Dear Parker

Dear Parker,

                I miss you, Parker Marie! I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately. I think you are a pretty cool little kid. I miss seeing your dance routines and your funny faces. I miss hearing your jokes and your giggles and laughter. I even kinda miss watching you put your parents through the ringer with your super amazing temper tantrums. I’m still waiting for you to turn green and go all “The Hulk” on everyone. Unfortunately, one day you’ll learn you are only allowed to do those sort of things in your head, and it’s not nearly as fun.

                I love your smiles and hugs and how we can tell you we only love you a little bit and you’ll say, “Noooo! This much!” and spread your arms as wide as they can go. I love how whenever you have a sleepover at my house we read the cookie pop-up book and before we turn the last page when the gingerbread house pops up we look at each other and grin and ask, “Ready?!” I also love how you now think your daddy should buy you a gingerbread house to live in.

                I’ve been wondering and imagining what it would have been like for you if Rory hadn’t gone to heaven. I know you were so excited to meet her and to hold her. While Rory was in the hospital you would pretend you were holding her in your hands and taking care of her. You even gave your Mom crap one time because you were convinced she had dropped your pretend Rory. Your mom told me one time she caught you having a tea party with Rory. I love that you love her.

                Whenever you are with me you are always willing to sit and look at the Rory book with me. You love to slowly flip through the pages and point to her and say things like, “So cute!” and “Beautiful Rory.” And how you think it’s so hilarious in one picture where Rory is facing the other way and you giggle and point and say, “Rory’s backwards!!” And then sometimes you’ll look at me and sigh and say, “Rory died.” And I’ll say, “Yes, she did, and that’s very sad. But she’s in heaven with Jesus.” And then you say, “I’ll hold her next time.”

                I love that. Next time. Yes, in our next life, in Heaven, in eternity. Next time.  I know right now you are a little obsessed with death and trying to figure out what it all means. I know in your own little way, you are grieving. You were playing at my house, playing with toys when all the sudden you let out one of your big dramatic sighs. Your mommy asked you what was wrong and you said, “I’m sad.” Your mom asked you why and you answered, “Rory died.”

                I’m sad too. But you know what soothes my heart? Knowing that you remember and love Rory. Even though you never met her, she will be a part of your earliest memories. You know she is a part of our family. You know she always will be, and she will always be remembered and missed.

                So here’s to you, kidlet. Auntie misses you! Thanks for being so awesome. Love you lots.

                Love, Auntie Katie (Or Auntie Keys, or whatever it is you are calling me these days. <3)  

It's Called Grieving.

Many of you won’t get this. In fact, most of you won’t. That’s a good thing. Because if you truly understand everything I’m writing, it means you have been here, and here is a place no one should ever be. And maybe there will be some you say “I get this!” and then I’ll write another post that completely contradicts everything I’ve said in this post and you’ll want to have me institutionalized. So. You’ve been warned.

I think I try in my writing to end off even the most melancholy post with a hint of hope at the end. What people may not realize is that this is mostly due to the fact I am terrified people will show up to my door ready to stage an intervention if I say completely what I’m feeling in the moment. Often I write after the storm has passed. After I’ve wiped my eyes, got a drink of water, had a nap, and groped around blindly for some perspective.

I’m afraid of writing in the storm. Sometimes what I write in the aftermath is depressing enough. But the purpose of me writing, and more so, of sharing what I write, is so that people can come to understand. Not completely, mind you. But to gain some insight, some awareness, and just some good old empathy.

It’s not something I really thought about before Rory, but now I truly think our society has watered down grieving. It’s like everyone expects you to hop, skip, and jump through all the stages of grieving and voila! In a few months, everything is back to normal, your loved one is in a better place, so everything is hunky dory.

Uhm, no.

I love to blame society. It’s such a generic and abstract concept. A way to point a finger without really offending anyone. But really, I’m part of the cycle. I don’t know why, but as soon as I step into someone else’s house, I put a smile on my face. I go through the motions, I chit chat, I laugh at jokes, I express interest in other people’s lives. Occasionally the mask slips, and a snide, cynical comment slips through, or an “inappropriate”, inner thought is vocalized – much to the discomfort of others. At which time some people use such openings to talk about Rory, or find the underlying dark humour and laugh, or change the subject, or chastise me for thinking and feeling the way I do.

