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.