I thought after everything that has happened, that after losing my daughter, I would be numb to any other pain.  Turns out that is not the case.  This morning I went downstairs to feed the cats and found Kiki, my companion of more than 15 years, dead.  And it hurt.  Instead of being numb today, I am just exhausted.

Thankfully I’ve had something to focus some of my attention on and continue to do so today.  I’ve been training for the Disney Princess Half Marathon in February and working on a t-shirt design for those that would like to show their support and help honor Zoey.  And since I am blessed with amazing friends (even though I doubt their sanity at times), a “virtual” walk/run has also been organized.  Please see the link for more information and the order form for t-shirts and medals.

Zoey’s Crew Order form

Thank you all for your continued words of encouragement, support and love.

Merry Christmas

Happy New Year

I realize these are just things people say—much like “how are you”.  But let’s be honest: the chances of me having a “merry” Christmas were somewhere around zero percent this year.  Not a chance.  My daughter died four months ago today.  She’s now been gone longer than I had her.  When others were complaining about their lack of sleep because of the excited little ones in the house, I was desperately missing my child.  My heart sank every time I saw a little girl in a little red bow or patent leather shoes.  I ache for sleepless nights and an excited child.  Instead of waking up to the delighted squeals of an eight month old, I slept in and went for a run.  Not the Christmas of my dreams.  Maybe that sounds good to those of you who were up all night and had tiny little faces urging you out of bed, but I assure you: I wish I was you. I wouldn’t trade you—no, I wouldn’t wish this pain upon anyone.  But I wish Zoey was here.

On Christmas Eve, I realized I didn’t get Zoey anything. And I felt like a terrible mother.  I got online and ordered an ornament engraved with her name.  I know that no one else would have noticed anything missing, but it mattered to me.  And so on Christmas Eve, Joe and I went to the mall to pick up a silver butterfly with her name etched on the front (and an anchor on the back). Because that’s all I had.  That’s all I could do.

I cried holding it—running my finger over her name.  And I left the room crying when my cousin’s little girl received one of the books we read to Zoey (The Day the Crayons Quit). It was one of my favorites.  And I wanted to jump out of my skin when my happy nephews ran into the room excitedly telling us what Santa brought them—because Zoey wasn’t there.  And I always imagined her running after them, trying to keep up despite their age difference.  And she never will be there.  For every Christmas here on, I will wonder what would have been.  How happy we could have been.

Chances for a Happy New Year look bleak too. I went to a support group meeting and the leader who I’ve spoken to before noted she feels I’ve “hit a wall”. That perhaps I’m not coping as well as before.  Maybe it’s just the holidays where reminders are constantly thrown in your face. Maybe the shock has worn off.  And the thing is, she’s right.  I’m having a much harder time finding shreds of happiness.  I have to fight harder to fake it.  The insensitive things that people have done and said hurt me more deeply. When you’re completely exhausted from grief, there are only so many things you can ignore.  And so many times you can put on a brave face.  Every day is a fight not to give in to the aching.  I know I am better for the time I spent with my sweet little angel, but I miss her.  Terribly, completely, overwhelmingly.

So if you ask, I may tell you my Christmas was “fine”.  But it was not.  It was empty.  So very empty.

I’m still training for the Disney Princess race. I found a “hidden Mickey” on my Christmas morning run.  Yes, I realize it’s just a water/oil spot but I’m trying to find any bright spot that I can.  And sometimes those spots come in the form of a stain on the road.  I’ll take what I can get.

I’m having a hard time scraping up the energy to find any joy this Christmas season. That’s what all the grief support pamphlets and articles tell you– “find the small moments”.  But Zoey is missing from the small moments too.  Every time I drive in the evenings, I think about how her eyes would have lit up taking in the sparkle of the lights.  I wish I had packages under the tree with her name on them.  But I didn’t even put up a tree this year.  I wonder if she would have cried on Santa’s lap; although I doubt it since she let Fredbird grab her away from me and only yawned at him. I wish this was the first year I would have sent Christmas cards, but now I don’t know if I ever will.  Because no matter what happens, she’ll always be missing.  I fear no one else will notice her absence at family gatherings in the coming years.  But for the rest of my life, I will. I know the real reason for Christmas isn’t the presents and the lights, but I can’t help but miss her so desperately when surrounded by these things.  And honestly, believing that she’s in a beautiful place with so many others that I love is the only thing that gets me through some days.

