Letter From Heaven

This is a repost from Facebook three days after Kelci's accident (July 27, 2012). 

A letter from Heaven. Today we were just driving around on roads Kelci liked to travel, and I remembered Kelci had written her college entrance essay about Michelle.  I made a note to myself that I had to get it printed when I got home. Of course...I forgot.  

When the mail came later, there was and envelope from the King's College registrars office and this was in it.  I feel to the floor and sobbed as I read it to Michelle, letting Kelci speak through me to her beloved sister.  There are a lot of lessons for all of us in this absolutely amazing message:  

Born Together, Friends Forever 

by Kelci Gibbons

From the moment I met her she has taught me things like patience, sharing, friendship, and tolerance. When confined to a small space with another person, these are important things to know, and we began our life together in the smallest of places. From the beginning, my twin sister, Michelle, has had a tremendous impact on my life. Together we have the best times and I learn the most amazing things from her.

In the summer of 2006, we were cruising in our new 2001 Ford Focus. Bob Marley blasted from the speakers, and we wasted a tank of gas going nowhere, and we were having a great time. She smiled at me and said, “Oh man, life is great, nature, love and peace. Look at that tree, it's beautiful!” We had to stop right there in the middle of nowhere just so she could take a picture of it. With Michelle, it is always that way—she has a way of making everything (even doing nothing) fun. She appreciates everything, especially the simple things, and just being around her makes me smile. She has taught me that you can find joy in anything.  

Michelle has taught me many other things. When we were about seven, we were playing on the top bunk, when our mom yelled, “Girls, pizza’s done. Hurry up the game’s in a half hour.”

“You first,” I said.  Then, not waiting until she landed, I jumped after her and landed right on her arm. Big mistake! I broke her left arm. When she arrived home from the emergency room wearing a pink cast. I didn’t know what to say to her. Sorry just doesn’t fix a broken arm. She took one look at my guilty face and said, “It’s OK, it was an accident. Stuff happens. I still love you and I always will.” Then she hugged me with the good arm. Her laid-back comment surprised me. I cracked her arm, and she couldn’t play soccer (a passion both of us shared) but she forgave me, no questions asked. When others have done things to hurt me, I’ve often remembered that day.  It’s not always easy to forgive, but I remind myself that stuff happens and it’s better to just let it go.

Growing up and hanging out with Michelle for eighteen years has taught me many things. She has shown me how to appreciate everything, to find joy in simple things, to forgive easily, and not to hold a grudge. She has always been there to motivate me and push me to be successful. She leads by example, and has shown me that determination and hard work will allow me to achieve any goal I set. But, most importantly, she has given me true friendship. I was born with the best friend I could ask for, and everyday I am grateful for the special and unique relationship that I have with my beautiful twin sister, Michelle.

October 16, 2012

3 months in. 

I wish I could say things are getting easier.  They're not.  Reality and acceptance suck, just saying. There's not a minute that goes by that I don't miss Kelci and wish that she could just be here, that this nightmare is over, that I'm awake and she's here and everything is OK. There isn't a day that I don't cry, although most people don't know this or see this, because I can act normal, I can work, I can exercise, I can even smile and laugh.  I didn't lose my sense of humor.  That one really puzzles me sometimes, but I'm glad for it.  It gets me through some tough times.

In the beginning, I was in shock but knew I had to be strong, the pillar, the rock, because I knew others might fall apart if I wasn't. Things had to be done, plans had to be made.  There was no time to crumble.  Life, you know, has to go on.

The thing is mine stopped that day.  Life as I knew it ended, and this new life that I don't want began.  Yes, the world ended for me in 2012.  I hope the rest of you fare better.

It's hard to act normal when nothing is. It's hard to live a life you didn't plan when it's not only nothing like you expected, but it's horrid.  I always thought that the quote "We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us,”  meant something great was coming.  I never thought this is what was waiting for me.  I wouldn't have let go.

The thing is I didn't have a choice.  Now what?  I just don't know.  I know I want better.  I deserve better.  I just don't know how to get it, or if it's really possible, but everyday I still try.  Everyday I ask for comfort from my pain and that peace fills my heart. I count my many blessings, and I try really hard to be nice.  I go out of my way to do nice things for others, because this also helps me.  

It's hard though, really hard, especially when I see life going on so normally for so many others, and I see so much unhappiness, pettiness and ugliness.  I remind myself often now that all that is magnified, because I see things so much differently and wish others could too.  At times it's hard not to be judgemental, but since I'm not all seeing, I try real hard to step back and remember that I don't know what's going on behind the scenes in other people's lives, and I ask for peace and clarity for them as well.

I won't give up though.  Honoring, remembering and keeping promises to Kelci are far too important for that.  I'll find a way.  I don't have a choice.  In the meantime, I'll keep on asking for comfort and peace for me, everyone close to me, everyone one I meet and everyone out there who needs it.  Maybe if I don't get it just yet, someone else will.  Asking for and carrying peace in one's heart is never a bad thing, in volume it has to be awesome, right?

Mother's Day

Written on Mother's Day, May 14, 2017

For anyone who bravely faces this day with a little or a lot of dread, if you are reading this know that you are not alone.

