It's December ... a time of year symbolized by spiritual celebrations around a Savoir in a manger, twinkling lights, traditional carols, bulbous ornaments, snowflakes, a big guy in a red suit. All images that should evoke a smile. It is, a birthday after all, for the most important little child of all time.
I must admit, for me this time of year has been a rollercoaster since Ian died. Some years have been tough, some were ok, some were flat out brutal. It doesn't seem to be about the passage of time, or the fading of or surge of a memory ... it isn't something I've been able to put a label on as of yet. Its a time of year that has meant some changes for me - most of which I anticipate are permanent - I can't imagine it any other way. Some are about trying to filter out unnecessary stimuli (think overplayed holiday music and pushy, unpleasant fellow shoppers), some are about creating a remembrance, and making one very important little child in my life remain a part of my family: My son. It's no wonder people don't know how to navigate our loss ... there are a hundred holiday triggers I could do without, would prefer to do without. Yet a hundred more I pity the person who neglects.
In working with other angel moms (a term coined by moms I've worked with over the years in an online group, tho not embraced by all - I do prefer it), one of the common discussions the first holiday season without their little one is the impending dread that goes with the season when you've lost your child. For me, only one solution provided comfort - the same one that I harp on often, and that so many who haven't lived the loss avoid like the plague: REMEMBER.
So how? How do we do this? It doesn't have to be morbid or dark, scary or cruel, contrary to the perception of the world around us. It may be bitter, but in this case, that's half of a very important word- bittersweet. Difficult, but something you'd have never wanted to miss.... your child's life.
For those of you new to the loss, or those of you who know someone in these shoes, I'm sharing my traditions ... maybe suggestions that can help. Please, feel free to post your own as comments ... I have to think it will be good for other moms to hear ideas:
1. Since he died in 2003, I buy a new ornament in remembrance of Ian each year. There is a rainbow ornament, baseball ornaments, a remembrance ornament, an angel ornament, and this year, a "boy and his dog" ornament. I don't know for how many years I will continue this tradition - maybe always, maybe till what would be his 18th birthday, who knows. But each year, Ian is represented on my tree in a new and special way - and it makes me smile. :)
2. The first year we were without Ian, I brought a candle with me to my parents house - the place where we traditionally celebrated Christmas. It remained lit throughout our family gathering to represent Ian, and in a way have him 'with us'. There is a candle every year now for my little man. And it makes me smile. :)
3. Gifts for other children his age. I've done this more than one way. For a few years, as part of a church activity, I filled a stocking with toys for a little boy Ian's age living on an Indian reservation. The past two years, I have sponsored a little boy in the Phillipines who was born the same day as Ian, and I send him extra for Christmas. His mother wrote to tell me they used it to buy him clothes, food, shoes, and a toy. And it makes me smile. :)
4. I attend midnight mass. There is special symbolism in that for me on many levels. As a Christian I've been raised with it being at the core of my faith. Its a night we celebrate Jesus' birth ... the one who died for me... the one who took on more pain than I will ever know... the one who's mother also gave birth to a son she would eventually lose in ways beyond her control. But there was something inexplicably magical about the Christmas before Ian came along. As a mother, I remember sitting in midnight mass - this was before I was pregnant - and having an inexplicable feeling that something magical, wonderful was about to happen. I had no idea it would be Ian, but I wouldn't trade it or him for anything.
Every mom or dad who has lost a child has found a way in time to weave their little one's life into their own - it's a first step in going forward, and its a revelation - you can go forward and carry your little one with you always.
To all of you missing your child this holiday season, I send a hug from my heart to yours. I wish you peace, I wish you comfort, I pray for you to have hope, and I encourage you to share with others on here your way of remembering - you never know, your child can live on in what you do to help others through your own experience.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Mother's Day and Infant Loss
On Mother’s Day, Let Me Be a Mother
by Rebecca, Ian's Mom
I read something the other day that struck me….
“If a woman loses her husband she is a widow.
If a man loses his wife he is a widower.
If a child loses its parents he or she is an orphan.
There is no name for a parent who loses their child.”
If I were to put a name to this loss based on what it makes me feel like, I, as a mother who lost her child, would be a "misfit mom.” That mother who doesn’t quite fit in with the rest on Mother’s Day.
