10 and 11

That's how old my first two children are.

One turned 11 in heaven.


The other turned 10 on earth.

It was a low-key, strangely peaceful occasion.

I am blessed. I am blessed. I am blessed!

That Quiet Panic

Where do I start?

We've begun yet another school year, and Fall is on its way. It's easily my favorite season, and yet...there's that panic. And it's so familiar that I'm almost used to it, 10 years later, but it still hurts.

When I made the decision to homeschool Ella, it never crossed my mind that I would be dissecting every assignment years later, wondering how her older sister would handle it.

And this year, more than any other year, I'm feeling it. That wondering. The what-if's? It's this quiet panic, bubbling up inside me when I'm alone or planning a lesson or simply when I have too much time to think...which blessedly isn't that much.

One morning this week, before everyone else woke up, I sat on my porch swing and stared out at the mountains. The mountains, you guys. Ella has grown up in these mountains for the past 5 years and her big sister has never seen them. Ouch.

And now the leaves are starting to change and it's really freaking me out. I don't know why. I lost her in May, when everything was green and blooming and gorgeous. And every year, the Fall hits me hard. Maybe it's because everything is dying.

Maybe it's because things change so much in the fall. And yet, she still remains the same. That same tiny little human being...I don't know. Maybe it's because things tend to slow down a little bit in the evenings. Ella's in bed earlier, Gabe still works crazy night shifts and I'm alone to think. And over-think.

I miss her a lot. I miss her more than a lot in the Fall. Sometimes, on quiet night like this, I want to run away and go up North and cry at the cemetery. I want to write her name a hundred million times, but mostly, I think I'd just like to know what life would be like with two little girls: one ten, and one nine.

That's all.

It's not a cage, it's an open gate.

This is going to be an odd blog to write, mostly because I don't quite know how to string the words together, but if I don't write it down, I won't be able to sleep at night.

I've had several well meaning wonderful people make comments to me about grieving and while they meant well, their words hurt. And, what with hormones and all, they hurt and they made me angry and made my fellow loss Mamas angry and it was an ugly situation.

So, I'm going to explain something.

I entered my first pregnancy totally innocent and ignorant. I smiled easily and never thought that anything bad could happen. I was in an awesome relationship and I thought we were invincible.

May 17, 2005 was frightening and horrific and terrible and awful and every bad thing you can think of. I won't go into detail, but if you've ever suffered a pregnancy loss, or a loss of any kind, you will know what I mean when I say it messes you up.

The aftermath of that day was probably worse. I never spoke about her. EVER. I stopped sleeping well. I picked fights with my (then) boyfriend (now my husband) over stupid things. I couldn't look at the kitchen floor for too long without having a panic attack. Pregnant women made me angry.

And then I got pregnant. Anyone who says that a subsequent child makes everything better is WRONG. so very very wrong. My pregnancy was frightening. I refused to buy baby clothes because I just knew I would lose this girl too. If not for my Dad and for Gabe, Ella would have come home in her hospital onesie.

And then Ella was born. My rainbow. I remember hyperventilating when she was born because she wouldn't cry, and thinking "I knew it. I knew this would happen." And then she cried. And it was amazing, and I wouldn't take a million dollars for that sound. And then I realized the date. May 17, 2006. And I had a moment where a cold wind blew through me and I thought, "My God, how unfair. My biggest loss and my greatest joy. On the same day."

And then I locked up my loss in a dark dark corner and never thought one bit about the girl I lost. Until one horrible night in late November, where I screamed some terrible things to my husband and slammed a door. And so we lived, with that unspoken shadow over our little family, until the following Christmas.

And then I was asked to decorate some ornaments with names. And I picked a name. A name for the sweet girl who never took a breath. Riley Grace. While my Mom didn't see it fit to hang that ornament on her tree, I hung it on mine.
And the story came out. I spoke her name. And it lifted the weight from my heart. Others came to me and asked me to make an ornament for their lost child.

Once I talked about her, I couldn't stop. I met people from all over the world, and even people in my town. I've cried with friends, I've cried with total strangers at the grocery. I've spoken the names of so many babies. So many little souls.

I hugged a stranger at the cemetery once. I heard the story of a stillborn boy named Miguel from his aunt. I met a girl on a bus once, who had lost her son at 6 months gestation. I held the hand of an 80 year old woman whose daughter would be 60. I opened my door at midnight for a friend going through her own terrible loss. I sat on the steps at 3 a.m. crying for the daughter of another friend.

I miss my daughter. Oh, my God. How I miss her. Yes, she is in heaven. No, she doesn't know pain. But, God made us with souls and the ability to feel. God made us with emotions.

Yes, I may go on sometimes about how much I miss her and how much it hurts. But it doesn't ALWAYS hurt.

