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.