Today, I am Thankful

Some days, it’s just hard to feel thankful for anything with this gaping hole in my heart.  Other days, it surprises me how blessed I feel in spite of what we’ve endured.  Today, although I am SO glad to not be at work, I am SO thankful for my job.  I’ve written a lot about how wonderful my co-workers are, but today I’m specifically thankful for the 87 teenagers with whom I spend my day.  I read a lot online about how other BLMs struggle with going back to work.  I am blessed to say that for me, going back to work was the best medicine. 

You know, for me, one of the hardest things about losing Levi has been the feeling of constant pity that I feel around most people.  I hate the sympathetic stares and guarded speech because I’m in a room.  I don’t ever feel that in my classroom.  It feels more like a safe haven.   A friend asked me a few weeks ago how my students treated me when I first went back to work.  She was surprised to hear of their lack of concern.  They weren’t callous or cold, but they were, well, teenagers.  Way more concerned about themselves and their world than mine.  Surprisingly, that felt wonderful.  They didn’t fuss over me or look at me with sad eyes, and other than welcoming me back, they went right on about their business.  I’m realizing as I’m writing this how awful it makes them sound, but they’re really not rotten kids (like most people assume of teenagers anyway).  Most of them love me and appreciate me and (greatest of all) need me in some form or fashion. They give me a purpose and a reason to get out of the bed every day.  Today, even though I’m not with them (and maybe because I’m not with them), I am SO thankful for them all.

That's Then

There’s a song lyric from the movie Annie that goes something like this: “yesterday was plain awful/ you can say that again/ yesterday was plain awful/ but that’s not now- that’s then.”  I’ve been singing this over and over today because, well, a large portion of yesterday was plain awful. 

My nephew and brother-in-law had a joint birthday party (my nephew turned one last week) and Skip and I decided to go.  I have been around him twice now since we lost Levi, and it does more good than harm, so I embrace the chance to be around this little guy whenever I can.  Obviously, I knew he would be at the party, and I knew my sister-in-law had a close girlfriend with a three-month-old little girl who would probably be there, too.  What I did not know was that every single woman there of childbearing age would have a child-or three- in tow.  I did not know that there would be FOUR BABIES less than four months old and not one but two pregnant women thrown in the mix. 

To say the party was difficult would be an understatement.  It wasn’t so much the presence of new babies, because as you should remember, I conquered that fear weeks ago.  It was the sheer volume of them.  It was the knowledge that every stinking one of the females there had done something that I had not- delivered a breathing baby.  It was the feeling that “one of these things is not like the other ones” and I was the one thing.  I watched these parents bundle and cuddle and feed their babies, and I could literally picture us in the mix doing the same thing.  It hurt.  A LOT. 

I am more than a little proud to say that I survived the party.  I am proud that I did not lose it in front of all of those people and that I did a good job hiding my sadness and not making everyone else around me feel sorry for me.  When we got in the car to leave later that night, my eyes filled with tears as Skip told me he was proud of me, too. 

On our drive home, I reflected (out loud, of course) on the unfairness of the day.  I told Skip that most days, I feel resolved to use this tragedy for good.  I wear my intact faith in our Savior as a badge of honor and embrace the possibility that lives can and will be changed because of the way we’ve handled all of this.  I choose to be better and not bitter because of Levi’s existence and death.  Most days, I am resigned to my position as a babyloss mom.  But yesterday, it hurt too much to focus on the “good” that has come/may come/will come out of our loss.   I didn’t want to be used by God to bring Him glory.  I wanted to pout, to scream, to throw things.   I wanted to cry and beat my fists on the ground.  I wanted to tell every one of those mamas just how lucky they were just incase they had forgotten. 

