Champagne 6 on the 6

Child loss, Grief, Healing, self care, Uncategorized

I suppose champagne birthdays are only really a thing only when you’re an adult – when you can actually drink champagne! By definition, today we could have potentially be celebrating your champagne birthday. You would have been turning 6 on the 6th this year. And even though you’re not here, I’ll still raise a champagne flute to celebrate. Celebrate you. Celebrate me. Celebrate us as a collective family. Celebrate the fact that we have survived 6 years of this balancing act of grief and joy. Love and pain.

6 years in, I still hold this day sacred. And I know that in some shape or form I will continue to hold it sacred until I die. It’s the day I honour you but also honour the person that you made me. Honour the strength, the perspective and the grace that I had anticipated to be born on this day, but never did. Instead, all of those things were born much earlier, in a completely different setting, in the most unexpected way, shaping the person that I have become.

Self care is one of those phrases you hear as a bereaved parent very early on in the grief journey, but holds very little merit. It’s not much, much later in one’s grief journey that you come to recognize the critical role it plays, in not only surviving, but also living through the journey.

Today, on your would have been champagne birthday, I choose self care – even if it comes in the form of a champagne glass.

6

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting, Uncategorized

Six. It’s been six year since we’ve lost you and I wonder today how the weight of the grief that I carry compares to weight your little body would be at six. I’m sure your little body would have been 10x lighter without a doubt.

But I guess we’ll never really know.

The on again off again pandemic environment has once again made it challenging to celebrate your birthday in the way that somehow makes my heart feel like it’s enough, so this year, as we celebrate you differently (again), my heart looks for ways to fulfill that feeling of enough. But it has not been successful. In the days leading up to today, I wander in and out of stores looking for things that speak to me. That remind me of you. That make my heart happy. And every single time, I question whether it’s enough.

Many bereaved parents will identify with “signs” as a way to hold on to a glimmer of hope and light that they’re child(ren) continue to be with us in this universe despite not being physically by our side. To the non bereaved, these signs may seem ridiculous, but to us, the bereaved parent, they are all that we have.

And so, this week, as I wandered aimlessly to find what exactly would be considered enough to celebrate and honour you, I came across many of these signs that I know was your way of saying “hello! I’m here. And I’m with you’. From the tiniest white feathers I found every morning this week tangled in your sister’s hair as I brushed it in the morning, to the heart shaped planters and posters in the garden centre, even to the pillow that suggested a coping mechanism to get through yet another year without you, they were all there. Speaking to me. Telling me something — but never enough.

It’s just not enough to not have you here. Not enough to try and celebrate you in every way that I know how. Just not enough.

So, I carry you. I carry you in my heart and feel the weight of the grief against the walls of my heart and know that for now, in this space, this lifetime, that will just have to be enough.

Until we meet again my sweet boy. Happy 6th Birthday!

XOXO mommy

Nothing but you…

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting

So 2020 is a little different.  Different on the surface, but at the core, where you and I co exist, it’s the same.  It feels weird that we can’t celebrate you in the same way that we always have, especially since it’s your 5th birthday.  5 years is a milestone, but one that is ironically being hit without much celebration. 

This year, there’s an overwhelming, persistent numbing feeling that has not resurfaced since the early days of grief. But your love is the constant and that’s what I’m trying to stay focused on. 

There will still be balloons, and cake and sunrises and we will still be surrounded by your love and those who love us, and that’s all that matters.

Every year, leading into your birthday, I dig deep into the ocean of my heart where you live and ask you “how do you want to celebrate your birthday? You always have an answer for me, but not this year. This year your silence was truly deafening and my heart finally aligned with the fact that maybe this year’s inability to celebrate you in the same way was more to do with your wishes then the rest of current life events.

Today, as I stood in the sacred silence that is only present in the morning dawn and watched the sunrise, I noticed the calm of the water on the horizon.  It glistened with the orange yellow highlight of the sun coming over the horizon crest and I felt ok.  I felt calm. I felt at peace.  Following the path of the gentle sway of the water, I noticed that closer to the shore, the waves still hit the rocks aligning the shore with fierceness, splashing water well above the marked shoreline.  That fierceness reminded me that no matter how calm and how at peace I feel about you, grief will always crash against me.  And that’s what I’m ok with.  That’s what I’m at peace with.  That’s what I’m numb to.  

