Friends With The Pain

Lots of people have lots of advice on how to “move on” or how to “let go” of my trauma and grief. Therapy. Pills. Yoga. Meditation. Oils. Classes. Exercise. Breathing techniques. Getting pregnant (ya, crazy!). And the list goes on and on. Interestingly enough, all this advice comes from people who have no similar experiences to speak from. People who have been in similar situations listen, empathize, share experiences, validate, and rarely give advice. 

I know these advice givers have good intentions, but often the well meaning advice is... hurtful or stirs up feelings of guilt (I know I should be thankful for my girls and I am BUT that doesn’t magically erase the pain either. I know that other people have had more losses and no living children. I know, but that doesn’t mean my feelings aren’t valid.) Even if the advice isn’t... accidentally hurtful... It often makes me feel even more alone and isolated, because it makes it clear that they don’t understand where I am emotionally. It feels like they want to give me a quick fix to get “back to normal” instead of taking the time to understand that I can’t go “back to normal”. Eventually, I know I will heal and I will move forward. Eventually, I will find my new normal. But right now, I am not there and that should be okay too.

I live in this strange place where I truly want to be happy and want to feel joy... but I also hold my grief and trauma as tightly as I want to hold my son. I hold the hurt, the pain, the ache, and the memories safely folded in my otherwise empty arms... arms that shouldn’t be empty... arms that should be holding a sleeping six month old baby... I know these things I hold in his place are as sharp as broken glass. I know they are hurting me. 

On a logical level I understand that I need to make a shift in how I think and how I view my experiences. I know that clutching broken glass is only going to continue to cut me... and maybe if I listen to this advice or followed that suggestion I could learn to carry the broken glass in a way that it won’t cut me or maybe I could put it down entirely... but I am not in a place where I want to do that... as sick as they may sound...

Maybe it’s because the only memories I have with my baby boy are traumatic. If I let them go, what is left?

Maybe it’s because this pain is the only evidence that he was here and that he mattered.

Maybe it’s because the late nights, the crying, and the pleading with God for answers is the only way I know how to express my love for my son without him here.

Maybe it’s because I am afraid that if I removed the broken glass from my arms that I wouldn’t have enough left there to keep me upright and I would collapse in on myself.

Maybe it’s because not enough time has passed for me to have reached a place of healing or to have gained a better perspective.

Maybe time will heal me... eventually.

Maybe one of these nights God will send me the understanding or comfort I have asked for...

But right now it feels like the grief is my best friend. Maybe a toxic best friend, but a friend none the less.

So let me be sad when I am sad or angry when I am angry. Don’t minimize my feelings and my experiences by offering me a quick fix. Don’t give me a list of things to be grateful for or start any sentence with “At least...” like a simple change of perspective will make everything okay again. Just sit with me... or don’t... but please don’t judge me for not handling this the way you think I should. 

Not So Authentic After All

Most of the time I can put on a mask and act a part. I know my role well. I say and do the things expected of me. And people buy it. Maybe it’s not even that I am as great of an actress as I think I am. Maybe it is because people choose to see what they want to see. They aren’t looking for cracks in my mask. They don’t notice the way my responses are sometimes delayed half a second too long as I choose my words and tone of voice carefully to keep the mood light. They don’t see the way I stare out the window and take a deep, cleansing breath when someone unintentionally says something triggering and/or offensive even though I know that their intentions weren’t malicious. I bite my tongue so my reflex response doesn’t catch anyone off guard. I know pointing out their misguided joke would just cause awkwardness or hurt. I hold enough hurt for everyone. There is no need to spread pain.

But biting my tongue, suppressing tears, and acting a part is exhausting. Pretending I am happy when I am hurting is draining. On top of playing a part, I still have a hundred little tasks to tend to in order to take care of my family’s needs and that depletes me of everything I have by the end of the night.

Eventually, I can’t keep up the act anymore. One of two things happens. 

1. If I don’t feel like I am safe to be raw and vulnerable, I go quiet, hide away, and plan my exit. It is much easier to be not okay in my own home where I am in control of my environment and my schedule.

2.If I am home, I can schedule my vulnerability and my breakdown. That probably sounds strange, but because I have small humans with needs that they can’t meet on their own, I don’t have the luxury of checking out and falling apart whenever I feel like it. I have to make sure their needs are met and wait for them to be asleep, distract them with a movie, or wait for their daddy to be home before I can fully address my emotions and my own needs. 

When it’s just me or just my husband with me, I can break down. I can cry or yell. I can be mad at God and myself. I can slam my hands down on the countertop in frustration and anger. I can completely fall apart. With only Eric, God, and the angels as the witnesses to my breakdown, there is no one there that might say the horrible things that I sometimes think they are thinking...