Losing her broke my heart into a million pieces, but it brought me something so much bigger than me. It's put people in my life that have changed me for the better. It's made me into a better person. It's given me the courage to be there for people. To comfort.

Grief is not my cage. It's my open gate.

Why It Matters

In my house, in various jewelry boxes, in one white memory box with butterflies and dragonflies are some  pretty priceless treasures.

Things with Riley's name on them. I've had her name printed on a few things. I've bought things with her name. I've written her name in the sand.

Ella has written her name.

Why? Why does it matter?
Because when I lost her, I lost a huge part of myself. The part where I could function and process grief like a "normal" person. I went into massive denial, got pregnant a few months later and ended up delivering a healthy baby girl at 35 weeks. Time to move on, right? Well, it wasn't a co-incidence that said baby girl had her big sister's birthday.

I struggled with that, and more than two years after she was gone, she was finally named. Riley Grace. Riley, because I was being trendy at the time. And Grace, because...oh, she was my saving grace. Is my saving grace. If she hadn't touched my life...if I hadn't had to say goodbye before I even got a chance to say hello...I would have continued on the path of destruction I was on.

I may have never found my way back to Christ. I would never have stopped to look at people on the street. I mean, really LOOK at them. The single Mom with three kids? I would probably have thought some horribly judgmental thing. The lady at the cemetery, crying? Well, I might have thought, "Good Lord, get over it."
But, ya'll know what? One day, that lady at the cemetery was ME. And there is no getting over it.

For a life that so briefly touched mine, she CHANGED it. Completely. So...why her name?

Because, right now, it's what I have.

Because, when I look at her name, written anywhere, I can say. SHE WAS HERE. THIS IS HER NAME. SHE IS IMPORTANT. SHE MATTERS. SHE MATTERS. SHE MATTERS.

This morning, a fellow babyloss Mom sent me a sweet message. And in it, was a picture of a balloon.

Grief tends to either a) cause you to alienate others/cause them to alienate you or b) strengthen a bond/forge one.

I've met so many amazing people. People have reached out to me. I've reached out to people that before my loss, I would never approach, either because I wouldn't know what to say, or because of my judgmental nature.

So, this is why it matters. This is why her name matters. So, please, if you happen to see me in passing, or you want to say something to me. Don't be afraid. Speak her name. It matters.

Happy Birthday, Girls.

I have no words. I love them both. So, so much.

Ella turned 9 today. She is so precious to my heart. My sweet rainbow girl.

Riley Grace would be 10. Ten years is a very long time to miss someone, especially your child.

Overall, the day's been peaceful. Lots of love. Lots of support.

Grieving Mom Guilt/Surviving the first 10 years

On May 17, it will be ten years since my first daughter went to heaven.

I am outstanding at denial. In fact, I am so great at it that I managed to push everything about May 17, 2005 out of my head until about November 2006 when everything exploded in one horrific fight with Gabe.

When I got pregnant with Ella, and the fear abated enough for me to be excited about the pregnancy, I sent out an email to family and friends.

"Gabe and I are overjoyed to announce that we are expecting OUR FIRST CHILD, due in late June."

Ya'll know what? I never thought one single thing about that email until tonight, on my run. I haven't used that email address in years. I can't even get into it now because I don't remember the security question. But I remembered that stupid email, sometime between mile 2 and 3.

SECOND CHILD. SECOND PREGNANCY.

I know Riley Grace is in heaven. I know she doesn't care about a stupid email that I sent while I was in the throes of denial. I know Ella is quick to point out that she is my SECOND child because she honors her sis every single day. I know all of that.

But...guilt. I swear, things like that make me feel two inches tall. Once, when Ella was two or so, we were at the drugstore, buying pretty nail polish. A woman asked me, "Is she your only one?" and I stupidly replied, "yes."

NO. NO. NO.

Grief sucks. First it hurts. Then, it REALLY hurts. Then, it makes you feel guilty.
Somewhere along the way, it just is. And you accept it, without really accepting it...because it still hurts.

Also....

I will always be Riley's Mom. She will always be my FIRST child. I will always miss her, until the day I don't have to anymore. This doesn't mean I love Ella any less.

I will always be Ella's Mom. She will always be my SECOND child. I am so eternally grateful that God let her stay, despite my nightmare of a pregnancy, despite all of the negative things I was told by the doctors. She will always be my biggest miracle. This doesn't mean she will ever replace Riley.

People have said all sorts of "helpful" things to me over the past 10 years, such as "you should be grateful you have a living child." Yup, I am grateful. You have no idea. But, as I've said before, the fact that I have a "living child", also means that I have one who is not living. I've also been told to "get over it" (one of my favorites) and that "talking about it will scar your living kid for life." Guess what? There is no "getting over it" and Ella is one of the most amazing, caring, beautiful people I have ever met, and I have no doubt it is because she knows about her sister and knows how to comfort the grieving (and she has never told anybody to "get over it.")

