I've been dreading this coming weekend, (Christmas weekend). I have not at all been looking forward to remembering that last Christmas I was about to announce to our family that we were expecting. I haven't wanted to remember, that what I hoped to be doing this Christmas with my daughter, would no longer be happening. First pics with Santa, first Christmas dress, first Christmas morning with mommy and daddy. I forced myself to put up our tree this year, we forced ourselves. We forced ourselves to decorate our house. We did all of it halfheartedly; and now that the weekend is here, it's harder than I can ever explain. My tree is full of ornaments, but I look at it and it's still empty to me. I look underneath it, and I just see a tree skirt. Instead we placed a Christmas wreath onto her grave. I have less than zero desire to be merry.
Now, with all of that said, I need you all to know that there is something that you will never ever catch me saying: that "2016 was the worst year of our lives", or "I'm so happy it's over". I can't ever say that. I won't ever say that. I won't ever say that simply because 2016 was the year I became Lillian's mommy and to wish it be forgotten is to forget Lily, to declare it "terrible" is to declare my daughter "terrible". Yes, her death was absolutely terrible; but I will never, ever...for the rest of the days I have on this earth ever say that 2016 was a "bad year". I became a mother in 2016. Lillian Angeline died yes, but she was born and she made me a mommy. Lillian Angeline was way way way more than her death.
I LOVED being pregnant, and I was pregnant for most of 2016, so no...I do NOT want to forget 2016. 2016 was a transformative year for me, and I will never look back on it in a bad way. I will always look back on 2016 as one of the happiest years of my life. I will never ever focus on the part of 2016 that my daughter died. I will focus on the 10 glorious months I carried her, I felt her in my belly, I will focus on the small amount of time I saw her beautiful face once she was born, on how the top of her head smelled, on how soft her cheeks were, on how she actually opened her eyes when I said her name. How the hell could I ever declare 2016 a terrible year when I was blessed with those things? I can't. I won't. Lillian made me her mommy in 2016, and for that reason alone, I will always cherish 2016, and I'm actually sad that it's ending because the further away 2016 floats away from me, the further away my time with Lily goes; and all I wish is that I could hang onto it...onto her.
2016 wasn't about politicians or the loss of musicians for me. 2016 was my year with Lily...that's all I think of when I reflect on the last 12 months. Out of all of you, I'M the luckiest one. I was the one that got the longest amount of time with her, I was the one that got to know her personality, (impossible not to do when there's a person growing inside of your body). 2016 was my beautiful year with my beautiful daughter, and I have to focus on that because that's all I've got.
So, I'm tremendously sad right now; and I will be the further we get away from 2016. My year of Lily is ending, and I just don't want it to. I just want my baby.
Friday, December 23, 2016
Thursday, December 1, 2016
The Courage To Fall Apart
In my opinion, the biggest and most difficult thing to get comfortable with is the notion that courage is the foundation of many successes in life. We don't really peel away the layers enough to realize that pretty much everything can be boiled down to having the courage to do what you need to do. Without it, we cannot truly accomplish the big things in life that need to get accomplished so that we can say we've cultivated for ourselves a life well lived. We have to have the courage to love, the courage to give, the courage to speak up for what is right, the courage to accept love and praise, the courage to show up for those you love, the courage to say "I can't do this by myself", the courage to say "help me", the courage to admit "I'm afraid", the courage to tell the truth, and we most certainly have to have the courage to grieve. To grieve in the realest most visceral way possible, we need to have the courage to fall apart. Let me add, the courage to grieve constructively is the key here. I am speaking solely about real, true, actual courage, not the kind that comes from booze or drugs; as that's not courage at all but rather the opposite.
Part of having the courage to fall apart is having the confidence enough in yourself to really know that you won't die from grieving the one that you've lost. There is the notion of "dying from a broken heart", and I do believe that happens if you know you're prone to falling victim to the demon that is anxiety and depression, (which have devastating, life destroying tentacles of their own); but knowing that that's even a possibility is half the battle in fighting your way through, because it really is a fight you know; and the only real way to move forward is through. If you think for one single moment that you'll be able to cheat or to outsmart the grieving process, I've got some big news for you: you can't. Pretending you're fine (which is a coping mechanism and is also part of being in shock and I totally get it because I've absolutely done it and I've absolutely been there), ends up sneaking up on you. For example, like me, you'll be at the grocery store inexplicably sobbing in front of the bananas...oh yeah, that's because I was planning on mashing these up and watching her reaction when she first tasted the sweetness of a banana. You'll be like me, sitting in traffic, listening to Radio Andy on XM and your favorite talk radio host will say something like "so-and-so just had a baby..." and you'll start crying because so did you. You'll be just about to drift off to sleep and your brain will dig up the exact moment that you lost her...and you'll wake up with a jolt, with your heart racing a mile a minute because you remember what hers felt like when it stopped beating underneath your hand. You'll be in a meeting and someone will offhandedly say "babies aren't dying" and a huge lump forms in your throat because...yes they are. Grief finds you wherever you are, so my game plan is to dig in my heels and let it wash over me. I allow it in because I know I have to feel this. I know I have the courage to endure it, I know I have the confidence to come out the other end to tell the story and to help others. I am MUCH stronger than my sadness but I am not afraid of it, I won't fight it, I will feel it...because I have to.
None of this stuff here on earth is completely easy. None of it. Every minute, every second sometimes can be the worst second, the longest, the most painful second imaginable, so then don't we owe it to ourselves and to each other to give ourselves A. some credit and B. a damn break and C. some permission to not be so perfect all the time? Here's a little newsflash to some of you that feel the immense pressure to be perfect...all. of. the. time: being perfect is a myth. Please stop worrying about being perfect. Please stop worrying that there is a perfect thing to say, there's a perfect thing to do or that there's a perfect way to grieve. There are definitely constructive ways to do all of those things, but perfection in those aspects just does not exist, so stop wasting your precious life minutes chasing after it. I give you permission to fall completely apart, I give you permission to be imperfect, (imperfections are actually quite beautiful if you really want to get technical); and I give you permission to make friends with courage because being BFF's with courage gives you all the ammo you need.
