Flynn's Story

When I told Flynn’s story to my own support group 11 years ago, I focused on the months and even year leading up to Flynn’s death.  I actually only allowed for 2 sentences at the end of two pages to talk about Flynn. I was devastated by his loss but at the time I was also struggling with the guilt, blame and anger that fertility challenges and hospital politics contributed to our story.  On the 11^th anniversary of his birth and death, my perspective is different, the loss is the same but my focus and what I want to share today has changed.

Our first son, Rhys, was 2 years and 6 months old when we found out we were pregnant on Boxing Day of 2001.  The first four months of the pregnancy were normal.  We heard a heartbeat at 10 weeks and the midwife had commented how early that was and how lucky we were.  I felt the first taps at 14 weeks and by 16 weeks I was joking that our baby had a soccer ball in utero with him.  I felt a deep bond with this baby; I talked to him, dreamed with him and told him constantly how much he was awaited.  In retrospect I was much more connected to him than I had been during my first pregnancy, when I was just in awe of the whole process.

At 17 weeks pregnant, we flew to Calgary for my best friend’s wedding.  I hate flying but I remained extremely calm and tried to keep my stress at bay for the sake of my baby.  The flight was fine.  I was a groomswoman in the wedding and right before the ceremony I started to spot and cramp.  Some of the other bridesmaids were pregnant too (3 to be exact) and they told me that it was probably nerves and that this was not abnormal. I think I believed what I needed to, to get through that day.

The next day was spent in the Banff emergency clinic with a non-stress machine locating the baby’s heartbeat and a doctor telling us how lucky we were and that we had a “missed miscarriage.”  He told us to have an ultrasound when we got home.

We were barely landed when our midwife called with an ultrasound appointment for the following day. We took Rhys with us to the appointment and I remember the ultrasound technician telling him that he was going to have a brother.  The baby was growing normally and there was no evidence of trouble.  Our midwife called later that day to tell us that everything looked fine but they were sending us to a specialized hospital for a better diagnostic ultrasound just to be sure.

The next four weeks would take hours to describe.  What I will write is that we spent days in the hospital as my spotting turned to bleeding and “no evidence of trouble” turned to placenta previa with a placenta abruption.  My husband tried his best to juggle being a dad to a 3 year old, housekeeper and employee and visit me in the hospital when I was admitted for a week.  We had 6 ultrasounds in total and at times we knew more than we wanted to know about every blip and hiccup. However, the baby was progressing normally and seemed unaffected by my body’s inability to carry him.

At 20 weeks gestation I was in the hospital with contractions, hooked up to machines with nurses rubbing my back or holding my hand.  The attending doctor came into the room and told me that I needed to relax and everything would be fine, he said I was being dramatic.  I don’t think he had even left the room when I began to cry uncontrollably.  A very sympathetic nurse called my midwife to come in and calm me down.  My midwife sat with me and let me know that things were not looking good.  It was the first time that anyone had said that to me in the three weeks prior and up until that moment I had believed I was going to be fine.    She told me that my blood count was extremely low and that the continued bleeding meant the abruption was not healing.  She suggested that we start to think about what we wanted to do with the time we had left in this pregnancy and to make tough decisions about the baby; she gave us the grave reality about his chances for survival if he was born.  My husband came to the hospital that night and we sat down and thought about this little boy’s name, what we would call him and we discussed what we would do if we were faced with him arriving too early.  We came to the conclusion that we would not go to the specialized hospital, we would not try to sustain life or resuscitate him if he arrived early.  We made some of the toughest choices we will ever have to make.  When we thought we would be picking out nursery colours, we were choosing whether to intervene with our son’s quality of life.

I talked to Flynn daily; he kicked all the time which gave me peace of mind that he was listening.  I begged him to stick with me, to stay put if he could because we so desperately wanted him with us.

At 22 weeks, 5 days my water broke at home, and by the next day, surrounded by my parents, my husband and his mother I went in to labour.  The doctor on call offered to send us to the neonatal hospital.  She gave us the statistics that Flynn would only have a 1% chance of surviving his birth at the neonatal hospital and his chances of any quality of life were less still.  If he were born in our local hospital he would not live very long.  I was in transition at the time and my husband had to face the decision on his own.  He decided we would go to the neonatal hospital; he could not be responsible for not giving our son a chance. 

The ambulance arrived, we were preparing to leave and I had the urge to push.  Everything became very chaotic at this point, but moments later Flynn was born.  He arrived at 9:35pm on May 3, 2002.  He was 11 inches long and weighed 1 pound 6 ounces.  The paediatrician let us know that he had very little time and the nurses wrapped him in a quilt and brought him to us.  He looked just like his older brother, with fuzzy white hair, a little button nose and a pouty lower lip.  His arms and legs were long for his size and he kicked us a couple of times while we held him.  Those tiny movements brought me comfort that I cherish to this day.  I watched his chest rise and fall and held his tiny hand around my index finger. I heard the nurses as they let us know how many beats per minute his tiny heart was taking.  My parents got to hold him and my husband’s parents got to hold him.  Flynn was in his daddy’s arms when his little heart beat for the last time.  He was so loved on that day and every day since.  Although I remember him every day, it is on his birth day that I stop and cherish the time we had.