“2020 has been horrible to everyone. There is nothing special about your circumstances. Deal with it.”

“January was your month. It’s so and sos turn to be taken care of now. Suck it up.”

“No one else knows or even cares how you are feeling because you shouldn’t still be a mess. You are weak and pathetic.”

“Maybe this is your punishment for not being -fill in the blank- enough.”

Or hearing the things people have actually said to me...

“I just know your next pregnancy will finally give your husband the son he deserves.” (What if there isn’t a next pregnancy? Do you have any idea how hard pregnancy is? Do you know how much harder a pregnancy after a loss is? Do you know that we could have a dozen more babies but none of them would ever magically heal us because none of them would be Cayden? 🤦‍♀️ Sorry, for the side tangent.)

“Maybe your baby is actually the lucky one because he doesn’t have to live in this world.”

“Well, at least Cayden never had a chance to turn away from God. Can you imagine being so and so and having your child die while they were living a life that didn’t line up with the values and knowledge you know are true?”

“This baby is so hard. I am not sure we would have chosen to have this baby at this time if we had known how hard it would be.” (Your experience and feelings are valid, but choose your audience better.)

“Oh, just you wait. When you have a son, you’ll understand.” 

I know most people say things with a desire to be helpful or comforting. I know most people have good hearts. I try my best to remember that and not hold on to the unintentional hurt... but sometimes that takes time. 

Sometimes coping with my grief means avoiding some celebrations. I try to convey my love from afar, but I know it isn’t the same and can be taken as apathy. 

Sometimes coping means leaving early and quickly. When I have reached that point, I am usually trying so hard to keep it together that I don’t risk explaining myself for fear of falling apart. I know this has hurt people. I don’t want that.

Sometimes preventing grief from hitting randomly means hiding people or posts on social media. I hope this doesn’t offend anyone. I hope they don’t even notice.

I wish I was acting and speaking more authentically in real life. But with people, whether well-meaning or not, regularly saying things that minimize my feelings and experience or they change the subject whenever my words make them uncomfortable, it makes it clear that people don’t want me to be authentic. They want to believe what they want to believe. They don’t want to know the truth. They don’t want to face the uncomfortable truths. And that makes me feel pretty isolated and lonely in my grief.

I am not sure the point of this post. I guess I want people to understand that you only see what someone allows you to see... and what you want to see. And please don’t take my absence or departure personally. I am actively trying my best to navigate this new world I am in. Some days it doesn’t hurt as much. Other days, I am hypersensitive. Some days I have words to express myself. Other days, I don’t. But I am trying. Sometimes it feels like I am trying to tread water with sandbags tied to my ankles, but I haven’t stopped kicking... and that counts for something, right?

Reality Check

I recently had someone compliment me on “rocking it through quarantine”. You would think I would take that as a compliment, but it honestly made me feel sick to my stomach. I have been posting crafts I have done with the girls, activities we have done in our backyard, and funny things that Allison has said. I have been posting my highlights, and those highlights have painted a very unauthentic picture. Truth is, I want to share the real emotions and struggles. Most people have stopped checking in with me. I do think they occasionally ask my parents or Eric, but I am not sure. I do get asked for advice or my opinion, but rarely does anyone ask me how I am actually doing. Somewhere between 90-95% of my conversations are from me reaching out to others. Since I am the one asking the questions, seeking the connection, the full story doesn’t come out. 

I will call my mom and my sister when I am really angry about a situation, but even to them, I don’t share the full story. I think most people are happy to assume that there isn’t anything deeper than my social media posts. I think they want to see the funny and happy things and wouldn’t appreciate the darker, safer stuff. The people who might want a more complete view are people I don’t want to worry, especially since they can’t come visit during this quarantine anyways.  

But for the sake of authenticity, no, I am not rocking quarantine. Quarantine is hard for almost everyone. Quarantine while grieving is another level. Experiencing such a deep and personal loss is isolating. I know that losing my baby affected other people. Cayden is more than my baby. He is a brother, a grandchild, a first grandson, a nephew, a cousin, etc. Some people do feel that loss, but many of them expressed that what hurt the most was seeing how much this loss hurt us. For us what hurts the most isn’t seeing how much this loss hurts each other. It is actually helpful when I see Eric grieve. I don’t want him to hurt, but it is nice to know that I am not alone in this. What actually hurts the most is desperately aching to know the baby we had to bury. Would he have been athletic and stubborn like his daddy? Would he have been blessed with an ability to remember and love every person who ever entered his life like Allison? Would he have had an infectious laugh and mischievous grin like Brielle? I don’t have answers for who Cayden would have been on earth or who he is in heaven. I don’t know why he couldn’t stay. I would do anything to get those answers.

So while  you might see the final product of crafts with the girls or see pictures of girls playing in the sunshine, there is so much you don’t see.

