This is Seven

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting

Seven looks a little different. The lead up to seven has sped through our lives like a gust of wind that comes quickly and with purpose – a reminder that another season is upon us. Another year has passed. Another year of your present absence.

Seven feels like a pivotal year. One that signifies change. One that enables movement forward, although we have somehow managed to keep moving without you. It hasn’t always been forward, but it’s movement; and in grief, that’s all that counts.

For seven years, we have shared you within our world. We have openly and freely said your name. We have lived and loved unapologetically in your honour. We have continued onward with our lives as best we could – living in parallel realms, with and without you.

But seven is not enough. It’s not enough to heal. Infinity is not enough, so why would seven be? Instead seven feels like a pause in a time lapse, where we assess our vantage point and reposition before continuing to record this journey we’re on with you.

At seven, we can pause and see the light that you have shone through the cracks in our hearts out into the world. We can see the brightness that you have lit our world with. We are starting to understand the purpose of your love in our lives. Understanding is not accepting – it’s simply understanding and opening ourselves to whatever else you teach us along this journey.

Such a small number for a big lesson when you put it into perspective. With every season and every year that passes, we are reminded that your love is present and purposeful. It’s a guiding force if we surrender to it and it will continue to be until our realms once again collide and our lights are no longer pouring through the cracks, but intertwined together. Once again whole.

Until then, we love you and wish you were here everyday.

Happy 7th Birthday sweet Jude.

xo mommy

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

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.

Parenting between heaven and earth

#judedays, Child loss, Healing, Parenting

These days I find myself giving myself permission to do or not do a lot of things as it relates to my relationship with Jude and my grief. Allowing yourself permission is not an easy task. It often involves several hours (maybe days) of battles in your mind leading to countless sleepless hours before a final winner is declared. Sometimes I win, sometimes I loose.

I’m giving myself permission to temporarily excuse myself from certain elements of parenting a child you physically don’t have in order to parent the basics to a child I physically do have.

I see this as a way of making room in my heart for both of my children, which is proving to be a difficult task. Up until this point, I have only known one way of parenting – parenting with grief. I have had to find creative ways to honour and parent Jude in my heart in ways that are completely different then parenting a physical child. I have had to parent from the inside out – from deep within my heart in a way that ensures my love for Jude is somehow made visible. Grief woven parenting takes resources, physical energy and copious amounts of emotional energy.

Parenting a physical child takes mainly physical energy – except when you’re a bereaved parent. As a bereaved parent, parenting a physical child not only drains you physically, it also drains you emotionally. Largely because parenting your physical child(ren) is a constant reminder to your heart of all of the physical moments you are missing out on with the child you lost. Every milestone, every baby step, every everyday normal minute is a reminder to your heart of what should have been, what could have been, what you’ve missed. All of these trigger reminders are mentally and emotionally draining, leaving you spent, and if you’re like me, guilt ridden.

The guilt is triggered by so many elements. Guilt from not being able to physically carry out the small rituals to honour the child you loss. Guilt from not physically visiting their resting place as often as you did before. Guilt from realizing the child you lost is not occupying all of your mindfulness space. Guilt from feeling the love your physical child is bringing to you. Guilt from enjoying the tiny moments of joy with your physical child. Guilt from not being in the deepest depths of grief.

Balancing the guilt is what has made parenting between heaven and earth so challenging for me. The challenge is a result of all of these emotions, thoughts and feelings colliding at the centre of my heart and dispersing throughout, leaving me simply emotionally spent. Ironically, that same collision at the centre of my heart is what fuels the parenting I’m seeing to here on earth. It provides a source of nourishment for all of the characteristics that I know I didn’t embody before having Jude but am embodying now. My invisible parenting to Jude, has enabled me to now parent his younger sibling who is physically with me.

Jude taught me patience. He showed me how to be humble and appreciate the tiniest of moments and things. Jude taught me how to love unconditionally. He taught me kindness. All characteristics that I’m drawing on day in and day out as I parent his younger sibling.

Parenting between heaven and earth is complex, emotionally charged and beautiful. It forces emotions together in a perfectly balanced dance showing up in the most unconventional moments. Joy and sorrow, happiness and sadness, excitement and despair, all intertwined together twirling and shuffling within the borders of your heart. It does so, so swiftly that it makes you feel like you’re no longer parenting between heaven and earth – but simply parenting.