Puddle Jumping

 Sometimes I wonder if my blog simplifies life into a succession of losses? While some losses are more predictable in nature, others are shock provoking. Then there are the neither anticipated nor catastrophe losses; the kind that leave you affected but lacking societal recognition. In terms of defined grief reactions this is sometimes categorized under disenfranchised grief. These types of losses are often experienced in an imposed isolation. Sequestered to the shadows to accommodate the discomfort of the many. Here are the grievers of miscarriage, suicide, divorce and separation, death of a pet, to name just a few. In actuality any loss can become disenfranchised grief dependent on how empathetic and validating your community (friends and family) is to your experience of loss.

To clarify, I do not go through life puddle jumping from one loss to the next and I am most definitely a glass half full person, however, we are exposed to more loss then we are allowed* to discuss or experience. Our losses like our joys enrich our time spent on this planet and enable us to grow introspectively and spiritually.  It can be a detriment to our personhood if we are encouraged to process this in solitude or nullify the pain of our struggle.

*by allowed I mean both what is recognized as acceptable or common experiences of grief (and what is not), in addition to the permission that is bestowed on us through cultural and societal norms.

So what the hell is this blog about anyway?  I am climbing down from my soap box resting on top of our death denying and loss denying society to explain.

I am in the last leg of my Master of Social Work degree and starting a new chapter in my career. With that comes an end to more than a decade of pursuing post secondary education.  Inevitably my degree will and already has had an impact on my identity - how I see myself and how I am viewed - while mostly positive I do still struggle with launching professionally from here.  It may not be easy to see the loss entangled in the accomplishment of obtaining a degree but they are there.  I have had "little losses" along the way, some examples: leaving a practicum that I loved, missing daily interactions with fellow students and friends, struggling with continuously changing schedules from one semester to the next and ending sessions with clients.  It may be part of the landscape inherent in the life of a graduate student and I am sure it can be argued that this is what life is all about, managing and navigating little losses but all the same I have found it hard.

What I am experiencing is the accumulation of these little losses - professionally, scholastically and personally - and it feels familiar and at times sad.  In this current experience with navigating loss I have been met by ambivalence, anger and misunderstanding but rarely empathy. Maybe we are all too caught up with our own stuff but I have been surprised at the absence of empathic gestures and communication. Correction, I am not surprised having been bereaved I already knew that the world fails to be empathetic, I am disappointed.  Out of disappointment I am reminded to be mindful of what I evaluate to be relevant, important and valid and in actuality I should avoid evaluating all together.

People come to every interaction with a myriad of stressors and experiences that influence how they respond and engage - empathy may be the starting point of forming a connection.

What I do not know

I cannot write about the tragedy in Connecticut.
Writing a blog about grief and as a bereaved parent, it might seem like a natural place to find such a blog, but it won't happen here.  
I haven't watched the news or followed the story that has unfolded in Connecticut.  I know the basics of what happened and that is difficult enough to reconcile.  I cannot browse through the images of the parents or the children or the teachers that were so tragically affected.  I do not know how to hold the pain of this story and it is not MY story.

I have no idea how these families feel.
I do not know their pain.
I do not understand their losses.

The only thing I do know is that their grief will be endured for a lifetime. 

Life with the Bereaved

Recently my partner and I had a very candid discussion about grief and death as it is experienced from parents of the same child. The conversation took place over text - a "safe" medium to have one of those "tough conversations."  I asked his permission to post the conversation because I believe it is a representation of how differenly we have coped with and managed parenthood after our son's death.  We recently acknowledged the 10th anniversary of Flynn's death and in this discussion we are preparing to attend a holiday memorial service that we go to every year.
My partner had expressed ambivalence about attending the event prior to this conversation starting.

Himself:
What time are we going to the Tree of Bright Stars today?  Are we helping with the set up?

Me:
You don't have to come tonight.

Himself:
That is not why I was asking.  I was curious as to when we were going?
Himself:
For kid feeding purposes.

Me:
At 6 and you can stay home, you have made it clear lately that you don't want to go.

Himself:
At some point we are going to need to start the mending process again.  And I'm realizing that it is not going to be easy.
Himself:
I am not a fan of the gathering that is the Tree of Bright Stars. But I'm not opposed to the meaning of it.  I want to be there for you more than anything, even if it is not required for my own growth/healing with regard to Flynn.  I know I have missed  the underlying message before but I'm trying to correct that.  So even if my presence is  needed for your support  then I want to come.  Does that make sense?

