A Grief Observed: The Mind and Body

I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
I would be pure, for there are those who care;
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

(Howard Arnold Walter)

Remember this post? I wasn't kidding when I said that that Grief and Stress can greatly affect the body.

In October, I learned of some health issues that I was experiencing that were likely brought on by the overwhelming stress caused by multiple and major Life Changes last year. So I began treatments and started to simplify my life. I thought I had everything under control.

And then November hit.

One evening, I was sitting in bed, going over the digital files for our Christmas Card before we sent them to print. I remember looking over the content with David, shaking my head that this was REALLY our card this year. I couldn't bring myself to sign our individual names and not include Bennett and so I opted for signing our surname. Who would have thought these little things would be so hard?

Awhile later, the kids were tucked in their beds, long asleep, and David had drifted off into Dreamland. I had just switched off my lamp and laid my head on the pillow when the world began to cave in on me. I started choking, I couldn't breathe, my entire body was shaking, my heart was going crazy and I felt like I was going to black out.

In short, I felt like I was dying.

In fear of passing away in my sleep without David knowing, I shook him and muttered that we needed to get to the hospital. Fast. I was dying. I could feel it. I looked at the clock. It was 1 am. I picked up the phone and called my parents. I awoke them (of course) and begged them to come and watch our kids while David took me to the emergency room.

To be honest, I didn't know if I'd be coming back. I felt Life slipping from me. I have never been so scared in my Life.

Actually, I take that back. January 22nd takes the cake.

Now, a little clarification here. I am not afraid of Death. Quite the contrary. In a healthy way, I quite look forward to the Next Life. But right now, my family is in a vulnerable position. My kids need their Mommy and my Honey needs his Sweetheart. I knew that. And so - for their sake - I knew that it couldn't be my time to go. It just couldn't.

As my parents spoke to me on the phone, David pulled out the lap top. We started typing my symptoms into google. The results were not promising. A heart attack, Aneurysm, or Acute Anxiety Attack. The symptoms were hauntingly the same.

Ugh. Options, not good.

My Mom and Dad told me to get in the bathtub and see if if the symptoms subsided. If it was an anxiety attack, they would gradually diminish. If not, I probably should get to the hospital. Stat.

So I did.

Over the next hour, the symptoms DID subside. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep in my husband's arms, promising that I would get to the doctor sometime that week.

Well, that was #1 out of 4 attacks that occurred in the next 7 days. Each episode happened at different times, triggered by the unknown. Nothing overly emotional, upsetting or troubling preceding each one. They arrived unannounced, paralyzing me without a moment's notice. It. Was. Hell.

By the end of the week, I knew I had to see a Doctor. And fast. I made an appointment for that morning and was soon sitting knee to knee with our family practioner. As I discussed my symptoms, he asked me a series of questions surrounding my current Life Situation. When I gave him the Readers Digest version of this year's happenings, I thought he was going to fall off his chair. He just stared at me wide eyed.

And then we began to discuss options.

Side Note - At Bennett's viewing/funeral, I had multiple people recommend that we get on medication to help "numb the pain." I thought that was crazy. I felt it important that - as a family - we all be on the same page in our Grief. If we were going to walk this path, we were going to walk it together. That was my opinion.

That is, until the attacks began.

So my Doctor told me that a few things were necessary.

1 - I had to simplify. Everything. And I. Mean. EVERYTHING. That calling that I had just accepted to Chair our Congregation's Christmas Party? It was a no go. Wow. For Little Miss "Sign me up for it", this was going to be hard.

2 - I had to learn how to relax my mind, body and spirit. My Doctor suggested Meditation. I prefer prayer. I needed to find a way to take my mind to a Peaceful Place when I could feel Anxiety coming on. Hmmm . . . this was going to take practice.

3 - Medication WAS necessary. This would take care of itself in time but - until then - I had to be functioning. For Myself, for my Children and for my Sweetheart.

