Climbing out of the Trenches

A little while ago, I realized that between July 2013 and September 2017, my body had just one month where it wasn't nourishing or growing a human being. And boy was it feeling the effects...

I haven't written in a very long time. A few people have asked if I will again. I have always wanted to keep writing but to be honest, every time I went to write I would get scared of the vulnerability it would take to be real. As I scrolled through old photos tonight, it felt like it was time to write.

I'm very sensitive to the fact that it has been a privilege and a blessing to grow three humans, and nurse two of them. I know there are many women who long for the opportunities to experience these things. But in the winter of 2016, I realized just how tired and weary I had become.

I knew I hadn't given myself the proper space to grieve. We got pregnant with Aubrey so quickly, and then I was busy learning how to be a mom. Then 8 months later we got pregnant with Aveline, and this time I was learning how to be a mom to two. I was learning how to manage the different needs of two people who at times needed me equally. It felt overwhelming. I didn't realize how the beautiful chaos of raising children would bring to light so many internal struggles I had.

My days with two kids 17m apart felt very long. The routines felt never ending. My patience and energy felt thin. I started to feel overwhelmed with all of the things I had once longed for. Then came the guilt - "I should feel so thankful for all of this, after losing a child." "Why can't I just speak calmly and remember they're still learning too?" "Why can't I just be more like _______'s mom. They seem to have it altogether."

I remember a specific day standing in my kitchen thinking "this is what it feels like to have a mental break down. I can't handle this anymore. The girls would be better off with another mom who had the patience for them." Thankfully, I was able to recognize what thought patterns like those mean. And after talking with some people I trust who struggled post-partum, I decided it was absolutely necessary to get help.

Through this journey has come so much self-discovery. I've worked through a lot of the grief over losing Brooklyn and all of the guilt I didn't realize I was holding onto, as well as some personal issues that have been weighing me down for a very long time.

We can try to push grief, anger, sadness, etc. so far down, but eventually it will get to a point where it starts overflowing like a boiling pot. That's the point I was at in my life. There were too many things I had pushed down, trying to just keep pressing forward in life. But eventually my heart and my mind weren't able to manage simple every day tasks because they were so busy trying to process things I kept pushing away.

I am no where near the end of this journey, but some very positive things have come from realizing I can't do everything with my own strength. I'm learning what it means to rely on Jesus and praying through moments when I would have lost my temper before. I'm learning what it means to ask other people for help (this is a very hard one for me...) I'm learning what it means to set healthy relational boundaries. I'm learning what it means to ask for forgiveness from my children when I do lose my temper. And most of all, I'm learning how to be genuinely gracious with myself, and not hold onto guilt, because it's not actually mine to hold anyway. I'm not perfect at any of the above things. I still fail every day. But that's the beauty of grace.

Through lots of work and discussion with my therapist, I can now say with full confidence (and full belief) that there was nothing more in my power I could have done to save Brooklyn's life. This was one of the biggest realizations I had in therapy. I was holding on to thoughts like "if I had pushed more for an ultrasound", "If I had just told my midwife I was really concerned", etc. When in reality, I did those things and more. There was nothing more in my power I could have done. I am very much at peace with that now.

I am at a place where I can think of Brooklyn and actually feel joy sometimes. I know that may sound crazy, but now when I think about her, I'm able to remember the feelings I had of anticipation and joy when I was expecting her, and not JUST the feelings of deep sadness and longing. I will say I still have days and moments where my heart so longs for her to be here. I think that's part of living in this broken world. My heart longs for her because it isn't right to be without her. When Aubrey asks about Brooklyn, or says that her big sister is in Heaven with God, instead of crying tears of sadness, I'm now able to have tears of joy. When Aveline points to the canvas photo of Brooklyn outside of her bedroom, I feel excited to tell her about her big sister when she can start to understand a little bit more like Aubs does.

Reading this over, I realized my thoughts are so scattered. I just want to give hope to some parents who have experienced a loss or think they will forever feel like they're wandering aimlessly through life. Really I want to give anyone hope who has experienced loss or life hasn't panned out the way they had hoped. I didn't think it was possible to feel genuine joy again. I had come to the conclusion that joy just wasn't in my cards, and all I needed to do was to complete the tasks of life and keep pushing through.