Maybe your situation is like mine, one of your children is no longer physically here, and this day brings yet another bittersweet reminder, in a never ending string of them, of all you had, of all you no longer do, and provides a stark contrast with the enormous blessings that still remain. You have permission to mourn and celebrate, cry and rejoice. My wish for you is peace.

Maybe your mother has passed away, and this day brings equal turmoil and lack of balance. You may have children, who still have you, but all you want is to hug your mother. You may be that child who doesn't understand. My wish for you is peace.

Maybe you are a woman who never carried a baby to term, or fertility made it impossible. You mourn in silence for what might have been. My wish for you is peace.

Maybe you didn't get the loving mother you deserve, the one that others have, and days like this amplify what should have been. My wish for you is peace.

Maybe more than one of these situations apply to you, and maybe your reason for dread today is different. If this day brings you any  saddness, know that you are not alone. You have permission to feel whatever you feel. It is your story, your heart, your choice. I hope you find happy, loving moments that help you get through. If I can help, know that I'm here. I hear you, I understand and I'm sending you love. My wish for you is always peace.

7 years and 3 months now

Three months.  I didn't think I’d be a person who focuses on dates, but it's hard not to when you wake up and know it's the 24th of the month and know exactly what that means. I hope as time goes by it's not so much at the forefront, but I have my doubts.

When I was a kid a teacher told me once that I had the "big puppy dog eyes" that could get me anything I want.  Not true, but I have learned that I do express much emotion with my eyes. I don't like to look in the mirror often, because there I'm greeted with the saddest eyes I've ever seen reminding me of how much I've lost.

Instead, I like to look within and find all the happy cherished memories that my life has brought me.  They are countless and not going anywhere.  They are my happy place.  I smile when I’m looking there. 

I also like to look around me, outside of me, and focus on all the amazing blessings, especially the human ones, that remain with me.  They too are plentiful.  They are my comfort zone. I smile and laugh when I’m there.  Laughter really does console a hurting heart and soul.

I'll keep my sadness though too, for awhile, forever, who knows, because it is something that's just there.  It comes with the territory.  You don't love and cherish someone that much and expect no sadness when they are gone. That’s impossible. You just learn to live with it.

 This learning to live without Kelci in my life is hard business, harder than anything I have ever known.  I really don’t like to look at the sadness, but it can’t be helped.  It’s there, in my heart, in my soul, in my eyes.  I can tuck it away though with thoughts of happier times, plans for good times, smiles, laughter, hugs, patience and understanding.  I am blessed beyond measure with an abundance of that.

Truth

No matter what I do to try to reinvent my life, it's not going to make a difference. No career change, no reached goal, no amount of adventure or happiness is going to restore my world or bring back my girl. Feeling really sad about that today.

There is pain, and there is PAIN

2013 Lake Tahoe without her...In spirit Kelci is always there.

A few weeks ago, I was in a yoga class and before it started, the "mat chat" somehow turned to child birth.  I listened a little, and one non-mom said, "I don't know if I could do it.  From what I understand it is the worst pain ever."

A few others responded in agreement that yes, they thought perhaps it was, and I spoke up and said, "for me, it wasn't bad."  I was greeted by astonished looks, and this lead me to awkwardly stumble for words as I tried to as gracefully as possible bow out of the conversation. I sat in silence until practice started thinking, No, childbirth is not the most painful experience ever. Not. Even. Close.

I wanted to speak up and say, "Having your child die, that's painful. A pain that indescribable to those who have not experienced it." But, I sat in silence.  The last thing I want to do is bring people down or sound condescending. How would they know, if they didn't know? There is no way they could. Until I knew, I had absolutely no idea exactly how painful it truly is to lose a child. NO IDEA.

I will not do it justice by trying to explain it, but I will tell you this, the pain brought on by the death of your child is horrendous. It is a physical pain as well as emotional pain. Real pain, that hurts, and at times has caused my heart, my head and many other body parts to ache. For me, it is always tag teamed with the emotional pain, which squeezes so tight that at the worst times it has literally taken my breath away. It often launches a surprise attack, reminding you of the moments of agony when it appeared.  There is absolutely nothing ever that you can take for it to make it go away.I know for certain that to some degree, the pain will always be with me. It is incurable, inescapable, ever present and terminal, and the way to survive it, is to do know it is what it is and become accustomed to it.

I've learned to control it, mask it and live rather fully with it, because for me there is no other choice. I've found a new new path to happiness in spite of it, and smiles and laughter shine though but don't dull it. Incurable pain is just like that.  I manage it well, like an amputee who has no other option but to find a way to live without a limb.

With childbirth there is pain, for sure, but with that pain comes great reward.  No, childbirth is not the most painful experience ever. Not. Even. Close. Living a life without that child is without doubt the most painful experience ever.

Reality

Me and Kelci Ithaca, NY 2008

This is so hard to explain, but sometimes, out of the blue, the reality of losing Kelci hits me so hard again it stops me in tracks, leaving me breathless and struggling to grasp the truth.  I'm held in a time warp asking question after question. Is she really gone? Can this be possible? Is this really my life now, a life without her? How did I get here?  Have more than two and half years passed by without her here? How can someone who looks so alive in these pictures just be gone? 