And so it goes. I've been on anxiety meds for two months now and I am happy to say that I am fully functioning and coherent. I am not numb and I completely feel the ups and downs of Life and Grief along with my family. The difference? I am not paralyzed with Anxiety and Fear. We have had to make changes and I have had to develop skills. Skills that I will use for the rest of my life. I don't know what triggered the attacks 10 months into our experience. It was probably more of "the straw that broke the camel's back" scenerio. But it is what it is. And we're dealing with it. Together.

Is my battle with Anxiety over? Hardly. I know I will deal with anxiety - to one extent or another - for the rest of my life. Especially when I have another babe. But I am not willing to let Fear get in the way of the greatest Joys in life. I will not. I will choose to Love. I will choose to have Hope. I will choose to keep Believing. And I will continue to Live.

The moral of the story? There are many things in life that you have no control over. And - at times - that sucks. But what you CAN control is the way that you deal with it. And taking care of yourself is the LEAST selfish thing you can do.

That's what I know for sure.

Real

So, I've been out awhile. The cause? A combination of things. The health issues of a child, an upcoming move and simply the fact that I didn't feel like writing.

So, I didn't.

So where am I at?

I am sad.

I am grateful.

I am nervous.

And I am hopeful.

In a few weeks, we'll be moving. Again. And with that move will come a wave of emotions. I'll be unpacking items that I haven't seen in over a year. A crib, a carseat, bins of clothing, bedding and items that were oh-so-special to a precious little blonde, blue-eyed boy. And - in all honesty - I'm scared.

I'm scared of going back to a really raw place. I'm scared that I may not be ready to deal with some very real feelings. I'm scared that I won't want to use the crib my son died in. And yet, I'm scared to get rid of it. And I'm scared of moving on to this new chapter without my son.

I'm grateful for new begginings. I'm grateful for a home that is customized to fit the needs, lifestyle and tastes of our family (particularly me ;0). I'm grateful for a fantastic new neighborhood, congregation and friends that have already blessed my life. And I'm grateful to God who is the Great Giver of all these Gifts.

I am nervous for what's ahead. I am nervous that I will deal with infertility again. I am nervous about the anxiety I will feel when having another baby. I am nervous about my baby sleeping . . . period. I am nervous about what the core of another child's health concerns are. I am nervous about my ability to adapt to even more change. And I am nervous that my children will grow up with a worry wort mother.

But I am hopeful for our future. God loves me - He tells me daily - and has a plan for our family. He has led us this far, guiding us every step of the way, and will not leave us comfortless. We don't have all the answers but we are closely connected with The One who does. Will hard times come? You can count on it. But are there good things ahead? You. Bet. And we'll celebrate it all. The Good AND the Growing.

Because that's who we are. And that is who we will continue to be.

Of People, Pinwheels and Promises

I am feeling sad today. Maybe tomorrow I will write of the Peace, Joy and Comfort we felt on our first Christmas without Bennett. But today, I just feel sad.

And that's okay.

This afternoon, after leaving a family activity early with a melting down Ashton, I buckled my boy in and just drove. My car (that is in great need of a post-holiday detail) drove all over the city. Passed our framed new home, through our new neighborhood, passed the home that we shared with Bennett and on to his grave. It seemed that my car knew the direction that it needed to go. I just sat behind the wheel and took it in.

The tour concluded as we pulled into the hollowed ground of the cemetery. As I pulled to a stop near the curb, bright colors that contrasted against the black granite of Bennett's memorial caught my eye. I parked the car and walked over to his grave. Sprinkled around My Boy's memorial was a handful of handmade pinwheels. A note was left from a dear friend and her family sharing that they had come on Christmas Eve to remember our sweet son who reminded them of the precious Christ Child. I fell to my knees on the wet grass, bowed my head and just wept.

I wept for sweet friends, both near and abroad. I wept at their sacrifice, charity and thoughtfulness to share such a tender evening remembering our Angel and our family. I wept for the son that I'd prefer to be chasing around the house instead of memorializing in granite. And I wept out of gratitude for that Precious Mother and her tiny Babe.

