I have to admit, I was a bit afraid Mother’s Day would best me again this year, despite my best intentions. 

A toothache. Pink eye. A day in pajamas on the sofa sounded so nice.

Luckily, I had someone in my corner this year. I told my husband about my plan for Mother’s Day this year, to go find peace, somewhere in nature.

I’ve realized that my happy place is in the woods, or a by the lake, or in a park. I tried to explain it to my husband, but couldn’t find the words. I feel in the moment. I feel connected. I feel alive.

My husband woke me up by suggesting we go to one of the most beautiful places on the planet, the Indiana University campus. I went to school there, and always talk to him about how I used to love going on long walks, long drives and just playing outside. He had some work to do near there, so it all worked out.

It was exactly what I needed. I found peace.

Something about the water. The trees. All of it. It brings peace.

I learned something important today. I can have a peaceful day, with sad thoughts. I had times where I so wanted Cora there so badly, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t at peace. It’s a new balancing act, I will always miss her, but to be a good mommy to her, I need to find peace, and healing.

There’s a legend on campus. It’s actually pretty corny, but according to it, you aren’t a real co-ed until you’ve been kissed in this gazebo at midnight. I dragged Ben there thinking it would be a romantic moment, but it was a real moment instead, with a quick kiss and a bit of an eye roll from him. It was perfect.

Ben makes friends wherever he goes. Apparently even with inanimate objects. There were so many beautiful pink rose bushes. I loved it. A place so important to me has something that reminds me of Cora.

A beautiful, peaceful day. Mother’s Day, I’m not afraid of you anymore. You cannot and will not bully me anymore.

I’ve always loved to write.

I vividly remember one New Year’s Eve when I was about 7. I decided that I wanted to write 10 stories before the New Year. I spent the rest of the evening furiously writing away while other kids my age bounced off walls fully enjoying the rare past midnight bed time.

Something happened when I became older, I stopped writing with abandon. I stopped writing for fun. I majored in journalism in college and could whip out a five page paper in 30 minutes or less.

I dipped my toes into writing for myself when I started a blog a few years before I got pregnant. Something was missing. I was self conscious. My voice was missing.

Through my grief, I started really writing again. The flood gates opened. I stopped caring about how my words might be taken or if my writing was good, and I just wrote. Turns out it was good. People read it and they were moved.

I’m so thankful each and every day that Cora lead me back to writing. She gave me this gift of writing straight from my heart. Sometimes the words seem to pour from my soul onto the keyboard, bypassing my brain all together. Other times I start writing and sort out feelings and emotions as I go.

I always wanted to be a writer. Thanks to Cora, now I am.

Photo by Alessandro Reginato from Flickr Creative Commons

I’ve made it no secret that my husband and I aren’t the richest people. We usually float below the federal poverty line. We have everything we could ever need, because our needs are few. Our house cost less than most people’s new cars. No joke. It was a foreclosure in one of the cheapest housing markets in the country.

We live pretty frugally.

Every few months we do something ridiculously out of our price range to pamper ourselves. It’s been part of healing for me. I don’t need a lot of material extras, so it’s usually not some material thing. It’s something that makes us feel better. It’s something that interrupts our routine, which is important because we’re both self employed and tend to work around the clock at all hours if something new doesn’t spring up. It’s something that makes our lives a little easier.

Two months ago, we both got massages at the same time. Total bliss. And totally worth it. This month we’re doing something I’m so excited about. I’ve never been the cleanest person. Cleaning isn’t my thing. I know, I know, it’s no one’s thing, but it’s really something I don’t like and don’t feel motivated to do. I was so excited when my husband and I decided to hire a cleaner. I haven’t ever paid someone to professionally clean my house, and cannot wait for the pristine bathroom and kitchen. While cleaning isn’t my favorite, a clean house is my favorite! Obviously, it’s something we probably won’t be able to afford for years and years again, so I’m just going to enjoy.

I’ve found that I’ve been able to enjoy these splurges every few months since Cora died (except for most of last year when we could barely afford the electric bill). I do have moments of guilt because I know there are people that could use the money we’re spending on something completely unnecessary, so I try to donate first, even if it’s a little.

I think pampering yourself is part of healing. It doesn’t make what happened better, but it can make life easier, or in the case of the massage can make you feel physically a little better.

This post might draw some judgement, if we’re that broke should we be spending $100 bucks every few months on something (as I see it) ridiculous? I think everyone deserves it, and don’t care how broke you are, once in awhile, you’ve got to spend some money on yourself–just make sure you stay within your budget.

