Not this year. This year, most of the general population expects me to be "over it" enough to hardly remember the day. I'll never forget that day. It was the day a detour was placed in my path...not a fork. Oh no, most people get the fork. A path they get to choose for themselves. Not me. I got the damn detour. "This way is closed for you." In my path were dark clouds, fallen branches, potholes, quick sand, mud, and flying monkeys (well, maybe I exaggerated with the monkeys...). Shouldn't the detour sign have been for THAT path? Why was I being detoured AWAY from the bright blue skies and clear pavement? Why do I get to watch everyone I know walk down THAT path but I'm forbidden? Now that I'm on the other side of that forest, I can still see everyone else on their path. Theirs is still paved and I'm still on the dirt road. They can't see what's beneath my feet. It doesn't cross most of their minds to look at what we're walking on. We all have clear skies and the forest is long gone...yet I still walk on the dirt which, by the way, has mud holes along the way that I try to avoid, but sometimes are inevitable. Must be easy to forget my struggle through the dark forest when you never had a detour. You got to walk along your pretty, clear pavement and my struggle was hidden from you by the forest that enveloped my entire being. Seems pretty easy to dodge the mud holes when you can't see them, huh? Believe me, they are there. The big ones are anniversaries.
Yesterday was the 2 year anniversary of the day we received Tyler's diagnosis. The day we found out he had a condition deemed "incompatible with life". I dub thee "D-day". Unlike last year, I didn't watch the clock, remembering every moment of the previous year: when we left our house, when we got to the hospital, the time we were just walking around in the hospital after the doctor told us his findings were "concerning", the moments between when the doctor handed me a box of tissues and when he told us our baby was going to die...the list goes on. After telling our parents that day, I collapsed in bed, emotionally exhausted. As I woke, realizing it was NOT a bad dream, I cried some more. I went from LOVING every little movement inside me, to dreading it now. It was a constant reminder of what was being ripped away from me at any moment. It was one of the top 3 worst days of my life. It may have been THE worst. As awful as it was to have my only child (at the time) die in my arms then let him go the next day, there was still some beauty in those moment. Not D-day. There was no silver lining in "Your baby has bilateral renal agenesis, meaning the kidneys did not form, which is incompatible with life"..."If you choose to carry to term, your baby may only live a few moments, if born alive"..."Your baby may die in utero"..."Your baby may not survive labor and delivery"..."You can get a second opinion, but I have no doubt"... Those are the little snippets of the conversation I remember. I don't see a sliver of hope, do you?
Not this year. This year, most of the general population expects me to be "over it" enough to hardly remember the day. I'll never forget that day. It was the day a detour was placed in my path...not a fork. Oh no, most people get the fork. A path they get to choose for themselves. Not me. I got the damn detour. "This way is closed for you." In my path were dark clouds, fallen branches, potholes, quick sand, mud, and flying monkeys (well, maybe I exaggerated with the monkeys...). Shouldn't the detour sign have been for THAT path? Why was I being detoured AWAY from the bright blue skies and clear pavement? Why do I get to watch everyone I know walk down THAT path but I'm forbidden? Now that I'm on the other side of that forest, I can still see everyone else on their path. Theirs is still paved and I'm still on the dirt road. They can't see what's beneath my feet. It doesn't cross most of their minds to look at what we're walking on. We all have clear skies and the forest is long gone...yet I still walk on the dirt which, by the way, has mud holes along the way that I try to avoid, but sometimes are inevitable. Must be easy to forget my struggle through the dark forest when you never had a detour. You got to walk along your pretty, clear pavement and my struggle was hidden from you by the forest that enveloped my entire being. Seems pretty easy to dodge the mud holes when you can't see them, huh? Believe me, they are there. The big ones are anniversaries.
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I think it's just human nature to want to be understood. Nobody enjoys feeling like an outcast. Being gawked at, like a freak. But I also think that the need to be understood should not be confused with the need to justify or rationalize. I need people to understand my pain in losing my child, but I won't justify the way I grieve. I need people to understand his purpose, that his life HAS purpose. And I need people to understand why it's so important to me to keep his memory alive not only within myself, but within my entire family. He was just as much a part of it as anyone else, his time here was just short. He was never less alive than any other member. Like I've said a hundred times on this site and through these blogs, having more children will not take away the pain I will always feel from losing my first child. For some reason, certain people can't get that through their thick skulls. I appreciate Keira in a way that I never could have without Tyler and more than most people appreciate their children. Never have I felt more like every child is a blessing than I do now. Tyler gave me that gift. Keira will grow up knowing about Tyler because we want her to understand that when her mommy and daddy are sad, it's not because she did anything wrong or because we are not proud of her. We are sad because a piece of our hearts are missing. As much as we love her, we miss him the same. I have a BLM friend who I recently found out is a twin. Her brother died at birth. She grew up knowing she was a twin and was always proud to say it. I want that for Keira. I want her to always know she had a brother. There's nothing morbid about that. Keira gets to have the best of both worlds...she gets to be protected by her "big" brother, but she will get to be the oldest of our living children.
Contrary to old-school mentality, talking about our deceased children is healing and healthy. Hiding your feelings and pretending you're "fine", when you're torn up inside, is not. How do I know this? Because I HAVE EXPERIENCED IT. You know when I was at my worst in my grief? When I didn't know how to handle it, so I hid it behind a fake smile and mindless chatter. When did I start feeling better? When I let myself just cry. When I let myself be angry. When I allowed the hurt to come out. Once I released it, I started feeling better. I will not bury my emotions to protect other people from being uncomfortable. Quite frankly, I don't care if pictures of Tyler in MY house make anyone uncomfortable. It's my house with my husband and we will choose what goes on in it. If my tears make you uncomfortable, you're being selfish. If I cry, it's not because of YOU, it's because I have, and will always have, pain in my heart. I have a very select few friends who don't bat an eye at a chance to talk about Tyler. They don't try to push me into "getting over" it. They accept me and love me for who I am and what I've become, a bereaved parent. That status doesn't change over time. And those same friends would cry along with me today. They wouldn't look at me like a freak and expect me to put that pain away so they don't have to see it anymore. They understand that this is my new normal, this is my everyday, and I don't have to justify my actions or feelings to them. To those friends, BLM's or not, thank you for not judging me and accepting every broken piece of me. |
Brittany ClarkI'm blogging in hopes of reaching out to other parents who have to face the most heartbreaking experience in life. Archives
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