10 Years ~ A Photo Diary

Today was the ten year anniversary of Flynn's birth and death.  Even typing it seems unreal.  Although I kept a familiar routine to mark this day, I decided to approach the blog differently.  I wanted to do a photo diary so that I could document the day both literally and visually.

May 3rd, 2012

We have a box.

We keep it in the farthest corner of our closet and it is filled with memorabilia, such as: pictures, a pregnancy journal, a baby book, Flynn's quilt, etc.

It also has all the notes and cards that we received following his death.  Today I took them all out and read every one.  They are reminders of how far the pain of his death reached. Some of the note writers are no longer alive.  I hope Carlos, my Aunt and my Grandma are with Flynn now.

After reading the cards, I reached into the box and pulled out the gown and cap that Flynn wore that day.  I took out the quilt that he was wrapped in.  I touched them and smelled them and remembered how it felt to just hold him.

I looked through all the pictures that were taken the day that he was born. The family photo with me holding our tiny baby, while Flynn clung tightly to Landy's index finger.  There were photos that caught the look of despair on my parent's faces and some that captured the tears that wove a sombre path over the round of our cheeks.  I remember the words that I whispered just before they took me away for surgery.

"Remember, Mommy loves you always."

After putting away the box, I continued with my day by driving to a florist where I could pick up a bouquet of blue orchids. I buy them every year after they were abundantly splayed in a breathtaking arrangement on the top of Flynn's white sateen casket at his funeral.

The florist wanted to make them into a complicated bouquet.  I told her that it was not necessary; I was going to the cemetery with them.  She insisted that she must do something, so I let her put some baby's breath in with the orchids and tie it with a deep blue ribbon.  She told me it must be sad going to the cemetery.  I thought about it for a second and then replied,

"Not after 10 years, now it is a relief, I am actually looking forward to it, I am happy even." 

She starred at me.  "Even after all these years it can be hard. You mean that it is sad, right?"

I nodded obligingly.  It wasn't the day to argue.

I took the country roads out to the cemetery.  I love the drive; it is picturesque, with open fields and trees lining the winding road.  The entrance to the cemetery is flanked by an old chapel that is full of character and epitomizes the century old cemetery.

I followed the winding lane until I found our familiar spot, tucked away on a little hill where his place is marked in stone.

I spent time cleaning the area up, cringing with guilt that it had become so overgrown and neglected. Then I just sat there and was.  I don't remember thinking about anything in particular, I just felt content to be there in that space with him.
I was not ready to leave him entirely, so I took a scenic walk to clear my head and meditate on the day.

 

The warm weather made my stroll even more enjoyable.  The spring blooms were spectacular and the vibrant colours were awe inspiring.
I ended my stroll at a vegetarian restaurant where I enjoyed vegan sushi, a new personal favourite.

I had one more thing that I wanted to do to mark ten years of life without Flynn.  I have wanted to do it for a long time and it seemed fitting to make it happen today.

There was a serendipitous moment when the tattoo artist told me that his own infant daughter had died 3 years ago.  I told the artist the meaning behind the word and the reason that today was the day for me to get it.  He showed me the two tiny feet tattooed on the back of his hand and I was thankful I had sat in his chair today.



My day ended with me tucking my three boys into bed for the night before sitting down to write this anniversary blog.  I uploaded all the pictures from the day and chose my favourite ones.
As I examined the pictures of my orchid bouquet I noticed that amongst all the vibrant purple and turquoise blooms there was a single bloom that was larger than all the rest with colours that were just a little brighter than the surrounding flowers.

It filled me with joy; 10 years' worth.

Just What a Heavy Heart Needed

A night at the symphony.
When I first received the invitation I hesitated.  I had been blue all week, was it really a good idea to expose myself to the raw, consuming power of orchestra music? I decided I had better decline and so I countered the offer with "music can trigger my emotions and right now I am sad, I am not sure an orchestra will help."
My wise friend was already aware of my fragility and she simply responded with "I am the same way, so we can be sad together."



She also suggested that we dress up and treat ourselves to an evening of feeling special.  It was the perfect remedy. 

When we sat in our seats in the little country theatre and the conductor announced that the performance was dedicated to uplifting, positive music, I knew that coming to the symphony was the right choice.  We listened to music from Mozart, Bernstein and Dvorák.  My personal favourite of the night was "Overture to Le Nozze Di Figaro" by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart; it is such a whimsical piece of music and one that reminds me of creating music back when I was in the high school orchestra.

When the concert was finished we decided that an evening at the symphony was not complete without wings and fries at a local pub.

I didn't know how much I needed the symphony, pub food and a good friend until I was lucky enough to have all three.
Thanks Steph for providing comfort to a heavy heart.

13-10-7-4

Yesterday I went to a home product party, the kind of party that is hosted by family or friends and showcases merchandise like jewellery, kitchen gadgets or makeup.  The party is somewhat inconsequential to this blog however it does set the scene, a room full of women (moms mostly) some I know, most I do not.  After the product demonstration guests begin to mingle, introducing themselves, and asking the customary niceties. If you cannot conceptualize the questions that are customary for a room full of moms, let me help, they are: So how many children do you have? What are their ages? Do you have boys, girls or both?

There was a time when I would not even participate in these conversations; not knowing how to answer and failing my identity regardless of what truth I told. For instance, if I was the mother of three I was filled with guilt about not acknowledging Flynn, but if I was the mother of four I dreaded the explanation that would usually transpire. However, over time my attitude toward these conversations has softened and I find myself capable of participating in the social exchange. What is my strategy, you ask (even if you didn't)?  Be the one asking the questions and when the other person finishes answering, provide my corresponding answer to my original question. 
Example: "You have children? [person answers], I do too, all boys."  Can you see how it may be easier when you know the question being asked (again, humour me)?