Even after all this time, in these moments, I have to remind myself that yes, this is the truth, this is my reality. I am a mom whose child has died.  I will always be a mom who must live without her child.

We made it through

In the final hours of Christmas 2014 I laid on the couch in the quiet of our family room and breathed a sigh of relief.  Christmas is not what it used to be before the accident. It's less planned, smaller, simpler.  My husband walked into the room, and I smiled.  As we hugged and said, "We made it through."

That is how Christmas is now. I'm not bah-humbug.  I try, but it is hard. It's hard to be festive when such a huge reason for our festiveness is now gone. For Kelci we do so much.  In her honor, we decorate her tree outside, we put up a tree inside. When it's not up yet, we joke about how mad she'd be if we didn't put it up.  Kelci's spirit pushes up to do things she loved to do.  She loved the holidays, the decorations, the presents.  We all did, but she was always the one who pushed to get things done if we weren't doing them yet.  She was the one who would bake the cookies if I was running behind, or run to the store for last minute things. She was the one who kept dad on track with shopping. She was our extra little push. It's hard now without our extra little push.

We all try to step up, but stepping up when you don't really have it in you is hard.  So, the tree got up, but it's smaller now, and my son and his girl friend have taken on the tradition of getting it. Presents are bought, but not as many.  It was always hard to shop; it's much harder now. The cookies, well some, a few, OK one batch, got baked, but not until 2 days after Christmas, and that's OK.  We do what we can do.

Maybe time will change things.  Maybe it won't.  What I've realized is that no matter what we do, as long as we keep trying to do something, it is enough for us.  We laughed. We cried.  We were together.  We decorated.  We celebrated.  It's much different now, but for now that is more than enough.  We made it through. 

Painting by Kelci circa 1st grade

The others (those who haven't lost a child) can't completely understand this new life I live no matter how kind and empathetic they are. How could they?  How could I before this loss.  You might think you know, but you don't know.

Hollow words.  "I can't imagine." No, you couldn't.  I beg you don't even try.

Mostly I'm OK. I live my life as fully as I can. I try very hard.  This.  This is HARD.  It never gets easy.  I will have to do this every single day. I know happiness comes from within though, so I fight hard every day.

My heart is filled with love, but always mixed with a touch of sadness. It is just the way it is.  Losing a child brings an emptiness that doesn't fill.  You can survive, even thrive, but the challenge of living your life without your child becomes the way you live. The others could never really understand this. Not fully anyway.  I am a different person, and forever will be, no matter what it looks like to others.
This is just how it is for me. For the most part, I've excepted this, there is no other choice.

Wake up.

Pray for peace and happiness to

 fill my heart.

Hope this takes away 

some of the emptiness and sadness.

Get up.  

See reminders everywhere.

Live. Laugh. Love.

Remind yourself you promised.

You must do this.

Live fully.

She only started to get that chance.

Wake up.

Pray for peace.

Wake up.

Find happiness despite all that was lost.

Get up.

You have life.

Wake up.

Live.

A Diffucult Year Two So Far

Artwork by Kelci Gibbons

Nearly a year and a half into this nightmare and we're still standing. As predicted, some days are easier than others, but I can honestly say that the ache of losing Kelci never goes away, nor do I expect that it ever will.

The best way I can describe it so others can who aren't living it can somewhat understand is to compare it to a toothache (hardly the same, but you'll see the point).  It is a non-ending pain that can be dulled with medicine, might not ache all the time, but can come back with full force when you least expect it.  It's a volcano simmering under the surface that you just never know when it will erupt. At least with a toothache there are ways to fix it, with this, we have none.

This year, the holidays have brought the ache back full force.  It's hard finding Christmas Spirit this year when all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep and hope you wake up when the holidays are over. It's not a good attitude to have, and I know it, so I'm trying very hard to change it.  I feel like I'm wearing a mask though, but faking it 'til I'm making it might be better than the alternative (giving in to the despair).

I read that the second year after losing your child is often harder than the first year, at the time I read it I wasn't sure I believed it.  I was in so much pain that I didn't think it could get worse.  The levels and layers of grief often surprise me. Yes, there are days that it gets worse, even years after. 

In my case, and I'm sure this is common, I think I was so numb last year and trying so desperately to make everything OK for all those suffering around me that I dug in deep and refused to allow the holidays to bad.  I had so much support, came up with the idea of the Peace Tree, and was focused and determined to make it happen.  This year, I just don't feel the same. I'm not going to give in to despair, but I don't have the same determination this year like I did last year and it's a much harder struggle.

The first year,  we were so in shock and numb that we floated through most of it.  Even now, looking back, much of it is fuzzy and dreamlike.  I find myself wondering if it really happened, and often question how I did it. I wish I could pinpoint it, so I could draw on that strength again this year.  So much is different.