Having said all of that: this has been a challenging last week and a half or so since I last posted. We've had our first major holiday without our daughter. We made it through, for her...for us. Jason and I traveled to Michigan to be with my family and it was lovely. I haven't spent any major holiday with my family in years (we hate driving in blizzard conditions, so we typically spend the holidays at mom and dad Leyh's house here in Chicago), so I was grateful to have my husband with me for the celebration. We definitely thought we'd be bringing Lily with us this year to introduce her to the family members that would have been meeting her for the first time, but as you know that didn't happen. I found myself remembering where I was a year ago and I remembered being at my Leyh family's house for Thanksgiving and that was before I knew I was pregnant. I remembered watching my father-in-law concoct his yearly Thanksgiving theme cocktail (apple cider mimosas); and I remember taking a picture of my vegetarian husband with his favorite Thanksgiving t-shirt on, that has a big turkey on the front of it and it says "go vegan". All of those memories were all before I knew I had Lily growing in my belly for all of it (in hindsight I didn't even have one of the cocktails because I was feeling really queasy, and thought I had just eaten too much)...and my goodness yes, being home with my family made me (more than) sad to be there without her, but because I was near my mother and my brothers and everyone else in my ginormous Italian family and my husband, comforted me in a very profound way.
I was afraid to face the first big holiday without Lily. I was afraid the absence of her for our first big holiday would level me, end me, break me, but I dug in my heels and let myself feel the sadness; I faced it, I didn't run from it, I gave it it's time with me. Turns out, all my grief needed was a polite introduction to my pal courage; and well...here we are...I am still standing. I am still typing out these words...I am still participating in life. Easy? Not at all, but I do it for her. Grief should probably watch out; because my love for my daughter will win every single time.
Part of having the courage to fall apart is having the confidence enough in yourself to really know that you won't die from grieving the one that you've lost. There is the notion of "dying from a broken heart", and I do believe that happens if you know you're prone to falling victim to the demon that is anxiety and depression, (which have devastating, life destroying tentacles of their own); but knowing that that's even a possibility is half the battle in fighting your way through, because it really is a fight you know; and the only real way to move forward is through. If you think for one single moment that you'll be able to cheat or to outsmart the grieving process, I've got some big news for you: you can't. Pretending you're fine (which is a coping mechanism and is also part of being in shock and I totally get it because I've absolutely done it and I've absolutely been there), ends up sneaking up on you. For example, like me, you'll be at the grocery store inexplicably sobbing in front of the bananas...oh yeah, that's because I was planning on mashing these up and watching her reaction when she first tasted the sweetness of a banana. You'll be like me, sitting in traffic, listening to Radio Andy on XM and your favorite talk radio host will say something like "so-and-so just had a baby..." and you'll start crying because so did you. You'll be just about to drift off to sleep and your brain will dig up the exact moment that you lost her...and you'll wake up with a jolt, with your heart racing a mile a minute because you remember what hers felt like when it stopped beating underneath your hand. You'll be in a meeting and someone will offhandedly say "babies aren't dying" and a huge lump forms in your throat because...yes they are. Grief finds you wherever you are, so my game plan is to dig in my heels and let it wash over me. I allow it in because I know I have to feel this. I know I have the courage to endure it, I know I have the confidence to come out the other end to tell the story and to help others. I am MUCH stronger than my sadness but I am not afraid of it, I won't fight it, I will feel it...because I have to.
None of this stuff here on earth is completely easy. None of it. Every minute, every second sometimes can be the worst second, the longest, the most painful second imaginable, so then don't we owe it to ourselves and to each other to give ourselves A. some credit and B. a damn break and C. some permission to not be so perfect all the time? Here's a little newsflash to some of you that feel the immense pressure to be perfect...all. of. the. time: being perfect is a myth. Please stop worrying about being perfect. Please stop worrying that there is a perfect thing to say, there's a perfect thing to do or that there's a perfect way to grieve. There are definitely constructive ways to do all of those things, but perfection in those aspects just does not exist, so stop wasting your precious life minutes chasing after it. I give you permission to fall completely apart, I give you permission to be imperfect, (imperfections are actually quite beautiful if you really want to get technical); and I give you permission to make friends with courage because being BFF's with courage gives you all the ammo you need.
Having said all of that: this has been a challenging last week and a half or so since I last posted. We've had our first major holiday without our daughter. We made it through, for her...for us. Jason and I traveled to Michigan to be with my family and it was lovely. I haven't spent any major holiday with my family in years (we hate driving in blizzard conditions, so we typically spend the holidays at mom and dad Leyh's house here in Chicago), so I was grateful to have my husband with me for the celebration. We definitely thought we'd be bringing Lily with us this year to introduce her to the family members that would have been meeting her for the first time, but as you know that didn't happen. I found myself remembering where I was a year ago and I remembered being at my Leyh family's house for Thanksgiving and that was before I knew I was pregnant. I remembered watching my father-in-law concoct his yearly Thanksgiving theme cocktail (apple cider mimosas); and I remember taking a picture of my vegetarian husband with his favorite Thanksgiving t-shirt on, that has a big turkey on the front of it and it says "go vegan". All of those memories were all before I knew I had Lily growing in my belly for all of it (in hindsight I didn't even have one of the cocktails because I was feeling really queasy, and thought I had just eaten too much)...and my goodness yes, being home with my family made me (more than) sad to be there without her, but because I was near my mother and my brothers and everyone else in my ginormous Italian family and my husband, comforted me in a very profound way.
I was afraid to face the first big holiday without Lily. I was afraid the absence of her for our first big holiday would level me, end me, break me, but I dug in my heels and let myself feel the sadness; I faced it, I didn't run from it, I gave it it's time with me. Turns out, all my grief needed was a polite introduction to my pal courage; and well...here we are...I am still standing. I am still typing out these words...I am still participating in life. Easy? Not at all, but I do it for her. Grief should probably watch out; because my love for my daughter will win every single time.
Monday, November 14, 2016
I Have My Reasons
I have been asked numerous times when I'm going to write about Lillian's birth story, and I'm writing this post to tell everyone, once and for all, I'm just not going to write about that. I know it's weird for a blog about infant loss to not speak about how the loss happened, but trust me when I say that I have my reasons. I know I don't owe a single person any explanation as to why I'm not going to do that, but I do want everyone to understand where I'm coming from. Hopefully this post will shed some light on why I'm choosing not to write about that portion of our story.
First, I want it understood where I've been emotionally since July 30th, as this is all part of my reasoning. When I got home from the hospital, I got into my pajamas, and I crawled into my bed. I slept for an entire day. The following month (August), I barely left my bedroom. People came over to bring us food and flowers and company, and I would drag myself to the living room, curl up on the couch, and sit there and answer questions about how I was feeling, or sometimes I would just stare into space while everyone around me talked to each other. It was hard for me to make eye contact with people, (not sure why), I tried to engage in conversation, I forced myself to but I wasn't really there. I was absolutely going through the motions. I was just a husk of myself, especially in the days leading up to and right after Aug. 9th, (the day we buried our baby).