The celebration planning leading up to your birthday provides me with an unhealthy dosage of distraction.  This year, there was no planning, no organizing, no noise, no distraction.  Stripping all of that away left me with nothing but you.  And in a way, I’m  grateful for that.  It’s just what my bereaved mama heart needed to realize that sometimes, doing things differently may not be what you want, but what you may truly need. 

Happy 5th Birthday Sweet Jude 

xo mommy

 

Definition of a good day

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing

Is today a good day?  What constitutes as a good day? From my vantage point, today is a day.  A special day.  But not sure it’s a good day — but then again, what is a good day.

What I know is that today is our day.  Our day to connect.  To reflect on what may have been.  What could have been.  What should have been.

I’ve been holding this day dearly for 5 years.  The entrance into this new decade starting in 2020 has abruptly reminded me that you and I have been apart for half a decade already.  Half a decade.  Time still flies when you’re grieving.  Nothing sits still.

I claim this day every year since loosing you to honour us.  To honour you, my sweet Jude on what could have been your birthday and to honour myself for surviving this journey.

I saw the words scripted in blue marker on the side of my cup as the barista handed me my comfort tea this morning and wondered if she could see through my broken exterior shell.  Could she see that I need to be reminded to “have a good day”?  Maybe.   Maybe she was simply carrying out her perfected customer experience ritual that gets carried out with every customer.

But today, I’d like to think that message was unique to me.  That it wasn’t the barista’s message at all.  That the message came from you, reminding me that today is a good day.  That today, is a day that we can hold in our hearts together and indulge in this non conventional love that we hold for each other in a way that only you and I understand.

Today is a good day after all.

4 minus 1

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting

4 years. It’s been 4 years since we had to say goodbye to you physically, but to us, you’re more alive then ever. You’ve been the first thing I think about and the last thing I think about almost each and every day. You’re in my everyday, so how could I possibly forget you?

The butterfly visits, gentle wind breezes and random song playings on the radio, are all daily signs from you that bring my heart joy. These little secret messages from you are what make your love so vivid and present. Yet, my mind often plants seeds of pressure to move on, to stop honouring you, to forget. And it waters (or drowns sometimes) those seeds with expectation, either self imposed or imposed by others. But the truth is, that my heart, simply cannot comply.

The guilt that comes with the thought of not honouring or holding space for you in our lives is a reminder that my heart is not healed and I don’t think it ever will. The space that we hold in our hearts for you is what enables are hearts to be whole. Without it, they just crumble back to a million pieces. And so far it has taken us four years to glue those pieces back together to resemble our hearts.

You, Jude, have taught me so many things in these short 4 years. You have taught me how to love fiercely and unapologetically. And because of that, my heart cannot simply move forward without you. It can only move forward with you.

I have come to accept that my grief is a reflection of my love for you. I can’t expect it to ever go away, stay the same or even dissipate. That’s just not how true love works. It changes, grows, breaks apart and molds back together – each day feeling different.

My heart too has changed. It has held space for 2, then 3, then molded back to 2, then grew to hold space for 4 and it’s now changed to hold space for 4 minus 1. It’s no wonder grief feels like one step forward, two steps backward at times. It’s love. Changing, longing, growing, missing. That’s what love is.

4 years later, I continue to wonder. Maybe if it all had gone to plan my love, you would be starting school this year. I watch those markers in my life grow up so fast and find a dose of comfort in knowing that I won’t have to watch you trek off to school independently. I relish in the fact that unlike their moms, I get to keep you snuggled up in my heart for yet another year as my baby. These are the bittersweet moments of our love, sweet Jude.

There are many reasons why your birthday feels different to me this year. Amongst the blurred busyness of this year, my heart carries heavy doses of guilt for simply not mindfully being with you. I know that’s all part of the ever changing process of grief, but my mama heart finds that difficult to accept. I hope that despite everything this year, you have continued to feel my love. I know I have felt yours, my sweet boy.

Happy 4th Birthday Jude!

xo mommy

Mother’s Love Day

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting

Since loosing our sweet Jude, there are so many mundane conversation starter questions that I simply don’t use anymore, and dread being asked them; including “do you have any children?” or “ how many children do you have?”. These questions for a bereaved mom are dreadful and grief triggering, irrespective of where in her grief journey she is.