And then I wept for the Pinwheels.

Pinwheels? you might ask. Why pinwheels?

Well, there is a story there.

A few months after Bennett's death, I realized that I needed to do something healing with Bennett's clothes. It was just too excruciating to see them laying unused in his drawers and Rubbermaid bins. I didn't want to give them away and see them on another child. I didn't want to store them in the closet. And I didn't know if I'd want to have a future sibling wear them. I wanted to find a way to turn them into something that symbolized comfort, love and healing.

And so we decided to make a blanket.

Better said, two dear friends volunteered to make Bennett Blankets FOR us.

One of our sweet friends - a gifted quilter herself - asked what we wanted her to create. I shared with her the image of a Pinwheel Quilt that another Angel Mother had shared with me. It seemed perfect. Cheery, Hopeful, Child-like and packed with meaning. Some have asked if I still think of Bennett every day. "Only on the days that I breathe," I respond. And so this pinwheel represents the movement of my lungs. Whether that movement takes me forward or backward is up to me. But there WILL BE movement, nonetheless.

So pinwheels have come to symbolize our journey. The Joy, Faith, Hope and Movement. Some days it may be 2 steps forward, 3 steps back. But every day we move. Because we must.

Did this sweet friend know of our Precious Pinwheels? Who knows? But I know One who did. And that simple gift was such a tender mercy to me. A reminder that I am not alone. That in moments good and growing, I have One that is watching over me, weeping alongside me and - if needed - carrying me through these harrowing moments. What will the future hold? I know not. But I know where I will be. Moving forward. Will there be fear? Yes. Will there be adjustment? Yes. Will there be loss? Surely. But I'm not doing it alone. That, He has promised. And a Tender Father in Heaven will put in my path all that I need to succeed. Be it Precious People or Pinwheels.

That is His Promise.

And I'll hold Him to it.

A Mother's Love

I am home from church with the Little Guy today. We both have been having some health issues of late that have prevented us from going to church the day of the Primary Program. Blast.

I have been thinking about my last days with Bennett this morning. As in, my last days with his body. We were blessed to have a lot of time with him after his passing. That was a gift. Simply a gift.

After we learned that Bennett had passed away hours before we found him, we were told that the medical examiner would be arriving shortly and that we would have 15 minutes to spend with our boy before he was taken away for an autopsy.

That was simply not okay with me.

I immediately pulled our Investigator aside and told him that though I knew I couldn't do anything to bring my son back, I knew that I HAD to handle this in the a way that would promote healing for my family.

And so, I asked for Time.

Time to hold him, time to caress him, time to bring his siblings in and tell them what had happened. And time for David to give him a final Father's blessing. The investigator heard this Mother's plea and kindly relented.

What happened in the next four hours was heartbreaking, harrowing and nothing short of sacred. I wrapped him in the blankie I had made for him before he was born. I held his body close to mine. I kissed his sweet little cheeks. I ran my fingers through his hair. I gently pushed back his eyelids to once again see his lovely baby blues. And I told his brother and sisters that Bennett was called Home. That is, to his Heavenly Home. And that - though at times we would feel him close - he wouldn't be living in our house anymore. That is one of the hardest things I have ever done. E V E R. No mother should ever have to have that conversation with her children.

After four beautiful hours together, the medical examiner arrived and I was told it was time to take Bennett away. I refused to put him in a body bag so instead I opted to wrap him in a beautiful white blanket and personally "tuck him in" the car. Fastening him on the gurney was one of the most surreal moments of my life. I experienced firsthand what it feels like to have your heart break. Literally. Break. As they closed the door, I stood outside the vehicle with my mother. My nose pressied against the glass as I took one last look at my boy. I couldn't get enough. I just needed more. More time, more kisses, more cuddles, more giggles. More bedtime stories, more holidays, more birthdays, more memories. Just. More.