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.

the village

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting

They say it takes a village. They are right. It takes a village to survive this thing called child loss.

It’s the village that lends a hand to get you back up from the black hole that you get thrown into after you loose your child – or a loved one for that matter.

It’s the village that allows you to speak the raw truth. Listens with no judgement. Offers no platitudes. Doesn’t rush you through your grief journey.

It’s the village that feels your pain. Understands the size, depth and complexity of the hole in your heart that longs for your child.

It’s the village that’s there on the Holidays. The special “would have been” milestones. The Anniversaries, to ensure that your fragile heart is bubble wrapped in love.

It’s the village that shows up on the first day of grief, the second week, the third month, the fourth year – time and time again to just “check in”; make sure you’re ok.

It’s the village that never forgets. Never shy’s from mentioning your child’s name. Always remembers with you.

I’m grateful for having a village. Many like me, simply don’t have one; leaving them feeling alone, tired and fearful that their child will be forgotten.

This journey is hard. I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to walk the gravel roads of grief without the support of my village.

The fabric of my village is not unified. It’s a weaved tapestry of patches – souls brave enough to have stood by me or joined my side along this journey. Many of which; carry side by side in their hearts, not only their child, but also mine.

It’s these brave and generous souls that have enabled me to make sweet lemonade out of my motherhood.

For them and their babies; whom I love and carry in my heart alongside Jude, I am eternally grateful for and to.

Find your village in any of the resources below.

http://mendingheartsafterloss.com/

https://thelongtermproject.wordpress.com/

http://oncomingalive.com/

http://stillstandingmag.com/

The Rainbow and the Storm

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting, Self Growth

I was first introduced to the term “rainbow baby” shortly after loosing Jude. At the time of introduction the term brought me the glimmer of hope and comfort that I needed to survive – to take my next physical step, next breath, next everything. Now, I’ve come to almost despise the term and what it represents. For starters, it implies that the child that you lost was a categorized storm- one that you endured without any control. No parent categorizes any child as a storm – no matter how fearful, destructive or painful the experience of embracing that child was. The term also implies that after every storm a rainbow appears. The intertwined assumption of those two elements is what nips away at my stitched up heart.

I’ve bared witness to beautiful rainbows – some of the most remarkable canvases filled with colour often appearing after a gentle drizzled rain fall. Torrential downpours sometimes end with the arches of a beautiful coloured rainbow; but sometimes, they simply end with lingering grey clouds.

To assume that every lost child will be followed by a “rainbow baby”, is to assume that after every storm a rainbow will appear; where that simply is not true for so many different reasons; both metaphorically, in this context and scientifically.

The healing process in a bereaved parent’s journey is so complex. It’s layered with emotions, fear, stress factors and in some cases physical inabilities that each unique bereaved parent must navigate through. A rainbow baby only adds a new complex layer of emotions to the journey forcing the requirement for a separate navigation system to support the bereaved parent.

When you’re left with only the grey clouds at the end of your storm you’re forced to find your own source of colour.
A rainbow is made up of several layers of colour, carefully and perfectly woven together – that is what makes them enchanting. For those bereaved parents who have no choice but to procure their own sources of colour to make up their own unique version of a rainbow; they encounter an incredibly daunting and difficult task. Each unique colour requires its own set of sources, tools and energy to manifest the perfect hue. Some hues are mastered quicker then others; but not a single one of them is easy. Some bereaved parents master all hues and are left with a colour wheel that simply never weaves perfectly. Many, manage to only master a few hues and are left with significant gaps in their own unique colour source. A few, manage to master and weave their colour source – but don’t be fooled – if you look closely there are snags, that if pulled, can quickly destroy years of hard work. Those that master the engineering of their own colour source, spend a lifetime tending to it. Their work is never complete.

As I lay down the blueprint for my own colour source in this journey, I’m quickly realizing just how much of a daunting task it is. It requires copious amounts of will power, discipline, self awareness and acceptance that nothing in life is guaranteed – not even if you throw everything you have at it. It’s simply not guaranteed. All you can do is tackle it like a mad hatter and once in a while step back, observe, breath and be oh so very proud of yourself for having mastered something resembling an enchanting rainbow.