That's 1569 days. Not that I counted each day. I used an internet site to calculate it for me. And that is a change, because last year I figured it out by hand and with a calender.
And that's how the grief is now. Not ritualistic, not pervasive, not to be done in a proper pomp and circumstance kind of way.
The shock is over. The active, constant, crazy grief is over.
It's a settled reality, sunk into and through the core of my being. A part of me, but it does not define me. Can I say that? I think it's true. It doesn't exactly define the current me much more than other things in my past - except that it is from the more recent past.
In some ways, Serenity's death and my grief serve as a compass now. I check myself, 'am I living in a way that honors my first daughter, not taking the time with her little sister for granted?'
The ache is mostly gone. The muscle memory of holding her is barely a faint outline. Her face is indistinct. Now these memories are part of the longing too. I long for her face to be clear to me, but without the intense grief. I suppose I can't have one without the other.
One thing that hasn't changed, I still can't spell grief. I have to correct it almost ever time I type it.
This move makes it seem like I have changed lives. I've also changed how I spend my online time. The blogs that I couldn't once live without reading are now mixed in with posts about making sauerkraut and blogs outlining how to make toothpaste from coconut oil and blogs about how not to yell at your children. And my own blog collects dust. Not that I have really found other ways to express myself, but that I just am not expressing myself.
And what I am working through has changed. Now it is all strife about raising a toddler and finding my happiness and minimizing and simplifying.
But I doubt I can ever complete a 100 thing challenge, when I hold on to pictures of hands and feet and clips of hair and a hat worn for a scant few hours.
And I find it hard to decide on, focus on and move towards something that will 'make' me happy in life. Because I just don't know what that is.
I don't feel guilty much anymore when I am happy, although many times we will be enjoying a day - at the garden or flying a kite in the park - and I will see a butterfly and think of Serenity or see two siblings and think of all that Beanie is missing.
I am in the limbo of grief. Grief doesn't dictate my life. If I need to get something done I can turn my distracted mind away from the darkness. But I find it hard to - I don't know - dream of my future maybe. I think this is one reason why I have come back to the blogs. To seek support and advice and work through Right Where I Am now.
I haven't re-read my post from last year yet. And here is the link back to the original inspiration. Thanks yet again, Angie, and much love to you.
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27 comments:
Thank you, Ya Chun. I loved when you talked about how the grief blogs are interspersed with the cooking ones. That was a change for me this year too. I started to subscribe to all different kinds of blogs that interest me--art blogs, crafty blogs, parenting blogs. It felt strange to do that at first. The reader was my starting place to meditate on Lucia. I meant that figuratively. And I also really loved when you talked about checking yourself, what a beautiful idea. I think I do that too, but I don't know if it is conscious. Much love to you, Ya Chun.
Ya Chun so much of this rings true. We both arrived in this club in 2008 and we've both come a long way since.
I'm glad to still be walking this path with you.
xo
I am glad to see your words here, and this post really spoke to me. "Limbo of grief" seems to perfectly sum up that place between howling and simply moving forward.
I struggle to spell grief too, that and grieving...they just look so wrong however I spell them.
x
A settled reality. I am starting to feel this too, I think. Because it used to feel so incredibly shocking and I still get the occasional jolt of disbelief.
The description of the muscle memory of holding Serenity fading to a faint outline is just beautiful and wrenching. I also wish my memories were clearer but I suppose that, if they were, they would be unbearable? As you say, you can't have one without the other.
I'm another who would fail miserably at the 100 thing challenge, with my hoard of ashes and baby clothes with the tags still attached. And I too would set out for happiness, if I had any idea whatsoever as to which direction that state would be found in. It's hard to know what to dream for, what to hope for, these days. I just hope for tomorrow, I suppose. That J and R will still be there in the morning.
I've enjoyed reading your recent posts about B. I'm always glad to see a post from you.
I appreciate your paragraph : "I long for her face to be clear to me, but without the intense grief. " I recognize that in myself too. Thank you for sharing.
I love this line, "The active crazy constant grief is over." I like the idea of active grief, because that's how it was in the beginning, physical in a way.
Thank you for sharing.
I struggled to put into words where I am this year, more so than last year, but much of where I am is here.