I received a call from the mortuary Monday night notifying me that Bennett's body had been received. They needed time to prepare him to be seen. I don't know if I was prepared for the trauma of an autopsy. Even though I could feel no life in my child, no mother wants to see their child in that condition. That said, the Spirit fell on us and we were able to see him as our son. We held him, touched him, kissed him, dressed him and whispered sweet sentiments in his ear. I knew he heard every word because I knew he was with us. There is no where else he'd rather be.

In the next few days, we spent every moment possible at the mortuary. In fact, it was on the couch holding Bennett that David and I penned our joint funeral address. Our children LOVE story time - Bennett included - and so we decided to share our thoughts in the format of a story. I'm sure it was Bennett's idea. ;0)

During one of our visits at the mortuary, our tender mortician asked us if we would like Bennett to spend his last evening before burial in our home. We tearfully replied yes. We thought it would be a perfect opportunity for our little family to say our final "see you laters."

After our first viewing Thursday night (that was five hours long . . .), we retreated to our home and Bennett followed us shortly. With tender love, the funeral directors carried his little casket in our home and asked us where we wanted him to be. The Family Room, of course. For the next hour, we held him, caressed him, did our family cheer, had a family prayer and sang some of Bennett's favorite songs. While we did so, a gifted photographer that kindly offered her services to us captured every moment. During our time, Ashton (who had been quite reluctant to see his brother's body) took his car and kept driving it up and down Bennett's chest. "Wake up, Bennett! Wake up! Let's play cahs!" he kept saying. My heart smiled and broke all at once.

As time quickly passed, we soon realized that we had to get at least a few hours of sleep before the viewing and funeral the following day. And so we sang Bennett's song (a tradition every night before he went to bed), tucked him in, and even left a light on in the hallway for him. Just because. And I couldn't help but steal an extra kiss or two from my boy. Time was short. I knew it. And I had to take advantage of each moment.

I awoke hours later, unable to sleep. I snuck downstairs and picked up my boy, trying to take in every moment in the quiet hours of the morning. With the dawn would come new realities. Like burying my boy. While each moment spent with him confirmed that he was not with us, each second was a treasured gift. My heart took a picture. I knew it would not last forever. And I knew that I would look back on these moments for years to come, trying to remember every. little. detail.

How right I was.

Awhile later, David stumbled downstairs. He too wanted to share some quiet moments with our son. Within minutes, the girls joined us, each wanting to cuddle, hold and create "a moment" with their little brother. Their ease and affection amazed me. They loved him in death as they did in life. It was such a lesson to me. How blessed I am to be their Mother.

Around 7 or 8, the funeral directors arrived. When they walked in the home, we both knew that my time with Bennett's body was nearing an end. Though I could touch and caress him in his casket at his viewing, I knew my moments to hold him in my arms were over. I held him close one last time, cupped his fingers in my hand, kissed his sweet little face and whispered tender reassurances in his ear. And then I tucked him in and they took him away.

The viewing that morning was far different than the one the night before. The previous evening, I had our time with Bennett at home to look forward to. We were strong, we were comforted and we wanted to share our peace with others. But the morning of his burial, all I could feel was loss intermingled with heavy doses of God's love and peace. A chapter in our family book was closing. One that's story had just begun. And one I was not ready to finish.

After emotionally greeting many loved ones at the viewing, family and close friends gathered as the doors to the room closed. My Father offered a beautiful blessing on Bennett and on our family that gave me the strength I needed to do what was ahead. When his prayer was over, one by one, family members approached his casket to say their final goodbyes. Many members of my family had written love notes to Bennett that would surround him with love until we were reunited. I loved that.

And then it was our turn.

As I approached the casket, I longed to hold my baby again. In hindsight, I wish I had. That perhaps is my only regret. But instead, I caressed his hair, I covered his face with my tears and kisses and I even took off his socks to kiss his sweet "toesies" (something he loved) once more. David joined me and did the same. Together we stood, learning over the body of our son, holding each other up. We would make it through. We would tread this path together. And - with the Lord - we would do whatever was required to be together again. THAT was for certain.

And then, we closed the casket.

