Today we ventured out in the -20c weather in search of our Christmas tree. Our daughter picked a tree, had a candy cane and did a wonderfully youthful job of decorating our tree. We also had a wood stove installed just yesterday which allowed for the Christmas tree decorating to be just picture-perfect. We danced to the carols playing in the background between choosing decorations. Afterwards we all cuddled under a Christmas blanket and read Christmas stories, with rosy cheeks from the warmth of the fire, no less. And certainly, moments of the whole process were wonderful.
But, if someone were to look a little closer, they might have seen the photographs of two babies whose colouring is slightly off; those are my dead children. Their images watched as we prepared for a season of love, joy and celebration - and as much as I believe that, right now all I have to say to such a notion is "What a joke." If that same person looked closer still they would have seen the tears brimming in my eyes, on and off, all day. All week. Actually, for the last 7 weeks and 2 days.
Now, late at night, my living daughter and husband tucked into bed, I have a moment of quiet by the tree and the fire. And I cry. There is not any particular thought triggered by the tree. I am not crying because this is the first Christmas tree, or Christmas, or fireside bedtime story that they are missing; that's simply icing on the cake. I am crying because deep in my body, I still have that ache and longing. I am crying for Patrick and I am crying for Maggie. They should be in my body, still growing, kicking and causing general physical discomfort. At the very least, we should be planning the logistics of a NICU Christmas. Instead, I am wondering if the engraved snowflake ornaments I ordered with each of their names will arrive before Christmas. I just miss them. I miss the idea of them. I miss anticipating them. I miss seeing them. I miss the bloody incubator in which Patrick lived for four days... I cuddled that incubator and sang to it. Now, I say goodnight to ashes and snuggled their stuffies. My days are so occupied that I do not have time to sit and cry. I spend them avoiding people, anticipating difficult situations and noticing my emotional reaction to a million things. The whole world, literally, is a trigger: babies' slippers, car rides, other people, fun places that EllaGrace and I go....
This Christmas we began the tradition of having EllaGrace fill a bag of toys to share with other children who may be less fortunate then herself. We were to deliver them at a community centre which houses programs which she and I attend. I noticed genuine anxiety as I approached the building my car, my heart rate and butterflies in particular. EllaGrace did a wonderful job of donating her toys and then asked me if we were to stay and play. I began to cry as I tried to explain to her that I am not ready to spend time here. I am not sure what it is about the centre in particular that I find upsetting. I was pregnant the last time we were there? Lee and I spent time trying to plan how I would go there with three children? I was supposed to do prenatal yoga there? Perhaps a trigger for many thoughts, but I know it is upsetting and I also know that it is upsetting that my own grief is impacting EllaGrace's activities.
I am finding grief a fascinating process - awful, obviously - but my clinician side tries to assess and analyze my behaviours and thoughts. In particular as of late, I have noticed that I am not crying much. I often tear up - Patrick's health card arrived on Wednesday - but after the tears arrived I changed my activity and did not cry. I am sure that if I had sat down holding it and contemplating it, I could have had a long cry but this is not how I have been responding to triggers. Am I in denial? Is it avoidance? Is it 'normal' - even though there is no wrong way to do it? Am I accepting their deaths and moving on? (The latter would have to be subconscious because as I write that I think, God, I hope not. Not ready for that).
Regardless of how much I cry, I continue to avoid (sometimes really hard, sometimes just dissuaded by other barriers) certain social situations and people. My days and nights continue to be filled with thought and dreams relating to Patrick and Maggie's deaths. Yet, I continue to conduct my days with my family with relative normalcy. Then, late at night, I blog and cry while they sleep....
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