 On the way to church this morning, when I thought of the awfulness of yesterday and sang that little chorus over and over, I got stuck on the last line, “But that’s not now, that’s then.”  And the thing is, I can and will have days and moments like those at the party yesterday.  There’s a good chance that for the rest of my life, birthday parties and such will be harder for me than for most.  But, I cannot allow myself to dwell on that sadness forever.  I cannot feel sorry for myself today because of something that happened yesterday.  I mean, I guess I could, but why would I even want to?  There is so much in life that I’ve been forced to realize is out of my control.  What I can control is my thought life.  What I can control is my reaction to my circumstances.  And when I am not in the moment overtaken by grief, I DO want to be used by God.  I DO want to bring Him glory.  And I know I cannot do that if I allow myself to relive every sad thing that happens to me, day in and day out.  I have to say, “That’s then” and TRY my darndest to make today less sad than yesterday.

I'm Good

These days, I spend a ridiculous amount of time analyzing how I’m “doing.”  I get asked that question more often now, and I truly consider my answer before I respond.  Before September 6^th, I always gave the same default reply: “I’m good.” When I first went back to work, I consciously did not answer, “I’m good.”  I made a point not to, even in the moment as an auto-response, say, “I’m good” because what kind of monster loses her child and is “good.”  I said things like “I’m here” or “I’m okay” but never “I’m good.” 

But here’s the thing: lately, sometimes, I AM “good.”  My students make me laugh.  My friends send me thoughtful cards.  My aerobics instructor says she can tell I’m losing the baby weight.  Friends suffer through 5 o’clock Charlotte traffic to eat dinner with me.  My husband surprises me with a card and new, delicious smelling candles. There are things in my life that are good.  There are things in my life that are better than good.  Most days I don’t even feel guilty about enjoying the good things in my life.

I know there are many who have experienced the loss of a loved one that, 10 weeks out from their loss, were not coping as well as Skip and I have been.  I think this has a lot to do with our personalities.  I also think it has to do with our relationship with the Lord.  And, I really want to write a post (or three) that explains how a tragedy like we’ve survived can increase your faith with God instead of leaving it in shambles, but this isn’t that post.  As much as I hate the cliché timing of it all, this one is all about gratitude and how it can affect you if you’ll let it.

One morning just a few days after losing Levi, Skip and I lingered in the bed, not ready to get up and face another day. He ran across this video called “The Happiness Project” and we lay there and watched it together.  To summarize, studies show that not only being grateful but sharing gratitude with others has a direct impact on an individual’s personal happiness.  At this point in my grief, I was desperate to do any and everything that could possibly bring a hint of happiness, so I took what the video suggested to heart.  I started by writing thank you notes for the meals and other gifts we received.  (If you didn’t get one, I am truly sorry for the oversight!)  I emailed the faculty my first week back at school to convey my sincere appreciate for their support.  I even wrote the hospital (a letter they shared with all 4,000 hospital employees!) to share my appreciation for the care I received.  

Just this morning on the way to work, I was trying to pray but was at a loss for words (rare for me, I know).  I’ve been trying to do more than just ask for stuff when I pray and to talk to the Lord on behalf of others.  I know how much it’s meant to have others do that for us, and I don’t do it enough.  So, I started naming out loud, in prayer, people I am thankful for.  I think I got the idea from a Face.book status I’d just updated saying I was thankful for enduring friendship and my time the night before with Becki.  And, it went on from there.  And on, and on and before I knew it, I was in my parking space at school and I was still naming people who I am so thankful the Lord saw fit to put in my life. 

I started a “sucks list” this summer (back when nothing really sucked and my life was perfect) as a joke with my mother-in-law.  When someone hurt my feelings or offended me, I would declare them an addition to the list.  After we lost Levi, I started adding people who I didn’t think responded to us in the way we needed/wanted/expected them to.  Some people actually got kicked off the list because of the way they were what we needed/wanted/expected them to be.  I kinda joked about it, but my hurt feelings were real (still are), and I think I came pretty close to obsessing over those who hurt us- intentionally or not.  This morning, I realized that the list of names I was speaking to The Father was the list that really matters. It is impossible to forget the hurt, the bruised friendships, and the “collateral damage” of this tragedy, but I am going to try.  And, if you’re reading this, I am thankful for you, too.

Cherish

I was going to write about our venture into the nursery last night, but as I pulled out my laptop, I remembered that tomorrow is Megan’s birthday and decided she was worth a post.  Besides, it’s much happier to write about my best friend turning another year older (than me!) and after last night, I could use something happy to dwell on. 

