Sewing

When we lost Sam it became quickly apparent that I needed to find something to occupy my time in a healthy, constructive way. I then remembered the sewing machine that Mark and I got as a wedding gift. This item landed on our registry because Mark had insisted that every house needed a sewing machine. This was despite my reminders that neither of us knew how to sew. We didn't even know how to sew buttons back on properly, let alone how to do anything with a sewing machine. It's something my sister-in-law became astutely aware of when she agreed to take me on as her sewing apprentice.

Five years after our wedding the machine finally emerged from its box. So shiny. So pretty. So new. Now what. Back into the box. Into the car. Over to Danielle's house my machine and I traveled. She taught me how to thread my machine. She taught me how to turn it on and how to drive it. This brought back the same nervous feeling that learning to drive my mom's car had inspired many years ago.

My first project: pillow covers

When I finally felt comfortable with my practice stitches, it was time for my first project. Danielle took me to Sewn and helped me pick out fabric to make pillows. I was all ready to start my project. There was nothing to be nervous about. Worst case scenario, I would mess up and rip my stitches out (something I have become all to familiar with.)

But wait, I had to cut my fabric first. So much math. Easy math. Adding and subtracting. But when the cut is permanent I no longer trust my brain and I double and triple check with Danielle and even break out a calculator. I put the blade to the fabric and my palms sweat like I am on a first date with a cute boy. Eventually all of my squares are cut and I start driving my machine and a pillow case emerges with three others to follow. Yay!

Khloe's baby quilt

I then tackled a baby quilt for my baby niece Khloe. This is a truly great hobby.

My next project was to make an apron. I found a pack of patterns and then everything came to a screeching  halt. What kind of crazy language are these things written in? The pattern pack had 5 apron patterns in it -- something I considered to be a real bargain when I picked it out. Little did I know, this means a crazy zig zagging of dotted, dashed, dot-dashed, and solid lines all fitted around each other on paper that makes newsprint seem like steel. And if I thought cutting fabric brought on anxiety this took me to a whole new place. The result: fold up the fragile, 900-year-old-like paper and carefully tuck it back into its envelope.

But I still wanted to sew. So began cutting up my fabric and sewing it together. It was at this point that Danielle called and asked what I was making. I responded, "I don't know it is a surprise." Danielle says, "oh, I love surprise sewing projects." And I say, "Oh it's not a surprise because I don't want to tell you, it's a surprise because I'm not even sure what it is." I have since decided that the "apron" will be a tiny cat quilt to lay over the back of the couch. And my future projects will be a little more defined before I start...perhaps an Amy Butler quilt to wrap around myself.

Christmas

Christmas was hard but we survived.

In the first weeks after we lost Sam, Mark's and my mantra each day was "we will survive today together." Each morning one of us would repeat this phrase and together we would climb out of bed and face another day. After a little while we didn't need to say it out loud. Just a shared look was enough.

On Christmas I needed to hear these words. On Christmas surviving seemed harder. And not just surviving but facing what is generally the "happiest" day for so many. Together, Mark and I made it out of bed and took the dogs on a long, hilly walk. I didn't even let myself think of what that morning should have been. We just walked and walked. Later in the afternoon we went to a movie. It seemed like a a good idea to escape into a world that wasn't even remotely ours.

We ended the day with Mark's brother, his wife, and their precious daughter. As we drove to their house it was the first time since climbing from bed that morning that I was unable to block the pain. I finally was facing the reality that forever my holidays were going to be spent without Sam.

I am never going to see him open presents, eat too many cookies, cry in the lap of a stranger wearing a red suit and white beard. He is never going to wake me long before the sun will come up because he hears reindeer hooves on the roof. I am never going to take him to the holiday train display or the festival of lights. We will never cuddle under a blanket next to the tree reading Christmas stories and drinking coco.
Accepting this reality is crushing.

But in all of this pain my brother-in-law and sister-in-law gave Mark and me a truly touching gift. To honor Sam they made a donation to help provide toys to needy children. While it doesn't take away my grief and longing for my little boy, I love knowing that his memory is helping to bring happiness to another little child that otherwise may not have known the magic and joy that this day is supposed to bring to the hearts of children.

A pair of shoes

I came across this poem and it has really resonated with me. Each time I read it I am brought to tears. Yet it is comforting to read someone else write words that so perfectly sum up my feelings. 

