Reminders

Everyone keeps telling me that time will make this better. I know they aren't lying or telling me something that isn't true, but time feels different now. I've never been a person to "waste" a day. I hate letting a day go by without a to-do list. It's probably come from the fact that my schedule has been full for nearly half of my life with working, going to school, and then working at schools. I knew when I quit my job earlier this year that life was going to slow down and I would have more time to spend as a mother. That was my dream. It still is. This is just a much different version than I imagined even just a few weeks ago. The therapist I met with explained that I am having a hard time putting this grief thing into perspective because I am used to having this work ethic that, until now, has been working out really well for me. I've balanced working, mothering, homemaking, building my talents, etc. But there isn't a to-do list for grief. There isn't one way to do it, no manual or YouTube video or Pinterest tutorial on how to make your way through the mountain of feelings after you lose your baby. She encouraged me to go easy on myself, let myself have days where I do nothing if that is what I need. She said I need to "nourish" myself. When she asked me what I did to nourish myself, I cried. I couldn't even remember a hobby or interest I had! Grief has made it hard for me to think as quickly as I am used to, but I slowly remembered things that made me feel good. But as I remembered things, my "projects" as Logan refers to them, I felt sad. I'm still healing physically, so I couldn't see myself refinishing any furniture or painting the bathrooms or rearranging Caroline's bedroom, all things I told myself this summer that I would get to do once Brooklyn was born and we'd made it out of the first months of the newborn stage. I remember having Caroline, just a few months old, in a bouncer seat in the hallway of the Stanley Falls house as I repainted the hall bath six years ago. Giving life to my house and making it my own has been "my thing" since college! When I was on bed rest from October 14 until October 29, I mentally tortured myself with my self-imposed to-do list. I had never gotten around to painting Brooklyn's room or making it a sweet baby friendly room. I had been trying to find a sweet little rocker to put in the corner near the crib, picturing myself rocking this baby, singing to her. I found one that would have been perfect on a yard sale site, but the lady was asking $80 for it, and I just couldn't bring myself to spend that on a used rocker. It was a creamy white with light green toile print. It would have been perfect. The day after Brooklyn died, the lady messaged me saying she would take $50 for it, and I could barely see the screen or make my fingers type out, "We actually found what we needed. Thanks anyway." I guess the point of all this is that nighttime and putting Jack and Caroline to bed has been hard for me. My heart just knows there is one more person who needs putting to bed. One more song to sing, one more cheek to kiss. And then the house is quiet. My mind, usually finally at rest for the day, thinks about the room up there, waiting to be dismantled. Her dresser is full of clothes, mostly hand-me-downs from Caroline, but each precious outfit washed a few weeks ago as I imagined a new girl filling them up. As I folded, I held a few up to my chest to remember what it was like to have such a small baby and remembering Caroline in each precious dress or pajama. I put tiny diapers in her closet, hoping we would be able to afford to put diapers on three little bottoms every night, thankful for the boxes I'd received from my mom and grandma. Two days before she was born, I bought new crib sheets and swaddle bundles at Target. I felt like after two babies, I could finally be confident in those first few days after bringing her home. I pictured her in the swaddle sack, sleeping peacefully in her crib while I played with Jack in the playroom a few feet away. At the hospital, I just dreaded coming home. I dreaded going into her room. I dreaded seeing all the things I had prepared just for her. My sisters and their husbands had come to our house before I came home and put every trace of baby preparations in her closet and room. It wasn't until yesterday that I made myself go in there. It seemed so bare until I opened the closet. It's packed nearly to the ceiling with all the baby gear and things I was going to need for her. I shut the door and walked out. I've been up and down the stairs since, but the closed door reminds me each time I pass of what is behind it. An empty crib. Sweet sleepers she will never wear. A room that never got decorated for her. It feels like this giant hole has been blown into the side of my dream house, the house that I never got to bring her home to, the home Logan and I bought with intentions of filling up all the bedrooms with babies we would love forever. We will love Brooklyn forever, but her absence has created an incredible void. I'm trying to go easy on myself and not put any limits on what my grief will or won't do. We visited her grave yesterday, and I felt peace. And then I felt it was so wrong that my baby is in the ground. And then I couldn't believe I was sitting there in a cemetery instead of in my baby's room on a white toile rocker. I shed a few tears for her and for myself. During the day today, I was ok. Jack was insistent on being no less than five feet away from me since 5:30 this morning, so I was focused on keeping him entertained and slowly tackling my to-do list. I did a few loads of laundry, made an appointment with the cardiologist, cleaned the playroom. The old me wouldn't really call that totally productive, but it's more than I've done in weeks. It felt good to get a few things done and feel like I was doing my part while Logan was at work. When Logan got home, he brought the mail in. There were five cards from people who are thinking of us, including two from students I taught last year. One of my favorite students I've ever had, Natalie Knight, sent me a card, along with a letter from her mom. They lost a baby two years ago, and when I was thinking about letting everyone know about Brooklyn, I thought about Natalie. It isn't easy to teach 4th graders to write, but she has this natural gift. Last year she wrote an essay about her sister Olivia and how her most precious object was a picture of her. I cried and cried as I read her essay early this year. Her mother, Angie, wrote me a precious letter of encouragement. I felt so thankful to have been Natalie's teacher. And I suddenly really missed teaching. It's been almost six months since school ended, and I haven't missed it at all until tonight. I am realizing this whole grief experience is taking me through an emotional tornado, not to mention postpartum hormones. Some days I think I am ok, but it falls apart at night after I put my first two babies to sleep. But I do see the silver linings through all these clouds. I see the people God has placed along my way who are helping to bear me up. I see the acts of service given to our whole family. I see reminders of Brooklyn and feel that she would not want me to be so grief stricken that I cannot find happiness or see me become a different person entirely. She would want me to be happy, but without her, that is going to be so very hard.