Teddy Bear Tins

December 9, 2010



How life has changed in the last 6 weeks.

Our little man is growing and changing, and each day I find myself trying to memorize every bit of him. I wonder if I would appreciate these moments any differently if it hadn't been for Aiden? Before Jack even arrived I think I understood in a special way how precious he is... how precious life is. I love this little man so much it's like my heart is breaking apart just so it can make itself bigger.

And while I could go on for hours about how wonderfully sweet my life has become since Jack arrived, that's not my purpose here today. Today I want to try to capture in writing what I've been experiencing as a baby-loss Auntie following the birth of my son, and that story has both sweet and bitter parts.

For what feels like a long time I had come to really enjoy the place that Aiden had settled into in our lives. There has been so much positive! Teddy Bear Tins has touched almost 100 families, and that's just the families that they have been donated to. I feel like the families who have volunteered have also found benefit. And beyond that there have been simple moments that have meant so much, like when friends learn of newly bereaved families and because of what I have experienced, they feel the need to learn and reach out themselves. Families are receiving support they might not have. Lives are being honored. My incredible nephew - he is the reason these things have happened. What a miracle and a blessing he has been.

And that's where I have been able to find my peace.

I had been afraid that there would be a moment when my son was born that I would suddenly be overcome with grief at finally understanding the connection that would be broken if your own daughter or son passed away. But much like the rest of my pregnancy, what I had envisioned was not what ended up happening.

No, I don't truly understand what a parent goes through when they lose a child, what Aiden's parents experienced. Even though I am now a parent myself, and even though I experienced the loss of a child as an Auntie, it's different.

So in a way I thought that I had made it safely past that emotional danger. But again I was wrong. And instead of a single moment of understanding and grief, what I've experienced instead is a slow sense of the bittersweet as the weeks have gone past. For the first time in so many months, not only does my heart ache for Aiden but my arms physically do again. And I find myself feeling angry, and cheated. I'm angry that Aiden's parents were robbed of the opportunities to memorize their son's little features as he sleeps all bundled up and safe at home. That they will never get to know what Aiden's face feels like against their neck when baby cries and scrunches up his cheeks and forehead, chin quivering in protest.

I find myself unsatisfied with Aiden's place in our lives. It's just not enough to have to settle for a memory. And it's so frustrating, so unfair that my brother lost so much.

The tears have started coming again in the nights as I listen to my son squeak and coo in his bassinet. I am so happy and appreciative of this new miracle in our lives. But as a babyloss Auntie, that happiness is not innocent of what has been lost. And as much as I wish it were different, I know this is the way it will always be. We'll never know what life would have been like if Jack and Aiden could have been here together. I'll never know the color of my nephew's eyes, or the sound of his cry. I'll never be able to erase the pain my brother and his fiancee have felt.

So for right now, my equilibrium has been shaken again. Which I guess is to be expected when you experience a life-changing event. I'm not sure what things will look like when the pieces find their place again. But for now I can hope that they do find their place soon, and that I find the lessons to learn in the process.

December 7, 2010


And in that breath, this little man stole my heart.

Jack Adam
My Son
Born 12:08 am, November 2nd
...1 year, 9 months, 2 weeks and 1 day after his guardian angel before him

I have much to write, but need some more time to organize it all in my mind first. For now, our son is here, he is healthy, and our hearts are overwhelmed.

October 16, 2010

Alternate Endings

I may be dating myself here, but does anyone remember those Goosebumps series books by RL Stine that were popular back in the 90s?

I very clearly remember a summer vacation spent chilling out reading books to count toward my summer reading list, and there was this Goosebumps book that had pick-your-own endings. You'd start reading the story, then it'd come to a point where you had to choose a detail about the story, and that directed you to the next pages to read, until ultimately you had made your own ending. I was intrigued, and I'm pretty sure I tried every combination of choices until I had read every ending (I may be OCD...)

