September 11th

I wasn't going to write anything about today. I don't have any extraordinary memories of that day 10 years ago. I wasn't in New York or Washington at the time. No one I knew was involved in the tragedy. I didn't figure I really had anything to add to the national discussion.

And yet, as the day has gone on, I find myself choking up. I remember where I was, what I was doing, the thoughts I had. I may not have any special insight to offer, but I thought I'd share my story.

It was an average Tuesday morning. I was driving along the Kennedy Expressway headed to work. I had on the radio and the hosts were talking about a news report I'd just missed that said a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Center towers. Only half listening as I battled the morning rush, I figured I must have heard wrong. Maybe they meant a small private plane had somehow gone off course and clipped an antenna or something. Just then, they broke into the chatter to report that a second plane had hit the second tower. A cold chill went down my spine. One plane was likely an accident. Two planes had to have been planned.

I got to the office and found everybody clustered around the TV in the break room. I watched a replay of the crashes. And another. And another. After a dozen times or more, I went to my desk and switched on my computer. I couldn't watch it again just then.

Sometime after I'd cleared out my e-mail inbox, my boss walked past carrying the TV into his office. He came back out and announced that anybody who wanted to watch was welcome to come in and do so. I went in a while later. I was just in time to see the first tower collapse. I sat with several of my coworkers watching more replays of the planes crashing into the towers and the Pentagon that morning.

Interspersed were scenes of people on the streets of New York stumbling and running through the confusion and the rubble, some with injuries, many with cloths tied over their mouths and noses to keep out the dust. I couldn't believe I was watching live footage of New York, of anywhere in the US. I thought it looked like news reports from the Middle East--all dusty and messy and war-torn.

After the second tower fell, my boss announced that anyone who wanted to go home and be with their families was free to do so. I thought about leaving, but wasn't sure where to go. I lived alone. I had some family in the area, but nobody I felt a pressing need to see.

I thought about leaving and just going home or driving around, but decided I really didn't want to be on my own. I stayed for a while, continuing to watch the news, listening to other people talk about what had happened, not knowing what to say myself.

I thought about the previous attempt to knock down the towers. I was in high school at the time, living in New York, just an hour north of midtown. I had a friend from church who worked in the South Tower. I remember watching the news in my living room that afternoon, wondering if he was all right.

I thought about how that attack was scary, but hadn't been terribly successful. I considered with wry irony that the second attempt had gone so much better for those who'd planned it.

Eventually, I went to my aunt's house. I spent the night there and we did silly normal things like make popcorn and watch old movies. Then we went to bed and pretended that so much hadn't changed.

The Bitter and the Sweet

Today marks two anniversaries in my life. One makes me smile, the other has been the cause of many, many tears.

Nineteen years ago today my mother died. She'd been battling cancer, but just a few weeks earlier she'd been given a clean bill of health. Then, suddenly, she was gone.

Fast forward 11 years. I was having a tough day. Memories of my mom were hitting hard and I spent most of my day feeling a bit weepy. I'd been dating Adam for only a few weeks, but he'd remembered this day was important to me.

When he came to pick me up from the VBS program where I was volunteering, he handed me a card. I don't recall exactly what he wrote, something about knowing how much it hurts to lose someone you love.

Then he told me he loved me for the first time. I was so surprised that I completely forgot to say it back to him.

While the sorrow of losing my mom will never completely go away, it's been really nice to have a happy anniversary to celebrate on this day, too.

Thank you, Adam, for bringing a smile to my face, even on some of the hardest days. I don't tell you nearly enough how much I love you.

Remembering

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

Please take a moment to remember those whose lives have been touched by little ones they knew for too brief a time. Thank you.

Daughter of Laughter

Today would have been my mom's 66th birthday. She died just three months after her 49th. Her first grandchild was born a month later.

When I think of my mom, I think of big dangley clip-on earrings. I think of painted fingernails and tea with honey. I remember homemade birthday cakes that she and my dad painstakingly decorated with their Wilton decorator set. Every Saturday night we had homemade pizzas. Each of us got to make our own with ground beef and onions or mushrooms and olives or just plain cheese, the way I still like my pizza best.

One of my favorite memories, though, is of Mom's famous giggle fits. Every once in a while, something would strike her funny bone and she'd start to laugh and laugh and laugh some more. It was infectious. We would all start laughing, too. Then the kids, my brother, sister, and I, would all gather around and sing-song together, "Mama's having a giggle fit. Mama's having a giggle fit." Usually, our teasing would just set off another new wave of uncontrollable laughter.