You don’t see how guilty I feel anytime I am less than the perfect parent, because I know I would rather deal with a trillion tantrums, dirty diapers, and messes than live in a world without my two little blonde tornadoes.

You don’t see how I sneak into my girls’ room after Eric falls asleep because my anxiety tells me that they might stop breathing in their sleep or a fire in the night might separate us... and what if I am as clueless to their need for help as I was to Cayden’s... I couldn’t survive that.

(From left to right as Allison would label them: Papa Steve, Grandma Sheryl Winterton, Daddy, momma, Ally Mae, Brielle, Cayden, and “new baby”.)

You didn’t see me ask Allison who the people in her family portraits are and see how hard it was for me to keep a straight face as my heart dropped to the floor after she said “This one is Cayden! You can tell because I gave him spiky hair like daddy. Oh, and this bald one is the new baby we need to have. I didn’t give the new baby hair since I don’t know if it needs girl hair or boy hair.” Totally gut wrenching.

You didn’t see how confused Allison was when I told her I couldn’t promise her a new baby. 

You didn’t see the panic attack she had a few days later when all the confusion, hurt, and other emotions finally built up to a point she couldn’t contain in her almost 5 year old body any longer. You didn’t see how I silently cried as I rocked her to sleep that night because I remember my first panic attack and Allison is far too little for that. And is her panic attack my fault? Did I give her faulty genetics or have I handled this entire situation poorly? Maybe both? 

You didn’t see the hours I spent trying to prepare spiritually to receive an answer, any answer, to my prayers or see the many, many activities I planned to keep my girls happy and semi quiet during general conference, just to have them spend sooo much time purposefully annoying each other and fighting that I barely heard anything at all. You didn’t see how that made me feel defeated and abandoned, and how I cried for hours and hours  that night.

Did you know that Monday marked 3 months since Cayden was born sleeping? Probably not. 

You haven’t read any of my blogs posts where I have tried to be authentic, because I haven’t linked them to my Facebook. Partly because I don’t want to worry people... and partly because another part of me is scared that it will reaffirm my feelings of isolation and abandonment... even though I know people are good and do care.

Grief, isolation, anxiety, PSTD, and quiet honestly, the voice of the adversary all jumble up in my brain. I have to regularly sit down and sort out what thoughts are what and give myself a reality check.

Fact: The people in my life are good. Even if they don’t think to check in or don’t ask the right questions when they do check in, they haven’t forgotten or abandoned me. There is no manual for how to navigate this situation.

Fact: No one attends the funeral for a baby they never met for any reason other than they care about the parents of that baby... and so many more people came to Cayden’s funeral than I ever expected. We received so many beautiful messages, gifts, and cards.

Fact: My brain lies to me. A lot. 

Fact: Satan lies to me too. I know a lot of people don’t believe in Satan anymore, but he is very real. His greatest trick has been convincing the world he never existed. Before his fall, he was someone many of us looked up to. It is totally possible that we might have confided in him. Since he didn’t go through the veil, he knows our weakness, maybe even better than we know for ourselves. He might even know what God’s plan for us on earth is... something to ponder in your own time.

Fact: Heavenly Father is aware of me and He hasn’t abandoned me. The atonement is real and through the atonement at least one other person in the universe understands what I feel. 

Fact: Temple blessings are real. If I keep trying my best, I can be with my entire family one day, Cayden included.

This was written in stream of consciousness so it might be confusing or unorganized. Excuse the typos.

I guess the point of this post is that social media isn’t a complete view of anyone’s life and we shouldn’t assume it is. Even with this post, there are some things that didn’t get brought up for sake of time or the need to process somethings alone. 

Let’s check in on people. Ask how they are really doing. And let’s give each other and ourselves grace. This is a hard time for everyone and many people have more going on under my the surface than we know.

Is Social Distancing The Best Option For Everyone?

I know everyone is struggling right now. People are worried about their grandparents. They are worried about the effect this will have on the economy. People are losing their jobs or being furloughed temporarily. Children don’t understand why they can’t go to school or play with friends. It’s hard for everyone. But for some people, could social distancing be doing more harm than good?

I can’t imagine being stuck in a nursing home, knowing your time on earth is coming to an end soon, and not even being allowed to see your kids or grandkids. That lack of interaction with people that love them might kill some faster than the virus itself.

What about the kids who live in abusive households? The stress of finances, the lack of access to free school food, and the constant close quarters will create storms inside some households that some people might not weather. Many, many places have reported a huge increase in the number of domestic abuse calls. But with shelters full or completely shut down, if these people are even ready and able to walk away, where do they have to go?

Then, there is a huge population of people who are struggling beyond the “average” person because of preexisting mental health issues.