With another Mother’s Day now looming on the horizon, I can’t help but reflect on the past six
Mother’s Days since finding out I was pregnant. Mother’s Day was pure joy the year I was
pregnant with my son Ian. I got my first Mother’s Day cards, and Ian’s father bought me a crib for our son. So many wonderful things happened that year. I felt complete. For that brief period of time, these things heightened my joy as an expectant mother. Then it all came crashing down, and I became that indescribable something in the middle of the room that we all knew was there, yet everyone was afraid to acknowledge.
I am no longer a fan of Mother’s Day. It’s not because I remember on that day what I lost. Trust
me, whether it’s Mother’s Day, Groundhog Day, or any given Tuesday, I always remember what I lost. No, I don’t dislike Mother’s Day because I remember what I lost, I dislike Mother’s Day because everyone else tries so hard to forget.
I don’t fault them. How could I? How could they possibly know what to do? From society’s
perspective, there is nothing worse than losing a child. It’s the unthinkable; certainly the
unspeakable. But there are realities attached to the loss that I wish I could help others understand.
For me, as a mother who lost my son, there is only one gift I want:
Let me be a mother.I don’t ever get the opportunity to feel like a normal mother. Ever. I can’t sit and talk with other moms and laugh about the body changes and pains of pregnancy – I’ve tried. Every mother around me looks down or looks away like I shouldn’t have brought it up.
But I am a mother.
I don’t want to forget the birth of my child. Ever. I want to remember the few kicks I felt, the sound of his heartbeat, and the sight of him sucking his thumb on the ultrasound. Being pregnant and giving birth is the single greatest moment any woman ever gets in her life. I won’t be denied that. I want to share my memories of pregnancy and childbirth with others. These are the precious few moments of motherhood I was given. I don’t want anyone to rob me of them by pretending they didn’t exist.
On Mother’s Day, let me be a mother.
I don’t ever stop thinking about my child. Others think that if they bring him up, they are stirring up feelings that I am not already having. On the contrary; it would mean everything to know that others remember.
I don’t want to forget my son. He is a part of me – he is my very heart and soul, and while his loss was my greatest sorrow, that’s only because his life was my greatest joy; a joy I don’t ever want to lose. I carried that little life. I loved him. I felt him move. I gave birth to him. He is my miracle. Yet because he’s not here, I don’t get to be treated like other moms. People avoid wishing me a Happy Mother’s Day, yet it’s something I need terribly. Every day of the year I feel like I don’t fit in as a mom. Nothing would mean more to me than for Mother’s Day to be the one day of the year I can celebrate motherhood too. I need that, yet I don’t know how to tell others. I don’t want them to feel bad. I get why they don’t say anything, truly I do. But how I pray somehow they will find out what I need, because my soul aches to share the day with other moms… to be celebrated as a mom…. to share the joy and cheer of the day that I earned. My son isn’t here to make me Mother’s Day cards in school. I’ll never hear the sound of his voice as he says “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”
Just this one day, celebrate with me. I need that more than I can say. If only people knew. Every
time they pretend that it didn’t happen, it takes away the only few moments of celebration I have.
by Rebecca, Ian's Mom
I read something the other day that struck me….
“If a woman loses her husband she is a widow.
If a man loses his wife he is a widower.
If a child loses its parents he or she is an orphan.
There is no name for a parent who loses their child.”
If I were to put a name to this loss based on what it makes me feel like, I, as a mother who lost her child, would be a "misfit mom.” That mother who doesn’t quite fit in with the rest on Mother’s Day.
With another Mother’s Day now looming on the horizon, I can’t help but reflect on the past six
Mother’s Days since finding out I was pregnant. Mother’s Day was pure joy the year I was
pregnant with my son Ian. I got my first Mother’s Day cards, and Ian’s father bought me a crib for our son. So many wonderful things happened that year. I felt complete. For that brief period of time, these things heightened my joy as an expectant mother. Then it all came crashing down, and I became that indescribable something in the middle of the room that we all knew was there, yet everyone was afraid to acknowledge.
I am no longer a fan of Mother’s Day. It’s not because I remember on that day what I lost. Trust
me, whether it’s Mother’s Day, Groundhog Day, or any given Tuesday, I always remember what I lost. No, I don’t dislike Mother’s Day because I remember what I lost, I dislike Mother’s Day because everyone else tries so hard to forget.