I often wonder what heaven is like, whether Mom can see us here on earth or maybe we're already there with her. In any case, I like to think of her in heaven just laughing and laughing and laughing, so much that we all can't help but join in with her.

Supporting Those Who Grieve

The anniversary of my mom's birthday is coming up. It's not a memorial that hits me every year, but some more than others. I have visited a grief and loss discussion board over the past few weeks and I've realized that there are a lot of people who are completely stymied by the thought of dealing with a grieving friend, family member, or co-worker. I thought I'd share a little bit of what I have found through several experiences grieving my own loved ones.

First off, despite the way it sometimes seems, if your condolences are simple, it's hard to go wrong. The most important thing is expressing that you care. Even if it's just a note card saying, "I'm sorry for your loss." In fact, if you don't know what to say, that's a really useful phrase to learn.

Second, let the grieving person lead the way. What I mean is, if you say you're sorry and I smile and ask how you're doing, answer me. Just because I'm grieving doesn't mean I'm consumed by it every waking moment. I can have fun or be interested in other things. Often, I need to be. Sometimes, I really want to talk about how much I miss the person who is gone. Sometimes it's nice to hear about how much my loved one blessed your life. If I'm asking about your golf game, though, it's probably not that time.

Third, please don't try to offer excuses or pithy little sayings. I know God is in control and there's no more pain in heaven, and I'll see them again when I die. These are not things of which I need to be reminded. And, especially, don't explain how it's better this way. In the midst of my grief, I'm not prepared to listen to theology, philosophy, or logic. If you think what you're planning to say may be a little iffy, remember the old stand-by, (practice with me) "I'm sorry for your loss."

Finally, remember that there is no time limit on grief. I will never get over the loss of someone I love. Sure, it gets easier. I'm not crying every day about my mom's death 16 years ago, but there are days when I still do cry. I ask God why He had to take her. I don't understand. I don't believe I ever will, at least, not this side of eternity. Grieving is a process. For some it takes longer than others. If you are concerned for the health and welfare of a friend or family member, it may be appropriate to recommend a professional counselor. Don't assume, however, that just because I'm moving on with life and getting done what needs to be done that I may not still be hurting inside. This is especially true as important dates roll around: birthdays, holidays, anniversaries.

One of the things I will always remember is the first Mother's Day after my mom died: I was a senior in high school and one of the church youth group leaders gave me a bouquet of flowers. I asked her why and she told me she'd figured I could use something a bit special that day. I doubt she has any idea how much that meant to me.

P.S. I forgot to mention that it's always a good idea to be in prayer for those who are grieving. You can choose to tell them that or not. But please don't just say, "I'll pray for you," and then not follow through. Write it on your hand or stick a Post-It to your computer monitor, but make sure your actions line up with your words. Thank you.

A Strange Division

I miss my mom. Today marks the dividing point of having lived one half of my life with her and one half without.

Since her death, I've graduated high school and college; bought my first car, and my second car, and my third car; dropped out of grad school; had my first date; moved 15 times; gotten married; had a baby; mourned two miscarriages; lived 6,076 days.

Because she died while I was still in high school, I never really got to know her very much as a person, a friend. I often wish I could talk to her now about parenting, life choices, how to get tomato stains out of white shirts. I wish she could have come over after my daughter was born so I could show her off. She would have made a great grandma. She never met any of her grandkids here on earth; she died a month before the oldest was born.

My senior year of high school, I had a part in the school play, Thornton Wilder's Our Town. In the final act, Emily (the main character) has died and is allowed to choose a day in her life to relive. After a brief revisiting of her family at the breakfast table, she asks to be returned to her grave. Life moves too fast, she complains, and people don't take the time to realize what they're missing until it's too late.

I'll leave you with the chorus from one of my favorite songs by Chris Rice, "Life Means so Much" (on his album Smell the Color 9). Click here for a sample of the music.

Teach us to count the days
Teach us to make the days count
Lead us in better ways
Somehow our souls forgot
Life means so much

It Happened Again

I had all kinds of symptoms. I was feeling nauseated, tired, achy. I knew their origin was not sure, and yet, I'd been hoping ... and now that hope is dashed and I'm feeling rather stupid for having hoped at all. Again.