Anyway, lately I can't get that memory out of my head... of me choosing and reading all these different possible endings to the story.

Our baby is due to arrive in two weeks or less, and I'm definitely in that stage where I'm trying to picture how this is all going to end (or start, depending on how you look at it). I'm friends with a number of other ladies due around the same time, and I watch as they discuss everything that they are anticipating once their babies arrive. They've bought outfits, have arranged to have friends stop by and get pictures taken. They worry about whether their husband will remember to include the right strap covers with the new car seat, or if he'll forget and leave the boring tan stock covers on.

And I feel like I'm stuck at the end of a page in that book, and I know there are two possible ways to continue, but for some reason I only see one of them no matter how hard I look. I can't find what page I'm supposed to go to in order to read what these ladies are talking about. That ending is just... missing for me.

But the OTHER ending, that one I can almost recite without having to turn the page. I know every detail, if that is our ending, if our baby doesn't make it. The details of what leads to that being the ending aren't clear, but I know that I'd want pictures, and hand and foot prints, and I'd call friends to ask them to grab a blank Teddy Bear Tin from home for me to use, and that later I'd find a special person to paint it for us. And I'd want a funeral so family could see this child and remember him. I know what music I'd want at the service. I can picture the years after.

This baby will be our first. So realistically I know that even if this alternate ending wasn't so easy for me to picture clearly, I'd really still not be able to predict what it will be like if baby does make it here safely. I guess it just feels disproportionate - I have trouble imagining the happy ending because there is an obvious reality to me on the other side which keeps my head out of the clouds.

So what do I do with this? What do I do when my mind starts looping through this book with the alternate ending that I don't seem to be able to find?

That answer is simple for me now...

I just let go.

Because there is absolutely no way for me to control what is going to happen. And there is absolutely no point in becoming frustrated with not being able to see the ending we really want. Because at the end of the day, there's a bigger picture that already exists that I'd be completely missing if I focused on the what-ifs.

My son is already here with me. Literally with me. I feel him rolling around and hiccuping and kicking me. He is alive and here RIGHT NOW. And every moment with him, whether it's in my belly or outside, is just as precious. So my way of handling these last few weeks, when the tendency is to picture the scarier ending, is to take the lesson that I shouldn't let anticipation replace appreciation for what I already have.

And just let everything else go.


October 7, 2010

Two Years

More often even than I've been asked by others how long we will grieve for Aiden, I've wondered for myself what each year will look like.

So it is with that in mind that I relate especially to other families approaching certain milestones. In a few short months it will be two years for us, as it is currently for this special family. I am keeping them close in my prayers this week, and ask if you would that you might think of them too. Kristin I hope that the happy memories with Peyton overshadow your sadness, as she was such a special girl!


Oh, and if you were wondering... my current view is that this grief changes, but it will never end and there is nothing "wrong" with that. In many ways it has made me who I am today, and to deny that would be to deny so much of the good that Aiden brought with him. So it's a part of me now, and will always be an important part of my story.

September 10, 2010

Reflections of a Babyloss Auntie

I've been debating about whether to post this post for so long that maybe the title would more appropriately be "Confessions" of a Babyloss Auntie...

In the babyloss community, there is a special sensitivity to the fact that it can sometimes hurt when others have the chance to get what we or our families have lost. When someone gets the chance to have a little one of their own, alive and breathing. Even though we are so happy for them, truly happy, that happiness can make our hearts break just a little bit more as we watch what we never had. We tread lightly, hoping to let others get the joy and congratulations they deserve without falling to pieces.

So what, then, do we feel when WE are the ones waiting on our own little baby?

Yes, I'm pregnant. Very pregnant. 8 months. And until now I've been too afraid to say that here. I just felt like this is Aiden's place, this is a babyloss haven, and that this news would somehow harm that.

But after a lot of thought (and possibly some tears), I've come to realize that it is not only appropriate but even important for me to let everyone know this news, because no corner of my pregnancy experience this last many months has not been touched by Aiden. He is so much a part of this.