I sometimes wish my go-to face was a big, weepy, wailing mess. I wish people thought THAT was normal and be pleasantly surprised whenever I pulled myself together to act normal in social settings. Instead, my go-to face is a lackluster smile that people come to expect (though it probably doesn’t fool those who really know me) and even I’m horrified at the thought of breaking down in front of them.

Why? My baby died four months ago. It’s ok to not be ok. I keep telling myself that. I’m not sure if it’s my own expectations I’m projecting on people, or if people really do think I should be fine by now, or if, like Sheldon says, acting like everything is fine and adopting a “life goes on!” mantra is so deeply engrained in us, we don’t even know how to grieve properly in front of people.

Sometimes when I come home, to my safe place, where I can think and say and do exactly whatever I’m feeling that exact micro-second, that’s when I realize it. I realize I’ve been acting all day. I realize I’ve been putting on a brave face. I realize I’ve been on autopilot. And I realize how absolutely exhausting it is. But in the moment, in the moment when I’m just trying to enjoy the company of family, just grasp that normal minute of fun, just trying not to make anyone else uncomfortable, I don’t even realize that many a time, it’s all an act. It’s all for the benefit of others. That makes me sound unselfish. Rest assured, I’m not. I’m as terrified of people attempting to deal with me in my raw, open state as much as they are terrified of having to attempt it.  

Well, I didn’t say this post would make sense, did I? And I am quite within my rights to contradict everything I say. Mixed messages, you say? NO KIDDING. You should be inside my head. Mixed emotions is the understatement of the century. That’s the point. Grieving is not a straight line. It is not one step in front of the other. It’s back and forth, it’s zigging and zagging, it’s thinking you are getting better and then wondering how you are going to get through another minute. It’s finding joy in a moment, and it’s finding sadness in the joy. It’s raw, it’s unpredictable, and it’s messy.

So for anyone thinking GET OVER IT (… I’d love to think there aren’t actually any people in the world thinking this…) – No. You get over it. You get over the fact I am not ok. I am not fine. When I say I’m having a good day, imagine your worst day, times it by ten, and there you have it. My good day. Because I am living every moment without my baby girl. And that has affected every single aspect of my life.  

I am broken. I am heart sick. I am soul weary. I am disillusioned. I am exhausted.

I’m not saying it won’t get better. It will. I’m not saying the hurt will get easier to bear. It will. I’m just saying in this fast-paced world we live in, grieving is one of those things that cannot be fast-forwarded. You cannot skip scenes to get to the good stuff. I am going through this, take by take, and I won’t color it any other color than it is.

And if I could think of a better ending to this post other than crossing my arms, blowing a raspberry, and saying, “So there!” I would. But that’s all I got. So… there. 

Dear 2011

Dear 2011,

As with everything these days, I have mixed emotions about you. Perhaps my New Years Resolution should be to try and feel only one emotion at a time – but I think I’ll just stick with “surviving”, as that’s taking up all of my energy and then some.

You were a year of excitement and newness. After 2 ½ years of waiting, with extensive doctor/specialist appointments, medication and drugs, I got pregnant. Finally, Sheldon and I were expecting our own little bundle of joy.

You were the year I gave birth to my daughter in an ambulance. You were the year Sheldon and I got to name our baby Rory Rose. You were the year I became an NICU mommy. You were the year I held my baby in my arms, skin to skin, and heart to heart. You were the year of hopes and dreams, of fear and faith. You were the year of devastation and despair. You were a year of grief, mourning, sadness, and strength. You were the year my baby daughter was born. You were the year she died.

You, 2011, were the worst year of my life. You were full of pain, heartache, and sorrow. You dashed dreams, you crushed hope, you banished happiness and you destroyed my life.

And you, 2011, were the best year of my life. You were full of happiness, joy, and anticipation. You were full of hope and dreams fulfilled by Rory. You were the year I found out what a mother’s love truly feels like. You were the year my faith was tested, tried, shaken, and strengthened. You were the year I began to learn what it means to go on, to put one foot in front of the other, to take that next breath, and to find the strength to rebuild what was destroyed.


I am so ready to be done with you, 2011. There is a fragile, uncertain hope in the start of a new year. I already know 2012 will be a year of grieving and sadness and loss. Because losing a child is not something you ever get over. But I want to see the hope and happiness a new year has the potential to bring.

So here’s to you, 2012. I hope you bring good things with you… and if you do… I hope those good things come to stay.