I did put the Peace Tree up again, and as I was decorating it and reflecting on each ornament that was sent last year with so much love, I did feel peace and comfort and really thought that it would be enough to pull me through again.  For whatever reason, it isn't.  I hesitate to write this here, because I certainly don't want to offend anyone or seem ungrateful (because I truly am), but I feel the difference last year, compared to this one was coming home each day through the season and finding new ornaments for the tree.  It was so uplifting, and kept us occupied and gave us something to look forward to as Christmas neared.  This year, once I put the peace tree up, it was done, and with that I came the feelings (right or wrong) that others got to go on with their lives, but we were still, and would forever be here.  Every Christmas for the rest of our lives is going to be a Christmas without Kelci.  That's our reality, and to be frank, that reality sucks.

I don't like feeling this way, but I do.  I'll push through though, because I have to, because I know it is the better thing to do.  I'll crawl into my bed, and I'll cry for awhile, but I'll get up, put on a happy face and continue to find things to make me smile and to remember that finding Christmas Spirit and inner peace are links to connection and communication with my beautiful girl. 

The Wave of Grief

No matter how "good" I handle things, not matter how many good moments there are, the pain can hit at any moment and it hurts just as much as it did the moment I found out.  This pain never leaves, it only hides.

One Year

 

One year. Some say it gets easier with time. I disagree. It gets different. Nothing about losing Kelci will ever be labeled easy. Some say to me that they don't know how I do it. They say they couldn't. The unimaginable happened to me... last year, something I thought I couldn't survive, but I woke up the next morning and the one after that and was faced with "now what"? My child died and somehow I survived (I truly didn't think that would happen). I didn't want to be strong. I had to be strong. You do not get a choice in some things in life, but you do get a choice in how you face them.

To honor Kelci, my family and I chose to celebrate and concentrate on her life and all the joy that brought us. I will never regret that. There is so much about this situation to be sad about, sadness comes without effort. Fighting to be happy in spite of and choosing to live a good life in Kelci's honor, that's hard work, but an effort so worth it. In a grief therapy group I attend I wrote this to grief: "You came because my daughter had to leave, but she is worth the pain I'm feeling. I would have died for her, so you, you aren't as tough as you think you are. I will cry with you, but I will also laugh with you. You will win sometimes, but I will win most of the time, and in the end you will see who comes out on top. I will find a way to deal with you positively, because despite what you think I have always been stronger than you."

Life is a hard, beautiful, messy, magical, challenging, fun, adventure that we only get to live once. Some of us get shorter rides and make the most of them, others get long ones and take too long to figure out that happiness is the goal. I suggest you hop in the front seat, throw your arms up and make the most of this wild ride you are on. Live fully today, because there is no promise of tomorrow.

To my Kelci: You know I love and miss you today as much as I always have. I will ache for your physical presence until we are together again. I miss your smile, your sweet voice, the little notes you left me, I miss your hugs, your laugh and seeing your beautiful face. I miss walking behind you in public and watching in awe as people just stopped to stare as you walk by and you never even noticing it. I miss your text and your goofiness. I miss fighting with you and laughing with you and crying with you. I miss you asking me to borrow money. I miss everything about you. Thank you though for letting me know that you are still with us. I love the little signs you send. "I love you forever. I like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be". It certainly has been a long, strange trip my love, and I'm sure the one you are now on is magnificent. Much peace and love until I see you again.

New Normal

Most people, even the most well meaning, don't understand that I will never truly "get over" the loss of my child or get back to "normal".  Normal ended the second I found out that Kelci was no longer in this world.

Even though I can get through most days OK, and through hard work, I have found ways to find happiness in spite of all of this, there are moments that nothing can stop the flood of tears and overwhelming sadness.  Most people, I've come to learn, can't really comprehend or handle what I'm dealing with anyway.  Unless you have experienced this yourself, a person really can't even begin to KNOW what this is like.  As I've said many times since Kelci's accident, my life, life as I knew and expected it to be, ended, and a new, different, unwelcome one began. This new life is rough to navigate at times, but as always, I continue to do the best I can with the circumstances I've been given.


I often wonder if people truly know how much goes on behind the scenes, behind the smiles, beyond what isn't said.  Do they know that even though I smile, find a way to go on, or a way to function that my thoughts are still consumed with Kelci?  Sometimes feeling to the point of obsession, that I am willing myself to keep her in the forefront of my thoughts, because it would be too traumatic for her to somehow be forgotten.  Logically I know she won't be, but it's still terrifies me to even think she might.

People aren't comfortable with this kind of loss.  They don't know what to say, and they like to be able to say that you are doing good, so I learned quickly to put on a public mask.

It's not fake or phony, I truly do want to live a good life, to be happy, to honor my daughter and her existence here in a positive way, and for the most part I do this.  However, I have also noticed that if I do have a bad day, shed a tear in public, talk about Kelci or the accident, or come across as anything but OK, others get very uncomfortable, very fast. It's easier just to put up the wall.

Most of the time, I don't even consciously think about it. It is what it is, and it is what makes it easier to deal, to get successfully through a day.  If people see me smile, laugh and function normally (to their standard), they can rationalize that I am doing fine.  This though, does make me feel that they have put it behind them and moved forward to a place were I know I will never get to go.

