We've got plans for Kate's Labor Day--another BBQ, of course! :)
Friday, August 31, 2007
Holidays
Coming up on Labor Day weekend had me thinking about holidays, especially the upcoming ones of Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and how Corey won't be wearing the costumes, eating mashed potatoes, or unwrapping presents with her sister. Our last holiday, Independence Day, was 2 days before she died. We didn't go to the fireworks (figured they might be scary for them), but we did go for a hike (their first--her only) and a stop for BBQ (she slept through the whole stop). I had to think, but yes, she did get to celebrate some holidays with us. So, here I present St. Patricks' Day, Easter, and Independence Day. I'm sure we have Mother's Day, Memorial Day, and Father's Day photos, too--what day goes by without at least one photo being taken?--but I need this to be a quick post. Wow. She sure did grow! Interesting note: St. Pats was a 3 days after she was born, July 4th was 2 days before she died, Easter wasn't quite right in the middle--so I guess here's the full range of her life!
We've got plans for Kate's Labor Day--another BBQ, of course! :)
We've got plans for Kate's Labor Day--another BBQ, of course! :)
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
5 Months
Tuesday, August 14th was a day of great happiness and equal sadness. Kate turned 5 months old; Corey did not. We are amazed every day at how Kate grows and learns. She keeps us smiling and laughing. It was also a sad day because Tessa's mom, Maureen, went back to Minnesota. She's been a great help and comfort for the last month and a half. We'll miss that.
I came across this "wish list" for greiving parents the other day. Each point rings true. I think what we most notice is that many people avoid talking about Corey, probably because they don't want to upset us, but as the wish list says, we'd rather talk about her than ignore her. She means so much to us.
1. I wish my child hadn't died. I wish I had him/her back.
2. I wish you wouldn't be afraid to speak my child's name. My child lived and was important to me. I need to hear that he/she was important to you also.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child, I wish you know it isn't because you have hurt me. My child's death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
4. I wish you wouldn't "kill" my child again by removing his/her pictures, artwork or other remembrances from you home.
5. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn't shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.
6. I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child, my favorite topic of the day.
7. I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child's death pains you too. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card, a note, or a real big hug.
8. I wish you wouldn't expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.
9. I am working very hard in my recovery but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that he/she is dead.
10. I wish you wouldn't expect me "not to think about it" or to "be happy". Neither will happen for a very long time, so don't frustrate yourself.
11. I don't want to have a "pity party", but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I heal.
12. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I'm feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
13. When I say, "I'm doing okay." I wish you could understand that I don't "feel" okay and that I struggle daily.
14. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I'm having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I'm quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.
15. Your advice to "take one day at a time" is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I'm doing good to handle one hour at a time.
16. Please excuse me if I seem rude, that's certainly not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes to fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend time alone.
17. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with him/her. I am not the same person I was before my child died, and I will never be that person again.
18. I wish very much that you could understand - understand my loss and grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. BUT, I pray daily that you will never understand.
I came across this "wish list" for greiving parents the other day. Each point rings true. I think what we most notice is that many people avoid talking about Corey, probably because they don't want to upset us, but as the wish list says, we'd rather talk about her than ignore her. She means so much to us.
1. I wish my child hadn't died. I wish I had him/her back.
2. I wish you wouldn't be afraid to speak my child's name. My child lived and was important to me. I need to hear that he/she was important to you also.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child, I wish you know it isn't because you have hurt me. My child's death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
4. I wish you wouldn't "kill" my child again by removing his/her pictures, artwork or other remembrances from you home.
5. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn't shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.
6. I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child, my favorite topic of the day.
7. I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child's death pains you too. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card, a note, or a real big hug.
8. I wish you wouldn't expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.
9. I am working very hard in my recovery but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that he/she is dead.
10. I wish you wouldn't expect me "not to think about it" or to "be happy". Neither will happen for a very long time, so don't frustrate yourself.
11. I don't want to have a "pity party", but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I heal.
12. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I'm feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
13. When I say, "I'm doing okay." I wish you could understand that I don't "feel" okay and that I struggle daily.
14. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I'm having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I'm quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.
15. Your advice to "take one day at a time" is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I'm doing good to handle one hour at a time.
16. Please excuse me if I seem rude, that's certainly not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes to fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend time alone.
17. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with him/her. I am not the same person I was before my child died, and I will never be that person again.
18. I wish very much that you could understand - understand my loss and grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. BUT, I pray daily that you will never understand.
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