Archives for December 2012

A dear friend sent this to me tonight, and so much of it rang so true for me.

Things Grieving Parents Wish You Would Remember…

1. I wish you would not be afraid to mention my child. The truth is just because you never saw my child doesn’t mean he or she doesn’t deserve your recognition.

2. I wish that if we did talk about my child and I cried you didn’t think it was because you have hurt me by mentioning my child. The truth is I need to cry and …talk about my baby with you. Crying and emotional outbursts help me heal.

3. I wish that you could talk about my child more than once. The truth is if you do, it reassures me that you haven’t forgotten and that you do care and understand.

4. I wish you wouldn’t think that I don’t want to talk about my child. The truth is I love my child and need to talk about him or her.

5. I wish you could tell me you are sorry my child has died and that you are thinking of me. The truth is that it tells me you care.

6. I wish you wouldn’t think what has happened is one big bad memory for me. The truth is the memory of my child, the love I feel for my baby, the dreams I had and the memories I have created for my child are all loving memories. Yes there are bad memories too but please understand that it’s not all like that.

7. I wish you wouldn’t pretend that my child never existed.

8. I wish you wouldn’t judge me because I am not acting the way you think I should be. The truth is grief is a very personal thing and we are all different people who deal with things differently.

9. I wish you wouldn’t think if I have a good day I’m “over it” or if I have a bad day I am being unreasonable because you think I should be over it. The truth is there is no “normal” way for me to act.

10. I wish you wouldn’t stay away from me. The truth is loosing my child doesn’t mean I’m contagious. By staying away you make me feel isolated, confused and like it is my fault.

11. I wish you wouldn’t expect my grief to be “over and done with” in a few weeks, months, or years for that matter. The truth is it may get easier with time but I will never be “over” this.

12. My babies due date, Mothers Day, celebration times, the day my baby died and the day I lost my baby are all important and sad days for me. The truth is I wish you could tell me by words or by letter you are thinking of me on these days.

13. I wish you understood that losing my child has changed me. The truth is I am not the same person I was before and will never be that person again. If you keep waiting for me to get back to “”normal” you will stay frustrated. I am a new person with new thoughts, dreams, beliefs, and values. Please try to get to know the real me-maybe you’ll still like me.

14. I wish you wouldn’t tell me I could have another baby. The truth is I want the baby I lost and no other baby can replace this baby. Babies aren’t interchangeable. Besides, you do not know whether we have fertility problems too.

15. I wish you wouldn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable talking about my baby or being near me. When you do, I can see it. The truth is it’s not fair to make me feel uncomfortable just because you are.

16. I wish you wouldn’t think that you’ll keep away because all my friends and family will be there for me. The truth is, everyone thinks the same thing and I am often left with no one.

17. I wish you wouldn’t say that it’s natures way of telling me something was wrong with my baby. The truth is my baby was perfect to me no matter what you think nature is saying.

18.  I wish you wouldn’t say that this was “God’s plan” or “she is in a better place.”  I don’t believe God would be so cruel to make my child suffer and take her away from me.  The best place for her to be is in my arms.

I had a dream with Hannah in it last night.  A good dream.

I’ve been waiting for her to come into my dreams, just wanting to be able to spend time with her.   All I have had are pictures, videos, and memories … but nothing new.

The only dreams that I have had involving her are bad dreams about those final days and hours that she passed, sometimes reliving it, sometimes my dreams recreate various versions of losing her.  Most of the dreams are life after she had passed – even feeling the grief and loss in my dreams.

Until last night.

All three of my kids, Daddy, and I were at some kind of park or festival or something.   I was sitting on a bench against a wall with a tree shading us.   Hannah was standing in between my legs, holding on because she wasn’t able to stand alone.  She was in a playful mood.  She seemed a bit taller, but not much.  I guess she was probably the height of what she would be if she was still here today.    She was wearing a red sweater.

There was nothing exciting or dramatic going on.  It was just me and Hannah hanging out on a bench.   I can’t even remember any specifics of what we did.

It was such a quick moment.  I wish it was a longer dream or a more involved story.

But I was happy.  Truly happy.  Something I haven’t felt in a long time.

 

 

I can’t stop thinking about those children in Connecticut tonight.   How horrified they must have been to see that “thing” come into their classroom and start shooting at them.   How their last thoughts before they died were of intense panic and fear.

Those children … oh my god…

Their parents.  Forever will they have to live with terrifying and horrific situation – not only did they lose their child, but it was done in such an evil, deliberate, and utterly disgusting fashion.

I keep reminding myself how “lucky” (for lack of a better word) I was that Hannah was surrounded by love the night she died.   How she passed away in my arms, stroking her hair.   How her Daddy, brother, and sister all kissed her all night long, even after she passed away.    How she wasn’t connected to any tubes, machines, or in a hospital room.

As her mom, I knew what her last moments were like.   I was there for every breath she took up until the last one that night.

Those parents… I don’t know how you survive something like this, especially with children so young.   How do you get the thought of your child’s last moments out of your head?   The wondering how long they knew?   Was it instant?   How much did they suffer before they passed?

How does a parent pick up the pieces after something like this?   It just crushes my heart having to think of what their families are going through.

I’m so incredibly thankful that I *know* exactly how Hannah’s last moments were.   Knowing that she wasn’t in pain, wasn’t being traumatized.  Knowing that she was surrounded by love.

I never realized how comforting this feeling was until tonight.   I got to say goodbye to her.

My heart truly goes out to those families tonight who will never be able to have peace in their heart because of this tragic event.

 

December 4, 2011

Hannah passed away at 10:10 pm on Sunday night, December 4th, in my arms after a weekend surrounded by all of her grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and good friends.

Today was the one-year mark since Hannah passed away.   I don’t know what word you would call it – I don’t like “angelversary” because any “versary” sounds like a happy achievement.  This is anything but.

I tried so hard to make today be “just another day.”   But for the past few weeks, leading up to today, it has been tearing at my heart.

One year.

I can’t stop reliving that last night.   It is so vivid still, as if it just recently happened.  I wish the memories of her last night would not be so strong.   It is not how I want to remember her, yet I can’t seem to stop reliving it in my mind.     That night was so emotionally exhausting…

My daughter died.  In my arms.  I saw the signs of her body start to shut down … and then she was gone.   She was physically still there, but her soul, her spirit was gone.  Forever.

I held her for an hour or two after she passed, maybe shorter, I can’t remember.  I had such a difficult time letting go of her when the hospice came to take her away.  I don’t think I realized then that I would never, ever see her again.

I took today off from work.  Spent time at the cemetery getting her grave ready for the holiday and polishing up her marker so it is clean and shiny.  Cried…a lot.

I was hoping that after a year it would be easier, and perhaps in some ways it has because I have been able to put up a good face in front of people.

I’m so terribly sad.   I miss her so much.   I need her back.   She truly made me whole… and now I feel forever broken hearted.