And I think the things that I have felt and the struggles I have carried are probably not just mine. Someone else, somewhere, is expecting a baby after a loved one has lost their own. Someone else struggles to respond when strangers ask, "Oh is this the first grandchild?" They too keep spreadsheets of home-doppler readings and kick counts and freak out anytime anything feels in any way different, and think that people who think that there is "only" a 2% risk of something bad happening are much too optimistic. Someone else covets ultrasound pictures like a psychotic hoarder, and is more than happy to pay out of pocket for 3d and 4d pictures and video of an unborn child because you just never know. Someone else spends 15 minutes preparing non-pregnancy topics of conversation before calling the father or mother of an angel, so that you don't feel like you are "rubbing it in their face." To that someone else - officially, you are not alone.

So finally, this is why I have been unusually quiet here. I was never gone. And Aiden has never left my mind. In fact, he's been present more than ever, in ways I'd never predicted. If it weren't for Aiden I have no doubt that my husband and I would still be busy working on our carefully laid out plans, step by step, for how our lives were to progress. Instead, thanks to my incredible nephew, we've had the courage to recognize what is more important and to let go of those things that will never mean much of anything in the end anyway.

I love you little guy, and miss you and pray for your parents every day. We can't wait to meet your new cousin, and hope that you'd pull whatever strings you can with the Big Cheese up there so that we might get to meet our son, even for a little while, before he is called back home.


August 19, 2010

August 19th

Won't you join us in remembering today?

This effort really struck a chord with me, especially in the last few days. From the project website, the idea is that...

"By having this special day once a year we get people speaking about pregnancy, infant and child loss. And by doing this we break those walls down so that people are not afraid to speak about these children anymore."

Earlier this week I got the chance to spend over an hour chatting with my brother on the phone. He's halfway across the country in Denver, and I'm in a hotel room two time zones away on a business trip. It was nearly midnight for me, but I just didn't want the call to end. It was nothing especially unusual, no major topics of conversation, just general "hey how's it going? what have you been up to lately?"

Except that at one point, Aiden became part of what we were talking about. I don't even remember what the topic was at the moment, but hearing my brother say Aiden's name literally made me catch my breath, and I realized just how much I miss hearing it. How much I wish I could talk about my nephew all the time, like I'd be "allowed" to if he were any 19-month old tugging on his dad's pant leg while he was on the phone, not a box of ashes sitting next to a candle and a picture.

Me, the pushy this-is-the-way-I-want-things-to-be advocate for babyloss parents, had unknowingly allowed myself to be silenced for weeks. To have my nephew's place in my life quieted by the pressures of comfortable manners. And I hadn't even realized it.

This is such a shame. The effect of the babyloss "taboo" on these families is so profound that I find it hard to explain to anyone who doesn't personally experience it. What makes it even harder is that no one purposely means to do this. It's not a matter of changing hearts, it's a matter of opening them, which I feel like is in many ways harder.

Please support the Day of Hope effort. Please understand what it means. Because the simple gift of hearing my nephew's name was enough to put a few of the broken pieces back together for me that day, and I could wish nothing less for all of my babyloss friends and family.

<3, Meg

July 13, 2010

Day of Hope

A lady who leads an effort that I have followed since nearly the beginning of my grief journey is currently coordinating a memory box drive:

Day of Hope

I've offered to provide Teddy Bear Tins to include in some of the boxes, and frankly I'm looking forward to the excuse to get my hands dirty and make up some more tins!

Won't you join me? I'm looking for anyone willing to volunteer to paint tins, or if you'd like to provide any of the other suggested items for the boxes that would be wonderful to!

You can contact me here. :)

May 23, 2010

Loving this site

Grieve Out Loud is a resource site for bereaved parents and families that was just started in January of this year. I stumbled upon it by happenstance this morning, linked from another blog post that I was reading.

