One big thing that's occurring to me more and more is that when you go through a big loss, your relationships change with friends and family. Grieving changes you, and there's no way you can go back to being the person you were before going through the loss. Some people are able to accept these changes are the "new" you (especially as you try to figure out who this "new" you is) and others can't accept it or won't accept it -- that's when relationships are strained or really put to the test. Many friends I used to be close to are more distant and familial relationships now have a different element to them, which can be difficult to understand and accept. Before Carver passed away, I felt like I'd gotten to a point where I knew myself pretty well -- I knew my pet peeves, I knew what things I was kinda OCD about, I knew where I stood on certain topics/opinions, and I knew what to expect of myself in various situations when the unexpected happened. But, that's all changed now. I feel like I really don't know myself anymore -- its like after losing Carver I've gone through this metamorphosis of sorts. Thankfully, I married an incredibly patient man who is accepting of me as I try to re-learn who I am now, especially when certain situations set me off that didn't before... (if that makes any sense.) Loss changes you and when people try to assume that I'm the same old person (and treat me so), its just incredibly frustrating.
Another thing I'm struggling with is that people seem to not mention Carver anymore. Several months ago I heard the quote, "Grief lasts longer than sympathy, which is one of the tragedies of the grieving." Yes, lives move on and people basically forget (which really is the only way to put it), but Carver is a huge part of my life. Yes, he isn't here anymore and, yes, he only lived for 6 hours and 24 minutes, but he is a huge part of who I am and who I am striving to become. He's in our family pictures, we talk about him in our home every day, and we thank Heavenly Father for him in our daily prayers. I carried him in my womb for 9 months and endured one of the worst epidural experiences EVER when delivering him; he is a huge part of who I am. Carver will always be my second born and firstborn son. And, a part of my heart will always be with him -- I will never feel whole again until we are reunited. The death of a child isn't something you just "get over" like a broken bone or a missing pair of earrings. I will be one of those little old ladies 50-60 years from now who, when asked how many children I have, will always include Carver in that head count. So, when people intentionally avoid the topic of him, either because they don't want to see me cry or don't know what to say or would just rather pretend it didn't happen, it hurts more than I can ever begin to describe. It hurts far more to pretend nothing happened 8 months ago, than to talk about it and share with you how I'm doing. No two days are the same -- even if I feel like I have a handle on things, I can't guarantee I'll feel like that the next day. Yes, some people don't like talking about their loss, but I'm not one of those people. Talking about everything (and especially crying) releases built up stress and frustration. When people bring up Carver, or ask how I'm doing when I mention him in conversation, it really means so much to me. Please don't be afraid to say his name -- I know I've mentioned this is several blog posts, and each time I truly mean it.
In October I learned about a 8-week perinatal loss support group hosted through Caring Connections with the University of Utah. Two other couples also attended this support group, and, even though we all lost our newborns in different ways, we were all going through basically the same experience. It was incredibly validating and comforting to talk with other parents who had also lost a baby, to know that I wasn't going crazy when I felt certain ways and responded to certain situations in ways I never did before, and just cry with other mommies who were feeling the same aching in their arms and emptiness in their hearts. There really is something comforting about being with others who've gone through a similar loss (no matter what your loss is) -- you don't have to explain yourself or feel embarrassed when you start to cry for no obvious reason. It was also really nice to know that even if no one else brought up Carver that week, I'd still be able to talk about it, judgement free, at our support group. No one rolled their eyes when I cried, no one judged me when I talked about my struggles with everyday life, and no one thought "Come on, just get over it already!" The 8-week program ended about a week and half ago and I already miss it so much. I'm incredibly grateful for all the wonderful people who babysat Arlee every Tuesday so we were able to attend this group. Since the drive was about 40 minutes each way, Austin and I had some really good talks about life, how we each were grieving, cleared up miscommunications, and just had some really good adult conversation without a 2-year-old interrupting us every 5 seconds. :)
One of the husbands at our support group, from the very first day, had this attitude around other people of, "I don't care what you think; I'm grieving the loss of my son and its this incredibly hard and I want to talk about it and I'm going to talk about it. And, if this makes you uncomfortable, then, I'm sorry, that's not my problem." I've always been way too much of a people-pleaser, so this mindset was so bold and foreign to me. I'm always concerned about offending people or giving others the wrong impression or being a "pot-stirrer," so even after losing Carver I've unintentionally kept up this people-pleaser persona. But, after being around this guy every Tuesday for 8 weeks, I've realized how healthy and good this mindset is. Heck, I'm grieving the death of my son! I really shouldn't care what others think of me. If you can't handle the fact that I need to talk about Carver, then that's not my problem. I need to talk about him, and I need to be surrounded and supported by people who understand this. For the first time in my life, I don't care what others think about me and how I'm handling my grieving process -- and, it feels good to not care.