After I wrote this, I went downstairs and dug out the little tree I decorated with pink ornaments last year.  I decided that instead of just having the ornaments that have been given to us for Zoey sitting on the mantle, they should at least be put on a small tree.  The butterfly on top matches the one my mom took to the cemetery where my dad is buried. They show me that she is remembered and loved.

Joe and I just returned from Ocho Rios, Jamaica.  We went to the resort where we got married so we could spread Zoey’s ashes somewhere with meaning.  Here are my journal entries from those days:

Monday, December 8: 

Before:

We’re going to spread Zoey’s ashes today.  It’s been raining all morning, but hoping it breaks soon. I’d like the day to be as beautiful as my daughter.  I took yoga here at the resort this morning. The instructor was a stereotypical Rastafarian: tall, thin, dreadlocks to the floor.  He talked a lot about finding your peace and letting mother earth in.  It’s much harder to find peace knowing in a few hours you’ll be releasing your infant daughter’s ashes into the water.  Joe and I keep telling ourselves it’s just a ceremony. But I can’t help the anxiety and the overwhelming sadness at letting this part of her go.  And I have a million thoughts rushing in my mind: do I take pictures of the turtle urns at the beach? Do we say anything as we put them in the water?  Should I cut slits in the turtles beforehand so they sink faster or let them be?  Is it tacky to wear a swimsuit to spread your child’s ashes?  What if they wash up on shore or a snorkeler finds them before they biodegrade completely?  Is this the right spot? Am I ready to let them go?  Once again I’m left with irrational questions and no good answers.  I wanted the sun to be shining.. but like my tears the rain is still falling.

After:

We gave our baby girl’s body back to the earth today.  Like the entire of experience of having her and losing her, it feels surreal.  A dream.  Caught somewhere between bliss and a nightmare.

We set off in a boat from the same beach where Joe and I were married six years ago.  But it’s different this time.

The two employees from the resort took us out not too far from the resort and marked the location.  One sang. Another said a prayer.  And I cried as I held onto the bag that held the turtles and the last physical remainder of my daughter.  We decided to put slits in the turtles so we could be assured they would sink and not be disturbed.  There were two so Joe and I each took one, kissed them and placed them in the water.  We watched them as they bobbed in the water for a few minutes. They disappeared only for us to see them on the other side of the boat.  Despite the rain, I wanted to stay until they both slipped under.  Eventually one began to sink and disappeared from our view. The other remained stubbornly floating.  I had no sense of time, but I know a significant amount passed and the little turtle continued to float.  I mentioned that Zoey stubbornly held on a two extra weeks from her due date so it seemed appropriate that her ashes stayed longer than we expected as well. Eventually they moved the boat closer, Joe grabbed it out of the water and we were able to put a larger slit in the bottom.  After placing it back in, it slipped easily under.  My baby was gone.

I’m sitting here on the beach listening to the waves as the sun sets.  My heart is broken. I look back at all that’s happened in the years since we were last here and I can’t believe the path our lives have taken.  I don’t regret it.  I don’t regret having her. As Joe and I were wading in the water yesterday I told him that I adored being her mom.  I know I’ve said it before, but I was never sure about having children before Zoey.  But now I’m sure I was meant to be her mom.  And I miss her so desperately.  I miss her soft little coos.  The way she’d squirm when she was hungry.  The furrowed brow. The looks she’d give us.  Those piercing blue eyes and the softest little feet I’ve ever touched.  I miss everything about that perfect little girl.

Joe said we look different from everyone else here.  You can only hide the sadness, the desperation for so long. Our swollen, red eyes betray us.

After we walked the beach for a bit (I had to ease my mind that the turtles had not washed up further down the beach) we looked out on the horizon.  Joe pointed out a rainbow “spot” — just a small little prism. I like to think it was the spot above where the turtles slipped under.  A spot of beauty– small and brief like her life but no less beautiful.