Me:
Yes and I am not broken or less healed just because I acknowledge Flynn's life and death in a community that understands the enormity of this loss.  To be honest I am and was very angry with you and our therapist when you suggested that I was anything less than coping with my grief because as a bereaved parent I am overprotective. It is ignorance about coping and loss that makes it difficult for people to be bereaved and grow. As for personnal growth, the continued and very minute amount of memorializing that I do for me and at times this family is a testament to the resilience as a result of our son's life and death.

Himself:
Well said.

Me:
Don't come to support me, that statement tells me that you don't see yourself as a bereaved parent. I am not just a dead child's mother.

Himself:
Ok. Its apparent that I am very wrong. And obvious that you intend on continually painting me with the "he's in denial" brush.
Himself:
I am sorry that you view me this way.  I don't understand it.

Me:
I do not think you are in denial.  I have no idea how you feel, but your son died too. I am not sure why you see your role in memorializing events during the holidays as supporting me?

Himself:
Good point. But misunderstood. Maybe by me as well.  I guess I don't really know why I don't like attending the Tree festival. Or others like it.  I suppose if I really look at it...I have a distaste for grief.  Not sure really why, its not that I don't think people should be grieving.  Maybe as you have already suggested, I don't like facing it.  Mainly because it sucks.

Me:
Yes it does. What I know is that it does not suck any less if you do not face it.  Eventually you will reconcile the grief and not usually when it is convenient or even supported by those around you.

Himself:
Another good point.
Himself:
I will come tonight.  For the cookies.

Me:
I love you. Regardless if you come tonight or not.

Himself:
Thanks.  I really did need to hear that. I love you too.  Very much.

It must be hard to live with a bereaved parent, let alone two. It is the conversations and all the moments inbetween that make it possible to walk this journey together and differently.

Asking For Help (Part Two)

This blog was originally posted on Pilgrimage to Diagnosis earlier this year.  The blog was a raw, genuine exploration into how easy or difficult it can be to recognize your need for help.  This blog remains relevant today and especially after recognizing in my last post that I am having difficulty processing all of my thoughts and feelings.  If you read this when it was originally posted then this is a similar but different foray into vulnerability.  If this is the first time reading it then please enjoy!


When I began writing blogs it was out of a desire to normalize my experience of death and grief by reaching out and receiving support from a virtual community of grievers.  It would be accurate to say that blogging was a form of therapy for me. It is also a fair assessment that this blog has been a way to convey messages to people I love and care for, from a distance rather then engaging in a discussion face to face.
In blogging about my life of  learning to cope with and manage my grief, I truly believed I embodied transparency.  At times I was capable of revealing some intimate details about my grief journey following the death of Flynn.  Other times I was simply pondering a thought or expressing an opinion to an elusive virtual community. 
Moreover, I was keeping my world at arms length.

Remaining anonymous to my own life.

There is an ease to conveying your feelings from an empty dining room table.
When you do not have to vocalize your emotions to another face that may react to what you have to say; you can say anything.
My ability to be open about my grief has been conditional on doing it from behind a computer screen.  In reality open only meant sharing the tip of the iceberg; the remaining 90% of my experience of grief and loss has been buried far beneath the surface, untouchable.
Regardless of how much I have researched grief and bereavement or learned how to strengthen my therapeutic abilities, I have not found the "solution" to living a life free of loss. There is no way to "fix it."  Consider that for a second.  I cannot fix something that feels broken - there is helplessness or powerlessness.  I may have been able to tell clients that living with grief is a journey that remains with you for a lifetime but I am not sure whether I heard that message myself.  

For the past several weeks I have been participating in a "Use of Self" class where we were asked to examine how we (as clinicians) impact the therapeutic process.  This exploration of self has not happened in a vaccuum, life has continued to happen too and sometimes all this reflectiveness has "taken its toll."  Peeling back the layers of loss and examining the health of my coping strategies has created a roller coaster of emotion. I have tried to laugh.  Mostly I have cried, cried and cried some more. I have had to talk about how I have been feeling, because it has been impossible to ignore that I have been feeling. 
Admittedly, stoicism is an inherited trait.  Even in my virtual openness I am unwilling to examine the depth of my grief.  I have been stuck in perpetual discomfort at the challenge of being vulnerable (a position that I usually always  usually run from - and  h  e   r   e   -  I  -  g   o  - a  g  a  i  n). 

I have always encouraged people to recognize their limits and honour their emotions.  I have challenged family, friends and clients to see a request for help as a sign of strength.  My entire life, I have been gauging my strength on my ability to push through, buck up and carry on.  What a contradiction!  There is a need for the "push through it" mentality, but there is also a cost.  

In revealing myself  I would caution individuals from jumping to the conclusion that I am stuck in my grief or that I am not coping in a "healthy" way.  This post is serving as my vehicle for a deeper level of honesty, a revealing portrayl of a bereaved mother. 

I may need to get comfortable with asking for help.  For now, one day at a time.

"...love - any love - reveals us in our nakedness, our misery, our vulnerability, our nothingness." ~ Cesare Pavese