Life After Loss

Every single day I wake up with a heavy heart ; a pain in my chest that I'm sure will never subside. Everyday I run through all the different scenarios and all the ways that maybe, just maybe, I could have saved my daughter's life. I know, just like every other bereaved parent does, that this is not helpful or healthy. You can't stop it though. And that is okay. It is okay to not be okay--even though everyone wants to tell us it will all be okay. You know when I'll be okay? The day I see my daughter's beautiful smile again. Until then, I will continue to replay the worst moments of my life over and over again trying to make some type of sense of how this could possibly happen. Most days I can think about it and even have flashbacks to that final month, and still function. Other times those flashbacks are so much stronger. I'm standing in the hallway at St. Catherine's being told Flight For Life is almost there. I can feel the cold floor beneath me as I sin...

You reach for the bottle, you're wrong. You cry a year later, you're wrong. You continue to live as life was before, you're wrong. You find a healthy outlet to remain sane, you're wrong. Why is there so much judgement about the right way to grieve? Isn't a bereaved parent going through enough? Why is it good to appear "strong"? Why can't I be weak? Why can't I just hideaway on the bad days? And if I'm having a better day, and I laugh--don't think that somehow I am "over" this. I carry the pain with me every single moment, of every single day. Somedays it is just more obvious than others. You're judged if you have more kids. You're judged if you don't. You're judged if you keep the baby's room the same. You're judged if you donate everything. Instead of judging, hold out your hand. Offer to be of some support. You don't need to say anything. You just need to listen. Be there with me. Say my chi...

"Denial helps us to pace our feelings of grief. There is a grace in denial. It is nature's way of letting in only as much as we can handle." -Elisabeth Kubler-Ross When the denial starts wearing off, the grief starts coming in bigger waves again. There is a constant battle of wanting to live a life for your child, and wanting to lock yourself away because you can't bear to face life that day. As grieving parents, we are told time and time again that our children would want us to live our lives. They'd want us to enjoy life and to do whatever makes us happy. But how can we possibly be happy when our child is not enjoying our life with us? At least not in the physical sense. I wake up. I see the beautiful sunrise. And I tell myself-you got this. You will get up. You will enjoy the day the best you can. I make an effort to smile more. I sing along in the car. I go out of my way to make someone else's day. I appreciate the little things. I can do wh...

Arianna Marie, How can it already be a year that you took your final breathe in our arms? I can feel the weight of you in my arms. I can feel your smooth skin on my fingers. I can see the family on the balcony. I remember coming home after planning the services. I remember the empty space between your dad and I. Our bed had become your bed. Everyone says no co-sleeping until your child is on hospice, because there's no longer a safety risk. Every night for the last couple weeks you slept in between us. We'd each keep a hand on you throughout the night. Some days your breaths were so shallow it was hard to tell if you were still here. The house felt so empty. Since bringing you home, there was always people over--Grandma Deb, Uncle Tim & Aunt Marianne, Uncle Alvin Sam, Uncle Je ff & Aunt Lisa, Auntie Sher Sher, Grandpa Rupert and Uncle Ham. And now there was just silence. Our home was empty without you. It is still empty. I still walk into your room hoping you...

That's how long it's been since I've seen your smile. Seen your eyes light up. Heard your little voice. It's like a nightmare I just can't wake up from. I know there is absolutely no way any of this could be happening. It must be a nightmare. But it's not. This is life. A completely unfair, beautiful thing called life. This past weekend, someone said to Gonz "God gave you this time with her for a reason." That's what we need to remember. The past year has come and gone so quickly. Most days, I'm proud of Gonz and I for just being able to function. There's bad days, bad moments, and sometimes bad weeks. It seems like it'd be much easier to say, screw all this, and just lay in bed. Things that were once important no longer are. I don't mean that in a suicidal way, I mean it in once your child passes away your whole way of thinking changes way. Grief is like a tug of war. The part of you that wants to do nothing vs. the par...

The weight that a grieving father carries around with him is astonishing.  Fathers don't get the same support as mothers do. They don't have books written for them (at least not nearly as many). They don't get the phone calls and the texts. They get the "how is (insert grieving mom's name here)?" Yet, they hurt. Their hearts are broken just like the mothers'. They yearn for their child to be back in their arms. To be able to protect their baby from all the bad in the world. Yet, when their child gains their angel wings, they can't protect them anymore. They didn't protect them well enough. At least that's what they think, but it couldn't be further from the truth. I know with every ounce of my being, if my husband could have traded places with our daughter, he would have in a heartbeat. He crumbled with every piece of bad news we received, but still remained so optimistic. Fathers need to just pull their boots up by the...