Anger

Monday, December 5th I felt angry.  At least I think I felt angry.  I am a middle child, a peacemaker.  Anger and I haven't spent much time together, at least not in public, so it is a hard emotion for me to decipher.  It always comes in combination with frustration, sorrow, guilt and so many other messy emotions that it can be hard to distinguish.  On Monday it came with the feeling of deep irritation and self-pity. 

Why Monday?  Monday was the day Jonah was scheduled to have a major cranial-facial surgery.  His surgeon planned to take a bone graft from his skull to build up his cheek bones to support and realign the orbits of his eyes.  We would have spent the better part of this week in the hospital.  When the surgeon described this procedure to me months ago I felt like throwing up.  It was so hard to think of putting our Jonah, our beautiful healthy child, through such a difficult operation. It was hard to think of a doctor changing Jonah's appearance, because I loved him just as he was.  But we put our trust in the surgeon, had faith that it was the best thing for our child, and put the date on the calendar.

So Monday morning I couldn't figure out how I should feel.  Should I feel grateful that Jonah did not have to go through such a difficult surgery?  Should I resent the fact that I am not in the hospital with him right now?  Should I wish in my heart to feel the fear of sending my child into surgery?  It was just too much for me.  I couldn't bring myself to feel grateful that he wasn't having surgery, and I couldn't wish that he was alive to experience such pain.  So I chose to feel anger. 

When I'm angry I don't really lash out at others, I just shut down.  I stop talking.  I stop writing.  I just stop and feel sorry for myself.  I let myself feel frustrated for a moment by all of the challenges we have faced in the last two years.  I begin to label the things I hate.  I hate that Jonah died.  I hate that our bodies are imperfect.  I hate that I carry a genetic disorder that I could pass onto my children.  I hate that other people in the world are careless and negligent of their children, and yet their children live.  I hate that with all the medical technology in the world, no one could save Jonah from the tiny fruit snack I gave him.  

I am academic enough to acknowledge that anger is a normal part of grief.  But as these moments of anger have come I have found that there is a difference between feeling angry and being angry.  Letting myself feel anger is cathartic.  It is like a good cry, it releases the built up frustration of living in a world that is beyond my control.  But being angry is something different.  It is not a release, but a holding on.  It is choosing to dwell in the difficulty of that which is beyond our control.  As I laid in bed, wallowing in my misfortune I recognized that I do not want to be angry.  

Monday night I was able to tell Jordan how frustrating life is, of course he already knows.  He made dinner for me (egg, cheese and bacon biscuits) and bought me a cherry coke.  He got me out of the house and reminded me through his presence that I have so much to be grateful for.  That gratitude seemed to expose my anger for what it really was: sadness, heartache, disappointment, and longing to be with my beautiful, perfect boy. 

Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: for anger resteth in the bosom of fools. Ecclesiastes 7:9

Motherhood

This morning I read a passage from my journal.  It is from September 28, 2011 the day before Jonah died.  First I wrote about all the amazing things Jonah did that day.  He climbed the highest stairs to the highest slide at the playground, learned to suck through a straw, and signed "dog" when he spotted a puppy.  Incredible right? As soon as Jonah was born my journal became about him, with only moments of me in between.  That day I happened to write these words about myself:

As for me, when people ask what I've been up to I can't think of anything.  I'm busy all day and do a lot, but not much to talk about.  Jonah is my life now.  Everything I do is for him, and I don't mind. 

When Jonah was born I began losing myself.  Each day he lived I learned to give up a little more of what I thought fulfilled me in exchange for what he needed from me.  I gave up going to lunch with friends at the drop of a hat.  I gave up professional achievement.  I gave up sleeping in.  I gave up shopping for clothes, and I gave up going on adventures to exotic places.  I'm pretty sure I gave up important parts of my brain.  

In exchange I got sleepless nights and days, dirty diapers, poop in the bathtub, dinner thrown on the floor, doctors appointments, worry, and the most intense heartache I have ever experienced.  I also received dimpled smiles every morning, first words, first steps, beautiful giggles, bright eyes, and an intensity of love and emotion I didn't know was possible. 

I do not want to make mothers feel guilty.  I have good friends and good mothers tell me they feel guilty for not enjoying every minute of motherhood when they know it is a precious gift.  I won't say that I cherished every minute of motherhood.  It is hard to wake up every three hours.  It is hard to haul a car seat everywhere you go.  It is hard to pump breast milk for 8 months.  It is hard to make dinner while a toddler demands your attention.  There were days when I longed for Jonah to sleep so that I could veg out and watch Survivor.  Sometimes when I could hear him waking up from a nap I would freeze like a deer in the headlights hoping he would fall asleep again.  Motherhood is hard, often mundane work. 

I just want to say that it is sacrifice that creates pure love.  I felt more love in the short 14 months Jonah lived than I have felt in my entire life.  I believe it is because I gave more of myself and my time to him than I have given to anyone else.  Now my time is my own again.  I can sleep or travel or work or play.  I could pursue a career, or a passion.  I am free to find fulfillment in my own endeavors, and yet I long to lose myself in motherhood again. 

