01

A Word on Grief

I had forgotten how deeply grief cuts. I had forgotten how one compounds another. I had forgotten how grief sometimes feels immobilizing and then, in the same breath, makes you want to take on the world, change how things work or how things are perceived.

It’s been one month since Grandpa died. Today I’m calling the florist and rescheduling the rest of our week as my husband’s Uncle died yesterday morning. Most of the time I’m on a sort of auto-pilot, unaware of my surroundings or, at the very least, protecting myself from the totality of it all. I allowed myself one breakdown yesterday, late in the morning, after the initial shock had worn off. I threw the shock guard back up; feeling fully is too raw right now. I don’t really want to feel right now. I need the auto-pilot function. The denial stage of grief exists for a reason.

All of this makes me think about my grieving process regarding Munchkin’s placement. I was in the denial, auto-pilot function for quite some time. Speaking for myself and not all birth mothers, I simply needed to be there for awhile. There were times when I did take that shock guard down, allowed myself to cry or rant or generally fall apart but, really, I stayed in a bubble that year. If I hadn’t attended her first birthday party, I might have stayed there for a longer period of time. I’m glad I did. The process of feeling, sorting through everything and finding my own path let me live a much fuller life than I lived that first year.

I was discussing adoption grief and death grief with another person attached to adoption the other day. She asked me, “Are they similar?” My answer is that I simply don’t know and I really can’t compare. I hadn’t yet experienced true death grief prior to placing and it’s been six and a half years since I first felt the tidal wave of grief associated with relinquishment. I know that the loss I felt after I placed the Munchkin was all-consuming. There were days when I didn’t eat, drink or really move. I had awful thoughts of harming myself when I allowed myself to peek outside the heavy cloak of denial. But years have passed regarding that grief in my life. The physical feeling of the panic that accompanies grief has faded. I don’t feel it twist my stomach. It doesn’t keep me up at night any longer. It is a part of my life. The newer grief of these recent losses does twist my stomach. I can’t sleep. I have no appetite. The physical aspects of grief are here, eating at me even though I’m trying to ignore their presence.

The problem with me, in my situation, comparing adoption and death grief is that, blessedly, I get to see the Munchkin. I will never see my Grandpa again. They are apples and oranges. I’m trying to find two vastly different things that weigh so much on the human heart and mind to compare them to and, really, I can’t. They are their own unique fruits of comparison. I can only say that, for me, the similarities and differences are too hard to compare and contrast with so much time having gone by. I can say that each has affected me on a core level. I have been changed by both experiences.

Someday I hope that my stomach stops twisting and turning and that I can sleep properly. For now, I am reliving the stages of grief, seemingly over and over. I accept that this is what needs to happen right now. Mostly.

0

Perspective

There aren’t many people on the internet who haven’t heard of the loss of Madeline Spohr. In case you lived under a rock this week and/or don’t follow me on twitter, in short, Maddie died suddenly and unexpectedly while in the hospital being treated for RSV. It was a shock to the blogosphere for many reasons.

I hugged my boys a little tighter that day. I wrote about it, including some love for the Munchkin.

But, boy, have the Munchkin and the concept of loss been weighing heavy on my heart for the past few days. When discussing the loss of Maddie with other bloggers and friends, the general consensus is that no one can imagine this kind of loss. Furthermore, no one wants to imagine this loss. Myself included.

I know I write a lot about loss. It’s a part of my life. It’s part of my reality. I can’t really escape it. But at the end of the day? My daughter is alive. She is thriving. She is awesome. She is hilarious. She is talented. And she loves me. At the end of the day, my loss isn’t complete. I know where my daughter is. I can call her Mom and ask to speak to her if I so desire. I can drive seven-ish hours and give her a hug if it comes down to it. I can watch her grow into the wonderful woman I know that she will be.

And that kind of puts some things in perspective, doesn’t it?

Of course, I speak from the view of a birth mother in open adoption. I can’t and won’t attempt to speak for my sisters who endure the horrors and fears of closed adoptions. Much like this recent loss of a beautiful little girl, I can’t imagine living the life of a closed adoption birth mother. More over, I don’t want to imagine it.

I’m not saying that I don’t miss my daughter. I am not saying that I don’t grieve over the things, memories and relationship that was lost. But perspective. Perspective.

I know that we have difficulties of our own in open adoption. I’ve been through a lot in the past few years. Our story has changed. Our lives have changed. But, in the end, the point is that the Munchkin has been present for all of those changes. She’s here, on Earth, with us.

And for that, I am forever grateful.

[Our blogs will be going purple for Maddie on Tuesday. Let me know if you need help doing so as well. If you would like to donate to the family, please consider donating to the PayPal account set up for the family. As of writing this, they have $7000 to cover for the services to be held on Tuesday. Another option is the fundraising efforts for March of Dimes. To boot, our family is releasing purple balloons tomorrow. RememberMaddie.com is up and down but the remembering of Maddie lives on. A thorough write-up of efforts can be found here.]

3

I’ve Been Quiet, I’ve Been Working on It

I meant to write last week about the grieving process. I meant to write about the baby we lost to miscarriage. I meant to write so much… but I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t find the patience for words. I just wanted some silence… which ararely comes in a world filled with boys. Noise is a part of my daily function.

And that’s where I get confused.

The grieving I have done in my life, both with regard to placement and miscarriage, brings me to where I am today. It has made me who I am today: someone a bit more compassionate for those who have been hurt, wronged and generally stepped upon by society and a little less patient with the unethical, immoral nastiness of our world. Someone who continually works on finding happiness and peace but is told that she’s doing it wrong. Someone who wants the world for her children but acknowledges that she only plays a small part in that journey toward the world. Someone who can acknowledge grief … who, years back, wouldn’t for fear of hurting others.

It’s really only at this time of the year that I allow myself to miss the daughter that we lost to miscarriage. Part of me knows it’s not that healthy to deny the grief and part of me knows it is not healthy to dwell in the grief. I’ve tried to find a happy medium with this particular topic but, well, I don’t even have time for grief on some days.

But sometimes I wonder what it would have been like… what life would now be like with a two year old running amok instead of a fifteen month old. I try not to dwell on whether or not he would be here or not. I try to tell myself that children who were meant to be in our lives will be in our lives. But then I get emotional about the Munchkin. But then I tell myself that she was meant to be here… and she IS in my life in some way…

and the grief…

it mixes together. One to the other, one from the other. And I don’t know what to feel or how to express it.

And so, for two weeks in February, I’m stunted to silence as I imagine what might of been and give thanks for what it is instead.