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.