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.
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