"A Pair of Shoes"

~author unknown

I am wearing a pair of shoes.

They are ugly shoes.

Uncomfortable shoes.

I hate my shoes.

Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair.

Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step.

Yet, I continue to wear them.

I get funny looks wearing these shoes. They are looks of sympathy.

I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.

They never talk about my shoes.

To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.

To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.

But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.

I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.

There are many pairs in this world.

Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.

Some have learned how to walk in them so they don’t hurt quite as much.

Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think

about how much they hurt.

No woman deserves to wear these shoes.

Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman.

These shoes have given me the strength to face anything.

They have made me who I am.

I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.

Back to work

This week I went back to work. In the weeks leading up to my return I had a lot of anxiety. I worried that I wouldn't have any compassion for families and patients. I worried that I wouldn't be able to safely do my job. I worried that I wouldn't be able to cope with other people's grief. Mostly I worried about returning to the hospital where I had delivered Sam. I worried about being in the last place that I held Sam...the only place where I held my tiny son. 

On my first day back I could barely breath when I entered the parking garage. It was so strange to be doing something so familiar and yet to have it feel completely foreign. (Or maybe that was because they had changed all of the garage light bulbs fluorescents.) Whatever the case may be I would probably have turned my car right back around and left if I didn't know that a very good friend was waiting  with coffee to walk in with me. 

Together we walked into the hospital, and despite my inability to remember how to swipe my badge I made it back up to the ICU. It was hard to see so many familiar faces. So many faces reflecting my pain, searching for words and realizing that hugs work best when words are inadequate. But it is also good to see the people that I have laughed hysterically with, sneakily played practical jokes with, fought to save lives with, and cried over devastating loss with. 

With these people I have ridden a roller coaster of emotions. And while sometimes I think it might be easier to quit and go to a place where no one knows Sam's story I then remember our "battle stories." These are people that I can trust. While I will rely on some more directly, each person, in their own way, is supporting me by knowing and understanding my pain. They are supporting me with hugs, light squeezes on my arm, and little smiles of encouragement. 

I will always remember the day I left the hospital in a wheelchair without my tiny Sam in my arms where he belonged. And I may never be able to get into the main elevator that brought Mark and me to the lobby without our precious son, but I am able to be at the hospital without being crushed by painful memories. I owe that to the many wonderful people who have created a history for me to hold on to and reflect on.

Our wisest family members

Dogs are not given enough credit in our society for what vital roles they play in a family. After Sam died and we were preparing to leave the hospital my mom asked Mark and me if we wanted the dogs to be at our house when we got home or if we would rather my parents keep them a day or two longer. Without even consulting each other we both instantly responded to have them at the house.

I can't imagine if we had walked into the house and Joey and Oliver hadn't been there to greet us. Even with Joey and Oliver the house seemed unnaturally quiet. I had never known Sam outside of my womb but I had this expectation that returning home would mean a house filled with the noises of a crying baby, his swing, toys, laughter, and lullabies. Walking into the house I felt like I was hit by a cement truck as I once again had to face another reminder that Sam was gone.

 Joey and Oliver saved me from sinking into that dark lonely place when I walked into the house. They kept my house from becoming a place of complete pain and emptiness. As usual we were greeted by their wiggly butts sashaying around as they retrieved the nearest shoe, which I am pretty certain they believe must be our favorite toys since we always take those with us when we all play outside. And for them playing outside is life's greatest joy, or at least a close second to cheese.

Since arriving home Joey and Oliver have dutifully remained at Mark's and my side. They seem to always know when to be with us, when to give us space, when to help us laugh and when to allow us time to cry. Joey goes to bed with me every night. She curls up right next to me against my legs. I can't stand to be alone at night anymore and this allows Mark the space to unwind in the evenings without having to acclimate to my early bedtime. 
Whenever I begin to cry I can expect Oliver to fly to my side and lean against my legs. I think this is his way of hugging me. He keeps his head dipped down and stays very still. When I finish crying he'll lick my hand or cheek and return to whatever toy he had been playing with. Once I was crying in the bathroom with the door shut and I heard this loud thud against the door. I pushed the door open and Ollie rushed in to assume his place against my legs. He made eye contact with me then; I think to remind me that he cannot successfully complete his duty if I close him out.

It is nice to have Oliver to sit with me when I cry. I know he and Joey don't know why I am sad or understand why Mark and I have changed, but they accept it and they accept their role to help us cope with our sadness.