This has been a rough holiday season for me. When we first found out we were expecting in April, I was super excited to have an 8-month old at Christmastime. I was so looking forward to seeing the joy and excitement in his eyes when he first saw a lit up Christmas tree and lights on the houses, and I was even looking forward to deterring a crawling baby away from the ornaments on the tree. But, when Carver passed away I started to dread the coming holiday season. Not seeing the excitement in his eyes, not watching him sneakily crawl towards the Christmas tree, and not seeing him attack the Christmas presents was a heart-breaking thing for me to realize. I'd heard months ago that it's normal to feel like you're progressing in the grieving process pretty well and then hit a bad month and take 4 giant steps back -- for me, that was November... and then December. When November arrived, I realized this was the beginning of the holiday season; this was the beginning of everything I had been dreading. I felt pretty out of it all month, and by Thanksgiving I was starting to feel emotionally drained. I did okay on Thanksgiving day, but the next night is when the yearly Christmas traditions started and when I felt like I took even more steps back in my grieving and acceptance process. We spent Thanksgiving in Rexburg with Austin's family and the next night they trimmed their Christmas tree. After the tree was trimmed, we listened to an album reserved for just that special night each year, basked in the glow of the tree, and danced and laughed together. I loved watching Arlee dance around the room with her aunts and uncles, but it was so hard for me to not see Carver doing the same thing -- there was no baby crawling towards the tree and no baby dancing around the room and giggling with his aunts and uncles. It just didn't seem right! As Austin and I sat on the couch and looked at the tree, all I could do was cry. My heart was breaking all over again and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. This just wasn't fair; Carver should have been there and should have been enjoying all fun and laughs that we were enjoying. I admit, I've cried more since that day than I have in a couple months. Its really hard to enjoy the holiday season when a big part of our family is missing.
Since that night of trimming the big family Christmas tree in Rexburg, I've been trying to figure out how to include Carver in our Christmas. I knew that he needed to be a part of it and each year during the holidays we needed to make a special effort to honor him. After looking for ideas online, we decided to that every year Carver needed to have his own stocking and each year we wanted to donate a toy (or two) in Carver's name, matching the developmental age Carver would have been that year. It just didn't seem right to not buy presents for Carver, even if he wasn't here to enjoy them. So, last week while Arlee and I were shopping at Wal-Mart, we went to the toy aisle in search of a toy. I told her that we were looking for a toy for Carver, in the hopes of her not wanting every toy in sight, and scoured the infant toy aisle. As I was looking at different toys, it hit me that I would never actually see Carver play with this toy or unwrap it and get more joy out of the wrapping paper. It took all my self control to not break down in the middle of the toy aisle, amongst all the hustle and bustle of people. I eventually found one of those Fisher-Price shape sorter toys, tossed it in the cart, and hurried out of the aisle before I actually did lose my emotional control. I donated the toy to Toys for Tots at our local Toys Я Us, and even though I knew this cute little elephant themed shape sorter would go to a baby in need who'd absolutely love it, my heart hurt that it wouldn't go to sweet little Carver. Since we can't give Carver any physical gifts, we've decided to give him spiritual gifts, instead. All that really matters to him is that we strive to live worthy to be with him again, so Austin and I have decided to write down our spiritual goals for the year (i.e.: attend the temple at least once a month, more focused daily scripture study, etc.) and put them in his stocking. Since I can't give him the gift of toys or clothes or books, then I can at least give him the gift of knowing that his mom is trying her best to live worthily to be with him again.
