My "Broken Beautiful"
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, she encouraged me to use my story for good. To create a blog to house and hold all the beautiful memories of my son, and the agony that accompanied his death.
So, here goes.
Baby boy, this entry isn't for you. I know you've watched from above, that you've placed your wings around me and tried to comfort me. This is for those who need to recognize that it is okay to not be okay.
Today has been one of the more difficult of days since I lost my son. In the time immediately following his passing, all I wanted to do was sleep. It was the only way to escape my reality and it allowed me, even briefly, to hold my son in my arms and to hear his screams, squeals, and even his cries. It allowed me to be normal. For just a second.
The night he passed, I fell asleep in my bed, with a friend cuddled close to me, while all my other friends camped out in the living room. In the night, she wrapped her arms around me. In my still off-balanced mental state, I awoke with a start, when I felt her arm slip around me. I thought that it was my son's head, resting on my chest, like it had for 99 days. The moment that she said "It's me, Tay" and I realized that I would never again feel his tiny fingers and fuzzy head on my chest was almost as heartbreaking as the hell I had endured earlier in the day. I will never, ever forget that feeling.
After a good cry, I fell back to sleep. I was exhausted from the events of that horrible day. At some point, I got out of my bed and climbed into my son's crib and spent the night where he should have been.
During my pregnancy, the worst side effects weren't morning sickness or heartburn. They were the horrible nightmares I would have. I would frequently dream of something tragic happening to my son. I would awake with a start, but for those ten months, they were only dreams... Ones I could always wake up from. These days, those nightmares have become my reality. And, over the last two days, I've begun having those dreams again -- except when I wake up, I realize that I'm just reliving the morning of June 18 all over again. Repeatedly. In a million different ways. But the outcome is always the same.
And then, one of your "aunts" sent me a poem (see the bottom of this post). Without even realizing it, she saved my life. I reached out to someone who knows someone who also lost her infant. I got on pinterest. From there, I found an article written by someone who, too, is grieving the death of her son -- four years later. She is a Christian missionary and wrote this piece as a guest writer for a motherhood blog. It concerns mental health in the wake of such devastation (and many of us recognize that mental health is often "swept under the rug" in the Christian community). She stated "I've learned to accept that this is me, and this is my life. I have lived through some really hard stuff. I bear the scars. I have a beautiful life. I strive to live to the fullest, love well, and be truly present. Some days, the scars make that really hard... The bad days are few, and mostly, I do pretty well. That is something I do not take for granted. Many times I have decided not to accept a 'pretty good' existence, rather I look at all the broken beautiful of my life and decided it was worth fighting for."
Though I'm sure tonight will be another rough night that not even the medicine can cure, I have hope for a brighter future. I have 107 videos and thousands of pictures of my son's 99 days. I have a million memories. I have faith that I will see him again.
I'm writing this, not for you, stinky butt, but for anyone else who may read this and who may need to see those words. Who may need to realize that we are all living our broken beautiful lives. And that the good, no matter how far or fleeting, is indeed, worth fighting for.
I can't promise that I won't resume my plotting. I can't promise that I will always feel as alright as I do right now (in fact, I can feel my hope optimism slipping away slowly as it grows closer to midnight and the start of another day without my baby boy). But I can promise that I plan to be alive. If only for one more broken, beautiful day. This is not how it ends.
__________________________________
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, she encouraged me to use my story for good. To create a blog to house and hold all the beautiful memories of my son, and the agony that accompanied his death.
So, here goes.
Baby boy, this entry isn't for you. I know you've watched from above, that you've placed your wings around me and tried to comfort me. This is for those who need to recognize that it is okay to not be okay.
Today has been one of the more difficult of days since I lost my son. In the time immediately following his passing, all I wanted to do was sleep. It was the only way to escape my reality and it allowed me, even briefly, to hold my son in my arms and to hear his screams, squeals, and even his cries. It allowed me to be normal. For just a second.
The night he passed, I fell asleep in my bed, with a friend cuddled close to me, while all my other friends camped out in the living room. In the night, she wrapped her arms around me. In my still off-balanced mental state, I awoke with a start, when I felt her arm slip around me. I thought that it was my son's head, resting on my chest, like it had for 99 days. The moment that she said "It's me, Tay" and I realized that I would never again feel his tiny fingers and fuzzy head on my chest was almost as heartbreaking as the hell I had endured earlier in the day. I will never, ever forget that feeling.
After a good cry, I fell back to sleep. I was exhausted from the events of that horrible day. At some point, I got out of my bed and climbed into my son's crib and spent the night where he should have been.
During my pregnancy, the worst side effects weren't morning sickness or heartburn. They were the horrible nightmares I would have. I would frequently dream of something tragic happening to my son. I would awake with a start, but for those ten months, they were only dreams... Ones I could always wake up from. These days, those nightmares have become my reality. And, over the last two days, I've begun having those dreams again -- except when I wake up, I realize that I'm just reliving the morning of June 18 all over again. Repeatedly. In a million different ways. But the outcome is always the same.
And then, one of your "aunts" sent me a poem (see the bottom of this post). Without even realizing it, she saved my life. I reached out to someone who knows someone who also lost her infant. I got on pinterest. From there, I found an article written by someone who, too, is grieving the death of her son -- four years later. She is a Christian missionary and wrote this piece as a guest writer for a motherhood blog. It concerns mental health in the wake of such devastation (and many of us recognize that mental health is often "swept under the rug" in the Christian community). She stated "I've learned to accept that this is me, and this is my life. I have lived through some really hard stuff. I bear the scars. I have a beautiful life. I strive to live to the fullest, love well, and be truly present. Some days, the scars make that really hard... The bad days are few, and mostly, I do pretty well. That is something I do not take for granted. Many times I have decided not to accept a 'pretty good' existence, rather I look at all the broken beautiful of my life and decided it was worth fighting for."
Though I'm sure tonight will be another rough night that not even the medicine can cure, I have hope for a brighter future. I have 107 videos and thousands of pictures of my son's 99 days. I have a million memories. I have faith that I will see him again.
I'm writing this, not for you, stinky butt, but for anyone else who may read this and who may need to see those words. Who may need to realize that we are all living our broken beautiful lives. And that the good, no matter how far or fleeting, is indeed, worth fighting for.
I can't promise that I won't resume my plotting. I can't promise that I will always feel as alright as I do right now (in fact, I can feel my hope optimism slipping away slowly as it grows closer to midnight and the start of another day without my baby boy). But I can promise that I plan to be alive. If only for one more broken, beautiful day. This is not how it ends.
__________________________________
A Gift From Heaven
I am with you always
I live in your heart
I speak to your soul
We are not far apart
When you feel a light breeze
Hear the songs the birds sing
Know that I see every smile
Your kindness can bring
I see you building your dreams
With wisdom and grace
And asking His guidance
With each challenge you face
I am more than a memory
You will feel our love grow
I am forever your angel
Some things you just know
Please tell me your thoughts
Your hopes and your fears
And know that through faith
He will heal all your tears
For today, I can share
That in heaven above
God has taken my hand
I am complete, I am love
I live in your heart
I speak to your soul
We are not far apart
When you feel a light breeze
Hear the songs the birds sing
Know that I see every smile
Your kindness can bring
I see you building your dreams
With wisdom and grace
And asking His guidance
With each challenge you face
I am more than a memory
You will feel our love grow
I am forever your angel
Some things you just know
Please tell me your thoughts
Your hopes and your fears
And know that through faith
He will heal all your tears
For today, I can share
That in heaven above
God has taken my hand
I am complete, I am love
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