My grief is also mixed with much more now than in the past. Life changes so grief must also. I love how you mention that you don't feel guilty for being happy anymore. I'm there too but as you said there are moments where I stop and realize all I will miss out on with my babies and my sweet newborn Logan will miss out on with his siblings... It was an honor to read your story <3
This line.. "But I doubt I can ever complete a 100 thing challenge, when I hold on to pictures of hands and feet and clips of hair and a hat worn for a scant few hours." resonates with me. Thank you for participating and for giving me a view of life a few more years out. Wishing you love and light..
Thank you for sharing this. While I am much more recent in my grief, I can relate to much of what you write here - about the active grief having dissipated, about not remembering your child's face as well, about the muscle memory of [his] body having faded...
I laughed at the not being able to spell grief in the same way that life in SCBU had a black humour that I appreciated.
It is incredibly reassuring to find blogs of people who are my future and know I am heading in a direction that is normal. Thank you.
"The ache is mostly gone. The muscle memory of holding her is barely a faint outline. Her face is indistinct. Now these memories are part of the longing too. I long for her face to be clear to me, but without the intense grief. I suppose I can't have one without the other."
This really struck a chord with me, obviously, looking at my contribution to the project. Some memories I wish with all my heart were clearer, in sharp focus, but would that only refine the grief as well?
I was really moved by your words about living in a way that honors Serenity's little sister. I think that is the compass I need to take from my pocket more often. I tend to forget about it and wander aimlessly in the frantic pace of the daily routine.
Remembering Serenity. Thank you so much for your beautiful words. ♥
I read your blog years ago. My first daughter was born - alive - by emergency c-section after she had stopped moving and we had gone into the hospital to be checked out. Once we were at the hospital, I felt calm and confident that everything would be fine, and it was. But, several weeks later, I became overwhelmed with thoughts of what could have happened and I googled something, I don't remember what anymore, and I found several different blogs. Yours, Angie's, Sally's, some others. I read and read and read and then felt guilty for trespassing on this terrible sorrow I had somehow narrowly escaped. I made myself stop reading. And then in January of this year my second daughter was stillborn and I am heartbroken. I knew you all were here and came back. It is interesting to read here again now, to see how far you've come and to glimpse what might lie ahead for me. Thank you for sharing Serenity's story - it does help those of us who come after, as small a consolation as that might be.
"The shock is over... Grief doesn't dictate my life... but..." So very true. Thanks so much for taking part in this again. So glad to "hear" your voice again.
Like Erica, your description of the "limbo of grief" jumped out at me too. I'm there too - in the place where my internet browsing history leaps from babyloss to knitting and back.
Thank you for taking the time to share in the project.
thank you this post. I've been letting my blog fall to the wayside. I guess that's a good thing?
Sara will always be a part of my life, even her little brother talks about her. But the grief has morphed into something else - honoring my daughter, bittersweet memories. But I take myself back to those first days and cry.
This is really beautiful, full of depth and humor and relief.
"It's a settled reality, sunk into and through the core of my being."
I feel this so much, even at fourteen months out. My daughter has surely left her mark on me.
Love and peace to you. And hopefully a good sauerkraut or two.
Josh
"The shock is over. The active, constant, crazy grief is over." This. When does this happen, exactly? A rhetorical question, perhaps, but one I wonder day in and day out. Thank you for sharing. Remembering Serenity today...
"The shock is over. The active, constant, crazy grief is over."
- I desperately want it to be over, but I feel as though it hasn't really started yet.
Thinking of you and Serenity..
Beautiful.
Sauerkraut and coconut oil toothpaste and a smattering of babyloss. Just about sums up where I am too. I think I've made that next leap to feeling mostly joy about my daughter but I'm still somewhat held in place by the effort it takes to maintain that feeling. Limbo seems like exactly the right word for it.
Simply thank you for your blog entry.
Maria
xxxxx
"In some ways, Serenity's death and my grief serve as a compass now. I check myself, 'am I living in a way that honors my first daughter, not taking the time with her little sister for granted?'"
This is so true for me, too. Since Calla's death isn't fresh on the surface anymore, and I've allowed the grief to sink into my skin, it's not immediately there to tap into. Until I consciously do.
I've been spending way more time on the food blogs than the grief blogs, myself, and it feels both good and strange.
Sending love.
xo
Thank you for sharing Right Where You Are.
Thank you for sharing your post.
Thinking of your precious Serenity.
Limbo of grief. Yep, I am there too. It's changing still, but I'll always be there in some way. I'm so sorry about your sweet Serenity.
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