Confessions of a Grieving Mama
October 17
Confessions of a Grieving Mama
• I don’t know what to do without her. The past three years of my life have been all about her. Trying to conceive, getting pregnant, trying to stay pregnant, early labor, early delivery – all these things were all about her. Rory. My Rory. She was my life before she was even born.
• There are still days when I simply don’t care that I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to care about it. I don’t want to look ahead to tomorrow, to next week, to next year, when I can barely make it through the minutes of today.
• I am okay with how I am grieving. I am a person of intense emotions. Feeling things in extreme measures is not new for me. I need to feel. I don’t want to be drugged to make the emotions more manageable, the days more bearable. Yes, many times life is unbearable. But that’s the way it should be. That is the correct response. Rory is gone. For now, I need to be allowed to feel despair whenever I want to.
• Sometimes I am afraid to smile. I’m afraid to laugh or appear to have a good time. I don’t want anyone to think I’m ok with Rory being gone. I am not ok. I will never be ok. I will simply adjust and live for the day when I see her again.
• I am not on speaking terms with God. Maybe it’s because I’m angry. Maybe it’s because I’m just so sad. Or maybe it’s because I just don’t know what to say. I know it won’t last forever. It’s not that I feel disconnected, because I do somehow still feel Him. I know people are praying for me, standing in the gap and lifting me up. One day I will find my way back to prayer. I will learn to trust again. But I am not going to stand here and pretend I am unshaken. Hope has been murdered, faith has been tortured and happiness has been exiled. This is a season in my life. This is a darkness I have to walk through. I’m not going to bound through and pretend everything is fine to make other people more comfortable. I am grieving my way.
• I don’t feel the need to have a plan. A job, a career, a hobby, a time-killer – I am not ready to move on. I am beginning to feel ready to take baby steps. I’m writing this. I’m thinking about my over-due assignments. I went to a birthday party. I’m getting out of bed every day. I’m eating. I’m showering. I’m talking. I’m cleaning. For right now, that’s enough.
• Moving on. Moving forward. Just thinking about that kills me. As much as I know Rory is no longer here, thinking and planning for the future makes me feel like I am leaving her behind. No, it’s not true and no, it’s not logical, but it is how I feel. And I am entitled to that.
• I don’t want anyone to ever forget about Rory. She is so important to me. She has changed my life forever. She made me a mama. I will always be Rory’s mommy. She is a part of me.
• I do want more children. I cannot imagine my life without children. But they will never replace Rory. Rory is my firstborn. My first daughter. I would love for her to have some siblings one day. They will use her cloth diapers and share her crib just like they would have if Rory had lived. They will know about their older sister and know our family will finally be complete once we are all in heaven.
Confessions of a Grieving Mama
• I don’t know what to do without her. The past three years of my life have been all about her. Trying to conceive, getting pregnant, trying to stay pregnant, early labor, early delivery – all these things were all about her. Rory. My Rory. She was my life before she was even born.
• There are still days when I simply don’t care that I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to care about it. I don’t want to look ahead to tomorrow, to next week, to next year, when I can barely make it through the minutes of today.
• I am okay with how I am grieving. I am a person of intense emotions. Feeling things in extreme measures is not new for me. I need to feel. I don’t want to be drugged to make the emotions more manageable, the days more bearable. Yes, many times life is unbearable. But that’s the way it should be. That is the correct response. Rory is gone. For now, I need to be allowed to feel despair whenever I want to.
• Sometimes I am afraid to smile. I’m afraid to laugh or appear to have a good time. I don’t want anyone to think I’m ok with Rory being gone. I am not ok. I will never be ok. I will simply adjust and live for the day when I see her again.
• I am not on speaking terms with God. Maybe it’s because I’m angry. Maybe it’s because I’m just so sad. Or maybe it’s because I just don’t know what to say. I know it won’t last forever. It’s not that I feel disconnected, because I do somehow still feel Him. I know people are praying for me, standing in the gap and lifting me up. One day I will find my way back to prayer. I will learn to trust again. But I am not going to stand here and pretend I am unshaken. Hope has been murdered, faith has been tortured and happiness has been exiled. This is a season in my life. This is a darkness I have to walk through. I’m not going to bound through and pretend everything is fine to make other people more comfortable. I am grieving my way.
• I don’t feel the need to have a plan. A job, a career, a hobby, a time-killer – I am not ready to move on. I am beginning to feel ready to take baby steps. I’m writing this. I’m thinking about my over-due assignments. I went to a birthday party. I’m getting out of bed every day. I’m eating. I’m showering. I’m talking. I’m cleaning. For right now, that’s enough.
• Moving on. Moving forward. Just thinking about that kills me. As much as I know Rory is no longer here, thinking and planning for the future makes me feel like I am leaving her behind. No, it’s not true and no, it’s not logical, but it is how I feel. And I am entitled to that.
• I don’t want anyone to ever forget about Rory. She is so important to me. She has changed my life forever. She made me a mama. I will always be Rory’s mommy. She is a part of me.
• I do want more children. I cannot imagine my life without children. But they will never replace Rory. Rory is my firstborn. My first daughter. I would love for her to have some siblings one day. They will use her cloth diapers and share her crib just like they would have if Rory had lived. They will know about their older sister and know our family will finally be complete once we are all in heaven.
I love you. Katie, grieve. It's okay to cry, be miserable, hate, yell, laugh, and feel. Feel everything my dear. You can borrow some of my faith for now. It's a little weak at the moment but you can have it. Contrary to popular belief, right now the world is about you and about Rory. If anyone tries to tell you otherwise, send them my way. I love you and your beautiful family.
ReplyDeleteYou are allowed to be angry with God, or not on speaking terms with Him. And you are totally allowed to trudge around not knowing what to do or having no plan for the future. It is your right as a grieving parent. I like how you worded it: it is a season in your life. All seasons pass with time, the wonderful ones and the crappiest ones.
ReplyDeleteLet people take care of you and Sheldon for as long as you need.
Hey kiddo it's John Elley... I don't know what to say that would make it all right. i don't know if there are earthly words that will. A time ago i lost four friends that were very close to me. I found myself doing the opposite of what you are doing...thinking no one would know.I was very angry at God, and i let Him know.... but he showed me something,
ReplyDeleteHe is ok when we are mad at Him , it means we still want Him, He is wanting to let us grieve, it brings us closer to Him, and He does not want us to forget, as He holds the ones we lost. Vonny and I LOVE YOU!! and Rory!! and you are in our hearts and prayers everyday....
not much to say but i like being able to read an update on you and think about Rory. well said larlar.
ReplyDeleteHi Katie. I don't understand what it is like to lose a child, so I am careful not to say that I understand how you feel. But I do understand the feeling of loss, the feeling of difficulty in prayer when something horrible has happened, the feeling of wanting to yell at God and ask Him what the heck is going on and why He isn't doing something about it. And I would just like to offer that if you are finding it hard to know how to pray right now, try the psalms. They are full of words from souls that were asking questions, expressing hurt, anger, desolation, abandonment. Somehow they give us permission to express that to God in a way that He himself has given us to do so, in a way that Christ would have expressed those feelings when He was on the cross (we sometimes forget that He knew and prayed the scriptures too). I find the psalms help me to let out my frustration and anger and the things I want to yell at him sometimes when I don't understand. And in doing so, it keeps me connected even in my grief and it gives me some peace to know that many other faith filled people before me have felt the same way and that God understands. You are still in my prayers :-)
ReplyDelete