly. So terribly I never thought it could ever recover again. This physical pain lasted for months. I didn't know how to fix it.

As time has past, little by little, my shattered heart has become whole again. I do not say that lightly, because it took years. Years of grieving and being willing to live with the pain, not knowing when it would ease. For those of you are in the depths of the worst hurt, I promise you, it WILL get better. It will never fully go away, part of my heart is broken over my baby boy forever, but joy will sneak back in, little by little. Keep fighting the good fight. You are loved and needed in this world.

All my love,

Monday, August 26, 2013

This. Is. Normal.

My New Normal.

Normal is having tears waiting behind every smile when you realize someone important is missing from all the important events in your family’s life.

Normal is reliving that day continuously through your eyes and mind.

Normal is every happy event in my life always being backed up with sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart.

Normal is staring at every baby who looks like he is my baby’s age. And then thinking of the age he would be now and not being able to imagine it. Then wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it will never happen.

Normal is telling the story of your child’s death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone’s eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of my “normal”.

Normal is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your child’s memory and his birthday and survive these days.

Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special that my baby would have loved, but how he is not here to enjoy it.

Normal is having some people afraid to mention my baby.

Normal is making sure that others remember him.

Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives, but we continue to grieve our loss forever.

Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse sometimes, not better.

Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to this loss, unless they too have lost a child.

NOTHING. Even if your child is in the remotest part of the earth away from you – it doesn’t compare.

Losing a parent is horrible, but having to bury your own child is unnatural.

Normal is trying not to cry all day, because I know my mental health depends on it.

Normal is realizing I do cry everyday.

Normal is being impatient with everything and everyone, but someone stricken with grief over the loss of your child.

Normal is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying together over our children and our new lives.

Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have three children or two, because you will never see this person again and it is not worth explaining that my baby is in heaven. And yet when you say you have two children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your baby.

Normal is knowing I will never get over this loss, in a day or a million years.

And last of all, Normal is hiding all the things that have become “normal” for you to feel, so that everyone around you will think that you are “normal”.

-Author Unknown

Friday, August 23, 2013

Starting Fresh.

So. I used to blog. About a lot of things. My children. My childhood. Overcoming childhood abuse. Overcoming infertility. My faith. My lack of faith. Carrying a baby to term that would die. My grief after losing him. I used to love to write, and then I stopped. Not for lack of audience, but for the wrong kind.

Nosey church members found my blog. The kind that gossip and judge and tell you that you're not doing good enough. Family members found my blog. And not the kind of supportive family members that everyone dreams about. The pain in your ass kind. The "why are you not over your dead baby" kind.

Many of my loss friends had gone on to have Rainbow babies and I had miscarriage after miscarriage. I was angry and I just did not feel like people wanted to read what I had to say. So I quit. I started a business where I could channel my grief in a different way. A way that was giving and loving. And while I LOVE love L O V E my work,I find myself needing more. A way to connect. A way to share my true heart with the women in this sisterhood we all belong to now.

Burying a newborn changed me. Watching my family hit rock bottom changed me. Being stuck in that dark place changed me. My healing heart as changed me. My heavenly son has changed me. Not everyone gets those changes, but you do, I suspect. So I've decided to share again - - to let Baby Boards and this blog become an extension of the Misty I really am, so that you can get to know that person, too.

I look forward to traveling this road with you - let's make a HUGE change happen,