I have struggled with anxiety and depression, and my struggles are nothing compared to some. I have never once hurt someone else or harmed myself. I have never considered suicide an option. But right now things are harder than normal. I still won’t hurt myself or others, but I am really struggling.

Living in a world without my baby feels like a cruel punishment. It constantly feels like my heart is sitting in someone else’s hand and they are squeezing just enough to make me aware that at any moment they could decided to crush it. It is a constant ache. Even though it hasn’t even been 3 months, we have official reached a point where it feels like most everyone has forgotten what we are going through. I have one friend who checks in frequently and one church leader who checks in regularly. My friends from before and family usually answer my calls or texts, but 99% of the time, I am the one reaching out... and I am running out of energy to always be the one initiating any kind of interaction. 

Add in the worry and turmoil in the world and the calls for social distancing and I feel really isolated.

And I am one of the luck ones! I have my girls to keep me busy and make me laugh. They would like more social interaction, but since they have never gone to school or daycare, their lives haven’t drastically changed. If the weather was warmer and it wasn’t raining so often, their outside time would make up for the social distancing. 

I also have many, many coping techniques. Breathing, reading/writing, essential oils, and etc that will get me to the other side of this okay. 

My husband has job security through this and though there are many things he doesn’t like about his job, they are financially taking care of their employees and providing great sick leave policies at this time. We aren’t stressed about paying our rent and we feel very blessed for that right now.

Even still, I am struggling more than I have ever struggled before. I am taking good care of my girls. They are well fed, have clean clothes, are getting lots of my attention, and know they are deeply loved and wanted. My home is a little messy, but nothing extreme. There isn’t even a mystery Tupperware full of mold in the back of my fridge right now and let’s be honest, that’s pretty impressive. I am taking care of what needs to get done. The important things aren’t being neglected. But not much more than that is being accomplished. 

Having a stillborn is isolating. People don’t understand how isolating it is. Add in not being able to get out of the house or see the two people that might understand what I am going through... and I know there are phones. But phone calls aren’t the same and it’s hard to talk about important things when my kids are screaming to say hi to whoever is on the phone... and texts... I don’t know. A lot gets lost in a text. And sometimes you just need a hug from someone who has been where you are. 

I have never spent so much time on my knees pleading for comfort. I do feel lost, lonely, and forgotten right now. 

But I also know I am doing a lot better than other people would in my shoes... and a lot better than other people who have different struggles than me and are without the coping mechanism or faith in God that I have... so if I am struggling this much, how much are others?

Sooo social distancing might be for the best, in many situations... but maybe there are exceptions. Maybe some mental health needs are higher priority, but no one is talking about that.

Early Morning Musing

One thing I don’t think people understand is how the sweetest moments of my day can suddenly take on a bitter taste without warning. It is strange. One minute I am watching my girls use their imagination, pretending to  be princesses on an epic adventure to save the world, and getting along in a way that can only be described as magical. Then, out of nowhere I remember that Cayden won’t get to play a role in these games of imagination. I remember that he should be having tummy time on a blanket on the ground. I should be reminding the girls to give him some space so they don’t smother him or to look where they are running so they don’t trip on him. I should be reminding them to use indoor voices so they don’t wake up their baby brother... not telling them to give me a minute so I can pull myself together and to plaster on a smile so I can respond to them with the appropriate level of enthusiasm when they try to pull me into their games.

It isn’t fair that their lives will always be colored by this. They will always be older sisters to a stillborn baby brother. On days when we are celebrating their accomplishments and big life events, we will also wondering if he decided to leave heaven for a few moments to celebrate with us. In the back of our minds, we will wonder if he would have had the same interests and would have joined the same activities. We will always feel the hole he has left in our family. We will always would what he would have been like and what he could have done. We will always wonder “what if...?”

Fine

*I named my blog Authentically Aubrey because I don't want to filter my thoughts or feeling. The name is a reminder and promise to me. I don't want this to be a social media highlight reel. I don't want this to be life through rose-colored glasses. I want this blog to show the ugly, messy, and real parts of my life that you wouldn't know about unless I put it down in words here.*   

*Also note that this blog post is raw, vulnerable, and anything but optimistic because today is March 6th: the 2 monthiversary of losing Cayden. This post was written as word vomit and free therapy for myself. No edits. No filter. I decided to post it to show that grief isn't linear. You don't simply feel a little better every day until you eventually forget the heartwrenching, gut-punching loss. Grief is strange. Dates can trigger it. Songs can trigger it. Guilt for being happy can trigger it. Sometimes, grief smacks you in the face with no warning and no trigger at all. Grief is a bad word that I won't type here but that I am totally saying out loud to myself.*


Right after the news of Cayden's death spread, people would ask how we were doing and we couldn't answer "fine." We were drowning and if we said "fine", we would have lost the last air in our lungs, replacing it with water. We were drowning, but we weren't allowed to die. Obviously, we couldn't reply "fine." 