Okay, to change gears... Our new little babe is doing great! He's perfectly healthy in every way and definitely an active little guy. I love feeling him move around and learn to use his body, and, I'm not gonna lie, I love being able to wear my maternity clothes again. The weekend before our 20-week ultrasound, which is the ultrasound when we learned about Carver's birth defect, I was almost physically ill with anticipation. I just wanted to know what was going on! I felt so scarred from our previous 20-week ultrasound and was absolutely terrified of hearing the same news or equally as scary news about our little baby. When the day of the ultrasound finally arrived, I was numb with feeling -- the thought of losing another child was enough to send me into hysterics. Our ultrasound tech had already read our file, so she was understanding when we entered the room and I super nervous about what was about to happen. She told us that she couldn't let us know if she saw anything wrong (or any happy news, either), but she could give us really subtle hints. :) When she got to the diaphragm, she showed us the beginning, middle, and end of the diaphragm and basically told us (without actually saying it) that this little one's diaphragm looked completely normal. When the tech left and the doctor entered the room, she said, "I'm happy to report that the ultrasound tech left no worrisome sticky-notes on your file. She thinks everything looks perfectly normal." I nearly cried with relief! She then did another thorough exam of this little guy, with extra attention spent on his diaphragm, and reported that all she saw was a perfectly healthy little baby. After she left the room, Austin and I hugged and cried and jumped up and down together. I've never felt so relieved in my entire life! Yes, things can still happen, but the fact that our little guy looked so good at 20-weeks was a really good sign.
Another thing I've been struggling with is that people tend to assume that this new baby, especially since we're having another boy, replaces all the pain I feel over losing Carver. Yes, I'm incredibly excited to have another baby (and I'm still surprised its a boy -- I was SO convinced this babe was a girl!), but the love you have for one child cannot replace the love you have for another, and the pain you have from losing a child cannot be replaced by the birth of another child -- each child is different and holds a different place in your heart. I love Arlee and Carver and this new little baby each so much, and my love for one can never replace my love for another. Yes, my arms will finally be filled with a sweet little bundle of joy, but that little bundle of joy is a completely different baby than Carver. Please be understanding as I still grieve the loss of my firstborn son as my second born son is born. My pain will not magically vanish and I will not suddenly forget about Carver because I finally have a baby in my arms once again.
I know this blog post may have been longer than usual and I applaud you for reading the whole thing. :) Today Carver would have been eight months old; we would have had eight months of baby snuggles, kisses, giggles, pictures, and tons of sleepless nights. Eight months of bouncing a sweet baby on my knee, telling Arlee to be soft, and trying to coordinate two nap-time sleep schedules. Eight months. 2/3 of a year. I can't believe its been almost a year since I last held my sweet baby boy and kissed his soft little head. I'm incredibly grateful for all of you that have expressed extra love and support for me and my family during this holiday season -- even if you feel like you don't know what to say, please know that your sympathy means so much to me.
The second verse of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" has a whole new meaning to me this holiday season.
Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
Ris'n with healing in his wings.
Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
Ris'n with healing in his wings.
Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn King!
I know Christ truly is the reason for the season. He was the first gift of Christmas -- a gift given to us so that we may be atoned for our sins and one day return to our Heavenly Home. Even though this time of year has been more difficult than I ever could have anticipated, I'm so grateful for the birth of my Savior and the light and life He brought to this world.
