This Friday, February 7th, marks the 9 month mark of my baby's passing, and while I know that it may seem like a long time for some, there are days when it feels like just yesterday.
I like the idea of being able to track what I have felt over the course of the past few months, so I can understand how my grief has changed over time.
I still have people ask how I'm doing..
They will never know how much it means to me that they still acknowledge that even though it's been 9 months,
I still struggle.
The other day, one friend messaged me on Facebook and asked, "How are you doing, Madds, really??"
It caught me off guard.
I've spent 9 months striving to be at the point where I can feel completely back to normal.
It caused me to really think about her question, and I think I've finally come up with an exact answer.
To be honest, one day will be hard, then the next is even worse, but then one day i'll wake up, and i'll feel more capable of moving forward and more hopeful that happiness is indeed in the future.
And then, bam..
I'm sad again, I feel scared and lonely, and I don't want to keep going.
Literally a roller coaster of ups and downs.
Can any of you relate?
I am lucky to say that the roller coaster is beginning to even out a little more for me.
But even though the heart ache and sadness come less frequently, there is one feeling that still comes back frequently, that I have not been able to pin point until just recently:
Fear.
Time has begun to heal my heart, and in the process it's attempted to heal my memory..
But fear still remains.
Yes there is fear of the future, but it doesn't compare to the fear of the past.
The truth is, death is traumatizing.
Some cases are more traumatizing than others, but to watch someone die..
Especially your child,
it changes you.
There's nothing on this earth like it.
And to this day, May 7th, 2013 still haunts me.
I remember holding Jon Gabriel close and begging God to take good care of him for me, with the comfort of knowing we still had a few hours left with him.
But his heartbeat started to drop before we were ready to say goodbye. When that happens, the big machine makes this loud beeping sound that would put any parent into a panic.
Jon and I both knew, no matter how much we didn't want it to be true, it was time to let him go.
Jon went to go get the nurse.. I remember I didn't envy what that walk across the hall to her room would have felt like..
Jon Gabriel was in my arms, and the nurse hurriedly removed the wires, the only thing keeping him on this earth,
then she quickly left the room.
We were able to see his face completely for the first time.
It seemed so unfair, he looked flawless from the outside.
I put my face close to his and held him as he struggled..
I had assumed I would be able to handle it, but I was wrong.
"I can't do this" I gasped, feeling void of strength.
Jon took him out of my arms, and I jumped up, my face full of tears,
and walked anxiously to the corner of the room.
I ran my hands through my hair. The tears stopped,
my breathing increased as my chest felt heavier,
and for the first time ever, I had absolutely no answers.
All I could do was whimper a short prayer. I had no idea how to handle what I was feeling.
I've never felt so desperate; never so useless.
There was absolutely nothing I could do, and it was the worst most humbling feeling.
"You have to hold yourself together," I thought, "Your son is dying, and you won't get this chance again."
I took a deep breathe, and hurried and sat back on the couch with Jon, who had our baby in his arms and was whispering in his ear.
When I sat down Jon handed him back to me, and I spent his last few seconds on earth kissing him good bye and telling him I promised I'd see him again I just didn't know when.
His body went limp, and he was gone. All within 2 minutes.
The rest of the night was a b l u r.
We bathed and dressed him. There was a big cut on his back from when they hurried and pulled him out during the c- section.
"My poor baby.." I cried. I felt another sharp blow to the chest.
I remember I would have been willing to give anything on the earth, to see him come back to life.
Despite how horrifying yet beautiful it was to spend time taking care of him even though we couldn't do it for him while he was alive,
I honestly know I was carried in those moments.
Something made those moments with his lifeless body easier for us, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I knew he wasn't gone completely.
The nurse had told us that when we were ready to leave, to just wrap him up and leave him on his little bed..
I don't know how I left that hospital room, but I did.
It helped me appreciate the strength that comes from others prayers, because without them I couldn't have done it.
I literally felt carried.
It's a strength that's indescribable, and it carried on to the days that followed. Even his funeral was surreal.
That is why my first few blog posts about it didn't have these details, because the details didn't stand out to me. It was the feeling of hope and strength I had received that stood out to me most.