I don’t fault them. How could I? How could they possibly know what to do? From society’s
perspective, there is nothing worse than losing a child. It’s the unthinkable; certainly the
unspeakable. But there are realities attached to the loss that I wish I could help others understand.
For me, as a mother who lost my son, there is only one gift I want:
Let me be a mother.I don’t ever get the opportunity to feel like a normal mother. Ever. I can’t sit and talk with other moms and laugh about the body changes and pains of pregnancy – I’ve tried. Every mother around me looks down or looks away like I shouldn’t have brought it up.
But I am a mother.
I don’t want to forget the birth of my child. Ever. I want to remember the few kicks I felt, the sound of his heartbeat, and the sight of him sucking his thumb on the ultrasound. Being pregnant and giving birth is the single greatest moment any woman ever gets in her life. I won’t be denied that. I want to share my memories of pregnancy and childbirth with others. These are the precious few moments of motherhood I was given. I don’t want anyone to rob me of them by pretending they didn’t exist.
On Mother’s Day, let me be a mother.
I don’t ever stop thinking about my child. Others think that if they bring him up, they are stirring up feelings that I am not already having. On the contrary; it would mean everything to know that others remember.
I don’t want to forget my son. He is a part of me – he is my very heart and soul, and while his loss was my greatest sorrow, that’s only because his life was my greatest joy; a joy I don’t ever want to lose. I carried that little life. I loved him. I felt him move. I gave birth to him. He is my miracle. Yet because he’s not here, I don’t get to be treated like other moms. People avoid wishing me a Happy Mother’s Day, yet it’s something I need terribly. Every day of the year I feel like I don’t fit in as a mom. Nothing would mean more to me than for Mother’s Day to be the one day of the year I can celebrate motherhood too. I need that, yet I don’t know how to tell others. I don’t want them to feel bad. I get why they don’t say anything, truly I do. But how I pray somehow they will find out what I need, because my soul aches to share the day with other moms… to be celebrated as a mom…. to share the joy and cheer of the day that I earned. My son isn’t here to make me Mother’s Day cards in school. I’ll never hear the sound of his voice as he says “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”
Just this one day, celebrate with me. I need that more than I can say. If only people knew. Every
time they pretend that it didn’t happen, it takes away the only few moments of celebration I have.
We're Entitled to Celebrate
For almost three years now, I’ve been working with bereaved parents. Parents who, for a variety of reasons, have lost an infant. Some to miscarriage, some to stillbirth, some to SIDS, some to other illnesses, tragic accidents, or other causes. No matter what, the loss of a child is the unthinkable.
But there’s a bigger loss – the one society imposes on parents. The one that says “you can’t talk about your child” or, “you can, but we won’t do it with you.” What people don’t realize is every time the bereaved parent is robbed of a chance to remember and celebrate their child’s life, they live a little piece of the death all over again. Not only did the child die, but now so is their right to remember, and their sense of parenthood dying a bit also.
I’ve had people say many things to me in the past 6.5 years since I lost my son. And my reactions have varied. I went through two very rough years of grief, and eventually healing into a new normal. But some facets of my son’s life will always impact mine. You don’t go from being a mother back to not being one – it isn’t possible. If you’ve ever felt in your heart the love you have for your own child, you know what I mean. It changes you. Down to your soul. And that is not something that can be undone. The thing is, unless we’re allowed to celebrate our child, that love has nowhere to go. And that just might be an even bigger loss.
In time, as the grief process evolves, you learn to find yourself again. We find a smile, our joy, and we realize it’s ok to go forward again. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. You tuck your child safely in your heart, and you keep going with life. I smile as I write that … my life is good now. And I know where Ian is. And I’m happy. Nobody can tell me I haven’t moved on … I have..
I had someone tell me once they avoided the issue because they weren’t going to be the ones to “remind me my child died”. But the thing is, they missed the point. I feel the ache inside me, and I know what helps and what hurts. I’m not asking you to remind me of his death …. I’m telling you to help me remember his life.
What I mean is this: In this loss, parents like me have a choice.. Forgetting isn’t an option. Remembering in a way that is healthy and positive – in a way that celebrates – is.