Sometimes those big feelings of loss are really hard to deal with. But when we give them the time and space they deserve, that's when true transformation happens. If we let God bring us through the fire, he can use the heat to create beautiful beautiful masterpieces.

As Daniel Tiger says, "It's okay to feel sad sometimes. Little by little, you'll feel better again."

A Time To Taste

In 2014, when we lost Brooklyn, a dear friend who is all too familiar with loss, gave me one of the best presents I have ever received - a book called "Tear Soup". It was written by a nurse who has worked with bereaved patients for many years. She actually included patients in the writing and brainstorming. It's written like a children's book, but tells the story of a woman named "Grandy" who has suffered a great loss in her life. The author compares making a home made pot of soup, to how we grieve after loss.

At the end of the book Grandy's grandson Chester asks her if she's done making her "Tear Soup" yet. She replies: "Well, I don't think you actually ever finish. The hard work of making this batch of soup is almost done though. I'll put the rest in the freezer and will pull it out from time to time to have a little taste" (Schwiebert, 2013).

I've recently been pulling out my pot of soup quite often. The grey January days we've had certainly haven't helped. Lack of exercise and sunlight does not bode well for my mood. I know this about myself and even though I always know it's coming, somehow Janauary rolls around and I always feel like I'm in a funk. I've been thinking about Brooklyn and my labour and delivery with her often. Both obvious things and random things seem to be triggers for me lately.

Derek and I have been watching "How To Get Away With Murder". I don't want to give any spoilers, so if you haven't watched - SKIP THIS PART!!!! but the season finale of season two hit me hard. Derek was sitting on the other couch and asked if I was okay. When I didn't answer, he knew I wasn't and came to sit beside me while I "ugly cried" for a long long time. It was the first time in a while that I had cried like that.  This episode brought me right back to being in labour in the ultrasound room, while they were trying to find her heartbeat. The words Annalise (the mother) was saying, her reaction to holding her dead child, her husband's reaction to finding out their baby had died - all of it was just too similar to our story. The social worker we talked to a few days after Brooklyn died told me that 50 years down the road, I will still be able to put myself right back in that ultrasound room, and I really do believe her. My memory of those moments/hours/days is still as clear as if it happened yesterday. 

As time goes on, I'm learning to just sit with my feelings, instead of run from them. This is definitely a work in progress for me. When you've spent most of your life running from negative feelings/circumstances instead of dealing with them head on, sitting and feeling these emotions is really scary. Timothy Keller talks about how important it is to walk through the fire when these situations come, and how God actually uses the fire to produce beautiful things - assuming we actually take the time to sit and feel the heat.

For people to heal, there needs to be space for them to grieve the way they need to. In Western culture, we are encouraged to briefly grieve and then move on - of course continuing to be productive members of society. Often times when people discuss their missed loved ones, they are accused of not having "moved on" or seeking attention. But what if remembering is exactly what our hearts need? What if openly talking about how much we miss our loved ones, or how sad we are about the loss of what could be, is actually helping others deal with their grief too? Knowing someone else is feeling, thinking, grieving similar ways to you is such a freeing feeling.

"Grandy" says: "Then comes one of the hardest parts of making tear soup, it's when you decide it may be okay to eat something instead of soup all the time. (Schwiebert, 2013.)" Isn't she so wise... but how sweet it is to pull out that soup from time to time and have a little taste. It makes me feel like Brooklyn is close. It helps me to feel like God is near - because who better to know how it feels to lose your firstborn child than Him? It's even what makes me feel close to Derek.

"I've learned that grief, like a pot of soup, changes the longer it simmers and the more things you put into it. I've learned that sometimes people say unkind things, but they really don't mean to hurt you. And most importantly, I've learned that there is something down deep within all of us ready to help us survive the things we think we can't survive. (Schwiebert, 2013.)


Schwiebert, Pat. Tear Soup: A Recipe for Healing after Loss. Portland, Or.: Grief Watch, 2013. Print.