Side note: For the sadness that binds it together, the babyloss online world is so wonderfully connected and supportive. Here I am 16 months since the start, still finding new resources through this community. What a lifeline.

Anyway, there are two things in particular about this site that I'm loving at the moment:

One is that it includes a Pen-Pal program for babyloss parents. What an awesome idea! Its description starts with, "This is no time to be alone." Sound familiar? ;-)

And the other is that the site includes a rather comprehensive Resource List, including numerous remembrance sites! I'll have to update my link list below as I go through these. As a babyloss Auntie, there's really no time that I'm not trying to think of new and fun ideas to memorialize Aiden. Obviously Teddy Bear Tins is one way, and I also take pictures of landmarks with Aiden's name hidden in them during my many travels throughout the year. Names in the Sand, Say it with Flowers, and Angel Pics have also brought peace to us. Now I have at least a dozen more ways to celebrate Aiden's life.

Just thought I would share. :)

<3 to you today.

May 9, 2010

Mother's Day

As Aiden's grandma so beautifully put it...

"Happy Mother's Day to every woman who knows the joy of their children,
and the hope of their future children,
and who have in their hearts and memories their little angel babies."


May 1, 2010

THIS is what I am about

It was by chance that my reading took me to this blog, where the babyloss-mama author had published this watercolor:

Rachel, the artist, recently suffered the loss of her daughter Lyra at 30 weeks due to placental abruption. Through her blog she is expressing her grief through not only words but also through beautiful drawings, paintings and other artwork. Her message is profound.

I've long struggled with how to explain to those outside the babyloss world just what exactly it is I'm trying to do here on my journey. And here, in a simple watercolor painting, I find the message so clearly.

THIS is our world, the world of babyloss. You see the grief and the pain obviously, but there's that other theme: isolation. It's a theme that I've seen time and time again as I've met other babyloss families, always there, always haunting them. Truly it's as common a thread between us as the grief itself.

Why is there isolation here?

Yes, some of it is self-created. I remember several months after we lost Aiden that I found myself just not wanting to talk to anyone about it. I was too tired and I didn't want to bring it up because I felt I couldn't handle going any deeper than I had already fallen. But that to me seems normal in any grief, and it didn't account for the entirety of the isolation.

There is more to it.

As a society in general, we treat babyloss as taboo. It's too terrible, too traumatic for us to process. So we repress it. Think about it - someone posts on facebook that it is the 5-year anniversary of their father's death, and what do the responses look like? They're supportive, understanding, hugging arms and loving notes, memories voiced to bring a smile. Now change it up and let's say the post is instead about the 5-year anniversary of their baby's death. Wholllleee different can of worms here. What do you think you'd see? Maybe no responses, no one is comfortable enough to "go there." Maybe just a vague indication of support. Or worse, words of "advice" pointing to all the good things in life now that suggest you "move on."

Over time I've come to understand for myself that by and large this double-standard is not the result of any harmful intentions. People just don't know what to say, or think it's most appropriate to stay out of what is "a private situation." Babyloss is simply too hard to handle.

What they don't realize is that by reacting in that way, we are inflicting this sense of isolation on hurting families when they need support the most. Support not just at a funeral, or a few days later, but forever. Just like you would for someone who has lost an older family member.

It should be just as OK to bring up memories of baby at a family Christmas gathering as it is to bring up memories of dear Aunt Jane. Otherwise, I feel we are contributing more to this isolation. Because parents are left dealing with a complex and lengthy list of rules that describe when it is and isn't OK for them to acknowledge their child.

Sometimes in my openness about Aiden's death I make people uncomfortable. I know that. And I also really think I know why it makes them uncomfortable - it's because they think the way we are supposed to handle it is by keeping it quiet and private, because that's what we do as a society.

But that's the exact reason why I am NOT closed about it. Because I feel so strongly that it's not only appropriate for that to change but that it NEEDS to change.

These families need to know that they are not alone.