I miss you baby girl.  I love you more than words could ever explain. I hope you enjoy the sea as much as we do.  I promise to keep loving you, keep living for you.  Have fun with the turtles and dolphins and play in the waves. You’ll always be with me.

December 12

I’d hoped this trip would bring me peace.  That setting Zoey’s body free would help close the wound.  I’m not so sure I was successful.  Now it’s hard to leave. And not for the usual reasons: nice weather, palm trees, and the sea.  But because I’ve left a piece of me here. The physical remains of my daughter will always be here.  A place I can’t visit on a whim.  I like to think the water will carry her everywhere…but still…

And the time to just sit and reflect reveals more wounds.  Cracks in more than just my heart.  Everything has changed: relationships with family and friends are different.  There’s guilt.  Questions.  Our marriage has changed. Thinks I hadn’t noticed before.  And the exhaustion.  Sometimes I feel the energy it takes to resist the urge to jump from that cliff leaves me depleted. Sometimes there’s nothing left.

Zoey’s turtles

Looking out to the spot where we released Zoey’s ashes

As we were writing Zoey’s name in the sand, we noticed a rainbow. It appeared to start from the spot we released her ashes. I like to think she was telling us she’s ok.  And she’s not alone.

I came home from a long day and went through the mail. An envelope from Wings was in the stack.  I assumed it was another booklet on “how to survive the holidays”, but it was their annual magazine. I flipped through and a few pages in, I came across a photo of my precious little girl.  One of the social workers from Wings was putting Zoey’s footprints in one of our favorite books.  At first I was excited to see her story included. And then it hit me. That’s all I get. A story of a beautiful life that was.  My daughter in the past.  My daughter in a magazine dedicated to dying children.  I’ll tell her story a million times if I can, but it will always be in the past tense.  I won’t see her name in her kindergarten program.  Or in the school paper for making the honor roll.  Her wedding announcement.  Turns out I didn’t need another booklet on how to survive the holidays. I needed one on how to survive today.

Being overwhelmingly sad is exhausting. It’s a heavy weight to bear day after day.  I’m tired of it already.  And I know I’ll carry it forever.  I think it’s a lot like training for the half marathon.  The mileage will always be the same.  13.1 miles will always be 13.1 miles.  But if I tried to run it a month ago, it would have been very difficult.  I’m not sure I would have made it.  I’m making slow progress in my training. I took so much time off and have never been a strong runner to begin with.  But I’m moving forward, even if it’s slow.  And come February, I’m sure I’ll make it through the 13.1 miles under the time limit and still moving forward.  It will still be 13.1 miles but I’ll be stronger than I am today.  I don’t believe the pain of losing Zoey will ever be lessened.   Losing her will hurt just as badly 10 or 30 years from now.   You don’t “get over” or “move on” from that kind of pain.  But I’ll get stronger and better able to bear the weight of it.  And in the meantime, I will keep putting one foot in front of the other.

http://princesshalfmarathon.childrensmiraclenetworkhospitals.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&participantID=1725

Last weekend I skipped my cousin’s daughter’s first birthday party.  It just seemed overwhelming to watch her open her presents and try cake for the first time. But it makes me angry.  I’m upset that going to her party would hurt too much.  I’m mad they offered to skip Thanksgiving—but not mad at them.  They are sweet, wonderful people who are trying to protect me, do what’s best for Joe and me.  No, I’m mad that seeing their beautiful little girl does hurt —that seeing any little girl hurts.  I want to be a part of her life.  I want to be able to enjoy all the babies in my life.  But I know it’s going to rip at my broken heart a little more.  It will be a delicate balance over the holidays.  A huge part of me wants to run away and not participate in any part of them.  But there’s the other side: the side that knows our family has lost so much.  So many of our loved ones are gone and we need to cling to those that are still here.

