Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Capture Your Grief: Day 23 - Tattoo


Today, Avery would be 15 months old. It has really hit me recently that we aren't just missing out on him being a baby anymore. We missed his first words, we missed him trying his first foods, we missed him taking his first steps, by now we would probably be chasing him all over the place. We're no longer just grieving the loss of our baby but the loss of out toddler, the loss of our little growing man! I miss you ever minute, sweet little Avery! 




Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Capture Your Grief: Day 15 - Wave of Light

Today is October 15th - Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. 
I light a candle to help create a continuous wave of light around the world. 
Love to Avery Malcolm Whitlow!!!



Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Capture Your Grief: Day 8 - Colors

Orange and Turquoise were the colors we decorated Avery's room with. 
I will always think of him any time I see Chevron or Giraffes.

Friday, October 4, 2013

Capture Your Grief: Day 4 - Legacy


Recluse

In someways I wish I could just lock myself away. I wish I could curl up and hide forever. In some ways I would be fine with never talking to anyone again.

But there is a story to be told. Its confusing and frustrating, not being able to share it safely now. But it will have a place in time. And it will be up to us to share it.

I dont know how we will do it. I'm a pretty private person. But we will. We will shout your name, and we will tell your story. We will do it with the strength only you can give us.

Through great love we find great strength.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Capture Your Grief 2013: Day 1 - Sunrise



There wasn't much of a sunrise this morning. Just fog. Since Avery died there have been many days when the fog envelops me. It is so easy to get stuck there. But I know thats not what my son would want. Instead I allow myself to see Avery in everything and then the beauty unfolds. I know in my heart that the sun will come out again.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Identifing Losses

I lost my precious son
I lost a vision
I lost a dream
I lost our future
I lost a "friend"
I lost my "midwife"
I lost my rights
I lost the support of a community
I lost trust in people
I lost my sanity
I lost a big part of myself
I lost a part of my sweet husband
I lost our old relationship
I lost my faith
I lost my father
I lost my innocence
I lost my appetite
So many losses...
Some of these things I hope to get back
Some of these things are gone forever




Monday, June 17, 2013

Acceptance

Accepting the Death of a Loved One

There was a woman named Kisagotami. She came from a poor family, but married a wealthy man. This man saw the love and kindness in her heart, so despite his family's rejection of her, he married her. It was only when she bore a son that his family began to treat her with any kindness.
But one day, this son died when he was just a small child. Kisagotami was overwhelmed with grief and despair, so she carried the boy's body and went from house to house, asking anyone she could find for medicine to bring her boy back to life. People laughed at her. "He is dead!" they would say. Others took pity, but no one could help. But she kept on asking and asking.

Finally, a wise man saw the depth of despair in her eyes and said, "Go and see the Buddha. He has the medicine you need." So Kisagotami took her boy and ran to the Buddha and begged, "Please give me a medicine to bring my boy back to life!" The Buddha looked at her and said, "Go into town and find a few mustard seeds, I will bring your boy back to life." Kisagotami was overjoyed. "Mustard seeds! They will be easy to find. Every home has mustard seeds!" Then the Buddha said, "But the seeds must come from a home which has not known death."

So Kisagotami went to the first house she could find and, still carrying the body of her child, asked for the seeds to cure her son. The woman at the door gladly offered the seeds, but when the time came for Kisagotami to ask if there had been any deaths in the house, the woman replied sadly, "Oh yes. There have been many, many deaths." So Kisagotami went to the second house. But this home was also not free from the death of loved ones. So she went to the third house and the fourth house, and many others, and listened to the stories of sons and daughters who had died, husbands, wives, parents and grandparents who had died. Not one house did not know death.

After hearing all of these stories and sharing her own grief, she came to realize the commonality of death; that it is part of the life process. Although she was still filled with great sorrow for her son, she could now accept his death and laid the boy's body to rest. Kisagotami would come become a disciple of the Buddha, and she went on to share her experience of losing a child in the form of powerful poetry.

Suppose it so happened that a child dies before the parent. It is not something we want to see, but if such a thing did happen, how does one go beyond this grief?

When we talk about going beyond something, it does not mean forgetting about it. One cannot forget the loss of a child. One cannot say, "It is okay; it is natural." When somebody very precious to you is gone, you cannot forget. But the fact of life is, that which slips beyond the realm of what you call "life" right now, once it crosses the boundary, is not yours anymore. What has happened is a reality. It is not with any insensitivity that I say this, but it is time to accept it the way it is.

The process of acceptance is just this: the logical mind flows in a linear fashion, always in a straight line, but life happens like a river. How does a river happen? A river always happens between two banks. Suppose someone stands on the right bank and says, "I don't like the left bank, it should disappear." If the left bank disappears, the river will disappear, and the right bank will also disappear. If the right bank has to be there, the left bank also has to be there. One wants light without darkness, but could there be light without darkness? Could there be man without woman? Could there be life without death? Would we even have a perspective as to what life is if there was no death? Life is what it is only because death is.

So it is time to look at what we can do with the life that is here. There are so many sons, daughters and grandchildren who have nobody to care for them; there is enough opportunity to express your love and care for them in a million different ways. So if you have a need to find expression for your love and care, please do so. If you don't, your grief will remain bottled all your life.