Nearly ten years later, I still grieve. I will bet that ten years from now, I still will.

The Hyacinth: words from a grieving Mom

The winter after I lost my first daughter, I was already pregnant with  my second daughter.
It was a rough pregnancy, fraught with hospital visits and sleepless nights.

"Did she kick?"
"How long has it been since she moved?"

One day, while at work, I felt Ella flip over and then nothing.

For one hour, nothing.

Two hours, nothing.

Three hours.

Fearing the worst, I went in to be checked out.

She was fine. I was not. I was a wreck.

That evening, my Dad bought me a hyacinth. A pathetic little reject from the flower shop. I fell in love immediately.

"If you have a plant to take care of, you will have something to focus your nervous energy on. The stress cannot be good for the baby."

I took care of it. Watered it. Played calming music while I sat on the window seat and watched the sunrise, while silently praying for the tiny life inside me.

It bloomed purple. Amazing purple blossoms, even though the pot said "White hyacinth."

That February, I moved to Texas. I went by plane, so taking the hyacinth was out of the question. Dad took care of it for me, while I went to work at a flowershop, and eventually gave birth to a happy, healthy little girl. I returned that August, when Ella was 3 months old.

"It's the strangest thing, " Dad said when I inquired about the hyacinth, "It's STILL blooming."

When Gabe, Ella, and I moved to a neighboring town, I couldn't bear to take that hyacinth from Dad. He took care of it, chilled the bulb every winter, and every spring it would bloom. It never bloomed in the summer again, but it bloomed like clockwork in the spring until Ella turned about 5. It finally gave up the ghost and died.

Today, my husband bought me a purple hyacinth.

So many feelings. I didn't think a little purple flower could stir so many emotions.

Remembering.

I've spent the majority of today in the woods near our house. On my knees. Breathing in the scent of pine and fallen leaves.

Last night, there was a storm which blew down a large limb in the woods. While I worked on my remembrance project, I watched Ella play near the limb with our kittens. It was therapeutic.

A few years ago, a friend of mine printed Riley's name on a leaf. I've wanted to do something like that since then, but never had the opportunity. I took the opportunity today, and will be continuing this project as long as the weather allows.

It's just one name, one leaf...right?

Not when you look at the big picture.

There are so many of us. Missing our children.

So much of the year is spent grieving in silence...
Please, break that silence. If you are an angel mom, please speak your angel's name. Write your child's name. Anything to make them known.

That Hush Grief

There's nothing wrong. Except it's Fall, and everything is dying. 700 miles away, a cemetery is having fall cleanup and I am  not there. 700 miles away, early leaves are blowing across a tiny grassy plot and I am not there to pick them up.

That hurts.

I have this beautiful 8 year old girl. I love her so much, my heart hurts. I feel like I know every moment that I am missing with her sister because I am living it. I just want one day with both my girls. Just one. And that's crazy, because one day would never be enough.

I'm far enough out from May 17, 2005 that my grief is no longer the screaming, yelling mess that it once was. Don't get me wrong, I have days where I scream and cry. They are few and far between now, compared to a few years ago.

These days, my grief is quiet, that hush-grief that comes over me like a fog. I can be reading a book or looking at a picture and it will come, and tap me on the shoulder. So polite.

I don't mean to interrupt your day, but....

I acknowledge the hush grief, and most days it gives me my space.

Some days it seriously hurts.

Riley would be nine this year. I picture a serious-looking, dark haired child, with a smile that could light up a skyscraper.

I miss that kid.

She would be a kid now.

Not a baby. A KID.

A scraped-knees, riding her bike too fast, big enough to help with chopping veggies kid.

I miss that kid. I miss her every moment. In the screaming panic attacks, I miss her. In the quiet, reflective moments. Especially in the hush-grief.

Rambling update!

Because, really, do I ever write updates that are not rambling? (the answer is no).

Ella started third grade today. I am officially the mother of a 3rd grader. Which of course means I am also the mother of a should-be 4th grader. Riley Grace would be going into 4th grade. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to have two little book-end girls going to (home)school together.

This morning, I woke up early and went to read my devotions in the living room. I tiptoed out of our bedroom and past a grouchy cat, and then it hit me. Life seems to go so much more smoothly when I take the time to converse with God first thing in the morning.

Today, I asked God for patience as my daughter begins another school year.
I asked Him to make me the mother and teacher she needs.
I asked Him not to let me neglect my duties as a homemaker and wife, in the wake of this school year.
I asked Him to bring me closer to where He needs me to be.
To gather me into His will.