Maybe if living with a broken heart were more obvious, like living without an arm or a leg, the outside world would understand better what I was missing.  However, I suspect most would still act the same, eye contact would be avoided, uncomfortableness would still prevail and just as most would avoid looking at an amputees missing parts or asking about the damage, the awkward silence would remain the same.

To get through, I will continue as I have for nearly a year, to save my grief for the private places and spaces,   This is my personal grief, and like all grief, it is unique. I reserve my sadness for me alone., and I cry more than anyone knows. I have also accepted the waves of emotion that sweep over me as part of my new normal. Living life without my child physically here is doable, but it will never be easy and the pain will always be with me, just as she will always be.

This doesn't mean that I'm not coping well, nor does it mean I'm depressed or repressing my grief.  It means I am doing this, working through this, the best way I can for me.  It means that I know there is no "getting over this", there is only learning to live with this.  It means that I have accepted that my life will never be the same, that I will forever be different, and even though I can function well, help others. say and do the right things and make other people comfortable, I have also accepted that a part of me has been forever broken, shattered beyond repair, and learning to live this way is the only option I have.

It ain't always easy, and it ain't always pretty, but I'm surviving, and that counts for something.  This is a place I never expected to find myself.  Expectations of life as I knew it flew out the window and the window shattered into a million pieces the moment I learned of the accident.  Just getting through each day now, finding a little happiness where I can and not giving up, when that could easily be an options are things worth noting. 

Stars Fall

Stars Fall, and Monsters Steal Daughters leaving Broken Hearts
Kelly Gibbons, 2013

This is just a little something that came out when I put some crayons to paper.  I have been exploring the idea of art therapy and just decided to see what would come out when I started to draw.  The words came after I looked at the picture as a whole.

I always called Kelci my star because of how I found her name.  I visited my sister in the hospital when she had her son when I was about.  I was eight months pregnant with Kelci and Michelle, and I did not know if I was having boys, girls or one of each.

I didn't have names picked out for girls get either, and there on the wall painted in a star, part of a mural painted by my childhood art teacher, was the name "Kelci".  Right then and there, I  decided if I had a girl she would be Kelci, and she would always be my little star.  Six weeks later on February 8, 1990 at 6:51 am my little shining star came bursting into the world weighing 5 pounds even and measuring 18 inches long. 

So, when I started to draw this picture with thoughts of Kelci, of course a star came out, and so did a broken heart, the words not fair (bottom right) and what look to me like a giant monster claw. 

My falling star, my broken heart, my daughter taken way too soon, the monster death.




This life

Nearly 9 months have passed since Kelci accident, and in many ways it gets worse instead of better.  Most don't realize that.  In her whole life, 22 and a half short years, I never went more than a few weeks without seeing her (that brief time she was away at college), and rarely a day without speaking to her, and here I sit waiting, expecting her to come home.  The rational mind knows that it's not going to happen, but the mind that protects me has her on vacation.  I like the protector mind so much better.

Island Beach State Park, NJ March, 2013

Nine months isn't even close to enough time to figure things out, move forward, whatever it is you are to do.  I know that, those in a similar situation know that, some grief experts know that, but not everyone does.

I would like to continue to write here, maybe to help myself, maybe to help others, but I don't always have it in me to write here.  There are so many things I wish to do for Kelci, so many plans that come into my head, but I never seem to find the strength or will to follow through on them.  Maybe it's because I just don't know how to do a lot of them, and instead of being overwhelmed by it all, I just let them fizzle before they even get a chance.  I give major kudos to those folks who manage to pull together charities, memorials and foundations to memorialize there loved ones.  It's a lot of work, a lot of will and quite overwhelming.  I wish I knew how to do it, because I'd love to do something for Kelci, something that will continue her legacy and spirit, but whatever I've tried so far, doesn't seem to gain steam.

I imagine it's because I'm not pushing enough, but pushing is hard, and right now I just don't have the energy for it.  It's not that I sit around doing nothing. I do a lot of positive things, but in the end, there are many things I'd love to do, but find myself without the energy or the know how to do things.  Excuses, maybe, but for right now it's my truth.

I know this is all over the place, but that's exactly how my life is these days.  It's hard to focus, hard to even put into words what I really want to say or do.

I often feel like I'm torn. I KNOW there is no right or wrong way to grieve, that there is no time limit to this, but others don't and no matter how hard you try people, even well meaning people, have a tendency to impose their opinions on you.

If I'm good, being positive, trying to uplift others, I'm told I need to grieve, to not hold it in, to let my emotions out.  They don't see the silent tears, nor do they see the times I am crying alone.

If I cry, I'm down, just having a bad day, I'm told that maybe I should see someone, talk to someone to help me cope. They forget all the times I smile, laugh and am positive.

It makes me want to stayed closed off, keep things to myself, because no matter what I do in someones eyes it's not enough.  To be fair, I'm sure that's not what people are thinking when they dole out well meaning advice, but when I process it, to be honest, that's what it feels like.

Realistically, I know it is, and for the most part I know in my heart I'm doing the best I can,  that I'm handling a horrific situation rather well.  I also feel that someday I will be even more together about things, and that a fitting memorial and tribute to Kelci will find it's way.  In bad moments though the rational mind doesn't always win.