The moment people left, I went right back to my bedroom, and I laid in my bed and I would stare at my ceiling, I'd sleep for hours and hours and hours, I'd wake up, I'd sob for hours and hours and hours and would pray for the daylight to go away. There was something protective about night time for me, and I felt most comfortable when I could feel the buzz of life begin to quiet down. I knew most people were in their beds sleeping, not thinking or worrying about me and my family, not wondering "oh my god what happened", not wondering how I would bounce back from this or if I ever would, not having conversations or speculating about my daughter. I could feel that energy. It's a hard thing to navigate through. Night time, I would wake up after sleeping all day, and I'd go sit in the living room with my mom and we'd stay up until sunrise watching movie after movie after movie. I was very thankful for those moments with my mother and my husband. Jason went back to work a lot sooner than I did, so he wasn't always able to stay up with us, but when he did, I felt better...never whole...but better because these were my people. These were the only people I felt comfortable totally falling apart in front of, and I did just that, many times. However, it was when the sun would rise that I would start to get a panicky feeling, and that buzz of life happening would creep up, louder and louder, and I'd go back to my bed, and hide.
There were times I would fall asleep, and in my partially sleeping and partially waking state, my hands would automatically go to my belly to check for Lily and when my hands didn't find a bump anymore, I would wake up startled and have to remind myself what happened. This went on for the first two months after the hospital. Probably one of the most awful things in this aftermath. I would fall asleep and I would forget what happened while I was asleep; so then those first few waking up minutes, were the most brutal few minutes ever because I would be flooded with "oh yeah, that really did happen." Then, my sleeping, sobbing, movie watching cycle would start all over again.
One day, I was laying in my bed, and I was laying on my left side, facing the rest of my bedroom, looking at the 8x11, folded card that my coworkers got and signed for me and Jason (they had a star named after Lillian). Her full name is on the front in huge script-writing, "Lillian Angeline Kerrigan-Leyh", it's hanging on my wall above my desk by a little clip magnet thing. The wall it's on was the wall that her bassinet was set up against before I went to the hospital to have her. The bassinet was long placed into storage before I even got home from the hospital. My family and friends removed all baby things and stored them for me. While I was in the hospital, they asked me if I wanted the stuff gone when I got home of if I wanted to see it to take care of things myself when I got home, my answer was that both options were equally as painful, and to make the choice for me.
I would stare at her name on that card on the wall, a name that I FREAKING love, and I would cry because it's quite literally one of the most perfect names I've ever been smart enough to come up with...and I'd cry because she couldn't use it and then the tears would turn to full on rage and I'd bury my face in my blankets and scream until my throat was raw. The cycles of sobbing and anger and numbness would leave me queasy. So, on this day, I was staring at her name on that card, and I focused on the curves of the letters, I counted the letters in her name (27), I fantasized about if she had grown up to be in the professional world, would she use Lily or Lillian? Probably Lillian. Or, rather, I'd have advised her to use Lillian for professional purposes. I imagined telling her why we gave her my last name and her dad's last name, and I imagined telling her that her parents are very progressive people and that it was a sign of the times. I smiled when I imagined her rolling her pretty (likely blue) eyes at my reasoning for that. I smiled. Omg, I smiled. Wait, why am I not sobbing? OH!! I'm smiling because I'm imagining her life. I'm thinking about living. I'm not focusing on her death. That was the day, (September 3rd), that I got out of bed and took a shower. I realized that by focusing in on my depression and my despair and my anger and my darkness - that kept me closer to Lillian's death, and that choosing to live life for the two of us, was keeping me closer to her life. So that was the day I showered. That was the day I ate something normal. That was the day that I made a choice.
The biggest thing that matters to me, is Lillian's life. Lillian only got 4 hours and 29 actual minutes of life outside of my belly, but to me, her mommy and her life source for the last 10 months that's what I cling to...and now, well...I had to make a decision and maybe it's because I'm in all of the therapy that I was able to get to this so specifically and solidly...whatever it is, I'm not questioning it very much because it's working.
You see, I don't get any of the firsts. I don't get first steps, or first tooth, or first words or first crush, or first prom, or..any of the things you prepare for through the life of your child. I had to accept that I now had to mother her in a very different way. My mothering of my daughter meant that I now had to live life for the both of us and if (by chance) there truly is something else after we die, and my baby girl can somehow look between the worlds and see me? Well, I'd rather die myself than to have her see me broken and sad and angry. I'd want her to look at her mommy between the worlds and see her laughing and putting one foot in front of the other, and living life and participating in its beauty. I'd want her to see me living life for the both of us, loving her father, caring for her family here on earth, saying her beautiful name every chance I can, never being afraid to talk about her and our family; and be a part of the buzz of life again.
So because Lillian's birthday was the same as the day she died, we have a choice. We can either celebrate that my gorgeous, perfect girl was here, by living life in her name, in her honor, for Lily; we can choose to show her happiness over grief when she checks in on us from between the worlds, or we can choose the darkness. Frankly, I want more for my daughter, so I will always choose the light and the fact of the matter is that she was here, she was born, I grew a damn good baby you guys! That's what gets me out of bed in the morning...HER! I don't need to talk about how she passed away, what I need to talk about is how she was here! She was here. I need to talk about how she affected us, (because I know it's not just me). This baby affected way way more people than just the woman typing out these words. It boggles my mind actually. To me, that is how we walk in the light with my Lillian Angeline Kerrigan-Leyh, and to me, that is her birth story.
First, I want it understood where I've been emotionally since July 30th, as this is all part of my reasoning. When I got home from the hospital, I got into my pajamas, and I crawled into my bed. I slept for an entire day. The following month (August), I barely left my bedroom. People came over to bring us food and flowers and company, and I would drag myself to the living room, curl up on the couch, and sit there and answer questions about how I was feeling, or sometimes I would just stare into space while everyone around me talked to each other. It was hard for me to make eye contact with people, (not sure why), I tried to engage in conversation, I forced myself to but I wasn't really there. I was absolutely going through the motions. I was just a husk of myself, especially in the days leading up to and right after Aug. 9th, (the day we buried our baby).