There are days I want to hide from the world.  Days like today. I am trying to participate in life, but I am also setting limits.  The birthday party would have been too much, but I want my cousin and his family at Thanksgiving. I skipped a fun event at work today.  But I taught my class at the Y.  I know the coming days and weeks will put an extra strain on both Joe and me.  It was a year ago that we confirmed Zoey’s diagnosis.  And it will be the first time we have to get through the holidays when we know she should be here with us.  There will be events we join and some we skip.  I hope everyone has patience and understands. I hope everyone knows that I really am trying. I hope they know I’m not angry at them.  That there’s just only so much my heart can handle at the moment.  I will get stronger. I will join in the world a little more often.  Find more joy again, little by little.

The last few days have been rough.  Actually, the last two months, the last year…have been rough.  But the last few days I have either been awake at 4am or unable to go to sleep at bedtime.  My mind has been wandering and racing.  And not to the good, beautiful memories, but to the ones that hurt.  The last night of her life.  Handing her over. I try to drown them out and redirect.  I’m only occasionally successful.  I can’t even pinpoint a trigger.  It doesn’t help that Joe has been out of town for the last two weeks so when I’d usually reach over to touch him or ask for a hug, I come up empty.

Tonight I’m cuddling my “Zoey bear” instead of my daughter.  She’s the bear I ordered from the Molly Bears organization.  She weighs 6.1 pounds.  Zoey’s weight at birth.  Zoey weighed nearly the same amount when she died. When I first picked up the box the bear arrived in, it felt too heavy.  But the longer I hold her, the more she feels like my baby girl. I sobbed the first time I held her like I held Zoey.  I so miss her weight against my chest. A stuffed bear can’t replace Zoey, but I’m thankful for something to cuddle– and isn’t she wonderful with her little tutu and anchor on her chest?

I’m also thankful for my friends who have been sharing their Zoey stories with me.  One friend looked to Zoey for strength after a marathon and stumbled across the Anchor Bar & Grill. Another told me how Zoey stopped by in a dream wearing sparkly pink boots. Amazing how you can cry and smile at the same time!

I’m focusing on training for my run and am working yoga into my routine. I’m hoping to quiet my mind and work on that “peace”.  I continue to be amazed at the love and support I receive.  It helps me get through those sleepless times and helps me keep hope for finding my way.

Joe and I vacationed in Hawaii a few years ago.  We stayed in these little cottages that were once part of a sugar cane plantation. They sit alongside a black sand beach.  On my mantel, I have a glass jar that contains sea shells from our various trips to the islands and a small amount of black sand from that beach.  I’m considering bagging it up and sending it someone in Hawaii to return to the island. There is a superstition that if you take lava rock from the islands, you’ll anger the Goddess Pele and bad luck will follow you.  After your child dies, you will look for any explanation of why it happened.  Find a reason for the unreasonable.  You need something, someone to blame– even yourself– because there is no way to really understand.  Because losing your baby does not make any sense.  Call it crazy, call it irrational. Try to convince me it’s not anyone’s fault.  That it’s not my fault.  Actually, don’t.  I know all of this.  But sometimes I just need someone to listen.

Thank your for reading the past 31 days.  The Capture Your Grief project has helped me find my voice.  I intend to keep writing, but likely not on a daily basis. Thank you to those who took time to really read– to really listen.  You’ve helped me more than I can ever tell you.  To those of you who read it but still don’t really get what I’m saying, I don’t think I can help you at this point.  There’s a time to release the parts of your life that are not helping you on your journey and I’m fine with that now. I’m surrounded by love.  It’s an amazing, soul-rebuilding feeling.  I will have good days.  I will have bad days.  And I am so blessed to have some incredible people to stand by me for both.

I intend to live a more peaceful life in honor of my daughter.

For me, peace is recognizing that grief is messy, painful and confusing but not allowing it to rule every moment of my life. It’s knowing that doubt and fear are a part of me now.  All of those things are there for a reason.  I need to process them.  I need to feel them. The goal is not to eliminate them completely.  That is impossible. The goal is let them be part of the journey, but not drown in them.

Peace is letting love be the center.  I grieve for Zoey deeply because I love her deeply. But I will not let the fear of loss scare me from loving.  I will not be afraid to love my daughter, my family, my friends. I will not be afraid to love life again.