Back to the current product party, my time there went fairly well, until I was struck not by a question but by an answer.  In talking with another mother, who identified that she had four children, the question of their ages arose.

"They are 13-10-7-4"

BAM!

13-10-7-4

I could see the mothers smile change to a look of confusion as I regained my composure from what felt like a twenty minute daze (I am sure[hope]it was only seconds).  Regardless of the length of my stare, the mother then asked me the same question.  I was still recovering from my realization.
I should have four boys 13-10-7-4.
I was beginning to bubble with anticipatory guilt, this is the type of scenario where I tell only my present reality and not my lived one.  I do not know this woman, I do not want to share that piece of me but I don't want to feel the guilt of my half-truth. I take a deep breath and steady my response.

"13-10-7-4, that is what I would have, my second son passed away shortly after he was born."

The mother smiled back sympathetically, "I am sorry."

It is the first time in a very long time that I walked away from a conversation thinking, there should be four.

A Tired Idea

This may be a horrible idea but I was inspired by a fellow blogger and decided to share a poem that I wrote shortly after Flynn died.  Although I do not claim to feel this poem with the same intensity as when it was written, I have experienced other times in my life when this poem could be applicable. So without further adieu:

Just Fine

Staring blankly and still you ask me how I am?
I am ripped into this moment to engage with you. I am aware that you await my response.

Your sweet smile is registered in my reluctant brain as insincerity.

"How are you?"

What if I were to tell you that I am being tortured by the thoughts of my child?  My arms ache in the absolute emptiness they carry.
Would you understand if I explained that my swollen, bloodshot eyes are the result of my weeping in the middle of the night?

I feel an insatiable urge to stop you from smiling.

What if I responded by telling you that I feel betrayed by my body at it's unwillingness to carry my son? That I only see ugliness in it's barren landscape.
Did you know that some days I wish this could all just end? And yet there is a profoundly absent how?

It is just a wish not a plan.

The sadness is so full and dark that it engulfs me, it holds me hostage to my memories, too raw in their vividness.
Is this question "how are you" a morbid curiousity into how sad I can be? You would not like my answer.

Every morning is a challenge to exist and every evening is filled with dread of another morning without my baby.

I look at you, only a second has passed, I smile politely and tell you I am fine...

© Melissa Lambert, 2002

There you have it, a look into my mind through poetry. Tell me what you think? Is poetry an appropriate outlet? Is it too uncomfortable or exposed?  I am interested to hear your thoughts on this form of expression.

Oh hello Grief, there you are.

For those of us who identify as bereaved, you may relate to the idea that grief is not a time limited event, coming to an end after the completion of certain stages or phases.  Rather, grief is a continual journey of coping, adapting and learning to live with the death of our loved one.  While grief's intensity changes considerably from the time immediately following the death, to the days, months and years that follow, it remains unpredictable and riddled with inconsistent triggers.  The effects of grief may not inhibit the experienced bereaved from participating in the day to day, but a trigger can significantly affect those coping skills we use to maintain our "normal."
Like always, this is new blog is not coming out of nowhere.  Since the first day of this New Year I have been cognizant that 2012 signifies a decade since Flynn died.  Typically I feel a heightened awareness of his being with the approach of his actual anniversary, but this year there is a lingering ache at the realization that it has been ten years since my arms embraced him.  Consequently some days I have felt particularly fragmented, today being one of them.  Alan Wolfelt may refer to these experiences as a "grief burst" but whatever you would like to call it; I am feeling my grief wash over me like it was just yesterday.
You may be wondering how this grief is manifesting itself (I would be wondering)? Respectfully, it has been ten years since Flynn's death and so it is likely that I wear my grief differently than I did then.  In fact, outwardly the grief does present differently.  For example, I am capable of participating in my daily tasks and remaining composed is not a continuous chore.  In saying that, my internalized reactions to this grief burst are familiar. Among these emotional responses is a heightened awareness of my own mortality and that of my family (I like to call it "the illusion of control that we comfortably live with" until it is shattered of course) followed by the emergence of helpless anxiety.
Today's grief burst was triggered by a dream that I had last night.  While the dream was a fictional storyline created by my unconscious mind, the feelings that ensued as a result of the dream were very real. In my dream I was attempting to resuscitate a little girl whom I identified as my sister (of note: I do not have a sister) after finding her in a pool.  I woke up feeling as traumatized as I was ten years ago. I came out of the dream with my heart racing, the pit in my middle ached and all I could think was "oh no, not again."  While Flynn's death was the result of complications at birth, this dream conjured up similar feelings of responsibility for this young life and the knowledge of my own helplessness.  It is not surprising that I would suffer from a grief burst for the remainder of the day.

The unpredictable nature of grief bursts can be frustrating and inconvenient. To put it in context, today I have been distracted, finding meaning in every song on the radio and emotionally vulnerable (translation: close to tears).  But I did say that this grief was not presenting problems in my daily functioning and that is mainly due to my ability to ground myself in the here and now.  By recognizing that the dream was not reality and allow that Flynn's death was real but not my immediate trauma I have been able to function normally.  I do need to practice constant self-awareness (social work lingo) though to ensure that I am not impacting or affecting my work due to this grief burst.  Other than working out my feelings through this blog, I think that I have handled today to the best of my ability.  This is just life with grief in the side car!