Maybe the hardest thing for me to understand is that my daughter's conception was so quick and easy. She missed being a "honeymoon baby" by mere days. We weren't planning or trying or even feeling ready (at least I wasn't).

Someday, when I get to heaven and all things will be known, I've got some big questions for God.

Infertility and Me

I feel myself caught between worlds.

On the one hand, Adam and I have been officially "trying" for 2½ years now. Two pregnancies have both ended in miscarriage. Grief, loss, pain, hope; it's all in there.

Conversely, I have a wonderful little girl who is turning four next month. I have experienced pregnancy, birth, nursing, teething, the terrible twos, and more.

Though we've not been successful in bringing another baby into the world, we've chosen not to pursue additional medical treatments which might increase the odds of a little sister or brother for our daughter.

Still, we have an only child, yet our plan was never to have just one.

This all hit home to me yesterday while I was spending quality time with my daughter in the bathroom (I was there on business, she was just visiting). She gave me a big hug and poked me in the tummy, asking, "Do you have a baby in your belly?"

I just wanted to cry.

Instead, I hugged her back, choked back my tears, and we had a delightful conversation about babies not coming out from their mamies' belly buttons.

Losing and Letting Go

This post was submitted as part of The Mother Letter Project.

Dear Mother,

I don't know if every mother is like this or if I'm especially morbid. Ever since my daughter was born, I've had visions of losing her to an accident or sudden illness. Maybe everybody has these fears, but if we all share them, we certainly don't talk much about it.

While I was pregnant, or maybe when I had a newborn, I read an article written by a woman who'd lost her daughter at age 4. I don't remember the events surrounding the child's death, but I'm haunted still by the way her mother described her own grief: missing the feeling of her daughter's head snuggled into the crook of her neck, her arms aching to carry her weight just once more.

I often catch myself after I've pushed away my own child's attention or affections, when I've been too caught up in what business must be done, the household tasks to be completed. I wonder how I would feel if my little girl were gone. How much I would miss the interruptions, the distractions, the giggles and wiggles and snuggles and songs.

The other night, I was passing my daughter's door on the way to bed. I stopped in for a peek at her as she slept. I leaned down to brush a stay curl off her cheek and tucked the blanket around her shoulder. I thought, again, of the agony it would be to miss her if she were no longer here.

As I was leaving the room, it hit me. There is no "if" about it. I am going to lose her. It may be soon or years from now, by accident, illness, or simply growing up, but the girl she is now will be gone. For the first time, I realized she won't be mine forever. I will look back and have moments of sadness that she doesn't snuggle against my chest anymore or clamber up into my lap to play on the computer, and I will miss her.

Whether she is living here on earth or has moved on to heaven, my daughter won't be mine anymore. And maybe, when this happens, I'll begin to understand that she never really was.

Peace,

Amy

I Used to Be More Used to This

For my entire adult life, I've moved pretty frequently. I think my longest stay at in one location was just over 3 years. The last several moves, however, have just been from one end of town to another. For the past almost 7 years, I'd gone to the same church, lunched at the same restaurants, and shopped at the same stores. I knew where all the local attractions were. I was even starting to be one of those people who gave directions based on where things no longer were. You know the ones: "Head north on Main Street, then take a left where they tore down that gas station."

I miss being well-attuned to my town. I don't know where things are here. For two weeks, I didn't even know what county I lived in! I just found out a couple of days ago that our local Wal-Mart is open 24 hours.

I miss my friends who knew me before I was a mom. Those who were there when I became a mom. And those who knew me even before Adam and I started dating. Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away.

There is a technical term for what I've got: culture shock. I knew it was coming. It happens with any move to a new area. It caught me off guard, though. I wasn't expecting everything to be so ... ya know ... different.

It doesn't help that I haven't found everything, yet. In the house, I mean. I don't know where my crochet hooks are. Actually, I broke down and just bought several new ones. I was getting antsy. All of our books aren't out yet either, nor are our DVDs. And I don't know where my winter shoes are. I moved with just my Tevas and now that the highs are in the mid 40s, my toes are getting chilly.

Adam did find my favorite Bible the other day, though. I haven't had a regular prayer or devotional time since we've been here. Now that I think of it, that's probably not helping me keep a reasonable perspective on life.

Maybe I'll go get my Bible and have a nice talk with God before the rest of the house wakes up. And maybe I'll even have a cup of tea.

Anybody seen my mugs?