The moment people left, I went right back to my bedroom, and I laid in my bed and I would stare at my ceiling, I'd sleep for hours and hours and hours, I'd wake up, I'd sob for hours and hours and hours and would pray for the daylight to go away. There was something protective about night time for me, and I felt most comfortable when I could feel the buzz of life begin to quiet down. I knew most people were in their beds sleeping, not thinking or worrying about me and my family, not wondering "oh my god what happened", not wondering how I would bounce back from this or if I ever would, not having conversations or speculating about my daughter. I could feel that energy. It's a hard thing to navigate through. Night time, I would wake up after sleeping all day, and I'd go sit in the living room with my mom and we'd stay up until sunrise watching movie after movie after movie. I was very thankful for those moments with my mother and my husband. Jason went back to work a lot sooner than I did, so he wasn't always able to stay up with us, but when he did, I felt better...never whole...but better because these were my people. These were the only people I felt comfortable totally falling apart in front of, and I did just that, many times. However, it was when the sun would rise that I would start to get a panicky feeling, and that buzz of life happening would creep up, louder and louder, and I'd go back to my bed, and hide.
There were times I would fall asleep, and in my partially sleeping and partially waking state, my hands would automatically go to my belly to check for Lily and when my hands didn't find a bump anymore, I would wake up startled and have to remind myself what happened. This went on for the first two months after the hospital. Probably one of the most awful things in this aftermath. I would fall asleep and I would forget what happened while I was asleep; so then those first few waking up minutes, were the most brutal few minutes ever because I would be flooded with "oh yeah, that really did happen." Then, my sleeping, sobbing, movie watching cycle would start all over again.
One day, I was laying in my bed, and I was laying on my left side, facing the rest of my bedroom, looking at the 8x11, folded card that my coworkers got and signed for me and Jason (they had a star named after Lillian). Her full name is on the front in huge script-writing, "Lillian Angeline Kerrigan-Leyh", it's hanging on my wall above my desk by a little clip magnet thing. The wall it's on was the wall that her bassinet was set up against before I went to the hospital to have her. The bassinet was long placed into storage before I even got home from the hospital. My family and friends removed all baby things and stored them for me. While I was in the hospital, they asked me if I wanted the stuff gone when I got home of if I wanted to see it to take care of things myself when I got home, my answer was that both options were equally as painful, and to make the choice for me.
I would stare at her name on that card on the wall, a name that I FREAKING love, and I would cry because it's quite literally one of the most perfect names I've ever been smart enough to come up with...and I'd cry because she couldn't use it and then the tears would turn to full on rage and I'd bury my face in my blankets and scream until my throat was raw. The cycles of sobbing and anger and numbness would leave me queasy. So, on this day, I was staring at her name on that card, and I focused on the curves of the letters, I counted the letters in her name (27), I fantasized about if she had grown up to be in the professional world, would she use Lily or Lillian? Probably Lillian. Or, rather, I'd have advised her to use Lillian for professional purposes. I imagined telling her why we gave her my last name and her dad's last name, and I imagined telling her that her parents are very progressive people and that it was a sign of the times. I smiled when I imagined her rolling her pretty (likely blue) eyes at my reasoning for that. I smiled. Omg, I smiled. Wait, why am I not sobbing? OH!! I'm smiling because I'm imagining her life. I'm thinking about living. I'm not focusing on her death. That was the day, (September 3rd), that I got out of bed and took a shower. I realized that by focusing in on my depression and my despair and my anger and my darkness - that kept me closer to Lillian's death, and that choosing to live life for the two of us, was keeping me closer to her life. So that was the day I showered. That was the day I ate something normal. That was the day that I made a choice.
The biggest thing that matters to me, is Lillian's life. Lillian only got 4 hours and 29 actual minutes of life outside of my belly, but to me, her mommy and her life source for the last 10 months that's what I cling to...and now, well...I had to make a decision and maybe it's because I'm in all of the therapy that I was able to get to this so specifically and solidly...whatever it is, I'm not questioning it very much because it's working.
You see, I don't get any of the firsts. I don't get first steps, or first tooth, or first words or first crush, or first prom, or..any of the things you prepare for through the life of your child. I had to accept that I now had to mother her in a very different way. My mothering of my daughter meant that I now had to live life for the both of us and if (by chance) there truly is something else after we die, and my baby girl can somehow look between the worlds and see me? Well, I'd rather die myself than to have her see me broken and sad and angry. I'd want her to look at her mommy between the worlds and see her laughing and putting one foot in front of the other, and living life and participating in its beauty. I'd want her to see me living life for the both of us, loving her father, caring for her family here on earth, saying her beautiful name every chance I can, never being afraid to talk about her and our family; and be a part of the buzz of life again.
So because Lillian's birthday was the same as the day she died, we have a choice. We can either celebrate that my gorgeous, perfect girl was here, by living life in her name, in her honor, for Lily; we can choose to show her happiness over grief when she checks in on us from between the worlds, or we can choose the darkness. Frankly, I want more for my daughter, so I will always choose the light and the fact of the matter is that she was here, she was born, I grew a damn good baby you guys! That's what gets me out of bed in the morning...HER! I don't need to talk about how she passed away, what I need to talk about is how she was here! She was here. I need to talk about how she affected us, (because I know it's not just me). This baby affected way way more people than just the woman typing out these words. It boggles my mind actually. To me, that is how we walk in the light with my Lillian Angeline Kerrigan-Leyh, and to me, that is her birth story.
Monday, November 7, 2016
I Cried And Cried And Cried...
I cried a lot in the beginning of my pregnancy. I didn't cry because I was sad that I was pregnant, (quite the contrary), I cried because I went through some major realizations about myself.
I realized that while yes, I was very successful in my career and in my pursuit of higher education, (and very proud of those things), I realized I was using both as a way to hide. I cried for the young girl I was in my 20's and the young woman I was in my 30's that believed so deeply that since it didn't appear as though she would be getting her happily ever after, she'd better come up with a back up plan. I decided that my happily ever after didn't "have" to include marriage or children. I didn't dare think about either or dream about either, (the way that the stereotype tells you we all do). For some of us, the "fairytale" is just so unbelievable that we abandon it in pursuit of other endeavors; and we create hiding places in those endeavors. I am not, by any means, saying that everyone does this, I am saying that it does happen sometimes, and I am saying that I absolutely created some comfy hiding places for myself.