Instead, we would say things like "as good as can be expected" or "functioning". Often, we would just shrug our shoulders and make a half-hearted attempt at a smile that came out as more of a grimace because if we inhaled we would have choked on our own tears.

For a few weeks, no one expected us to say we were fine and these answers were expected and accepted. Eventually, we felt the expectation to say "fine" again. I mean, we were both working again. Eric back to the night shift at the store. Me, taking care of the kids, the house, and researching and writing blogs for a family company during infrequent naptimes and after bedtime. Since we were functioning on a level that no one, including us, expected, what other answer was there? If anyone had stopped by the house, they would have seen an empty sink, folded laundry, dinner simmering in the crockpot, and the girls in clean clothes, their hair braided in hopes of keeping it free of the glitter and glue of their daily art project. What conclusion could they make other than that we were fine? Fine became the automatic answer that we regurgitate without thinking and that everyone swallows without chewing. Okay, a gross metaphor for visual thinkers, but accurate nonetheless.  

I have grown to despise the word "fine." What does fine even mean? Does anyone ever think before they spit it out? Do people actually mean it? Fine. Blahhh! FINE! *grinds teeth and pulls out hair* 

Is not falling asleep until 3 am due to trauma-induced insomnia fine? Is meticulously cleaning the fridge, organizing the pantry, and scrubbing the bathroom floor because the OCD you thought you had overcome has suddenly come back with a vengeance fine? Is screaming into a pillow because you are exhausted, overwhelmed, grief-stricken, and isolated fine? Is needing to hear both of your living children breathing in order to relax fine? Is begging and pleading at God to let you know that He hears you fine? Is crawling out of bed at 2 am so your angry, heartbroken sobs don't wake anyone fine?

If so, I am fine.

Rest assured, this isn't all the time. Well, the insomnia is relentless, but the exhaustion is overcoming the obsessive cleaning and organizing. The sobbing is pretty infrequent, replaced by silent tears that only come when things are silent and arms are empty. The need to plead with God is... basically nightly.

But how can you explain this experience to someone who says "I can't imagine what you are going through" BUT there is still so much pressure to be fine?

It might seem ridiculous that we feel so much pressure to be fine when today is only the 2 monthiversary of losing Cayden, but we do. When you have always been the "golden child", the "peacemaker", the "helper", the child parents don't have to worry about because you have always had a firm hold on the rod, and the friend that people come to when they are struggling, are you even allowed to not be fine?

And even if you reach a point where you are ready to scream "I AM NOT FINE!" who is there to hear you when their focus has shifted back to 'normal life'? It doesn't matter that they can't hear you though. You can't scream when you are drowning.

Is This A Faith Crisis?

I have always been blessed with what I have called "easy faith". In high school, I had many friends trying out different churches, separating out their personal beliefs from their parents, and questioning whether a higher power was even out there.  I was happy for my friends who found spiritual homes and I ached for my friends who were struggling to find answers to their questions. I loved talking to my friends about religion and discussing our different beliefs. I always felt and still do feel that God cares more about what kind of person we are than what church we go to, so these conversations usually just helped my friendships grow as we understood each other better.

Watching all these spiritual journeys made me realize that I had never really questioned the religion I had been raised in. I had prayed before my 8th birthday for confirmation that I should be baptized, but that was really it. It seemed strange that at 16 I hadn't felt the need to ask again, and I couldn't very well trust the faded memory of the experience of my not even 8-year-old self. I didn't feel lost or confused, but I decided that in order to continue sharing my religious views with friends, I needed to do what my church tells their investigators to do: Read the Book of Mormon and pray to know if it is true. I knew the stories in the Book of Mormon and I had started reading it a dozen times, but I had never actually read it cover to cover. 

It took a couple months, but I finished the entire Book of Mormon. When I prayed to know for myself if the Book of Mormon was the word of God, I heard in my head "You already know." When I asked if the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints was the right church I heard "You already know. You've always known." My heart felt warm. Then, I remembered various times that I had felt the spirit in my life. I knew I had my answer.

After that, I turned to God every time life got hard or confusing. When my heart broke when the boy I thought I was going to marry suddenly broke up with me, Heavenly Father let me know He had a better plan. When I was overwhelmed and confused as I tried to pick a major, He answered me with an article in a church magazine. When I was dating a new boy who was having a hard time committing, God told me to hang on and have patience, but that he was the one. When I struggled with health issues that doctors were less than helpful with, God promised me that I would find healing. When I had a miscarriage, I felt God's guiding hand. When motherhood was harder and more isolating than I could have imagined, Heavenly Father reminded me that I was doing exactly what I was supposed to and He put a couple great friends in my life. Every. Single. Time.  I struggled, He answered me. The answers weren't always immediate. Sometimes it took a couple weeks of searching on my part. Sometimes the answers were vaguer than others. Often the answer was simply a warm feeling and the thought 'Trust me. I've got you." But there was always an answer.