Grief

I was reminded today that it is sixteen years this week since my mother died.

Sixteen years ago, I was a child. A high school student just a week past the final exams of her junior year. I had little prior experience with death, only one grandfather who'd passed away when I was five.

I didn't know what to do with myself. Mom had died just before five a.m. Later that morning, I sat in our entry hall, watching the sun slant through the opening of the screen door and asking myself again and again, "What am I going to do without a mother?"

I could hear the traffic outside. Cars drove by, neighbors went about their daily routines, school children shouted and skipped and giggled. It was surreal to recognize that it was just an ordinary day for everyone else. My existence was irreparably altered, but the rest of the world moved on, as if nothing had happened.

Grief is a slippery thing. It catches you at the oddest moments. I've now lived nearly as much of my life after my mom's passing than before. Most of the time, it's a minor footnote in my biography. Today, though, I feel the loss as an ache, deep in my chest, flooding out onto my cheeks.

Ramblin' Woman

I just checked the date of my last post and realized it's been nearly three weeks since I've written anything. It's been a crazy three weeks, so I'm only sharing the highest and lowest lights, not all the in-between days.

In good news, Adam has been getting a lot of calls for interviews lately. He finished his course with the executive coach he's been seeing and the new résumé really seems to be garnering more attention on the job sites.

Not so joyfully, I had another miscarriage. On the plus side, I had known I was pregnant and had a full week to enjoy the little life I carried. But a loss is still a loss and death is still death, even if it occurs before life legally begins. Grief is still grief. Life is still life, too, though, so I'm pointed forward again, at least.

I simply can't believe that Christmas is in less than two weeks. All of the Advent waiting that I had in mind when I wrote last has gotten a bit sidetracked amidst the chaos that has surrounded us the past few weeks.

Anyway, I mostly wanted to just check in and say I'm here and hanging in there. Let's see if I can get back to blogging a little more regularly again, shall we?

Life and Death

I don't really know how to write about this. I've tried being witty, and it's simply falling flat. The reality is not funny. Surprising, unusual, unexpected, and leaving me feeling as though I ought better to know what to do next, yes. But funny, no.

A few days after my last post, I had a miscarriage. It wasn't until three days later that I recognized what had happened. Despite being reasonably competent in knowing how to chart my cycle, I had missed the subtle signs of a possible pregnancy.

I am left, for the moment, with nothing more than emptiness. I don't know what to feel or how to grieve this completely unexpected loss.

For now, I'm simply collecting. I'm collecting information. I'm collecting ideas. I'm collecting prayers and thoughts from my friends. In a few days or a few weeks, when I'm past the shock I keep falling back into, everything will at least be together waiting for me.

Unexpected Grief

I wrote this a few days ago, just for myself, trying to figure out why I wanted to cry all evening. I don't know if other women feel this way, in the midst of things. I've never talked with anyone else about it. Maybe it's common, but one more of those things we don't share with each other.

I didn’t think I’d feel this way. It’s like I’m losing a baby. As if I really have been pregnant these past several days and now I no longer am. I never considered that losing a dream can seem just as traumatic as losing a child—even when it’s only a temporary loss.

We’ve been actively trying to conceive for almost five months now. I know that’s not really very long in the scheme of things. But it never occurred to me that it would take any time at all. It didn’t the first time. Long before I figured I was ready for a baby, God had already blessed us with our daughter growing inside me.

It took a while to get back to thinking about another one. Many months passed before I was ready and willing to try. Raising one child has been so overwhelming at times, I haven’t known how to even imagine having another.

Then we started trying. After my first full cycle, it became clear I wasn’t ovulating. Pretty hard to get pregnant when half the parts are missing. I had to work my way through that. Feeling like I wasn’t a “real” woman. I wasn’t good enough to have another baby. I was being punished for all the years I’d joked about parents who only wanted one child and how everybody needed a sister or brother.

I started to feel better about it. Relieved that the pressure was off. I had more time to get ready. Until last month. I spent a week wondering if I had ovulated. My temps were up. I might have. Then, another round of anovulatory bleeding.

This month, I was ever so much more careful to make sure there weren’t other factors inhibiting my correct analysis of my body’s signals. It was still a bit confusing. But I was pretty sure I’d ovulated last week. So, again I sat. And stewed. And wondered what God was thinking sending an ovulation in the midst of the holidays. I’d been getting used to the idea of not getting pregnant until after the first of the year. Yet, I figured it was pretty certain I’d have a confirmed pregnancy before Christmas.