I haven’t been taking care of myself well lately. My sleep schedule is all sorts of messed up. We’ve been eating out too much. I’ve been glued to the computer with work and worry too much. It’s hard to read every day of another family going through the worst possible tragedy. It often takes me right back. Right back to Cora’s death. That? That was a nightmare. That was something straight from a horror movie. That was something that reliving can cause me to feel sick. I even look sick. Puffy. Red eyes.

I’m learning though. I made a “Daily Feel Good List,” a list of things I need to do every single day, such as laugh with my husband, cook at home and wake up around the same time every day. I also created a “Weekly Feel Good List,” with things like doing yoga, meditating and going on at least one walk. Easy. Attainable. Important.

It’s easy to let the days drift together.

I’ll let you know how the new system goes. I feel like typing the list out will help me keep on track. My husband is on board.

When I don’t take care of myself well, it always catches up to me. I always pay for it later.

What’s on your daily feel good list?

Dear Mom Who Recently Lost a Baby:

I’m so sorry. I never have words for when I read about the loss of a baby, and I wish I did have magical words to make it all better. Truth is, there are none.

With everything else in life, time heals all wounds. Grief isn’t something linear. I’m sorry to tell you, but you might have much harder days ahead of you.

I shouldn’t go too far without mentioning this, we’re all really different. Please don’t measure yourself up to how other grieving mothers feel. Please don’t read this letter and feel like you should feel and go through everything that I talk about.

There is no wrong way to grieve.

Along the way, people will start to tell you how to do so, but ignore their kind suggestions, unless they help you. Unfortunately, in our society we don’t deal well with grief.

Most likely, you’re going to lose some friends. You’re going to grieve the loss of those friendships. You’re going to most likely change. You’ll have to get used to the new you. No one can begin to understand what it’s like to lose a child unless they’ve been there. Along the way, people will say extremely stupid things to you. When this happens, find a grieving mom friend to talk to about it so you can vent. Something helps me is thinking that those people are blissfully clueless. I don’t want them to be able to really understand–because that means that their baby would have to die, too.

Your baby will always be remembered. You will never forget your baby. Everyone you tell about your baby carries your child with them. It’s okay to talk about your baby, even if it makes other people feel awkward. It’s okay if you can’t speak about your baby.

You are okay. You are wonderful.

As long as you don’t hurt yourself or someone else, you are okay. I’m not a doctor, please don’t take any of this as medical advice or otherwise prescriptive. But, from one grieving mom to another, I want you to know that at times you might feel like you’re doing this wrong, but you aren’t.

As ugly as this grief stuff can be, I’ve also found beauty in the tragedy. Your child is beautiful. Your baby’s legacy will last and from that springs so much beauty.

You know those changes I talked about above? They’re not all bad. I’m a much better person myself for having known my daughter.

You aren’t alone. It’s a lonely road. You’ll probably feel alone at different points, even when you’re talking to other baby loss moms, but you are loved.

It’s okay if you can’t go to the in-person support groups everyone is probably pushing you to go to. It’s quite alright if you do go.

If you need to find others with a similar story, look to Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope. You’ll find support there.

If you ever feel like you don’t have a friend, you’re wrong. I’m your friend. We’re bonded forever because we both lost our babies. You can write me anytime, kristine@corasstory.org. I might not get back to you right away, but I read your note right away and then I think about your baby.

Go gently and know that you truly are loved.

xoxo Kristine

It’s been a long time since I wrote here. No huge revelations, but I thought back to the last few weeks and how I’ve been doing on this grief journey, and realized that I’ve learned to integrate healing into my (nearly) every day life. I still have horrible moments of sadness and fear, but those are mixed with moments of feeling refreshed and closer to whole.

I thought I’d share how I’ve been healing…

I went to Florida for a month to stay with Ben’s grandmother. We named our daughter after her. I felt myself healing when I sat under the sun. The sun is great medicine.

When I grasped Grandma Cora’s hand in mine while we walked, I felt healing and comfort, knowing that sometimes babies named Cora grow to become 100.

I had limited Internet access in Florida, and read at the pace of nearly a book every day or so. I haven’t been able to read like that in a long time. Strangely, the name Cora appeared randomly in two of those books.

When I came home, I made homemade chicken stock and later homemade chicken noodle soup for the first time. What they say about chicken soup is true, it’s good for the soul.

My husband bought me flowers for Valentine’s day, and I not only stopped to smell them, but spent time admiring both their individual and collective beauty.

I don’t have to heal every moment of every day, but I have moments of love, light and kindness nearly every day, and at this point, that’s all I could ask for.

Chicken soup by Robert Couse-Baker, found via Flickr.com

Whether we’re healing from a broken bone or mending our hearts after a horrible loss, sometimes healing slows. We might even take a few steps back, but this doesn’t mean all of our healing work up to that point is for not.