Here I was newly pregnant, 41 years old, newly married, a new job that I loved...what in the hell did I do to land this jackpot, and why now?? After being one of the oldest in my friend's group, the oldest of three kids, the oldest girl in my extended family, and watching countless friends marry before me, (I had a been a bridesmaid 15 times before my own wedding), watching countless friends and family have children, I made myself "be okay" with the fact that while I didn't have those other things, (those things that I didn't dare wish for or dream about), that I had my job, I had my education, I was solid. However, in the deepest darkest places of myself, I admitted (softly) that I wanted more. It was a whisper at first and then after meeting Jason it was my first step toward admitting it to another person, from my mouth...out loud.
So as the weeks ticked by, and my belly began to grow, I often thought about the person I was before Jason and Lillian. I thought about how much I appreciated that pre-Jason and Lillian me. I thought about how proud I was of that me, but I also silently knew it was time to give her a warm hug and tell her she did well, and that it was time to let go and to move on. I knew change was coming and all of it was a good thing but it was very important to me to honor that pre-Jason & Lillian me because I didn't want to live with a longing for what once was once my daughter was in my arms (because she deserved much better than that) so I wanted to be careful of that and give it the honor it deserved. I had to get to work.
When we began telling people we were having a baby I heard a lot of the "just wait until..." (you can fill in that blank with "you'll never sleep again", "everything changes", "you'll never pee again by yourself", "say goodbye to regular bathing" and my favorite: "your life is over.") Your life is over. Wow. Well, what none of them knew was that I was always one step ahead of them. I was already to work on some things. People really don't think about some of the things they say to you when you start telling people you're pregnant for the first time. I often felt like saying "look who you're talking to", but I never did because that just seemed way too cocky and I'd rather not have that conversation with bunches of people who seemed to always know better than me...lots of people seemed to need to say these things to me, so I tried to have grace for them; and I tried to see their words for what they were, their own personal panic. I knew it wasn't mine. So, all of them were fine in my eyes. I wanted to hug them all and tell them they were probably right and that it would get better and that they were all doing an amazing job, (and to maybe go take a shower...alone). I just listed instead. I had some bigger fish of my own to fry.
I heard "your life is over" more than I can explain. So, fine then, let me think about that. My life is over. Then let's say goodbye to that life (that will be over) so that I don't resent my tiny baby once she's here. Let's pay homage to that life in a graceful, careful and appreciative way so that I don't sob constantly thinking that everything that I once knew is gone and life sucks and I'm terribly mean to my husband everyday. I wanted to be very conscious of all of this. My thought was that if we're going to do this, let's do it right. We've got 10 months to prepare.
I thanked that pre-Jason & Lillian me for digging in my heels and living a full, good life on my own. I reminded myself how important that was to me, and how important that would eventually be for my daughter. Lillian deserved a totally new version of me anyway; a fresh Leslie, v.2, and I was very careful to get myself fully prepared to give that to her. I did a great job of giving myself the world, and now I was ready to accept this partnership with Jason so that we could do that for our daughter. I shocked myself really, I was more than ready for it, I realized I was craving it.
So, I cried. I cried deep, cleansing, purposeful tears and it felt amazing. I cried because I gave in to the vulnerability of admitting all of these things to myself. I cried that I was being blessed with a child. I cried that I was going to be able to give this gift to my husband. I cried that I would get to show this very beautiful world to my child and then I cried because I'd get to see it through her eyes.
I cried with a happiness that was so deep and so profound and I realized...all of this, every bit, every tear was all because I was becoming a mother.
I realized that while yes, I was very successful in my career and in my pursuit of higher education, (and very proud of those things), I realized I was using both as a way to hide. I cried for the young girl I was in my 20's and the young woman I was in my 30's that believed so deeply that since it didn't appear as though she would be getting her happily ever after, she'd better come up with a back up plan. I decided that my happily ever after didn't "have" to include marriage or children. I didn't dare think about either or dream about either, (the way that the stereotype tells you we all do). For some of us, the "fairytale" is just so unbelievable that we abandon it in pursuit of other endeavors; and we create hiding places in those endeavors. I am not, by any means, saying that everyone does this, I am saying that it does happen sometimes, and I am saying that I absolutely created some comfy hiding places for myself.
Here I was newly pregnant, 41 years old, newly married, a new job that I loved...what in the hell did I do to land this jackpot, and why now?? After being one of the oldest in my friend's group, the oldest of three kids, the oldest girl in my extended family, and watching countless friends marry before me, (I had a been a bridesmaid 15 times before my own wedding), watching countless friends and family have children, I made myself "be okay" with the fact that while I didn't have those other things, (those things that I didn't dare wish for or dream about), that I had my job, I had my education, I was solid. However, in the deepest darkest places of myself, I admitted (softly) that I wanted more. It was a whisper at first and then after meeting Jason it was my first step toward admitting it to another person, from my mouth...out loud.
So as the weeks ticked by, and my belly began to grow, I often thought about the person I was before Jason and Lillian. I thought about how much I appreciated that pre-Jason and Lillian me. I thought about how proud I was of that me, but I also silently knew it was time to give her a warm hug and tell her she did well, and that it was time to let go and to move on. I knew change was coming and all of it was a good thing but it was very important to me to honor that pre-Jason & Lillian me because I didn't want to live with a longing for what once was once my daughter was in my arms (because she deserved much better than that) so I wanted to be careful of that and give it the honor it deserved. I had to get to work.
When we began telling people we were having a baby I heard a lot of the "just wait until..." (you can fill in that blank with "you'll never sleep again", "everything changes", "you'll never pee again by yourself", "say goodbye to regular bathing" and my favorite: "your life is over.") Your life is over. Wow. Well, what none of them knew was that I was always one step ahead of them. I was already to work on some things. People really don't think about some of the things they say to you when you start telling people you're pregnant for the first time. I often felt like saying "look who you're talking to", but I never did because that just seemed way too cocky and I'd rather not have that conversation with bunches of people who seemed to always know better than me...lots of people seemed to need to say these things to me, so I tried to have grace for them; and I tried to see their words for what they were, their own personal panic. I knew it wasn't mine. So, all of them were fine in my eyes. I wanted to hug them all and tell them they were probably right and that it would get better and that they were all doing an amazing job, (and to maybe go take a shower...alone). I just listed instead. I had some bigger fish of my own to fry.
I heard "your life is over" more than I can explain. So, fine then, let me think about that. My life is over. Then let's say goodbye to that life (that will be over) so that I don't resent my tiny baby once she's here. Let's pay homage to that life in a graceful, careful and appreciative way so that I don't sob constantly thinking that everything that I once knew is gone and life sucks and I'm terribly mean to my husband everyday. I wanted to be very conscious of all of this. My thought was that if we're going to do this, let's do it right. We've got 10 months to prepare.