Until today. Today, it’s pretty clear I’m not pregnant. Again.

How can I miss a child who was never even conceived?

A Wonderful Present for My Birthday

Now that all the elections are over and done with and it's all been decided (at least "unofficially" by the AP and television networks), I can spend a moment talking about politics.

I should begin by saying, it was a great birthday present that after yesterday all those horrid negative mud-slinging opponent-bashing ads are off the air. Hooray!! Unfortunately, like a cancer, I know they are only in remission until the campaigning season begins for the next election. I give it a year, tops.

You should check out the post Ash wrote about a common sense approach to politics. He makes a good point about not needing to agree with a candidate on every single issue if you feel he or she is a person of integrity.

I really don't understand some people. I have heard talk about voting for this or that candidate because she's pro-life or he's against the legalization of marijuana. Since when does a single issue define a candidate or a race? And, are these people truly willing to vote for an unscrupulous person simply because he or she is willing to vote their way on this one issue?

Now, I do understand in many cases the issues seem cluster together. The pro-choice, affirmative action, universal insurance candidate against the pro-life, lower taxes, tightened border security candidate. But, I still wonder. What if you agree with a particular candidate on a number of issues and you respect him or her, yet, he's pro-life and you are pro-choice? Would you not vote for him because you disagree on that one issue?

And while I'm on my soapbox, who are these people who vote for a candidate because of his or her negative ads? As I have heard many times, the reason we keep seeing negative advertising is because they are effective in garnering votes. Maybe I'm just strange that way. The more negative ads I see from any given candidate, the less likely I am to vote for that person!

If you have thoughts on these issues, I invite you to share them in the comments. I really would like to better understand how others process this information and come to their decisions. (Thanks!)

Crying

I used to play this game with myself. I would try to imagine all the bad things that could happen and what I would do in case they did. Once upon a time, I thought it made me feel better. This was back when I still figured I could control the world. Now, I mostly just pretend like I can.

I read a story tonight, well, I skimmed it and looked at the photos. It was about a little boy who had a heart transplant, but he had a bad reaction to the transplanted heart and after several weeks of unexplainable complications, he died. I started to cry.

I realized as I was crying and asking God why He allows such hard and horrible things to happen to such little people...I'm scared. I want to know I can do everything right and put all my ducks in a row and tape my daughter up in bubble wrap and always keep her safe. But I can't do that. No matter what I do, I can't ensure her health and safety every moment. I don't have the power to control her environment to that extent. Though she'd probably enjoy the bubble wrap for a while, pop-pop-popping with every move.

I've read somewhere that becoming a mother is discovering what it is to live with your heart outside of your body. That's a hard thing to do. Especially when my little heart annoys the heck out of me and all I want to do is yell at her. Or maybe bop her on top of her cute blonde head.

Several months after my mom's death, we were cleaning out her closet and sorting through what to save, what to toss, what to donate. I found a letter from me that she'd kept in her jewelery box. It basically told her that I loved her, because I knew I didn't say it enough. I'd written that letter several months before her death, in the midst of some teenage rebellious act or another. When I found it, I started to cry. I cried because it had meant so much to her that she had saved it in a place she'd see it every day. I cried because, what if I hadn't written out my thoughts to her?

Death rarely comes at opportune times. I learned that lesson the hard way. Still, the lessons of caring for others and showing them how much you love them on an ongoing basis...they often get lost in the shuffle of trying to live my life. So I yell at my daughter. I scream at my husband. I wish I could have more time alone just to do what I want, when I want. And then I get scared that something will happen and I will feel horribly guilty for the rest of my life that I could have said something nice, I could have taken the high road, I could have opened my heart a little bigger...but I chose not to.

I've never read the book What's So Amazing About Grace? by Philip Yancey, but I think about the title a lot. If you were raised as a Christian or even just around them, you probably have heard the song "Amazing Grace" hundreds, if not millions of times. It's so familiar it seems to lose all meaning. But, grace is amazing. God chooses to love me ALL THE TIME. Not just when I'm being good. Not just when I'm loving my family well. Not just when I pass out fliers for Him on the street corners (which is a relief, because I've never done that). When I'm at my worst, yelling at my daughter, screaming at my husband, arguing with God that I could really run the world better, plotting revenge against the driver that cut me off, He looks at me and He loves me.

And that makes me cry, too.