Why am I writing about this now? Because my arms have been aching - ACHING - to hold my little man this week. And though it would be ideal to hold him in life, I would even settle for holding him in death. Though not the same, it was so precious to be with him. To hold him, caress him and shower him with all the love and adoration we have for him. He was adored. And he knew it. And I pray that after looking down on how we continued to care for him after his passing, he knows that more than ever.

So for now, I reach my arms heavenward. Whenever they are feeling extra empty, I ask God to fill them with Love - His Love - for me. Sometimes that comes in holding one of Bennett's siblings. Sometimes that comes in holding another little child. And often it occurs in the form of putting my arms around another who is in need of peace, love and comfort.

Because as I help other's feel God's love and grace, I feel a little bit of Heaven in my home. In other words, I feel my Bennett. And I'm one step closer to being with him again.

And heaven knows there's no where else I'd rather be.

Recognising Miracles

After the kids were in bed tonight, I decided to peruse Netflix so I could watch a flick while I cleaned up the post-Christmas decoration mess (yes, it's up). While flipping through the numerous options, I happened upon a 13 minute story entitled "In the Arms of Angels". The short film relayed the story of a Pioneer brother and sister and the heavenly intervention that took place that saved their lives.

*PAUSE BUTTON - I must note - in full disclosure - that "faith promoting" stories have not always comforted my heart since Bennett's death. Oft times when I hear tales like "I was backing out of the driveway and felt prompted to check behind the car and discovered that I almost ran over the garbage can", I feel conflicted, torn and - at times - even angry. Why was their seemingly inconsequential prayer answered before it was even uttered? Why didn't I hear my son - whose crib I could see across the hallway - while his life slipped away? Why did I not receive a prompting that may have saved his life?

Perhaps some of you flinch as you even read those questions. I have as I've asked them. At times they have tormented my soul. But they are raw, they are real and they are legitimate. It is what it is and it's part of the journey.

Okay, back to our story.

So the older sister makes a decision that puts her and her brother's life in danger. Then, in the midst of disaster, angels lift and save them from sure death. They are rescued and live to tell the tale.

So how does this apply to me, you ask? I will tell you. It's all in the application.

There were a few lines written in the narration that cut me to the core.

Life is lessons.

Life is troubles.

Learning obedience may be Life's hardest lesson of all.

I would add that accepting God's will and going forward IS the highest form of obedience. It's dang tough. But necessary.

Another . . .

There are times in everyone's life that you feel that you've been given the short end of the stick. I believe that at those times we need to accept the situation, pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and move on.

Move on. Hmmm . . .

That principle echoes in my soul. I may have worded it differently ("go forward" would be my phrase of choice) but there is truth in the concept.

So what was my take away after watching this 13 minute film? Did I walk away feeling guilty, cheated, or abandoned? Hardly. I was inspired. And I'll tell you why.

I was reminded that miracles come in all shapes and sizes. Sure, there are those that are immediately recognised as such. And then there are the other kind.

Like the death of our sweet Bennett.

Did the word "miracle" EVER cross my mind in the moments immediately following our horrific discovery? Uh, heck no. But in the days, weeks and months following this realization, I have seen God's grace first hand.

I have witnessed the goodness of humanity.

I have felt God's all consuming love so intimately in my "midnight moments."

I have been carried by a Loving Father in Heaven and His Angels. Both on Earth and in Heaven.

I have experienced a "peace that surpasses all understanding."

I have met so many beautiful human beings around the world that have supported, lifted and comforted me in my loss.

I have felt my belief and faith strengthened while living one of my greatest fears.

I have known Hope in Heartache.

And I have been directed in how to help my precious loved ones as they grieve the loss of their brother and son.

All things considered, God IS a God of Miracles. THAT I know. They happen everyday, be it in the Good or the Growing. It is simply up to us to recognise His hand. Is it easy? HECK NO! But it is what we were sent here to learn. Tough things are going to happen. After all, Fair is where they show the pigs. But what we BECOME from it is entirely up to us.

So I choose to see Miracles.