For the most part, school went smoothly. I'm just not ready to be the mom of a 3rd grader. I'm not ready for time to steal my little girl from me.

How Far We've Come

Four years ago, I had a major nervous breakdown in the weeks leading up to my daughters' birthdays. When I say breakdown, I mean BREAK-DOWN.
Breakdown of my faith.
Breakdown of my marriage that would take years to repair.
Breakdown of my sanity. Seriously, I think something was wrong with me that year.

Yesterday was my girls' birthday.

The days leading up to it were gentle, and peaceful.

The major part of yesterday was peaceful and joyful.

I watched my living daughter (8 years old now!) release 9 purple balloons into the cloudy sky, and I was able to smile as they floated away.

Yes, it's difficult to not have both of my daughters with me. It's difficult because there is a great void where Riley should be. I miss her. I've missed her for over 9 years now.

Oh, how I miss her.

But....

God never leaves me.
Every passing year, He holds my hand and carries me if need be.
I used to be in such a place of raw, bitter, ANGRY grief.
I still grieve. I wouldn't be human if I didn't.
But I know where she is.
I know parting isn't forever.
I get to watch her sister grow up.

I'm blessed. Blessed. Blessed.
How far He's brought me.

Last Mother'sDay Project Update: Thank You

Today, I wrote out the last card.
Today, my daughter decorated the last envelope.

And then I broke down in tears.

I am 12 days out from my girls' birthdays. And I am doing what I love.
Usually, this time of years is full of sleepless nights, panic attacks, and crying jags.

For the first time since Riley Grace died, I feel peaceful. I feel fulfilled. I feel...dare I say it...joyful.

I'm helping people. I'm giving them what I so, so desperately wanted after that awful day in 2005. Acknowledgement. Affirmation. These children, these babies, exist. These ladies are still moms. They are the embodiment of strength. To be able to get out of bed in the morning after such a loss is a feat sometimes.

If anyone wants a Father's Day card for an angel Dad, email me. joanna.unbehaun@yahoo.com
I am working toward something big for October 15th.
Anyone with ideas or suggestions, please let me know.

To everyone who supported this project, thank you. You mean more than you will ever know.
To everyone who is receiving a card, thank you for letting me do this for you.
To my husband, who stood by me and told me I was doing something worthwhile, thank you. You're my rock during times where I feel like I am spinning in circles, going nowhere, and everything is out of control.
To my daughter who gave of her time and herself, thank you. You are amazing. Wise beyond your seven years. I am so blessed to be your mother.
To my angel daughter...you made all of this possible. Thank you.
Lord...thank You. You are good all of the time. Thank You. Thank You. Thank You.

 

 

More Randomness

On Wednesday, I posted about feeling "off."

My cat was in labor, and for "some reason", I felt freaked out, which was odd because I had delivered her last 3 litters with no problem. I said that I "couldn't handle the thought of stillborn kittens."

Sparrow's first kitten in that litter was stillborn. We named it Angel.

After a very hard labor, Sparrow gave birth to Blessing, and Faith. They were blessedly born ALIVE!

Ella and I buried Angel in Ella's garden.

After all of the tears had passed for that day, Ella and I decided that Angel is most definitely up in heaven, being taken care of by Riley and Ms. Lora (who absolutely loved cats). We also decided to celebrate that Sparrow made it through labor and that she now has two beautiful kittens to take care of!

 

 

The whole experience reminded me of how often we say "I cannot handle this."...I said I could not handle moving to North Carolina. I said I could not handle staying in North Carolina. I said I could not handle my marriage. I said I could not handle my Dad having cancer.

God says I can. He does not heap on me more than He is willing to bring me through.

Random Gardening Post...

After Riley died, and I was no longer the pregnant-for-the-first time Mom, I spent a lot of time at cemeteries, in the baby section.

Not her cemetery. I honestly didn't go there until Ella was almost a year old.

Somewhere in my travels, I came across a gravestone with this quote from Dorothy Frances Gurney, only to discover the same quote in Riley's cemetery.

"The kiss of the sun for pardon,
the song of the birds for mirth--
one is nearer God's heart in a garden
than anywhere else on earth."

I love flowers. I love plants. I love watching them grow. Ella does too, which makes sense as the final months of my pregnancy with her were spent working in a Texas flower shop.

The last few weeks have been hard. From dealing with a sick cat, to REALLY feeling the distance between my Dad and me (in miles, not in family closeness) to finding out someone stole money from my family to getting sick (still recovering!), I've had enough.

I decided to do some planting and I think it really did my soul good.

I made sure to plant plenty of basil, after most of my harvest last year got eaten by cats. True story. There were at least ten of them on the property we rented last year. This year, we are a one-cat household and so my basil SHOULD be safe.

More gardening posts to come!!!