To a parent who is so used to society averting their eyes, avoiding the subject, treating you as if you’re stuck in the past, isolating you even further than you already feel, the gift of celebration is precious. We only ask that those of you who love us help us in the ways we need help. If you don’t believe me, try it one time. And watch my face. Take note of the light in my eyes when you say “sending love to you and Ian today”… or “wishing Ian a happy birthday!!” … or “happy Mother’s Day!”… watch my smile… my astonishment… my joy. And you know what happens inside me? A “soaring” feeling in my heart – that overwhelming happiness, and the thought “my little man ROCKS!!” I’ve felt that feeling every single time. And it’s a rare moment of great joy in celebrating my son… so indulge me.
Bringing it up doesn’t cause pain. Others avoiding it does. We are not remembering a death… we are celebrating – with unprecedented joy – our child’s life. And oh what it would mean if you’d do the same. Be sure of one thing – I don’t speak just for myself. Since 2006, I have interacted with over 700 mothers just like me, and a handful of fathers. And in every single conversation I’ve had with them, the thing they wished for most from others was that they would remember, acknowledge, and celebrate.
Today is October 15… National “Wave of Light” day… tonight, at precisely 7 p.m. Tonight, the goal is that everyone light a candle for babies who have died and their loved ones. And with varying time zones, as each person lights their candles at seven sharp, the light will literally be a ‘wave’ around the world in remembrance.
People don’t know how to handle parents like me. Six years later, having healed, and found great joy in my ‘new normal’, I feel equipped to tell you how to handle us:
Remember. My child died. My child meant EVERYTHING to me. And when he died, I was stripped of endless opportunities to be his mother. Hearing his first words, seeing him walk, watching him board his first school bus, seeing him graduate, seeing who he’d marry, or what career he’d choose, or giving me grandchildren. His life ended, and those things went with it. But in their place, in his absence, I’ve learned what I was supposed to learn – how to keep living. And how to be happy.
I am still his mother. Don’t take the only piece of motherhood from me that I have left. Let me know you remember that he lived. Let me know that his life still matters to others besides me. Let me know it wasn’t all for nothing – that someone so very precious to me is still remembered by you. Afraid to? Try me one time and watch my joy. You’ll see.
If you're so moved, please read, and repost, share with others who know the loss, anything to help another parent in these shoes. If you have questions, please ask. If you are a bereaved parent and you agree, or disagree, please say so. I've dealt with hundreds of parents in recent years, and everything I say above is my sentiment, but one I've heard from so many others.
But there’s a bigger loss – the one society imposes on parents. The one that says “you can’t talk about your child” or, “you can, but we won’t do it with you.” What people don’t realize is every time the bereaved parent is robbed of a chance to remember and celebrate their child’s life, they live a little piece of the death all over again. Not only did the child die, but now so is their right to remember, and their sense of parenthood dying a bit also.
I’ve had people say many things to me in the past 6.5 years since I lost my son. And my reactions have varied. I went through two very rough years of grief, and eventually healing into a new normal. But some facets of my son’s life will always impact mine. You don’t go from being a mother back to not being one – it isn’t possible. If you’ve ever felt in your heart the love you have for your own child, you know what I mean. It changes you. Down to your soul. And that is not something that can be undone. The thing is, unless we’re allowed to celebrate our child, that love has nowhere to go. And that just might be an even bigger loss.
In time, as the grief process evolves, you learn to find yourself again. We find a smile, our joy, and we realize it’s ok to go forward again. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. You tuck your child safely in your heart, and you keep going with life. I smile as I write that … my life is good now. And I know where Ian is. And I’m happy. Nobody can tell me I haven’t moved on … I have..
I had someone tell me once they avoided the issue because they weren’t going to be the ones to “remind me my child died”. But the thing is, they missed the point. I feel the ache inside me, and I know what helps and what hurts. I’m not asking you to remind me of his death …. I’m telling you to help me remember his life.
What I mean is this: In this loss, parents like me have a choice.. Forgetting isn’t an option. Remembering in a way that is healthy and positive – in a way that celebrates – is.