I thanked that pre-Jason & Lillian me for digging in my heels and living a full, good life on my own. I reminded myself how important that was to me, and how important that would eventually be for my daughter. Lillian deserved a totally new version of me anyway; a fresh Leslie, v.2, and I was very careful to get myself fully prepared to give that to her. I did a great job of giving myself the world, and now I was ready to accept this partnership with Jason so that we could do that for our daughter. I shocked myself really, I was more than ready for it, I realized I was craving it.
So, I cried. I cried deep, cleansing, purposeful tears and it felt amazing. I cried because I gave in to the vulnerability of admitting all of these things to myself. I cried that I was being blessed with a child. I cried that I was going to be able to give this gift to my husband. I cried that I would get to show this very beautiful world to my child and then I cried because I'd get to see it through her eyes.
I cried with a happiness that was so deep and so profound and I realized...all of this, every bit, every tear was all because I was becoming a mother.
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
From Newlyweds To Parents
To be perfectly honest with you, in my adult life, my priorities were focused in other areas for such a long time, I never took the time to really sit and think about being a mom. I'm sure I thought about having children a little bit, but in my 20s and my 30s I spent much of my time and energy cultivating my education and my career; and when I pictured my future, it was always working or creating something and never once was it a person.
To say I waited to do the marriage and family thing is an understatement. I didn't just wait, I took my SWEET time to do both...but when it happened, it all happened quickly and all at one time.
I met Jason when I was 37, and he was a cool NINE years younger than me. (Insert "cougar" joke here that we've heard a billion times). If you think for a second that when I met him I "knew" I'd marry him, you would be wrong. I met him, thought "he's about seven minutes old, I have ZERO time for that..." and I went about my business. What I didn't know was that this guy was tenacious; (that's my polite way of saying "pain in the ass"), because he did not leave me alone. I tried to brush him off multiple times, I even tried being rude to him so he'd leave me alone...nothing worked. What was it with this dude??
We met while I was producing one of my many burlesque shows then, and he was my "lighting guy"..."Jason The Lighting Guy" was how I put his number in my phone. One night after a particularly long rehearsal, he walked right up to me and demanded that I go drink whiskey with him at the front bar of Excalibur nightclub in Chicago, IL. (where we were performing). I mean, I wasn't going to turn down whiskey...so I happily agreed.
Long story short, we began dating. I broke up with him during Christmas. He still kept pestering me. Funny, recently we were talking about this and he said to me "Yeah, you broke up with me but I just really wanted to be your friend if I couldn't date you. You were fun and cool and I don't know, I just liked you." He's never told me that before. What a sweetheart, and here I was being as bitchy as I could be toward him.
One day, my friend Binzi said "Les, just give him a small chance...he really likes you." (She really rallied behind the "Jason" cause). I finally listened. I got over myself and my "I'm too old for him" mentality, and well, the rest is history....and I'll be damned...he's my husband today.
We are a perfect balance for each other. He hangs in there with me when I'm all over the place, he can calm me down when I need it and don't realize it, he's the most compassionate person I've ever met but you'd never guess that initially with him...(he guards that pretty carefully, if you just meet him you'd swear he was a curmudgeonly old man...he's so not). He actually listens to my advice and respects my opinion. He's a sweetheart to my family and loves my brothers, (very important to me). I teach him how to be gracious and patient with life, and he teaches me to not be so worried all the time. He's wonderful and he's caring and I just love him. So...I married him. Lucky me.
About 8 weeks after we got married, I was out to dinner with a friend of mine, and was feeling a weird kind of ill. The waiter brought our food, set it down in front of me and I immediately felt totally nauseous. After that dinner, I was sitting in my car to drive home and I hadn't begun to drive away yet, because I was assessing how I was feeling. I knew what food poisoning nausea felt like, I knew was stomach flu nausea felt like, and I knew what hangover nausea felt like...this was a totally different kind of nausea. Great. I probably had stomach cancer or an ulcer or some rare disorder. Ugh. Still I knew what I had to do before I jumped on the "do I have cancer" train.
Exactly at the moment of me identifying what type of weird stomach feeling I was having, Jason texted my phone (he knew I had somewhat been feeling strange that day and wanted to check on me). "How are you feeling", was his text. I wrote back: "I'm on my way home, but I'm stopping at Walgreen's first for a pregnancy test. Be home soon." His reply: "Okay then!!"
(Mind you, at this point, we had been married just about six weeks. We were still very much newlyweds, existing in that floaty space of happiness and bliss).
I walked in the door with wide eyes, and a stern mouth and he just laughed at me when he saw me. I beelined it for the bathroom.
You know how when you take a pregnancy test, you have an agonizing three minutes to wait before you can actually see the result? Well, the moment I took mine, the result did not take three minutes, it was immediate, the tiny digital screen said "pregnant" and the second tiny digital letters under that said "3+ weeks", (I had no clue pregnancy tests told you how long you were pregnant!! Technology is so cool).
I ripped open the bathroom door, with the test in my hand, and..."Jason?" I looked around the corner into our living room. Where's my husband?? "Hello?" No answer. I realized our dog was gone too, ah...he took the dog out. Awesome timing J.
I'm standing in my kitchen, my cat Max was sitting on one of our bar stools looking at me, and so I told our cat, "we're pregnant Maxie!!!" He wasn't as excited as I wanted him to be. He just lazily cat-blinked at me and turned away.
Finally, Jason came into the front door, the first thing he sees is me standing in the kitchen with my pregnancy test in my hand, and I blurt out "we are 100%, very pregnant...and it says 3+ weeks!!! Omg!! I'm in grad school Jason!!! I just started a new job!!! I'm FORTY-ONE!!!! Omg, we're pregnant!!"
You know what he did? He smiled the biggest smile I had ever seen on his face, and walked over to me and just gathered me into his arms and said "this is so awesome!" I leaned back to look at him and said "why aren't you freaking out??" He said "because it's really cool Les, we're gonna be awesome parents!!"
Are we?? Aren't we supposed to freak out about this? I also feel excited. I think I'm in shock.
There's this thing that happens to you when as an adult woman you find out you're pregnant for the first time, when after spending most of your adult life trying not to get pregnant and then you are, you feel unsure of how to feel. It is definitely a shift in mindset. A truly great one actually. One that I did not expect to fill me up with happiness in quite the way that it did.
All of a sudden I was giddy with delight, my head was spinning, I was nervous, I was freaked out but smiling from ear to ear, my weird ill feeling was finally explained, thank god I didn't have stomach cancer or an ulcer or some crazy disorder. Nope. What I had was a little, tiny baby.