Megan and I have been friends ever since she came to teach at West Rowan.  We got closer when I was moved into same building and sometime between then and now, we became inseparable.  When I was pregnant for the first time in 2011, she was one of the first/only people I told.  (I gave her a letter from the baby to his/her Aunt Megan.)  She cried as much as I did when that pregnancy ended in miscarriage.  She listened to me complain about not getting pregnant again on my timetable, and was ecstatic when we finally got pregnant with Levi.  She threw me an amazing baby shower, and gave only as much advice in one sitting as I could digest.

I called her from my doctor’s office when we learned that Levi was gone.  She wept for me- hard, long sobs that only a best friend and a mother could cry.  Her daughter was having a birthday sleepover that night and her husband was not yet home.  I assured her that she did not need to come (what could she do?) and gave her a few phone calls to make for me.  A few hours later, she came to the hospital anyway.  She went home in the middle of the night and was back early the next morning.  She stayed in the room while I delivered my precious boy. 

Megan ultimately became the medium between the outside world and me. She had to tell the story of our tragedy over and over again.  She arranged my substitute for school and corrected my lesson plans when I screwed them up.  She faced a room full of students who love me the most and answered questions about my broken heart.  She arranged meals for us, made insurance inquiries, made my favorite dessert, and sat on my couch and cried.  She ordered books that she thought might offer some comfort and read them when I was finished.  She started following the baby loss blogs I follow and sent screen shots of sections that spoke to her the most.  I could go on and on.  I’m sure I’ve forgotten many of the things she did in those early days that seem to run together in the sadness of it all. 

Almost ten weeks later, there are not many days that go by that Megan doesn’t mention Levi to me.  She never makes me feel guilty for having a day that sucks less than the others and she’s made a lot of sacrifices (and so has her husband) to be there for me.  If I’ve learned one thing through all of this it’s to not take things for granted.  To cherish what you’ve got while you’ve got it.  To appreciate every moment I’m given.

Happy Birthday, Megan.  I cherish you.

My Advice

Not that any one has really asked, but, I’ve been thinking about some of the things that I’ve done that have helped me deal with my grief, and I think they’re worth sharing.  Today, as I talked for over an hour with another BLM, she described the way I’ve handled some things as “proactive,” and I would have to agree.  I’ll give you an example.

A couple from our church was expecting a baby girl around the same time we were expecting Levi.  The mom and I had talked a bit about our pregnancies, and I was looking forward to watching our babies grow up together.  Her c-section was scheduled for just two days after my due date. They were very kind to us when we returned to church and Skip texted with them the day their little girl was born.

Every Sunday since, I’ve braced myself and glanced over to their area of the sanctuary to see if the new baby was making her Sunday debut.  Yesterday was her day.  It, luckily, was a pretty good day for me and in an instant, I decided that I had to go over and meet this precious little girl and hug her mama, my friend.  In the five previous weeks of nervous glances, I never planned to meet this little miracle.  I just needed to know that she was in the room so I could avoid her.  Going close enough to smell her baby skin was not in the plan.  But yesterday, it was. 

I needed to do it on my terms.  I needed to be the one who made the choice to be that close to another baby.  I needed to not run into them in the grocery store or a restaurant and not be prepared.  I needed to make the first move.  Honestly, had she been a little boy, I couldn’t have done it.  And, I couldn’t hold her or talk to her much.  But, I survived saying, “nice to meet you” and going back to my seat.  And, I was glad I did it.  Her dedication service will be next weekend, and I am grateful I have plans to be out of town.  I was dreading it already and relieved to not have to decide whether to stay in the worship service for the dedication. 

What I realized today talking to my friend is that there aren’t really set stages of grief.  We all do it differently.  Some BLMs I know cannot even look at babies on commercials, much less voluntarily walk right up to one.  I could on that given day, but I don’t want to attend a dedication service for a new baby- even though I SO believe in the act of dedicating babies to the Lord.  The next time I see this little girl, I may burst into tears.  Grief is something that cannot be taken one day at a time; it must be taken one breath at a time.   And, I am more than a little grateful that some breaths are getting easier to take.