I slipped back for a couple of weeks. I’m medications and wasn’t able to access them for a few weeks. I noticed a huge difference. I’ve had the meds for about a week, and am still just here. I’m not doing particularly well. I’m having huge troubles with motivation, but I’m not doing bad either.

I’m just here right now. I learned with this episode that that is okay. It doesn’t mean that I’ll slip back in time. That’s impossible. It means that right now in this time and space, I’m not healing. I’m maintaining. That’s why this space has been so quiet. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, in this level state. I don’t know when healing will start. I’m working now to make sure that everything I’ve worked for up to this point isn’t wiped away. I don’t feel like it will be.

Her loss is hard. December was hard. Her anniversaries tough. Dealing with medication issues on top of that nearly brought on a true mental health crisis. I didn’t freak out like I might have in the passed. I ignored the depression when it told me that I was always going to be this way. I blocked out that dark voice. I knew that this would pass. I might not have energy tomorrow. I might feel weak into the weekend, but I’m not spiraling.

I’m here. Clinging to hope, and the promise that I will be able to ride this out.

When I found out that my husband wanted me to go to Florida with a van load of in-laws just a few days after Cora’s anniversaries, I dreaded the trip. I tried to wiggle out of it. I worried that I’d be an absolute mess the entire trip. Cora’s anniversary week, the first week of December, was so hard this. I landed in the hospital with an anxiety attack I feared was something worse.

It was for his grandma’s 100th birthday, and I knew I should go. I wanted to go. I just wasn’t in the best place.

I was expecting to just get through the week, if I was lucky. I wasn’t expecting for it to be a healing, peaceful time. Although Ben and I spent each day with his family, we were also able to get a cheap Priceline deal on a hotel. A hotel on the beach! That time away made the family time great.

I spent some time relaxing a hammock, staring off in into the Gulf of Mexico. The weather was beautiful.

One moment stands out in particular.

It was sunset and then twilight. I stood on the edge of the ocean and let the water lap up over my feet. I watched the waves, listened to the ocean and looked around in wonder, just taking it all in. Sometimes my thoughts would wander to writing a blog post about the trip or most silly of all to how much I wanted to come back. In that moment, I made a promise to myself to not waste the moment with desire. Desire to come back or desire to capture the moment in words.

I told myself to just concentrate on two things, being grateful that I was there and being there. Listening. Watching. Smelling. Feeling. Even tasting the ocean breeze.

I was overcome by gratitude. How luck was I? Yes, Ben and I live in poverty, but to live in poverty in a country where with some ingenuity and good timing I could travel to the beach, wow. I was so thankful for the ocean. So thankful for it all. In that moment, that’s all that mattered, everything else washed away. I didn’t feel guilty for being there without Cora. In that moment, I didn’t feel sad about Cora. I just felt thankful, for the beauty all around me.

The beach is a beautiful spot for healing.

Sunset over Gulf of Mexico. From Jason Pallauck on Flickr.com.

Photo from Flickr

Yesterday was my daughter’s second birthday. She of course wasn’t here to celebrate with me. I’m at a complete lack of words to describe how tough those anniversaries are.

For me, it all started on my birthday, which also happened to be Thanksgiving. I so vividly remembered my birthday two years ago when I was awaiting Cora, and that Thanksgiving when my husband cooked everything because the bun in my oven was almost done.

This year, I felt more agitated around those days. I found myself sleeping for ridiculous amounts of time and really sore all over. I couldn’t figure out why until I realized it was the grief. My body remembered.

All my healing seemed lost in those days. I was pummeled right back there. The dishes piled up and the house became messy, when I’d be keeping it so clean. I stopped cooking again, and my husband and I survived off fast food and microwaved garbage. I completely shut down.

Once I get in a cycle like that, it’s hard to get the initiative to bounce back. This time I tried something different, I gave myself those days. I didn’t get mad at myself for being so incapacitated.

It worked, today I did the dishes, cooked dinner, picked up the house and felt a bit better. Also, it felt nice to not run myself through a guilt trip each day. I learned that internal bashing doesn’t pick me up any sooner, if anything I think it made it all worse.

The problem I’m facing now is that I’m still smack-dab in the middle of the anniversaries. Cora’s death day is the 6th. In many ways, that day is harder for me than her birthday. I’m not sure how I’ll feel tomorrow. I don’t know how long the deep fog will come and settle in, but I do know it will go away. I also know that it’s natural, and that it’s okay to not be able to do it all. It’s okay to shut down for a few days.

I know and trust that the sun will come out again.