To a parent who is so used to society averting their eyes, avoiding the subject, treating you as if you’re stuck in the past, isolating you even further than you already feel, the gift of celebration is precious. We only ask that those of you who love us help us in the ways we need help. If you don’t believe me, try it one time. And watch my face. Take note of the light in my eyes when you say “sending love to you and Ian today”… or “wishing Ian a happy birthday!!” … or “happy Mother’s Day!”… watch my smile… my astonishment… my joy. And you know what happens inside me? A “soaring” feeling in my heart – that overwhelming happiness, and the thought “my little man ROCKS!!” I’ve felt that feeling every single time. And it’s a rare moment of great joy in celebrating my son… so indulge me.
Bringing it up doesn’t cause pain. Others avoiding it does. We are not remembering a death… we are celebrating – with unprecedented joy – our child’s life. And oh what it would mean if you’d do the same. Be sure of one thing – I don’t speak just for myself. Since 2006, I have interacted with over 700 mothers just like me, and a handful of fathers. And in every single conversation I’ve had with them, the thing they wished for most from others was that they would remember, acknowledge, and celebrate.
Today is October 15… National “Wave of Light” day… tonight, at precisely 7 p.m. Tonight, the goal is that everyone light a candle for babies who have died and their loved ones. And with varying time zones, as each person lights their candles at seven sharp, the light will literally be a ‘wave’ around the world in remembrance.
People don’t know how to handle parents like me. Six years later, having healed, and found great joy in my ‘new normal’, I feel equipped to tell you how to handle us:
Remember. My child died. My child meant EVERYTHING to me. And when he died, I was stripped of endless opportunities to be his mother. Hearing his first words, seeing him walk, watching him board his first school bus, seeing him graduate, seeing who he’d marry, or what career he’d choose, or giving me grandchildren. His life ended, and those things went with it. But in their place, in his absence, I’ve learned what I was supposed to learn – how to keep living. And how to be happy.
I am still his mother. Don’t take the only piece of motherhood from me that I have left. Let me know you remember that he lived. Let me know that his life still matters to others besides me. Let me know it wasn’t all for nothing – that someone so very precious to me is still remembered by you. Afraid to? Try me one time and watch my joy. You’ll see.
If you're so moved, please read, and repost, share with others who know the loss, anything to help another parent in these shoes. If you have questions, please ask. If you are a bereaved parent and you agree, or disagree, please say so. I've dealt with hundreds of parents in recent years, and everything I say above is my sentiment, but one I've heard from so many others.
"It's Time to Move On"
It’s Time to Move On
by Rebecca (Ian's Mom)
”It’s time to move on.” I can still remember people telling me that. It had been
just about a year. They meant well. They thought it was "tough love" I guess, but
that isn’t how loss works. It isn't an uncommon thing to hear after losing an
infant. I was shocked when I was in the hospital, and the OB director warned us.
She had lost babies of her own to stillbirth, and she knew how the world
responded. Try as they might and loving as they may be, most of the world just
doesn’t understand. But then she made a good point: The only way anyone could
ever understand this loss is to live it first hand. I don’t know about you, but I
wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
It's been 6.5 years since I lost my son. Have I moved on? Yes. Am I happy
again? Very. Are there still days when it hits me? There will always be days when
it hits me. You do not get over losing your child. You learn to live with it, but it’s
in a new normal. That’s our reality.
Upon finding out that you’re pregnant, there’s something more than a child inside
you that is growing. Yes, there is a life made through you and from you, but
there’s an indescribable, never felt before kind of love, purpose, protectiveness,
joy, and completion. It’s an experience incomparable to any other.
From the first sight of the heart beating on an ultrasound at six weeks, I was crazy
in love with my son. From the first flutter I felt of him moving, I bonded with that
little life. From the moment I found out his gender and chose his name, he had an
identity. Through every step of my pregnancy, my little one took on more and
more of a personhood. I envisioned his face, his laugh, and his tears. I imagined
his smell, his touch, his voice. I pictured telling him about the tooth fairy, helping
with homework, and midnight snuggles after bad dreams. I imagined him as a
teenager, a groom, a father. I anxiously anticipated the day that I heard him call
me "mom" or say "I love you." Then in a stilled heart beat, it was all gone. No,
scratch that. It was all violently ripped away.
