It's Personal

Some gals who check this blog regularly ask why I never post anything personal. I'm really not sure why. It's not that I don't still grieve a little every day. It's not that I'm worried that friends and family will read it and judge me. I don't know why. Lately I've been wanting to post something personal. It's some feelings and thoughts I've been having. I've been thinking it over in my mind for about a week now and had all the perfectly formed sentences in my brain to correctly express what I wanted to convey. Now it's all left me. However, it seems important to me so I'll press on.

Olivia's third angel day or birthday, or whatever you'd like to call it was May 1st. It's never overwhelmingly depressing. Actually a little bittersweet. The reason for the bitter is obvious, but the sweet seems surprising. Just now I'm wondering where that comes into play and I think it must come from the knowledge I have of where she's at and that we are an eternal family and that I will see her again one day. Point is that it wasn't a horrible day/week. Of course I was sad and cried and had a tough time, but it wasn't horrible...until the next weekend.

The little boy across the street was born a week after Livy. I remember being pregnant right along with his mom and chatting a couple of times about the babies. And about a month after Liv was born, on my first venture to the mailbox, her husband asked if we had our baby early because I was obviously not pregnant any more, I said we did, and because of the smile on his face that told me he was going to say congratulations or something of the sort I immediately spat out that "she didn't make it". For some reason I remember the exact words I used. Which somehow reminds me of how the cleaning ladies at the hospital the day after Olivia was born and we were in a postpartum room told us congratulations and I somehow smiled and said thank you.

Anyway, every time I see this precious little boy playing in the yard I remember Olivia. Every time he falls I want to run to his rescue. Every time he does something big for his age I feel a little proud. It is odd. It feels odd to me. But it just happens.

Well, this little fella had a huge third birthday party in his front yard with balloons, decorations, a big bounce house, lots of family, and tons of presents. That was a horrible day. I couldn't tear my eyes away. I sat just inside a front window in the shadow and balled. I tried to move. Then I walked away a few times, but I always came right back. I watched this family celebrate the third anniversary of this precious boy's birth and grieved at the emptiness of our home. Yes, we have been blessed with a rainbow baby. But that rainbow baby should have an older sister. There should be half deflated balloons in our home from the previous weekend when we had his sister's third birthday party. There should be a room downstairs painted pink with lacy curtains. I should have been telling her to hush as not to wake baby brother from his nap. It was the worst day I've had in a long time.

Then came Mother's Day. I didn't go to the first hour of church because our rainbow baby was napping, but I doubt I would have went anyway. I have gone every Mother's Day in years past, but because of that birthday party this Mother's Day was harder somehow. All in all it turned out to be another bittersweet but not horrible day.

Then there was Memorial Day. This day has never really gotten to me. I think I recall in a past post saying the same thing. Where I grew up, in the South, Memorial Day was a day to honor the deceased military. Not until I moved to the West did I learn that people used it as a day to remember all their beloved dead. My first Memorial Day after losing Olivia was spent in frustration at all the children at the cemetery who trampled the lawn and played with all the flowers, wind chimes, and toys left at the angel's graves. The next year I bought and put up a picket fence around Liv's grave to keep the kids away. It actually worked. It's been more of a day to protect "her" than to remember her/grieve for her. When I went the day before Memorial Day this year to put up her fence it was dusk. As I started to push the stakes of the fence into the ground tears started to fall. Angry tears. Anger from having a daughter's grave to have to protect. Angry that she wasn't here and I had to care for her grave instead of her. Then they turned to tears of sadness and I wept. I got all the fencing put down except for the piece at the bottom of her headstone. Though there were people around I knelt down, laid my head on her headstone, and wept. I felt I had no strength to do anything but that. No strength left to hold back the tears. No strength left to pick myself up and walk away. It just happened. And gratefully the few people there just let it happen. It didn't take too long for me to use the happy thoughts of where she is and how I'll see her again one day to drive the sadness away and dry up those tears. I suppose it was a needed cry. Well, anyway aren't all cries needed cries? I drove home sane again, for every mother of an angel goes through seconds of insanity during these brief and intense grieving moments.

The next day we visited her grave. The cemetery was absolutely gorgeous. It seemed every grave was decorated with flowers and/or balloons. Driving to "Baby Land" Liv's place was easy to see thanks to the pretty, white fencing. Our earthly family of three got out and placed our gifts there for her. Sometimes my visits are unfeeling, like I just haven't got the energy to let myself feel anything. This was one of those times. We took our pictures and left.

Just now while typing this I realize how the fencing is the only way I can show my motherly protection for her. I've always realized how the flowers, ribbons around the top of the vase, dolls with bottles, figurines and trinkets are the only gifts I can give her, but just now realized what that fence truly means to me.

So, it's been a tough month or so, on and off. I do feel. I do grieve. Though I don't post it often here I am experiencing these things right along with you angel mothers, and I wanted to share this most recent span of grief with you. You are not alone. All my love.