In bad moments, all I can do is wish that this was not my life.  In a bad moment this is how I think:

No matter how many time I smile in a day, or laugh, or make other people smile or laugh, and no matter how many positive thing I do, or try to do, and no matter how much joy I seem to be able to capture, at the end of the day, I'm still without my daughter.

KG was here, is always here.

Ray, Island Beach State Park, NJ, March 2013

  

Most days, I can get beyond that, dig deep, find a way to keep on searching for the light, but there are those moments, no matter how hard I try that overwhelm me, and I give into the despair.  I'm left with this life I just don't want.

Yet, I have no choice but to carry on, because giving into it, letting the grief, despair and sadness overwhelm you is no way to live.  For now, I suppose, just learning to navigate these stormy waters, and trying to find a way to do it with grace, a positive attitude, strength and a little less sadness is the most fitting living tribute and memorial I can give to my daughter.  Maybe accepting that for right now that is more than enough.  Perhaps, all that I so desperately seek is already within me, and the rest will come when or if the time is right.

Posted to Facebook 2/27/13:

Truth be told, even though I didn't think I was doing it, I've been having many days of sitting around feeling sorry for myself. Yes, I'm aware that it's OK, but to be fully honest, it's not helping nor do I believe it is particularly healthy. By doing this, I can also see that it is having an effect on others around me, and causing me to behave in ways that aren't really me (and I don't like).

It occurred to me this morning that I'm nowhere close to living the life I should be. I am also, in some ways, punishing myself for what happened to Kelci (as if there were anything I could do). I am sure this goes along with forgiveness. I realized a few weeks ago that I needed to forgive myself for not protecting Kelci. Of course I know logically that there was nothing I could have done, but logic and the thoughts tumbling in my brain don't always work together.

This morning it became clear to me that I have to keep reminding myself of this until it really sticks, and also need to fully grasp that it is OK to be happy and move forward (with this), and that I need to allow good things to come into my life despite this horrible thing that has happen. Back in the beginning, when instinct had hold of my body and mind, this came easier.

So here goes (again, and again and again as necessary): I forgive myself and give myself permission to accept all the goodness that is meant for me (it's meant for everyone).

Doing this, allowing happiness, doesn't lessen the pain from my experience, from physically losing Kelci, nor does it tarnish it or Kelci's memory. (Remember emotions, not logic, have been winning here). It actually honors her in the greatest way possible. It is the best memorial and legacy I could ever give her.

So, today, I am recommitting to what I wrote and said from my heart months ago. When I stop living, or put living on hold, and when I allow my grief to consume me, it only hurts me and everyone who loved Kelci. So, I start honoring my girl again by "living out loud", "living in color" or whatever other way expresses living as fully as possible. The more dreams achieved, the more her light will shine.
I'm off to brighten up the world (or at least my part of it).

"Love Is Eternal" painting by Alexandra Brisson

A few days after I posted the above on Facebook, I saw this beautiful post on the wall of another mother whose daughter passed a week before Kelci did:



When you accept what has happened, you aren't acknowledging that it is okay, but rather that you know you must find a way to keep growing and living - even if you don't feel like it.

Don't let grief be your constant companion.
Realize that... your grief is born out of unconditional love for your child and rejoice in that love which will never end.

Embracing life again is not a sign that you have stopped missing your baby, but an example of a love that is eternal.

~ Wisconsin Perspectives Newsletter, Spring 1989

It sums up exactly what I'm feeling and what I've been saying in such a beautiful way. 



Cracks

Michelle and I at Kelci's celebration of life. 
8-13-12

"I guess when your heart gets broken you can sort of start to see cracks in everything. I'm convinced that tragedy wants to harden us - and our mission is to never EVER let it!" - Unknown

You have to let love, light, hope and peace win. Don't let tragedy destroy you.

There are times I want to scream "I AM NOT OK!  I AM NOT STRONG! I miss my daughter more than anyone can even imaginge." 

But I don't, because I feel like I push people away when I'm weak.

I don't get this way often, but when I do, I just want to be this way.  I want to mourn, and grieve and cry and scream and let it out and work through this pain without advice.

I stay strong to stay sane. Some think I bottle it up, but I don't, I just I keep this private. There are times I'm afraid to cry, because I don't know if I'll ever stop.

I don't run from the crying though, I keep it for me.  I work through it.  I let it out, and then I move forward with love, light, hope and peace, because, as always, I will keep my promise.

Bittersweet Birthdays



Michelle and Kelci, Haight Asbury Street, San Fansisco, CA, June 2012



We blew out the final candles of  "Birthday Week" (6 family birthdays in 10 days, 4 in our house, 2 in one day) on February 8th, and for the first time ever, I'm grateful  it's over.  Getting through it was one of the most painful things so far.  It used to be a like a 10 day celebration, this year it was more like 10 days to dread.

It's starts with my birthday in January, and quite honestly, I didn't think that was going to be too hard, and I was wrong.  Birthday's are about wishes and the one thing I wish for the most I'll never get, and all the "Happy Birthday" greetings can't make up for the one unheard. 