Even when we are feeling so sad we can't imagine ever laughing again Joey and Oliver are able to find a way to remind us that laughter is okay. I remember one of the first days we were home from the hospital we took the dogs down to play in the baseball fields by the river.

It was a cold, cloudy morning and the grass was covered in dew. I was leaning against Mark and frankly feeling sorry for myself and sorry for Mark. Life just seemed so utterly terrible. Mark launched the ball across the outfield and Joey went tearing after it with Oliver following close behind. As Joey slowed to snatch the orange ball before Oliver could get to it he forgot to use his brakes and collided with Joey at full speed. It was like a doggy explosion of legs and tails and fur as they went tumbling across the field and then jumped to their feet with giant bewildered smiles on their faces. Mark and I burst into laughter. 

I think that was the first moment I let myself feel any pleasure. I think I was able to laugh in that moment so early after Sam's death because I knew that with Joey, Oliver and Mark it was okay to laugh and that the laughter didn't diminish my grief for Sam. Joey and Oliver are showing me how to just experience each moment and to not make plans or think to much about the future or the past. This lesson is what gets me out of bed and allows me to face the day, whatever it may hold.

Innocence lost

Every time I remember or think of myself prior to Sam's death I am over come with grief. When I remember my wedding I feel sad. I think of bringing Joey or Oliver home as puppies and I feel sad. I remember evenings with Mark, full of laughter and jokes, and I feel sad. I think about cruising in our boat as the sun is setting and the sunburn is tingling my nose and I feel sad. Not just sad but overcome with grief. Tears soaking my face and I can barely breath kind of grief.

I think I am grieving me. I have realized that the happy, silly person I once was is gone. She died with Sam.

I think we all have a period in our lives where we don't really know loss, grief and death. I am an ICU nurse, so I have seen a lot of death. I have cried with many mothers, daughters, sons, husbands, and spouses. I have come home after a hard day and cried on Mark's shoulder thinking and worrying about these family members and how they are coping with their loved one's death. I have held the hand of a woman dying alone with no family at her bedside. I have lost grandparents and an uncle and grieved and helped my parents grieve. I wasn't oblivious to death but I didn't know death.

Parents are not supposed to out live their children. I was not supposed to out live Sam. Now I know death.

At some point everyone reading this will know death. Hopefully not for a very long time. And if you are lucky it will never be your child. A parent should never have to plan the funeral for and bury their child. When your child dies you lose a part of yourself. Call it innocence.

When I think back upon my childhood, wedding, holidays, and many other wonderful memories I feel sad because I know that happiness is different. The happy girl that I remember has no idea of the horror heading her way. I wish I could warn her.

Losing Sam doesn't mean that I will never be happy again. I have already laughed and smiled. I have been silly. I have laughed at jokes. I have laughed so hard at Joey and Oliver and their ridiculous playful behavior. The laughter is just different. I now understand how fragile these moments are.

Thanksgiving

It is hard for me to feel thankful when I feel like my whole world has been ripped apart. When I once thought my life was very full it now feels very empty. I approached this holiday thinking that I had nothing to celebrate. Nothing to be happy about. Nothing to be grateful for.

Mark's and my five year wedding anniversary had been November 10. Neither of us felt like celebrating. It did remind me, though, that I am very grateful for Mark. I used to feel very confidant in my opinions, beliefs and expectations about life and relationships. Since losing Sam I don't feel very confidant in much, but I do know that Mark is my companion for life. It is easy to uphold the vow "for better," but the marriage is truly tested when you experience the worse.

This is not just true of our marriage. We have realized that our support system extends much farther than we ever could have known. The outpouring of kindness extended from family and friends has left us often times speechless. The cards and messages, flowers, food, house cleaning, dog sitting, phone calls, care packages, and gifts have been astounding. Just like a marriage it is easy to be there offering support when times are good, but it is very hard to remain when things are difficult.

On Thanksgiving Mark and I stayed home and spent some time reflecting on what we are thankful for in our lives. All of the family and friends, some just acquaintances or people we have not spoken to in many years, have given us very needed strength in this impossible time. For that we are thankful.

I have never known pain and emptiness like what I have experienced since losing Sam. Yet even knowing this I would not erase the 40 weeks and 2 days that I had with him. I long for Sam every minute of every day and it does not get easier with time, but I am thankful for him.