And breaking this stigma doesn't need to be scary. It just seems scary when you don't know how to respond to someone who says they've lost a child.

So I am here, to be open and to demonstrate what I know is possible. What I have learned as a babyloss-Auntie. That this isolation doesn't have to be there. I'm here to show through my actions that there are appropriate ways to respond and support babyloss families. To show that it is perfectly acceptable to live in a household where memories of a baby who died are shared happily and without the uncomfortable silence. Where anniversaries are given their due, and a life is openly respected and honored as the gift that it was. To end the unnecessary isolation that only makes grieving more difficult.

THIS is what I am about.

April 7, 2010

My Wish

This last month has been an illustration of what I wish for all babyloss families.

We went to work, went home, bought groceries, cleaned, had some nights out with friends, gave the puppies their baths, I worked on our taxes. All pretty routine things one might think.

But what was different for us as we were doing these things, as we were living our lives, was that we found Aiden as a part of them, and it felt NORMAL. I can openly and freely say Aiden's name to my husband, and several close family members and friends. And he can be in a conversation. And there's not a taboo with it. He's just there. He's a part of us. He's a part of our lives. He is WITH us.

Last year in the deepest parts of the sadness I often read about people finding their "new normal." While I could understand what they were saying I don't think I really truly related to what that meant until now. I had always envisioned the new normal being terrible, and just sad and painful. I hadn't thought of the good parts.

Sure there is still sadness, and that loss and wondering what he would look like today, and how life would be different. But there is ALSO this happiness. This gladness that he WAS there, that he IS a part of our lives, and that nothing can ever take that away.

Having Aiden as a part of my life has brought me a lot of peace recently, in ways I didn't even expect.

And I truly do wish this on every babyloss mamma, and pappa, and grandma, grandpa, auntie, uncle, sister, brother, cousin, friend... Wishing you peace <3

March 6, 2010

No really officer, it's not crack, it's plaster of paris!

So there I was in the Olive Garden parking lot, suspiciously measuring out white powder into little baggies while my dad stood watch...

LoL that sounds just as sketchy as it probably looked while it was going on!

To start at the beginning... This past Monday I was up in Pennsylvania for a family event and I had decided to take the opportunity to make another delivery of Teddy Bear Tins to St. Luke's Hospital, which is in the area I was visiting. I had received tins from two artists and, already being in the area, thought it smart to hand-deliver the tins and save the cash that shipping would have taken. I hadn't had the time to assemble the kits yet, so I lugged my plastic bins of supplies up to PA with me and planned a stop at my dad's where he would help me put them together.

And truly, the plan was working just fine until shortly after 12:00, one hour before the time I was supposed to drop the tins off, when I discovered that I didn't have enough plaster of paris left to fill the kits. There lay 10 perfect little lids, drying in the sun from their coat of sealer, with their perfectly folded instruction packets and stickers on the back, with only 5 bags of plaster.

Now when I'm at home I know exactly where to buy my plaster of paris. After weeks last year of searching for just the right imprinting medium I finally found the right mix that dries in just the right amount of time and now I hoard it zealously whenever I have the chance. But up in PA? Nope, no idea where to buy it.

So, I spazzed.

Over the next hour my father drove my frantic butt across the better part of the Lehigh Valley until we finally, FINALLY found a craft store that carried the plaster. But then we didn't have enough time to go back home to finish the kits!

Which is how we ended up in an Olive Garden parking lot on the way to the hospital. And is why I was measuring suspicious white powder into little plastic baggies, while my dad stood watch.

Because how exactly would I explain to the police that "no this is not illegal drugs, this is plaster of paris and these are special kits for angel babies!"

As I spastically scooped the last few bags I wondered what the officer's face would look like after I gave that as my excuse. Would he tell his buddies back at the precinct about the "lamest excuse he'd ever heard from a drug dealer"??