There is nothing simple about healing from the loss of a child. There is nothing
that will ever allow a mother to move on in a matter of months. For me, and I
have no idea how I fit in with other moms, it took a good two years. And still to
this day, I dread his birthday because I have to celebrate it at a gravesite. I dread
Mother's Day because nobody acknowledges me as a mom. I dread the holidays
because every other member of my family is there, but he's not. I've got about
four days a year when it envelops me for a brief time. I am happy the other 361
days. I'd say I've done pretty well moving on considering the magnitude of the
loss.
When I lost my son, a part of my soul died. I did not go "back to normal." Over
the course of time (and it was my timetable, no-one else's), I learned to live in a
new normal. But an angel's footprint is forever in my heart. I will spend the rest of
my life thinking "He would be five today ... He should be graduating this year....
I'll never see him hit a homerun.... I wish I could hear him call me mom just
once..."
There's only one way to keep my son close to me: By remembering him. I need to
say his name. I need to hear others say it too. It's pure joy to hear. I need to talk
about my son without others averting their eyes, shifting in their seats, or getting
uncomfortable.
On a happiness scale of 1-10, I am at about a nine. It’s been over six years. I live a
very happy, full, joyous life, with my son's memory tucked safely in my heart. I
learned to live in a new normal. It had to happen in my time and in God's time ...
not someone else’s time.
by Rebecca (Ian's Mom)
”It’s time to move on.” I can still remember people telling me that. It had been
just about a year. They meant well. They thought it was "tough love" I guess, but
that isn’t how loss works. It isn't an uncommon thing to hear after losing an
infant. I was shocked when I was in the hospital, and the OB director warned us.
She had lost babies of her own to stillbirth, and she knew how the world
responded. Try as they might and loving as they may be, most of the world just
doesn’t understand. But then she made a good point: The only way anyone could
ever understand this loss is to live it first hand. I don’t know about you, but I
wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
It's been 6.5 years since I lost my son. Have I moved on? Yes. Am I happy
again? Very. Are there still days when it hits me? There will always be days when
it hits me. You do not get over losing your child. You learn to live with it, but it’s
in a new normal. That’s our reality.
Upon finding out that you’re pregnant, there’s something more than a child inside
you that is growing. Yes, there is a life made through you and from you, but
there’s an indescribable, never felt before kind of love, purpose, protectiveness,
joy, and completion. It’s an experience incomparable to any other.
From the first sight of the heart beating on an ultrasound at six weeks, I was crazy
in love with my son. From the first flutter I felt of him moving, I bonded with that
little life. From the moment I found out his gender and chose his name, he had an
identity. Through every step of my pregnancy, my little one took on more and
more of a personhood. I envisioned his face, his laugh, and his tears. I imagined
his smell, his touch, his voice. I pictured telling him about the tooth fairy, helping
with homework, and midnight snuggles after bad dreams. I imagined him as a
teenager, a groom, a father. I anxiously anticipated the day that I heard him call
me "mom" or say "I love you." Then in a stilled heart beat, it was all gone. No,
scratch that. It was all violently ripped away.
There is nothing simple about healing from the loss of a child. There is nothing
that will ever allow a mother to move on in a matter of months. For me, and I
have no idea how I fit in with other moms, it took a good two years. And still to
this day, I dread his birthday because I have to celebrate it at a gravesite. I dread
Mother's Day because nobody acknowledges me as a mom. I dread the holidays
because every other member of my family is there, but he's not. I've got about
four days a year when it envelops me for a brief time. I am happy the other 361
days. I'd say I've done pretty well moving on considering the magnitude of the
loss.
When I lost my son, a part of my soul died. I did not go "back to normal." Over
the course of time (and it was my timetable, no-one else's), I learned to live in a
new normal. But an angel's footprint is forever in my heart. I will spend the rest of
my life thinking "He would be five today ... He should be graduating this year....
I'll never see him hit a homerun.... I wish I could hear him call me mom just
once..."
There's only one way to keep my son close to me: By remembering him. I need to
say his name. I need to hear others say it too. It's pure joy to hear. I need to talk
about my son without others averting their eyes, shifting in their seats, or getting
uncomfortable.
On a happiness scale of 1-10, I am at about a nine. It’s been over six years. I live a
very happy, full, joyous life, with my son's memory tucked safely in my heart. I
learned to live in a new normal. It had to happen in my time and in God's time ...
not someone else’s time.
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