"I've noticed that many people are posting about the death of baby Landon Turner, who passed away today. I do not know this family but my heart breaks for them. I know, all too well, the road they are about to start traveling. Please say a prayer for them. Here is a link for those of you that know them and want to support them in this difficult time... but may not know what to say or do. (I included this link and this link.)"
Today, it just seems like the kinda day to be ever so thankful for the BLC (baby loss community). I feel the need to share my appreciation. There is something comforting, but odd, about perfect strangers knowing my deepest thoughts. I think it's the anonymity... I don't actually have to know or see them in person. That feels safe; much safer than those in my daily life seeing the "real" me. Of course, there are a few, who I wish so badly lived close. They have become the people that I count as my closest and dearest friends. I guess that's why, so far, I've only shared this blog with the BLC and a few others. My husband hasn't even seen it. Last night, I was going through and I decided to watch my post about the Spoken Word Blog Round Up. It was only the second time I had ever shared my blog, even among the BLC. (A very scary and brave decision.) I had my headphones in and didn't realize that my husband had noticed my screen. He asked why I was crying on there. I said it was nothing and changed the subject. I think sharing this place with him will be the hardest step for me. I don't know why. Nathan was OUR son. Of all the people in the world, he should be the one who understands the most but I don't think he does. I'm not angry anymore but I don't know if he will ever understand how hurt and disappointed I was to not have him there. I think it will always be the changing moment in our marriage... the first and only time he has ever let me down. I was so in shock that week, it didn't even dawn on me how important that decision and moment would be for us and our marriage. We've gotten through the rough patches and will continue to survive but I don't think my heart will ever get over that moment.
I'm not an emotional/talking kinda person so it was tough to open up to my therapist in the beginning. I don't like to cry around people and I couldn't even think about him without crying, let alone talk about him and say his name. My blog was created and the first post was written a month after Nathan died. It was a suggestion that my therapist gave me. I did it as an outlet; a way to express my feelings. It was private and just for me. It was a way to get my thoughts from my brain into something visual/tangible... a way to work through the confusion and pain. Half of the time, none of it made sense and I felt like I repeated myself (a lot). I began to notice that it did help though. It helped to set aside those moments, write, release my thoughts and, quite often, have a good cry. I know that it has helped. Just last night, I went back and re-read some of my posts and I see a difference. I'm a different person than I was a year ago. The pain isn't as fresh and raw as it once was. When I read those earlier posts, I can feel the hurt in my words and I cry just reading them. It takes me back to that moment and allows me to experience it again. I know that sounds horrible and morbid but sometimes I actually miss those early days. The pain and fresh grief is what tied me to so closely to Nathan. The farther I have gotten from it... the farther I feel that I am from him. I know that I'll never stop missing him or loving him but I often wonder how I've gotten "comfortable" with it.
In the beginning, as I began to reach out to the BLC, I read more and more and it became increasingly comforting to know that so many of my thoughts were experienced by others. I wasn't wierd. I wasn't morbid. I wasn't obsessing. I was normal. I was simply missing my baby and trying to wrap my mind around everything that I was feeling... everything that I had been through. I began to notice that many other bloggers were able to express, in writing, the exact thoughts that were in my head. It was amazing to read a complete stranger's post and feel like they had picked my brain and written my thoughts and feelings. Finally, even if it wasn't my writing, there was something that connected my thoughts and made them into something "real"... something understood.
Over time, I began to figure out the blogs I wanted to follow... the people that I felt "connected" to and who's writing I felt spoke to me. I currently have 47 blogs that I follow. I don't always respond but I do read each one of their posts. There are some days that I just simply don't know what to say and so, I read and pray for them. I've followed them through many changes over the last year. Many of them have begun to welcome their rainbows (see the picture below), while some have said no more. There are a few who, like me, are still on the lonely path of infertility and are unsure of what the future holds. (A couple with endometriosis-related infertility, like me.) Some have divorced, married, moved, changed jobs, etc. Many of them are years into their grief and some are approaching those last "1st year" milestones, like me. I added a few who are closer to the beginning of their journey and it breaks my heart to recognize the pain in their writings.
"I'm approaching my son's first birthday in Heaven, next week, but I remember those early days. I remember reaching out, desperate to find and connect with someone who understood. I have a living child so my days were filled with him. They were filled with the auto-pilot, mind numbing daily chores of life. However, at night... I would sit on the computer for hours, sometimes getting only a couple hours of sleep. It was like I was dying of thirst and I was soaking up every single drop of water just to survive. I would cling to the heartbreaking (but comforting) reality that others had gone through this and survived... they were surviving. I thought perhaps they could share the secret... the secret of how to survive without my son. Because honestly, in the beginning, I couldn't imagine spending the rest of my life without him. I soon learned that there is no secret. It's just taking it one day at a time... sometimes one hour at a time. The BLC has been my saving grace. When others thought I was obsessing or harboring morbid thoughts, the BLC took me in. They understood me when nobody else did. I can't begin to imagine where I would be had those moms not reached out to me and taken the time to email or visit my blog and comment. I'm surviving because of the courage, hope and love they gave me."
It is an unimaginably, isolating feeling to feel like nobody understands. It hurts to feel like you are destined to be alone in your pain forever. I wish so badly that I wasn't a part of the BLC (baby loss community) but I can't possibly imagine where I'd be right now without them. There is a bond between those of us who've been there. While I wish I didn't... it's lifesaving to feel like I fit in. It's nice to be among those who don't think I am morbid or obsessive; to be among people who are able to look at my pictures, hear my stories and see the love, beauty and fierce protective instincts that I have for my child simply because that is all I have. They simply "get it" and are there to hold me and support me when I feel like there is no possible way that I'll survive the pain. As I begin moving into new chapters of my life, the BLC will move with me and they will know and understand that Nathan will never be forgotten. I don't feel like I have to move on or get over him. They understand that I will still have difficult days and I will forever miss him. The strength and compassion that they offer, will help me to get through the challenging days and once again find joy in living.
Some people I've met along this journey have been in my life for a season... long enough to help me through the pain and initial stages of my grief. Some, however, have made a permanent impact on my life. I will be forever thankful for each one because they have helped me to survive the hardest year of my life.
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