During my subsequent pregnancy after loosing Jude, I was introduced to a whole new set of triggering questions such as “is this your first?” or “ are you excited to become a mom?”.

Since having my daughter, a new set of triggering questions have presented themselves, but the one that has been triggering me the most is, “ how are you enjoying motherhood?”.

Like all of the other aforementioned questions, they are often asked innocently and mindlessly which to most moms, is ok. But not for a bereaved mom — and here’s why.

I’m already a mom. I’m already experiencing motherhood.

Before I was a mom to my daughter, I was a mom to my son Jude. He made me a mom.

The question itself implies that I’m new to motherhood which denies the existence of my son. And that is the triggering point. Any bereaved parent will tell you that the only thing that hurts just as much as loosing your child is the thought of your child being forgotten. His memory diminished. His existence erased.

There are multiple forms, sides and dimensions to motherhood.

Motherhood is easy when your child gets to live. It’s when they die that it’s hard.

Now I know that’s a bold statement to make, but as a mom that has the privilege to mother a child amongst the stars and mother a child below the stars, I have become familiar with the multiple dimensions of motherhood and can stand behind the statement. Each dimension has its joys and sorrows. It’s good days and bad days. It’s peaks and valleys. But at the end of the day, I get to hold my daughter and kiss her goodnight everyday — something I cannot physically do with my son. Something so many other moms who hold their babies only in their heart so desperately want, but simply cannot have. And not having that simple ritual is hard. Really hard. Unbelievably hard.

But yet, we manage to move forward every day – one day at a time. Tending to our heart and our child as if they were physically present, because to us, they are so unbelievably present in our hearts, our minds and in our souls. Every. Single. Day. That dimension of motherhood is hard.

So when asked the question of how I’m enjoying motherhood, I often respond with a somewhat mundane response sprinkled with a bit more raw honesty than most new moms would, which catches the inquirer by surprise. Just imagine how surprised they would be if I answered them truthfully and said that Motherhood is easy when your child gets to live. It’s when they die that it’s hard.

So today, on Mother’s Day, look around and acknowledge and honour all moms (and dads) – whether you can physically see their children or not. Afterall, as nurturing human beings, whether we bear our own children, raise someone else’s, have them physically with us or carry them in our hearts, we are all programmed to love, teach and nurture them in our own unique way.

Wishing you a gentle happy Mother’s Love Day today.

The centre of it all

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing

The weeks leading up to today tend to be the same with each year that passes. They are filled with anxiety and fear. Fear that with the passing of yet one more year, my memory of you will fade. Anxiety simply because the perfectionist in me wants to ensure that every detail of your celebration is covered off and perfect. So in the middle of the night, when I am restless and my brain races through every milestone and every event that lead me to you, I realize that even then – even in the darkness you are in the centre of it all.

But in the darkness, it’s where I see your light the brightest. It’s in the darkness that I reflect on the thoughts that filled my foggy grief mind in the early days of how I could possibly endure such sorrow. How I could possibly continue on with the heaviness that filled my heart on this day. Today, in the darkness, I relish in your brightness and think, how could I possibly not carry on bearing witness to the joy that you have brought to my life.

In the movie, Collateral Beauty, the character that portrays, ‘Love’ challenges the main character on his refusal to accept Love into his life after experiencing the loss of his child. ‘Love’ declares it’s presence by insisting that you simply cannot turn your back on love – that even in the darkness, there is a place for love. That love – your love, is what leads me through the darkness and into the morning light.

Today, as we celebrate your 3rd birthday, your love shines brighter then ever. It’s the guiding light through it all. It guides me through the fear, the anxiety, the sorrow and allows me to embrace the joy. The collateral beauty that your light shines upon leaves me in awe every single day. It’s in those tiny moments of awe that you remind me that there’s nothing to fear. That the memory of you will never fade. That you are my constant. In the light and in the dark. Much like the “Love” character in the movie, you declare your presence time and time again and assure me that you are indeed at the centre of it all. And there in the centre of my heart, is where I will forever carry you my sweet Jude.

Happy 3rd Birthday!