Being who I am, I tried to make the most of it, and by the end of the day, there were more smiles than tears, and an impromptu dinner at a Japanese hibachi grill (a favorite place of Kelci's) left all of us feeling that she somehow made a way to make it happen.  Days like this call for all your strength, and being strong is exhausting. 

Three days later, on February 1st, we had to call upon the strength again for Ray's birthday, knowing in a week we would need to summon the most of all.  Two more birthdays, Ray's mom and sister, fall between, and frankly, I didn't have the energy to do more than say the words this year.  I hope they understood and felt it was enough.  Some how, I think they did. 

And then, like it or not, the 8th came.  Kelci's birthday.  Michelle's birthday.  Bittersweet, indeed.  How do you celebrate one and not the other?  It was always one, and Ray and I always tried so hard to make birthdays special for our kids.  It was their special day, and our special day to celebrate what we love most in this world, to celebrate the happiest days of our lives, the birth dates of our children.

Each of us had our own hard times in the week leading up to the birthday.  Michelle had an especially hard time, how could she not? Kelci was there from birth, always there, her birth mate, her best friend.  When "Happy Birthday" was sung it was always Kelci and Michelle. Not just Kelci, not just Michelle. It was their birthday.

It still is, but like everything else we've had to face these past 7 months, it's different.

For both I said this:

Twenty three years ago I was doubly blessed when two tiny bundles of sunshine burst into this world and forever changed my life. Happy 23rd Birthday to my amazing twins, Kelci Gibbons and Michelle Gibbons. I love you forever and always and NOTHING can change that. It only gets stronger.

Today is about celebrating and cherishing life and remembering to make the most of every second we are given. ...It's about making sure Michelle smiles a lot and knows how loved and special she is. It's about remembering all the awesome moments we celebrated with Kelci. What we give power, energy and attention to wins. I choose love and life.

“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.”

"Love is stronger than death. Even though it can't stop death from happening, but no matter how hard death tries it ca't separate people from love. It can't take away our memories either. In the end, life is stronger than death."

Norman Cousins

 

To Kelci this:

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart. Twenty three years ago at 6:51 am you came into this crazy world and immeadiately stole the hearts and blessed the lives of everyone in your presence, a legacy that doesn't end. I am forever grateful that I was the lucky one who got the privledge to be your mom. Your journey here took an unexpected turn, but you light shines brighter than ever. I am always with you, as you are always with me, and nothing can ever change that.

And this to Michelle:

Happy 23rd Birthday my sweet, beautiful Sea-chelle, Michelle! I am so grateful and blessed that I am your mom. From the second you were born (even before) I have been awe struck by you, and every day you continue to amaze me with your beauty, strength, compassion, creativity, passion and grace. You have no idea how special you are, and that is part of what makes you so wonderfully you. You are my sunshine, and I love you more :)!

Michelle was terrified (her words) of the day.  She feared it would be miserable day, and she didn't want that to happen.  She and Kelci had never had a bad birthday.  They were always special and wonderful, and the thought of others being depressed on that day because Kelci wasn't here was almost unbearable. 

Not going to lie, a good part of the morning was awful.  I tried desperately not to let it be, but sometimes your emotions are just stronger than your will.  It was my baby's day of birth and she wasn't here to celebrate it.  She would never be here again to celebrate it.  There is nothing fair or right or good about that. You are supposed to get every birthday with your child, and when that doesn't happen, when a life is cut short, it's hard to celebrate.

But, how do you not celebrate when you have another baby who shares the same day of birth?  You have to celebrate.  You have to hold on to the blessings that are still in your life.  You have to dig deep and find and focus on the beauty and love that still holds your world together, and that's exactly what we did.

Celebrate life and love, no matter what

I made a birthday feast for Michelle that included a huge salad (her request), a salad from Pinterest that she wanted try and homemade tiramisu (first attempt ever) that I baked in beer mugs.  The tiramisu was Kelci and Michelle's favorite and a yearly tradition, and we sang Happy Birthday to Kelci and Michelle, because as Michelle said, "it will always be Kelci and Michelle, forever and always, no matter what."

Ray bought flowers for both of his girls.  Ray put Kelci's on the window seat in the living room "in the sunshine, so Kelci could see them" and said "I will buy flowers for her every year."

Brian bought Michelle wine glasses and two bottles of white wine.  He really wasn't sure why he bought two, but Michelle knew it had to be a nudge from Kelc, one for each of them.

As we have done from the beginning, we came together as a family, and made the best of the situation we were given. 

Forever, always, no matter what we will celebrate the birth of our beautiful girl, but in a very different way. 

Time warp

The calendar in our kitchen remains on July 2012, halted in time marking the moments that life forever changed in this house.  I cannot bear to turn it, but someday, when an extra surge of strength seeps in, I will likely take it down and toss it.  Not today.

More than half a year marched on since Kelci's accident, some of my life with it, yet a part of me remains stranded in those first moments of comprehension that my life would forevermore be one without Kelci (physically) in it. 

This double life I lead is weird.  One part of me has been able to function, to continue to work, to run, to put together a wonderful celebration to honor my baby, to put together a walk/run team in her memory, to get through some major holidays, to go on two trips (one work related), to find ways to smile, to help others, to dig deep and find the strength to carry on and try my hardest to live well in spite of, and to keep my promise to Kelci. 