But He is silent right now. No warm feeling. No voice saying "I've got you." No reassurance that God has a plan for me. No scripture verse saying exactly what I need to hear. Nothing...

and it freaking sucks. 

I know the saying "The teacher is always silent during the test." I know the story of Job. I know that my past spiritual experiences were real. I know the church is true. I know my Heavenly Father loves me and has a plan for me. I am also very aware that it is hard to feel the spirit and receive answers to prayers while still hanging on to angry and bitter feelings to God. I just desperately want Heavenly Father to assure me that Cayden's short life mattered. I need to know that this heartbreak isn't for nothing. I want confirmation that Cayden knows we love him. Truth be told, I feel entitled to these answers... which doesn't help the bitter feelings.

I know it's unlikely that God will send Cayden to me in a dream to let him explain to me what he is doing now and why he couldn't stay. I know that some answers don't come in this life. I believe I could come to terms with unanswered questions if I could just get a little reassurance from God that He hears me.

While I wait, I will hold on to the promises Heavenly Father made to me in the temple and in my patriarchal blessing. I will hold on to the memories of every time I felt the spirit and had my prayers answered in undeniable ways. I know if I do my part, Heavenly Father will keep those promises, I will be with Cayden again, and the silence will eventually give way as I let go of my anger... but it is going to take time.

Things NOT To Say To A Grieving Parent

I want to start this blog out saying that I am fine. I don't take anything people say personally. I know that most people have good intentions, so I typically just take the love and leave the unintentional offense behind. That said there are things I would highly advise not saying to other grieving parents in the future. These are all things multiple people I know who have had experienced miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss have told me they have been told, and they all agreed they are wouldn’t like to hear again.

1. "At least you know you can get pregnant. You can just try again!"
Just "try again" makes it sound like the individual spirit that came and left way too soon is inconsequential. That baby was a unique individual and they mattered. The couple might be able to have another baby, but that doesn't replace the baby they lost.
It also isn't simple to just try again. Some people have a hard time getting pregnant and the emotional toll of trying month after month is impossible to understand unless you have been there. Other people have had losses that you might not know about. These losses change how they view pregnancy forever. Even if the person has a clear history of delivering healthy, happy babies, pregnancy is not easy. The puking, aches, pains, migraines, and a million other things are worth it when the end result is a healthy baby, but what about if there isn't a baby to take home after months of suffering and sacrifice? “Trying again” isn’t simple.
Several people made this comment to us before Cayden's body was even in the ground. We know they were trying to be comforting, but the idea of another pregnancy gives me a panic attack. I have been pregnant 4 times, and I only have two children here on earth. I know if we decide to have another that it will be a hard pregnancy emotionally. I do have some serious PTSD. I know every single thing that can go wrong with a pregnancy and that fear will be a dark cloud over any future pregnancy if we even get a prompting from God that is strong enough to convince us to muster up the strength to “try again”..

2. "At least you have a healthy child here now."
Parents who have children on earth and in heaven know how blessed they are to have a child on earth, especially if that child is happy and healthy. That doesn't magically take away the grief they feel. 
I know that my girls keep me busy enough to distract me from my grief during the day most of the time. I am grateful for them every single day, but I still want Cayden in my arms. I still ache to know what kind of big sister Brielle would be and I ache as I see Allison struggle to understand where her brother went and why.

3. "They are in a better place."
I think the "better place" comment might bring comfort if the person who passed away was in pain before they died, but many people don't find this sentiment comforting. I am sure heaven is wonderful, but I don't think any place is better for a child than their parent's arms.

4. "What went wrong?"
You really need to have the right kind of relationship to ask this question. This can be super triggering. It is probably better to just let that person know that you are happy to listen if they want to talk.

5. "I bet your next baby will be another boy (or whatever gender they lost)."
This goes back to #1. You can't just replace a human life with a new life. It isn't that simple. 
To be honest, this is the one comment that really rubs me the wrong way. I don't know if we will ever be ready to try again. If God clearly makes it known that we need to bring another spirit into this world, we will follow through, most likely. But it really does give me a panic attack to think about. It also rubs me the wrong way because God doesn't just give random people revelation for other people. I don't know if we will have any more kids so you certainly don't know it will be a boy.

6. "Everything happens for a reason." or "God has a plan."
 The not understanding the reason and the plan God has can keep grieving parents up at night for years.