But after a couple of months, the darkness came.
Slowly the demons began to take over.
The trauma.. the guilt.
Thoughts too scary to acknowledge, because acknowledging them would mean having to feel a deep and dark pain that I don't think I can handle.
One of the worst fears is the fear of yourself.
The fear that everything happened because of you..
Or that everything will happen despite of you.
That somehow, you are the cause, you are the reason for the pain, because you aren't capable of preventing it.
Thoughts like:
Why didn't I appreciate more the moments he was safe inside of me, as active as any other little baby?
What would his cry sound like? Would he have had his dads smile?
He had a distinct smell, I loved it, so why can't I remember it?
Was I too quick to let him go? I remember feeling like I needed to get it over with, how could I even feel that way?
I must have caused the defects, how else would they have happened?
I know so many people who have been through much worse, so why am I having such a hard time still?
How could I not be strong enough to hold him the whole 2 minutes before he was gone?
Why did I not appreciate his perfect beauty, why could I not be there for him more as he struggled?
What if one day, the dark feelings get to be too much, and I snap?
Will I get to be with him then?
Will I ever get another child? One I don't have to say goodbye to before I get the chance to love them completely?
The unanswered questions have led to a darkness I didn't know existed.
Nightmares that cause me to wake up covered in tears and sweat.
If I had to experience something this horrific, then my life must be free game and anything could happen..
On the worst days, it's enough to make me just want to sit in a corner, put my thumb in my mouth and cry like a baby.
While slowly i'm healing, the fear, and the reality of the unanswered questions are still very much there.
The terror of that night will never go away completely.
How helpless and small I felt, watching him suffer and slowly pass away, while there was nothing I could do to stop it.
It will always haunt me.
And yet, I can feel myself changing every time I choose not to let the fear engulf me.
I can feel myself growing a little stronger every time I hold on to the truth I have been given.
Because despite the horror of that night, despite the pain and fear that have followed ever since,
I know, I was meant to experience this.
Like somehow, I agreed to it. And because I agreed to it,
I have managed to find the light, despite the darkness.
I know that I wouldn't understand the power and the beauty of the light, if the darkness didn't come back to haunt me every so often.
And while the light exists, and it offers peace and understanding, it is ok to acknowledge the darkness that's there too.
It's in each of us, and it's not about how much is there, but about how we will overcome it.
This picture hangs in my living room:
It was given to me by some good friends after Jon Gabriel passed away.
It has always brought me comfort as I have pictured my son in the arms of our Savior,
knowing he is safe and secure.
But one day as I was having a particularly difficult time, my eyes graced that picture and a voice spoke to my mind,
"You're my child too."
And those days when I did feel carried, when I did feel someone was taking the burden for me,
it was Him.
And just like little children have an inherent kind of trust in their parents, the Savior can offer us complete feelings of peace and calm, when we put ourselves trustingly in His arms.
And when I let Him, he helps me fight the dark feelings.
Because they don't come where He is.
A few years ago, when Jon and I would study in his lab together, he had a playlist on Grooveshark that he would play over and over.
The song "Demons", by Imagine Dragons was one of the songs.
I had never heard it before, and I remember really liking it.
The song still brings back memories of those study nights in Jon's lab, but now the words have a deeper significance.
The cover below is by Hearts and Hands, and it is amazing!
I have to say I like it better than the original.
I went to high school with Garrett, the lead singer, and he has always had incredible talent.
The lyrics have a different meaning to me now then when I first heard it a few years ago..
But I guess that's how it works,
as more of your story begins to unfold, you learn how to relate to more people and experiences.
And as difficult times continue to take place, you'll realize you can never go back to the normal you once knew..
But that's the price of greatness.
And to me, it's a price worth paying.
, no theories on how to parent a dead child. But we still parent. We just make it all up, each day, as we go along, hurting and healing. Parenting is just tailoring maternal love to fit each child. We do that with our dead babies too. We wonder which flower would honor their lives, we relish speaking their names. We collect drawings of butterflies, quotes that touch our hearts, we write their names on the sand and in the snow.