But luckily the police did not come. And I did not have to defend my Teddy Bear Tins activity. :-P

Shortly after 1:00 we made it to St. Luke's and I successfully dropped off the tins. The ladies in the NICU even knew what they were when I walked in the door, even though they had never met me personally. And they said they use them, and they love them!

So between that, and the precious visual memory I have of my dad standing watch in the parking lot, I'd say it was a good day. :)

February 16, 2010

Daily Life

This past weekend I attended a baby shower. My husband is very close to his cousins, and one of them is shortly expecting his first child with his wife. The pregnancy has gone well medically but his wife has been having a hard time as her mother is no longer with her. So we really wanted to show our support for them, to let her know we're all here with her. And I think she felt that. It was a beautiful shower and they are now well set with baby things!

OK, separate paragraph now. Keeping the happy separate from the sad.

I struggled so much with this baby shower. Going through my head the entire day was how much I wanted to make sure the day was about HER and her new family. And thankfully it was. I was on eggshells, barely holding it together, but I made it the whole day. It was beautiful, and it was terrible. I'm just glad that I didn't ruin it with my mood and I was able to keep up a cheery facade. But in my brain it was a thunderstorm. Every time she opened a gift she happily commented how they were "really going to need this!" And instantly my brain shot back "I hope so!" As if it does any good to make sure that particular caveat is kept in mind when a new mother prepares to meet her little one. She was so happy and so filled with hope. And that TERRIFIED me. At this point in M's pregnancy with Aiden, and for many weeks beyond, we all were just as happy and hopeful. Just as innocent.

I guess that was one of the worst parts. Me going through in my mind just how tragic each of the gifts and each of the happy statements would be if what I knew can happen actually happened in the end. God PLEASE don't let that happen.

Her husband's sister, my husband's other cousin, is a long-time friend of mine. And as she giddily showered her sister-in-law with "I <3 My Auntie" gifts my heart just broke. It hit me that she's me, 15 months ago. That smile, that excitement, that anticipation. I forcefully kept my eyes looking away. I am so thankful that I have been able to keep to myself enough so that she is able to feel that.

It had been a while since I had been put back into the thick of grief. I knew this shower would probably do that, so of course for weeks I dreaded it. Then someone suggested that I have a "buddy" with me just in case, so a few days in advance I talked to my brother-in-law's girlfriend and she became my buddy. She was fantastic. She helped keep distraction with conversation, and in general was a life-saver. I highly suggest this buddy-system for anyone else in a similar situation. Without knowing she would be there I don't think I would have gone, which would have been a shame.

OK, shaking it off...

Other than this shower, things have been going pretty well here. For the most part, since Aiden's first anniversary we have enjoyed possibly the first few weeks of our new normal. On Valentine's day a friend of mine sent me an email that simply contained this picture:

And it made me smile. :) That sort of sums up our new normal. It's us, living a life, and Aiden is a part of it. We see him pop up all over the place. He is in our hearts, and he is in the hearts of those around us. That, I love. I am so thankful to be in a place where thinking of Aiden can make me smile more than it makes me cry. Where my relationship with my brother is even stronger than it was before. Where we all support each other. Those are the good things. The things we need to keep going and to have hope for the future. This is my new daily life.

January 19, 2010

A Beautiful Day

There is a story by an author named Richard Paul Evans called "The Christmas Box." In it, he tells of an old widow who mourns the death of her only child by visiting an angel statue. As the book rose in popularity, the author started to hear stories of bereaved parents and families looking for this statue so that they too could mourn there. Long story short: the Christmas Box Angel statue was commissioned. And then another, and another, so that now there is a Christmas Box Angel statue in nearly every state in the U.S.

So I found one that is near to my home and called the woman listed on the website as the point of contact for that statue. I was assuming the number was probably out of date and I wouldn't reach anyone but a man answered right away. I told him I was called about the Christmas Box Angel statue and he immediately knew what I was talking about and passed the phone to this contact woman. She answered the phone and proceeded to make me, a complete stranger, feel like I'd known her for years. She was so welcoming and immediately gave me detailed directions to find the statue and even left me with her work number in case I had any trouble.