7. "How do you even get out of bed each morning?" Or “I don’t think I could live through the nightmare you are going through.”
These comments and ones like them are just unnecessary. It can make that person feel even more isolated in their experience and can make them feel like you are judging their process. Does functioning on some level make it seem like they didn’t love their baby enough? You only see what that person allows you to see and maybe not even that. Maybe they need to be at work because the routine is what keeps them going. Maybe they don't have the option to stay in bed because they have kids to clothe and mouths to feed. Maybe their house is a mess and they have missed enough work that they aren’t sure how they are going to pay rent. 

8. "At what point are you going to finally move on?" or "You can't avoid these things forever."
It is hard for someone who hasn't experienced the loss of a child to understand how that grief never goes away, but it doesn't go away. It just might get easier to live with, but it is still there. Things that don’t even make sense can trigger it. You don't get to judge anyone else's grieving process. If they are making decisions that are dangerous to the health of themselves or others making sure they are getting the right kind of help is necessary. If they are simply avoiding triggers, like hospitals, pregnant women, or children that would be the same age as their own, let them. They have enough on their emotional plate without you adding guilt or judgment.

9. "I know how you feel."
Unless you actually experienced the same thing, you don't. Losing a grandparent is hard, but it isn't the same thing. Getting a divorce is hard, but it isn't the same thing. 

10. "You must be so special for God to have picked you to be the parent of an angel." 
It's hard to explain why this one rubs so many grieving parents the wrong way. Many grieving parents wonder if they could have done something differently to save their baby. Many of them feel like they failed their child. This just makes some people feel worse.

11. "God wouldn't put you through this unless you did something wrong. You should figure out what you did wrong and repent before you try again."
Anyone with commonsense would know that you shouldn't say something like this to a grieving parent, but grieving parents have heard this. Just don't. Bad things happen to good people all the time. Have you read about Job in the Bible?

13. “Did you see that Susie is pregnant? And Sharon had her baby!”
Grieving parents would not wish a similar loss on anyone... but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to see other people blessed with something they had taken away. It might be considerate to give them a heads up before making your own pregnancy or birth announcement, but they don’t need to hear about every single person’s baby.  

14. “This world is really scary right now. Maybe it’s a good thing your baby isn’t here.”
Yes, the world is a scary place, but there is no “good” reason for a baby to have died. Yes, the world is scary and dark right now, but if my baby was here the world would be a little brighter and happier... at least my world would be.

I know reading a list of what not to say might make you scared to say anything at all. I would like you to know that if you have said something to me on that list, I don't have any hard feelings. Don’t let the list scare you away from reaching out to people who have experienced loss. The love and support extended really do help. It is especially nice when someone remembers and reaches out down the road when it feels like the rest of world has moved on and forgotten. 

Better Than Expected But Still Struggling

It has been 7 weeks and 2 days since we lost Cayden. It feels like it has been much, much longer. In 7 weeks, I feel like I have aged a decade.

Considering it has only been 7 weeks, I feel like Eric and I are managing really well. He is back at work fulltime. When he isn't working, Eric is at the gym or spending time with us as a family. Since Eric has such a hard work schedule right now, I want the time he has at home to be quality time as a family so I have been making sure there aren't messes around the house he feels he needs to take care of. I have surprised myself with how well I have been keeping up with even dreaded chores, like dishes and laundry, while also tackling things that tend to be neglected, like cleaning the fridge or organizing closets, all while working from home when the girls are sleeping or playing with Eric on his days off. On top of all that, I have also made it a priority to be present with the girls. They are currently obsessed with any craft that involves glitter, and they are usually a little too helpful in the kitchen. Well, Allison is a great helper. She has a big heart and loves feeling like her hard work made my life a little easier. I love how proud she is when she sees the results of her hard work. Brielle, on the other hand, is... 2. She likes to eat shredded cheese out of the bag (making a huge mess), plays in the sink, climbs everything, and tries to touch everything that is sharp or hot. She definitely keeps us busy, but she is becoming a great friend to Allison. Nothing is better than watching them play elaborate games of imagination together.

By all accounts, I am doing much better than I expected I would be doing. Right after we lost Cayden, I couldn't hide in my bedroom all day because we had a funeral to plan. It was incredibly hard, but it forced me to run errands and get out of the house. I thought once there weren't things that I had to do, I would crawl back into bed and let the darkness swallow me up. It is hard to imagine going back to the routine of normal life when grief is fresh, but I still have two children on earth who need me and a husband who loves me. With their help, I have found a new "normal" and we are doing okay. 