I did what any woman in my position would do..."Hi mom, are you sitting down?"
To say I waited to do the marriage and family thing is an understatement. I didn't just wait, I took my SWEET time to do both...but when it happened, it all happened quickly and all at one time.
I met Jason when I was 37, and he was a cool NINE years younger than me. (Insert "cougar" joke here that we've heard a billion times). If you think for a second that when I met him I "knew" I'd marry him, you would be wrong. I met him, thought "he's about seven minutes old, I have ZERO time for that..." and I went about my business. What I didn't know was that this guy was tenacious; (that's my polite way of saying "pain in the ass"), because he did not leave me alone. I tried to brush him off multiple times, I even tried being rude to him so he'd leave me alone...nothing worked. What was it with this dude??
We met while I was producing one of my many burlesque shows then, and he was my "lighting guy"..."Jason The Lighting Guy" was how I put his number in my phone. One night after a particularly long rehearsal, he walked right up to me and demanded that I go drink whiskey with him at the front bar of Excalibur nightclub in Chicago, IL. (where we were performing). I mean, I wasn't going to turn down whiskey...so I happily agreed.
Long story short, we began dating. I broke up with him during Christmas. He still kept pestering me. Funny, recently we were talking about this and he said to me "Yeah, you broke up with me but I just really wanted to be your friend if I couldn't date you. You were fun and cool and I don't know, I just liked you." He's never told me that before. What a sweetheart, and here I was being as bitchy as I could be toward him.
One day, my friend Binzi said "Les, just give him a small chance...he really likes you." (She really rallied behind the "Jason" cause). I finally listened. I got over myself and my "I'm too old for him" mentality, and well, the rest is history....and I'll be damned...he's my husband today.
We are a perfect balance for each other. He hangs in there with me when I'm all over the place, he can calm me down when I need it and don't realize it, he's the most compassionate person I've ever met but you'd never guess that initially with him...(he guards that pretty carefully, if you just meet him you'd swear he was a curmudgeonly old man...he's so not). He actually listens to my advice and respects my opinion. He's a sweetheart to my family and loves my brothers, (very important to me). I teach him how to be gracious and patient with life, and he teaches me to not be so worried all the time. He's wonderful and he's caring and I just love him. So...I married him. Lucky me.
About 8 weeks after we got married, I was out to dinner with a friend of mine, and was feeling a weird kind of ill. The waiter brought our food, set it down in front of me and I immediately felt totally nauseous. After that dinner, I was sitting in my car to drive home and I hadn't begun to drive away yet, because I was assessing how I was feeling. I knew what food poisoning nausea felt like, I knew was stomach flu nausea felt like, and I knew what hangover nausea felt like...this was a totally different kind of nausea. Great. I probably had stomach cancer or an ulcer or some rare disorder. Ugh. Still I knew what I had to do before I jumped on the "do I have cancer" train.
Exactly at the moment of me identifying what type of weird stomach feeling I was having, Jason texted my phone (he knew I had somewhat been feeling strange that day and wanted to check on me). "How are you feeling", was his text. I wrote back: "I'm on my way home, but I'm stopping at Walgreen's first for a pregnancy test. Be home soon." His reply: "Okay then!!"
(Mind you, at this point, we had been married just about six weeks. We were still very much newlyweds, existing in that floaty space of happiness and bliss).
I walked in the door with wide eyes, and a stern mouth and he just laughed at me when he saw me. I beelined it for the bathroom.
You know how when you take a pregnancy test, you have an agonizing three minutes to wait before you can actually see the result? Well, the moment I took mine, the result did not take three minutes, it was immediate, the tiny digital screen said "pregnant" and the second tiny digital letters under that said "3+ weeks", (I had no clue pregnancy tests told you how long you were pregnant!! Technology is so cool).
I ripped open the bathroom door, with the test in my hand, and..."Jason?" I looked around the corner into our living room. Where's my husband?? "Hello?" No answer. I realized our dog was gone too, ah...he took the dog out. Awesome timing J.
I'm standing in my kitchen, my cat Max was sitting on one of our bar stools looking at me, and so I told our cat, "we're pregnant Maxie!!!" He wasn't as excited as I wanted him to be. He just lazily cat-blinked at me and turned away.
Finally, Jason came into the front door, the first thing he sees is me standing in the kitchen with my pregnancy test in my hand, and I blurt out "we are 100%, very pregnant...and it says 3+ weeks!!! Omg!! I'm in grad school Jason!!! I just started a new job!!! I'm FORTY-ONE!!!! Omg, we're pregnant!!"
You know what he did? He smiled the biggest smile I had ever seen on his face, and walked over to me and just gathered me into his arms and said "this is so awesome!" I leaned back to look at him and said "why aren't you freaking out??" He said "because it's really cool Les, we're gonna be awesome parents!!"
Are we?? Aren't we supposed to freak out about this? I also feel excited. I think I'm in shock.
There's this thing that happens to you when as an adult woman you find out you're pregnant for the first time, when after spending most of your adult life trying not to get pregnant and then you are, you feel unsure of how to feel. It is definitely a shift in mindset. A truly great one actually. One that I did not expect to fill me up with happiness in quite the way that it did.
All of a sudden I was giddy with delight, my head was spinning, I was nervous, I was freaked out but smiling from ear to ear, my weird ill feeling was finally explained, thank god I didn't have stomach cancer or an ulcer or some crazy disorder. Nope. What I had was a little, tiny baby.
I did what any woman in my position would do..."Hi mom, are you sitting down?"
Saturday, October 22, 2016
So Here We Are
I've struggled with the decision to post a blog about what my husband Jason and I are going through or not. I haven't been totally sure if I should be so public about our pain and what we're going through. Recently, I've decided that I should, and I want this first post to be a little bit about why I've/we've decided it's okay: first, when this first happened, after I could lift my head up a little bit, and I could look people in the eyes again, I craved connection. I didn't just crave any kind of connection, I was craving connection with another mother that had buried their child. I wanted to look into the face of another woman who had gone through this before I had, and I wanted her to tell me what to brace myself for, what to expect from every minute that ticked by without my daughter, and what it looked like to live life again...or if that was even possible. I was craving that type of connection from another mother that understood, to really and fully...see me.
I had a very very hard time seeing joy in anything right after we lost our daughter Lillian. So, I'm posting a blog about what this has been like for us because I want to create a place where it will be easier for other mothers (and fathers) of loss to find us; because there will be some...and I want to be here to provide comfort and understanding. I want to be able to convey to other mothers and fathers of loss that I see them.