For one son that you have lost, take up 10 as your own and see that you find full expression to your love and parenthood. You will find that your son becomes a foundation to make your life much more beautiful; you could make your life like that. You have to take that step. Otherwise, you will simply go on with something that you cannot change.

The essence of human life is to strive to change all that can be changed and gracefully accept that which cannot be changed. Coming to terms with the mortal nature of who we are is the most basic requirement for a sensible life.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

KinderMourn's Hope Floats Duck Race

This weekend is the KinderMourn's Hope Floats Duck Race in Charlotte. The event is held at the National Whitewater Center where thousands of rubber duckies are released and race in honor of those we have lost. I am looking forward to doing something fun in honor of my son!

Click here to buy ducks for Avery's Angel Babies.

Learn more about KinderMourn's Hope Floats Duck Race.

"One little yellow rubber ducky can teach us amazing things about the power of hope. For 35 years, KinderMourn has provided counseling services for parents and children grieving the death of a loved one. The mission has remained strong and the heart of KinderMourn still beats for one purpose...to provide a safe haven for those who have suffered an unimaginable loss." ~KinderMourn

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

The Physical Side of Grief

My body feels crumpled, clinched. The weight of my pain is hard and heavy. Suppressive. It sits on my neck, shoulders and back. It wraps around me and keeps me from breathing. Consuming. My chest is tight. Tight is an understatement. Locked. My heart pounds through my chest as if trying to escape. Pounds, skips, stops, pounds. I feel the adrenaline course through my body. My anger, my rage, my sadness, my confusion, my constant questioning. I taste metal. Pound, skip, stop, pound. My blood runs cold. My fingers are blue. My hands shake, my legs tremble beneath me. My skin cracks and peels. My stomach is in knots, I have no appetite. I eat anyway and food sits like a rock.


Saturday, March 23, 2013

I love you!

My beautiful sweet little boy... please give me strength.

I want nothing more than to honor your name. Avery Malcolm Whitlow!

We will never forget you!

The day will come when we will reclaim your story!

I love you I love you I love you!


Sunday, March 10, 2013

Over the falls

Today I am at a loss. I so desperately want someone to tell me what to do. I wish someone could just  puppeteer my body. I am exhausted. I have no answers. And with every breath there are only more questions.

To be fair. I dont think there is actually anything anyone can say to satisfy me. And maybe I do have the answers. But its never the answer you want. To do the right thing is often the hardest. I dont want things to be hard anymore. I want a break. I want to just go with the flow for a while. But instead I must continue to paddle hard and fast so that I dont go crashing over the falls.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

A Wrinkle in Time

Yesterday was 7 months. How can that possibly be? Where have these 7 months gone? What have I been doing? Sleepwalking?

So, 7 months have passed? What does that mean? To some, it may mean that I should be "moving on", "feeling better", "talking about something else", "not so sad anymore". To me it seems like yesterday. I have replayed that terrible tragedy over and over and over. Everyday for 216 days. With this on replay, how can I "move forward"?

What can I say that I have done with this time? I have managed. Somehow. I wake up and get out of bed, I brush my teeth, I eat what I can and I go to work.

Its not how it used to be. I'm not who I used to be. Will I ever be? In some way I hope not. This is sad. But this is real. Avery lived with us for 10 beautiful months and now he is dead.


Friday, February 8, 2013

On Your Knees

Photo taken by me in Tucson, AZ.


You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the dessert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

"Wild Geese"
by Mary Oliver



Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Remember

"If you know someone who has lost a child and you're afraid to mention their name because you think you'll make them sad by reminding them their child has died... they didn't forget that their child died. You're not reminding them. What you're reminding them is that YOU remembered their child lived and that is a GREAT, GREAT gift."

~Elizabeth Edwards

Monday, February 4, 2013

Feeling Prickly

Photo taken by me in Tucson, AZ

Dont Ask

Today I'm a snarl, a growl,
a tight-lipped frown. I'm
an ice-floe forcing new curves

in cold, winter ground.
I am sulk and pout and grr. Rrr.
I am small and I want to stay here.

To heck with vastness. To heck
with content. I am too clenched 
to vent. Rather to stew, to swim

in my bile. Rather to walk
ten thousand miles in my bare feet
in deep snow and on shoes of sharp tacks.

There's a sick and sweet martyred
ring to that. There may be some
whisper inside somewhere

that says, "Open up, look around,"
but I slam the door on that voice
and turn up the sound of the static

and fuss. I feel like wallowing
in the muck. Deeper. And darker.
More dank. More foul. I may soon

laugh at this fetid mood,
but not now.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
shared from wordwoman.com

Sunday, January 27, 2013

the white horses

I sit here cooped up in my tiny house. I dont want to go out. I dont want to show my face. I want to wear shades, a hat, my blackest cape. I dont need your explanations. I'm just exhausted of it all.

I sit here cooped up. Waiting, searching, longing.

"All the white horse are still in bed." I realize no one is going to rescue me.

I open up my door to dust off my rug. The sun is shining. Chimes are ringing as wind carefully blows. I hear you. This is how my boys communicate. In nature, through the earth, from the heavens.

They cant speak to me through this computer.

"This" will really never be experienced by anyone else but me. No one can give me the answers I know are really inside of myself. I must get up and go outside. If for nothing else than to hear the wind chimes ring.