I think that because we have returned to a regular routine that people who haven't gone through this think we are moving on. You don't move on from something like this. You move forward with it. Grief and healing aren't linear. Somedays, Allison asks a dozen times why Cayden had to go to heaven and what he is doing there that is so important that he didn't get to stay on earth with us. Sometimes a song comes on in the car and Eric hears the lyrics differently than he used to, and he cries alone in the car. Somedays I am fine until everyone else is asleep, and I find that instead of falling asleep I am reliving January 6th. Other nights, I distract my empty arms by cleaning, organizing, and decluttering for hours. Some nights I write blog posts about everything I am feeling and then erase them or leave them unpublished because I don't think I explained myself well enough and I don't want to worry anyone. Many nights I sneak into the girls' bedroom where I can finally fall asleep. So yes, we are functioning, we are okay, but it isn't a simple process.

I wonder if things would be a little easier if I could just feel a connection with Cayden and with God. I desperately crave that connection and the reassurance from a higher power that there is a plan, but I just don't feel it right now. I can see tender mercies from God. I can remember past spiritual experiences. I know that I have a loving Heavenly Father, but right now I can't feel it. To be honest, I was slacking off on doing the daily things to build and maintain that relationship, so I know the lack of connection is on my end. I desperately want to feel the peace and love that only comes from Christ, but I also can't let go of the last of my anger and bitterness with God. 

To understand where I am, you have to realize that I did not want to get pregnant last year. I felt my hands were full with the girls and that I needed a little time to remember who I am besides "mom". Eric and I hadn't felt a push from God to bring another spirit into this world like we did with the girls. I was using birth control and it failed. I felt blindsided, but I trusted that this baby needed to come to earth at a very specific time for a reason. I knew that it would all make sense one day. I knew that as soon as I held Cayden in my arms I would be overcome with love for him and wouldn't want to change a single thing. But then, God took Cayden away. He gave us Cayden before we were ready, made us love him, and then, took him away. I feel robbed.

I know this post probably makes it sound like I am not doing well. There is no need to worry about me. Most of the time, I really am fine, and I have made progress. I no longer wish that this entire last year never happened. I would still have Cayden on earth with us if I could, but I no longer wish that my grief would take me out of this world. I no longer wish that I had never gotten pregnant at all. I would go through this all again for the chance to have Cayden in our family forever. I am grateful for the plan of salvation and my knowledge of it. I am grateful that Christ willing came to earth, suffered for each of our sins and pains, and made it possible for us to return to our Father in Heaven. I am grateful for temples. I know that because Eric and I chose to marry in the temple that we can have an eternal family if we live up to our covenants, and I am grateful for that. I am blessed to have Eric as my eternal companion. He is thoughtful, patient, and understanding. Eric doesn't judge me for my unfiltered thoughts and he supports my grieving process, even though it is different and slower than his own. Despite the struggle and the ups and downs, I know I have a lot to be thankful for.

Listen 

Grief is Strange

(Repeat from Facebook)

Grief is strange. From the moment I woke up until just a couple hours ago I was busy: folding laundry, packing to go home, comforting Allison who didn’t want to say goodbye to grandma, trying to keep Brielle from screeching while Eric drove, making dinner, etc. I was tired from Brielle waking me up the night before, but I was “fine”. I am “fine” most of the time now.

Facebook reminded me that Eric and I got engaged 7 years ago today. I was still “fine” while Eric and I talked about how we expected married life to be. We were right that when you love someone and they love you, you can survive even the hardest trials. But we were also wrong, love doesn’t magically make everything feel okay. “Happily Ever After” should be replaced with “They moved forward together, but this is far from the end. Their story is just beginning.”

Once both girls were asleep, I picked up my phone and saw the date, and then I was anything but “fine”. Today is January 30th. January 30th was Cayden’s due date. If his birth had followed the pattern set by his sisters, Cayden would be 8 days old. I would be sore and sleep-deprived, but running on pure love and adrenaline. Eric and I would be staring at Cayden’s face right now, amazed at how much changes that 1st week and trying to decide who each of his facial features resemble. We might even be jokingly bickering over who’s turn it is to change his diaper, but we both know I win because I hold the “I gave birth” trump card.

Instead, I am still laying in Allison’s bed, holding her, because prying myself away is harder now. When I leave her room, my arms will be empty and cold. As long as I stay in the girls’ bedroom, I know they aren’t slipping away without my knowledge.

Grief is strange. It hits at unexpected times, like when I take the girls out somewhere to play. When I count heads to make sure no one has wandered off, I always have a few seconds where I am sure I am missing a 3rd child... and I am, but he didn’t wander

off and I didn’t forget him.

I know this post is a downer, but my life isn’t full of just funny things Allison has said or pictures of the girls’ brief moments of playing nicely. Yes, I am doing much better than I thought I would be doing by now. Overall, I am “fine”. I have moments of intense grief and anger, but I also have moments of intense joy and deep laughter. I will be okay, but it is also okay to not be okay sometimes too.