Then, there's this part of me that mostly remains hidden deep within me. That can't move, can't get past the words "there's been an accident, she's gone." Right now, even as I sit here writing this, I shake my head and think, no that's not possible.  I'm right back there, leaning on the couch to hold myself up, and not having a clue what to do next.

That me still looks out at the functioning me and wonders how I am doing it.  Sometimes, OK, much of the time, the functioning me is asking the same thing.

Mostly, I think, it's because I try to live in the present.  My mantra "it is what it is" has helped me to stay grounded in the here and now and not continually asking the unanswerable question, why, and I believe the instinct to survive and the need to stay somewhat sane have kept me from looking too far into the future.  I try to simply take what comes right now, looking ahead leads to worry, worry might lead to collapse.  Right here, right now, the present is all I'm promised and truthfully just about all I can handle at the moment, so it's where I'll try to remain.  Funny how something like this got me to a zen like place others work really hard at finding.  I'm pretty sure I finally achieved true irony.

Maybe I'm not completely successful at it though, because, as I've already pointed out, part of me still sits back there lost, alone, stuck and unable to fully comprehend that this is real.

Acceptance

“I let it go. It's like swimming against the current. It exhausts you.
After a while, whoever you are, you just have to let go,
and the river brings you home.”
Joanne Harris, Five Quarters of the Orange

I will never be able to please everyone all the time, and have never been disillusioned to think everyone will share or be swayed by my opinions.  I just write from the heart in hopes it will help me or that it keeps Kelci's memory alive and spirit active.  Maybe someone else who walks in similar shoes will also be touched by it. 
I don't generally post things here or anywhere on the Internet for a specific targeted audience.  I'm fully aware that by posting anything here or elsewhere that others will potentially read it, and might share my opinion, but might not.  That's totally fine by me.  It's the price you pay for willingly posting things publicly.  I'm not highly controversial anyway, I just post what I feel and what has helped me, so truthfully I wouldn't expect my flack, nor do I honestly expect many to find, follow or read what I post.  I'm genuinely surprised when someone does. 

There are times that I do feel a need to explain something further if someone interprets what I said in a way I didn't expect, but often that sort of interaction opens my mind to a different way of thinking.  If someone says something that is way off of my train of thought, I usually just ignore it. More often than not engaging with someone who isn't willing to even try to understand your point of view or who is more interested in attention or only what they say is a just more frustrating then it's worth.  I tend to take in things that are useful and positive to me and ignore and let go of that which will bring me down.

I do not for one second think this would work for everyone. What I do here is for me. Everyone grieves differently, and no way is wrong.  I talk about what helps me or how things are or have been for me.  I am truly happy and honored if it helps someone else, but it's never my expectation.  I try to be respectful, aware and kind with everything I do, because life has taught me that you just never know what challenges or stories are under the surface.  We all know that smiles, including my own, can mask never ending pain.

I'm glad I can find ways to smile, to be happy, to move forward with this, because I truly believe this is the best way to honor Kelci and as I have said many, many times, it beats the alternative.  Finding a positive way to handle my grief and pain is what keeps me sane.  Just because I choose love and light doesn't mean I'm over anything.  I never will be.  I still find it really odd when I hear some say that, well intended or not.  Exactly how does one get over a loss like this?  They don't.  Unless you are here, in this place, there's no given that this will be universally understood.  In fact, I know from personal experience that it won't be, and even after only 6 months I have sadly heard those words myself.  Sorry, not happening.

Most people don't except it, but it's still shocking to hear it from even one person.  I have to wonder when others will jump on the bandwagon.  What do most people think is long enough to grieve when your child dies?  A year, maybe two. I'm certain that no time will ever be enough.  My guess is that you just become better at hiding your pain from others who truly will never fully understand unless they in your same sad shoes.

Acceptance, I've read, is part, or a stage, of grieving.  It's true, but what they don't make clear is that acceptance isn't forgetting. Acceptance isn't your ticket to getting back to normal.  Normal as I knew it is gone forever.  Acceptance is figuring out how to live again with this thing that was forced upon me, this thing that others, and even I before it happened to me, could not imagine ever surviving. 

For me, acceptance is finding ways to deal with this tragedy in a positive way.  It's posting pictures and stories of Kelci and her artwork and doing things to honor her memory and keep her spirit alive. Right now, I cannot imagine ever stopping that. 

Acceptance will never mean forgetting or trying to stifle the pain when it surfaces, nor will it ever be "getting over it".  For some on the outside there might be closure, a timeline and moving on. For me, and those of us closest to this loss, this is just not possible. We can only accept this about others too, and not be bothered by their thoughts or expectations as ours are completely different.  Letting go of that is the letting go we can do.

Even those who have had a similar loss, won't experience things the same way I do.  It's not easy for everyone to understand this.  Understanding and acceptance from others is all we can hope for, but we won't always get it.  As time goes on, I know others will move forward, likely at a much quicker pace than I, and there will be some, of course, because there always are, that will completely move on and will never grasp why a part of me just never will.  All I can and will do is bless them and move on in my own way, in my own time, in the best way I know how.