I didn't end up needing to call her, as I enjoyed a pleasant drive through the country until arriving at the statue.

It was dusk and the sun was perfect. Furthermore, the day was unseasonably warm. I mean it was the middle of January and it felt like spring! It was so wonderfully peaceful. I left white flowers at the base.

The day before my husband had surprised me by picking out his own flowers that he wanted to leave at the statue as well. He couldn't join me for the trip, but wanted to be a part of it.

So this is how we were able to remember Aiden on what should have been his first birthday.

Looking back the day went a lot better than I had thought it would. The morning was the worst for me, which was really what I had expected anyway. I talked to A & M frequently and they seemed to handle the day well in general too. None of us could remember exactly what time Aiden was born (hospitals don't keep the same records when the baby has died), so they chose 8:00 pm and lit candles from his memorial service and that they got for Christmas. They also bought him a little "My 1st" baseball and a story book. As M put it, they focused on remembering him and all of the good stuff rather than letting themselves think about the bad stuff.

It was a beautiful day. I'm glad it is over, but I am also glad that it will now be a good one for me to add to my memory bank. Thank you so much to everyone who kept us in their thoughts and prayers! :)

January 18, 2010


This is it.

7:10 am.

One year ago, I was right in the thick of it. We had decided to take our time and get ready to go to the hospital as we had been instructed to for a routine induction since the due date was a week past. We were all up early of course because we were so excited, but knew that if we got to the hospital before 8:00 we'd just sit and wait anyway.

So we happily got ready. M showered, and felt him kick. This time one year ago, she felt him kick.

I know it's pointless but so much of me right now just wants to scream back at those shadows from one year ago. Something is wrong! Hurry!! NOW!!

I knew this time of day would be the hardest for me today. In a little while, I can no longer say that one year ago he was still with us. I don't want that door to close. But I know it will. Time stops for no one.

I will be better later. I know that. I have plans for today, for remembering my angel nephew. I'll be driving out of state to the location of a Christmas Angel statue, to remember and honor little Aiden and to pray for his parents. I'll leave white flowers there, as I've read is the tradition for remembering children at these statues. I think it will help bring some peace into this day.

January 15, 2010


For the parents and other adults who have died. For the children and babies who have died. May our love and support help the survivors find the strength to carry on.

Support Doctors Without Borders in Haiti

January 13, 2010

Counting Down

5 more days

And then it will have been a year.

What exactly do I call that day, one year after the day that my nephew died and was born? I've heard a few different phrases: BIRTHday, angel-versary, anniversary of death, just plain "anniversary," special day...

My approach to determining what I want to term the day has been the same as my approach to all things grief-y lately: complete denial and avoidance. The thought of what I might want to do on Monday, January 18th will pop into my head and then ::whoosh:: my brain blinks "ERROR MESSAGE! SYSTEM FAILURE! REBOOT!"

My mom is driving up to RI to be with A & M. If they ask for me to come I will of course be there in a heartbeat, but for now, I'll be home. Something about being up there with just them and my mom, like it was last year, and it being the same places and sights and environment... I just don't want to relive it, or have them feel even more like they're reliving it. I've relived it so many times over the past year already. Ugh!

I've read many accounts of what people do on the one-year date, hoping to get some insight on what I can do to help A & M. From that, I did come up with one idea which I'll post about later (it's a surprise). But for the most part, it seems like it's hard to predict what the day will be like and how they'll want to handle it. I'm just really unsure about the whole thing.

And of course I have no idea how I'll handle it.

That avoidance thing I mentioned? Yea, some of that sounds good right about now...

January 6, 2010


I found this while reading through blogs, and just thought it was such a beautiful analogy.

Thinking of a few special people on their grief journey today. <3

January 1, 2010


To this year of sadness and hurt, I say:



Good riddance