Xo mommy

Tonka Truck Day

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing

Two years ago today I woke up to the the familiar sound of my phone notifying me that the outside world was connecting with me.  I glanced over at the phone laying on my night table and read the brightly lit message, ” thinking of you today”.  A few minutes after that, it notified me again that the outside world was reaching out once more.  And again and again until I returned it to its restful state for recharge at the end of the day.  Today; two years later, my phone lays in its restful charging state – silent.  No outside world reaching out – only my four month old puppy checking in to make sure I’m still here.  

Today is an ordinary day to the outside world, but to me it’s meaningful.  Today is the day that I hold as Jude’s true honorary birthday.  Today, if all had gone according to plan, he could have been turning 2.  Today was my official due date from my pregnancy with Jude.  

For the last two years, I have observed the day in a way as one that is special and not ordinary.  It’s a day that I honour Jude in a simple way as well as also honour myself, as a means to mark the survival of our journey together, so that it too, does not go unnoticed.  I know that the odds of a person actually delivering their baby on their due date are rare,  but that doesn’t stop me from often wondering if on this day I would be celebrating a birthday with my little boy.  Whether the odds were in my favour or not for a successful delivery on my planned due date, it doesn’t change the fact that I would have likely been celebrating a birthday in January with Jude.  And for that reason alone, I choose to continue to honour this day –– if even just with a simple balloon.  

The first snowfall

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Parenting

I don’t know why, but it always catches me by surprise.  The first snowfall of the season always takes my breath away – if only for a second.  It catches me off guard and lifts me into this awe and wonder – beautiful, cold snowflakes dancing all around, landing perfectly on the ground forming a white blanket.

And then it hits me.  It’s the first snowfall of the season and that same white blanket of cold snowflakes is covering my sweet Jude.  Instead of snow angels, snowmen and snowballs, there’s only a cold blanket of snow.   The thought of my sweet boy being covered in the cold hits my heart like the ice cold breeze hitting my face and it stings.  In that moment, the awe and wonder dissipates and all that’s left is sadness and the knowledge, that it’s only going to get colder from here on in.

another season without you….

The healing protocol 

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting

Our dear friend and neighbour asked me the other day if they could use last year’s #judedays post card this year since they didn’t travel last year.  

(The #judedays postcard is just one of the many ways that we have found to help mend our hearts in our healing journey after loosing our son Jude. If you search the hashtag #judedays, you’ll find countless pics of travel destinations that our little boy has been remembered at through the support of family and friends.)

“Of course” I answered.  He looked at me, smiled uncomfortably and said ” I wasn’t sure what the protocol was”. 

“There’s no protocol” I answered.  

I later pondered on the question and realized that what most people around you don’t realize is that much like a new parent who doesn’t receive a manual with their newborn; bereaved parents also don’t receive a manual on how to mend their hearts and their lives back together.  There’s no protocol on how to heal your heart after you loose your child.  As a bereaved parent (like most parents with living children I suppose); we just make it up as we go along. 

Along the journey, we find ways to tend to the holes and tears in our hearts.   We find healing ways to bring comfort to and make our hearts happy again.   In our journey, we’ve been fortunate to have the unconditional love and support of family, friends and neighbours that allow us the space to indulge in the ways that enable our healing journey.  I specifically use the word indulge, because I have come to learn that  in this community of bereaved parents, we are a few of the lucky ones that have a strong network of support.  

By having the space to indulge in what heals our hearts, we are able to puzzle back together the pieces of our old selves and discover how the pieces of our new selves all fit together.  

The protocol is this – do what makes your heart happy.  

If speaking your child(ren)’s name(s) freely and frequently with anyone who will listen makes your heart happy – do. 

If visiting the resting place of your child(ren) everyday or not at all makes your heart happy – do. 

If honouring your child(ren) through the permanent marking of a tattoo on your body so that you can physically see your child(ren) everyday makes your heart happy – do. 

If dressing, cuddling or carrying a bear brings comfort to your empty arms and keeps you sane while making your heart happy – do.

If pouring your heart out through writing on paper privately or digitally shared makes your heart happy -do. 

If tending to your child(ren)’s garden or hand cutting the grass at their resting place makes your heart happy – do.

Do it all.

In this healing journey there are no rules, there are no guidelines, there are no rights or  wrongs.  There is no protocol.  There is only you, your child(ren) and the void in your heart.  So go for it!  Tend to the void in any and which way makes sense to you.  Trust me – there’s nothing worse than what you’ve already endured that can happen.