The other reason I've decided to post this is because I believe in my heart that healing comes from being transparent about how you're feeling, no matter how ugly or unsavory; having the courage to be open and honest about it, is part of truly healing. Publicly talking about it here is a step in that direction; it's also a way I can keep a larger collection of those we care about up-to-date about how we are doing.
I am a mother that has buried her child. Oh how I wish I was not part of this club. While I do not begrudge anyone their own feelings of loss or grief, burying your child is something that is absolutely impossible to understand if you haven't done it yourself. You may have loss all over your life; maybe you've lost a parent, a best friend, a cousin, a husband or a wife, please hear me when I say...this is completely different. Have your pain, I am sorry for your pain, this is different. You might say to yourself after reading that "I can't even imagine"...and no, no you can't and that's completely okay. In fact, I'm glad that you can't. I don't want you to know the horrid pain of burying your child.
I don't say this to take away from any one else's feelings of powerlessness from losing a loved one, I don't say this to take away from any one else's feelings of losing (specifically) my daughter. I know many people are still grieving her and will forever, (I know that better than anyone), please understand though that the grief of a mother and a father is unlike anything I can ever explain. The closest I've come to express that (and it still is an insufficient description because this pain is something that words cannot express) is to say that I am perpetually aching and hungry for my daughter.
Try to imagine being forced to peel off all of your skin, or to remove a vital organ, or to slice your heart in half and then being forced to dig a hole in the ground to bury it under the dirt. Then imagine that you have to walk away leaving it there, knowing that you need it to keep on living. A piece of your body. Your baby. A little you. The baby you've spent 10 months (because let's face it, it's 10 months, not 9), anticipating and growing inside of you, feeling her move and feeling her hiccup, and feeling her life. You watch as a small version of you and your spouse is lowered into a hole in the ground. If you're comparing what I've just attempted (badly) to describe to torture, multiply that feeling by about 1,000 and you still won't know.
The reason I'm going to tell our story is simply because this is the worst thing I or my husband has ever experienced in life; and we want to be here for other moms or dads that need to read some relatable words and if that provides some amount of comfort or connection for them, then mission accomplished. No parent should feel they are alone in an experience like this...and so, here we are. If you are reading this and are a parent of loss, welcome, you are in a safe place and I see you. I am so incredibly sorry. If you are reading this and know a parent of loss, send them my way.
I'm going to use this blog to write about what happened, I'm going to write about our pain, and our progress moving forward. I'm sure some of this will be terribly shocking to some people, it might make you cry, it will definitely make you angry, but it might also give you hope, it might inspire you, I hope it somehow ends up comforting you...whatever it provides for you, know that it is our truth and we tell this story also for her...our gorgeous daughter Lillian Angeline. I love saying and typing out her name, and writing about her keeps her close to me and shares her with the world. I'm more than okay with that.
Thank you for reading.
-Leslie & Jason
<a data-pin-do="embedPin" href="http://ourdaughterlillian.blogspot.com/2016/10/"></a>
<script async defer src="//assets.pinterest.com/js/pinit.js"></script>
I had a very very hard time seeing joy in anything right after we lost our daughter Lillian. So, I'm posting a blog about what this has been like for us because I want to create a place where it will be easier for other mothers (and fathers) of loss to find us; because there will be some...and I want to be here to provide comfort and understanding. I want to be able to convey to other mothers and fathers of loss that I see them.
The other reason I've decided to post this is because I believe in my heart that healing comes from being transparent about how you're feeling, no matter how ugly or unsavory; having the courage to be open and honest about it, is part of truly healing. Publicly talking about it here is a step in that direction; it's also a way I can keep a larger collection of those we care about up-to-date about how we are doing.
I am a mother that has buried her child. Oh how I wish I was not part of this club. While I do not begrudge anyone their own feelings of loss or grief, burying your child is something that is absolutely impossible to understand if you haven't done it yourself. You may have loss all over your life; maybe you've lost a parent, a best friend, a cousin, a husband or a wife, please hear me when I say...this is completely different. Have your pain, I am sorry for your pain, this is different. You might say to yourself after reading that "I can't even imagine"...and no, no you can't and that's completely okay. In fact, I'm glad that you can't. I don't want you to know the horrid pain of burying your child.
I don't say this to take away from any one else's feelings of powerlessness from losing a loved one, I don't say this to take away from any one else's feelings of losing (specifically) my daughter. I know many people are still grieving her and will forever, (I know that better than anyone), please understand though that the grief of a mother and a father is unlike anything I can ever explain. The closest I've come to express that (and it still is an insufficient description because this pain is something that words cannot express) is to say that I am perpetually aching and hungry for my daughter.
Try to imagine being forced to peel off all of your skin, or to remove a vital organ, or to slice your heart in half and then being forced to dig a hole in the ground to bury it under the dirt. Then imagine that you have to walk away leaving it there, knowing that you need it to keep on living. A piece of your body. Your baby. A little you. The baby you've spent 10 months (because let's face it, it's 10 months, not 9), anticipating and growing inside of you, feeling her move and feeling her hiccup, and feeling her life. You watch as a small version of you and your spouse is lowered into a hole in the ground. If you're comparing what I've just attempted (badly) to describe to torture, multiply that feeling by about 1,000 and you still won't know.
The reason I'm going to tell our story is simply because this is the worst thing I or my husband has ever experienced in life; and we want to be here for other moms or dads that need to read some relatable words and if that provides some amount of comfort or connection for them, then mission accomplished. No parent should feel they are alone in an experience like this...and so, here we are. If you are reading this and are a parent of loss, welcome, you are in a safe place and I see you. I am so incredibly sorry. If you are reading this and know a parent of loss, send them my way.
I'm going to use this blog to write about what happened, I'm going to write about our pain, and our progress moving forward. I'm sure some of this will be terribly shocking to some people, it might make you cry, it will definitely make you angry, but it might also give you hope, it might inspire you, I hope it somehow ends up comforting you...whatever it provides for you, know that it is our truth and we tell this story also for her...our gorgeous daughter Lillian Angeline. I love saying and typing out her name, and writing about her keeps her close to me and shares her with the world. I'm more than okay with that.
Thank you for reading.
-Leslie & Jason
<a data-pin-do="embedPin" href="http://ourdaughterlillian.blogspot.com/2016/10/"></a>
<script async defer src="//assets.pinterest.com/js/pinit.js"></script>
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)