Posts

Collecting Moments

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“Collect moments, not things.” This is a phrase I’ve heard a million times. It’s a cute caption for Instagram or a sweet sentiment to share in passing. It’s quaint. Charming. Trite. For me, it’s where I am at present. It’s hard to believe I’m anywhere at present, especially here. Goodness knows I never thought I’d be here, but I am: collecting moments. I love my life. I savor every moment. I celebrate. I enjoy. I exist. And for that, I’m grateful,. Eight years ago this month, my best friend committed suicide. I remember where I was the moment I found out (I often wonder if Joe, my Resident Assistant who was doing a standard room check at that exact second, is scarred from watching me double over on the couch, wailing as I did). It still stings my soul, some days the wound is as fresh as when I found out my name was in her note. I vividly remember straightening my hair three years later, in my first ever apartment, and falling to my knees on the bathroom floor, overwhelmed with...
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Baby Steps.

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Chris and I have been married for the better part of a year now (What? How is that even possible?), and that seemingly simple and straightforward question has been asked more than once. The dreaded question. The one that stings even before it's finished. You know, the when-will-you-have-kids one. To answer, I'm not sure how soon that will be, if ever. We’ve talked. I’ve cried. He’s held me and listened. We've set a tentative timeline. Despite all of this, I still continue to battle with this question daily. If you were around almost four years ago, you know how difficult and challenging my pregnancy with Camden was. Before he was conceived, I was told, by a few different doctors, that carrying my own children would be highly unlikely due to numerous conditions and complications. When I did get pregnant, I was constantly ill and spent eight months losing weight (who would have thought I'd give birth to a NINE POUND baby just two months later?). The day Cam was born,...
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Renovations.

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December is a difficult month. Not just as a bereaved mother preparing for Christmas with an aching heart, but as a teacher. All of my sophomore students take their English II End-of-Course assessment, a state mandated exam, before Winter Break. This exam, though an arbitrary measure of "proficiency," is worth 20% of their overall grade, per the state's directive. Because of this, we spend a ton of time reviewing in the weeks leading up to the exam. One of the many skills we further develop and (attempt to) master in my course is the art of defining unknown words based off of what is happening around them (i.e. using context clues to determine the meaning of a term or phrase). One of the ways I teach my students to tackle an unfamiliar word is to use morphemes to "break the word down." As a class, we learn over 100 prefixes, suffixes, and roots, and we practice stringing together the word parts we know to determine the meaning of longer, more complex terms. ...
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Healing Through the Holidays

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Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I cannot even begin to pretend that the holidays have been easy since losing Camden. Every moment of every day is so incredibly hard; the holidays are no different. The pain that, most days, is a constant throbbing in the background of an otherwise happy, sometimes even ecstatic, existence magnifies a million times when the end of the year rolls around. The period of time from my birthday in October until after the New Year is one of the worst. I'm not writing this post with the intent of offering a series of steps that make the holidays manageable. I cannot even fathom saying that if you do this, this, and this, you will somehow be able to make it through. There's no right or wrong way to navigate through grief during this time, but I do have a few suggestions. I've made it this far, right? Through (almost) three sets of Thanksgiving turkeys, Christmas hams, and several flutes of New Year's Eve champagne. I'm no expert, but I have endu...
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A Ray of Light

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It’s been a while. Far too long. This blog began as a way through grief. I found the inspiration from a counselor I was seeing at the time. The idea was that writing could (and would?) be a release through the darkest days of my life.  So, I wrote. I wrote for hours on end, and I wrote often. I didn’t share all of those entries because they were mine. Just like My Sweet Boy was mine. Some things are just too private to share. I began to think that the only way to survive the hand I had been dealt was through sharing my experiences with those forced to endure the same. I thought that, if I wrote enough, I would get through it. If I could get it out, I could be free. I would release the thoughts and in doing so, I would release myself and the unbearable pain I found to be almost overwhelming. I would come out on the other side, scarred but standing. And I did. I am. I am scarred, bruised and battered...and I am still standing. I’ve since realized that grief isn’t someth...
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A Bucket List for Hope

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I am angry.  Very, very angry. I don't recall ever being this angry in my life. And for once, this anger is a good thing. It means that I'm feeling something besides sadness.  It means that I am one step closer to acceptance. I have struggled with accepting my loss. On the day it happened, I kept yelling, whispering, screaming, shouting "It's not real. It's not. It's not."  Later that same day, when I was being told when to expect his body be released so we could begin making final arrangements, I looked the man straight in the eye and said "My baby is not dead."  When they arrived with the hearse, I told them they had to leave, that they were confused, that they weren't there for my child. The last three weeks have been the same.  Before he passed, I had only left my child alone, out of my sight, twice.  Once with his grandparents and the other with his godparents.  Thus, even though it is highly unusual for him to not be by my side or in ...
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My "Broken Beautiful"

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My handsome baby, I have promised to tell the truth in this blog, no matter how painful and un-pretty it may be.  I know that you know the things I've been battling, but this blog isn't for you or I.  It is for others who may need some help along the way, though I pray that no one else ever has to endure this pain. The idea to begin this blog began as a "homework" assignment from my counselor, who I was linked with through my church.  We had never before spoken until the day that I lost my son. The first time we met, I was laying on the ground, rocking in the fetal position.  All I kept saying was "It's not real, not my baby. It's not real, not my baby."  I didn't even know what she looked like for nearly a week after because I couldn't bring myself to look her, or anyone else, in the eye.  I stared blankly into space or looked down at the ground.  But she has been there for me every step of the way.  In our sessions that followed, sh...
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