He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.  Matthew 10:39

Gifts

Today we were given two beautiful gifts.  I needed them.  This morning as we drove to church Jordan and I both felt lazy and tired.  Although our church is a beautiful place, full of people who love us and have supported us, it is also a place where we are constantly in conversation about ourselves.  Kind, and charitable people want to know how we are doing, and sometimes there is little more to say than "we're okay."  It feels unnatural to have so much attention upon us, especially for Jordan.  So as we drove to church, in our malaise, I prayed that we would have an experience today that would lift us, and we did. 

The first gift came at the end of church.  My beautiful, talented friend Vanessa presented me with an amazing quilt.  The quilt is made of blocks decorated and stitched by the women and children of our congregation.  Each square is unique and made with love.  Some have messages of hope, some have Jonah's sweet name, some are simple outlines of the smallest hands.  It is a gift that left me speechless.  I plan to wrap myself up in it on days when the world seems cold and tiresome.

The second gift came just after we arrived home from church.  The doorbell rang as I was making meatloaf.  Hands filthy, I quickly washed them and rushed to the door, not sure who to expect.  I opened the door to unfamiliar faces, a mother, a father and a son.  The mother said, with tears in her eyes, that they heard about Jonah's passing and had a gift for us.  On the porch was an adorable Thomas the Train Christmas tree from the Festival of Trees.  This was no ordinary tree.  This amazing tree was decorated by a family who lost one of their twin boys shortly after he was born.  The card that came with the tree read:

This tree is a tribute to the love that a little boy has for his precious twin brother.  Joshua and Caleb were born 5 years ago.  Joshua stayed 5 weeks in the NICU and came home to his family just in time for Christmas.  Caleb's stay in the NICU was for 3 short days before he returned to another home.  As Joshua has grown, he has developed an awareness of Caleb and a desire to share the things he loves most with his buddy.  Joshua loves trains and has donated his favorite Thomas to this tree.  Caleb's other brothers and sister have also placed a train on this tree for Caleb. 

Sometimes the emotion I feel seems too much for my body.  I was so moved.  The tree was purchased for us by the Live W/Elle Foundation, a foundation that was started after the tragic death of a beautiful 15 month old baby girl.  It was brought to us by this kind and humble family.

I have truly been blessed with many gifts in the past 2 months.  It is a gift to recognize that sorrow and heartache come to so many lives, that although my loss is unique my sorrow is not.  It is a gift to know that I am not alone.  It is a gift to be the recipient of Christ-like love and service from friends and neighbors, as well as total strangers.  It is a gift to receive service that is given without the expectation of recognition, or reward.  It is a gift to find connection with other mothers and fathers and families who have lost loved ones.  It is a gift to feel true love poured out upon me.  These are gifts given to me by my Heavenly Father, who loves me, and knows me.  They come to me through His children, who know Him and love Him.  I am so grateful.

Night

It seems as though each day I become aware of a new mother that has lost a sweet child.  Tonight is no different.  What a sacred and sorrowful awareness.  As I sit and ponder loss I remember a poem that my dear friend Mindy sent to me the night Jonah died.  It is beautiful and brought me a moment of comfort in my darkest longest night.  

The Night by Carol Lynn Pearson

Grief

Is a narrow thing,
Tight against
My breath --
Begging an answer
To unanswerable
Death.

I’m remembering
A sunrise.
I saw the bright
Quick streams of light
Sing gold across
The sky.
And it came to me then
How essential
Is the night:
For only from dark
Do we know dawn
At all.

the memory lets
One small solace in.
If we must endure an end
To know the endless --
Oh, gladly
will I let you go:
that when I see you
Standing at the door
To that more
Permanent place,

How quickly
I’ll recognize
The eternal
In your embrace.

Memory

People say that experiencing a tremendous unexpected loss is like living a bad dream. It is in some ways. Reality seems to blur with dreams and memory into a surreal haze. When Jonah was alive I had occasional nightmares about losing him, or forgetting him somewhere. I would wake up in the middle of the night, with the feeling of loss in my heart, only to be reassured by his rhythmic breath in the other room. Some days my life feels like I've awakened from a bad dream, but the harsh reality is too potent for that feeling to persist.

I feel a new disorientation now. I try to hold onto my memory of Jonah. I try to see him, even recreate him perfectly in my mind. I can't remember him as he really was. I can't piece together a perfect chronology of his events and days. The memory of his laugh, his smell, his smile are all slightly blurred by my imperfect recollection. His existence feels more like a beautiful dream to me, the kind of dream that follows you into your day and lingers in your heart.

His dream settles on me when I walk to my car, and it as if I remember a dream where I walked to the car with him holding my hand. When I kneel down to clean the bathtub, I remember a dream where I watched him play in the water and washed his beautiful blond hair. When I walk into his room, I remember a sweet dream of his hands in mine as we rolled and rocked on the exercise ball and he giggled. I have moments where I catch myself wondering if he was ever even really here with me. It breaks my heart.

The evidence of his life is all around me, his blankets, his toys, his clothes, all should be proof to me that he was here. But these things are products of the world, and are not part of him. I cling to the evidence of his body, the vanishing smell of his dirty sweetness on his blanket, the stains from his sweaty head on my down vest, the crusty boogers on his blanket, and the small smeared hand prints on our windows. I cannot get rid of these things, at least not yet. I may become like those crazy women in Grey Gardens.  Maybe people will begin to whisper about my dirty windows, and how I cling to the past.  I will take my chances.  His hand prints connect me to reality.  They remind me that this is not a bad dream, and that he was really mine for a beautiful moment.