I am the proud daughter of a military veteran.
I am the beaming mother of a son who currently serves.
And while others argue about why and where we send troops and fight wars, I pray that wherever they go and whatever they do, they return home safely.
Read the rest here: https://thelifeididntchoose.com/2018/11/11/the-value-of-veterans/
I’ve written before about how I choose to leave some things just as Dominic left them-even over five years later.
It’s my way of maintaining physical space in our home that represents the space in my heart where only he can fit.
It’s also more than that.
As time progresses, nearly every other tangible evidence that Dominic existed is being worn away.
Sure there are photographs-but even they are growing old while he is not. No fresh adventures captured on phone or film. No new Facebook or Twitter posts. No new anything.
And as he becomes less relevant to other people’s lives, the gap between my experience and their’s grows ever larger.
Because he is just as relevant to my life as he ever was.
I have four children. Dominic is third of four, second of three boys. He is Uncle Dominic to my new grandson although Ryker won’t meet him in this life. He is my encouragement to keep doing hard things because he never allowed difficulty or pain to stop him from doing them.
His absence looms large. Every. single. day.
And sometimes, when it seems the world has forgotten him, when all the bits and pieces of who he was in life and how he touched others are floating away in the ocean of human activity, it looms larger.
So on those days I’m a little weepy.
On those days I may talk of him more.
On those days I might have to pull out the old photos and post them online.
Bear with me, please.
I need others to remember too.
It happens in all kinds of ways.
For one reason or another, the tiny life budding in a belly never gets to see the light of day. Never takes a first breath. Never cries. Never opens his or her eyes to the mama waiting to meet her precious one.
So many mamas have experienced the excitement of watching the pregnancy test show positive only to endure days, weeks or months later, the sadness of saying good-bye to a little one they never got to meet.
Statistics tell us that one in four women will become part of this group during their lifetime.
But what statistics can never tell you about anything is why so, so many of the women who survive pregnancy and infant loss don’t talk about it.
Many think they can’t talk about it or shouldn’t talk about it because often the experience is so very personal.
It may be the pregnancy was never announced. It could be that the culture in which a mama lives doesn’t recognize life at conception so, really, what was lost? Perhaps many women in her family have had similar experiences and THEY didn’t “make a big deal” out of it, so why should she?
Then there’s guilt.
So, so much information is shoved into mothers’ faces about what they should and shouldn’t do to promote a healthy pregnancy and birth. Eat this, don’t eat that. Take this, don’t take that. Exercise-but not too strenuously. Drink water. Don’t drink alcohol or too much caffeine.
It’s easy to blame yourself when a baby stops growing.
Some brave mamas carry a baby for months and to the point of birth-see that precious bundle on an ultrasound, hear the heartbeat, watch and feel those legs kick-yet never hear a cry or hold a warm infant in their arms.
That’s a kind of awful no heart should have to bear.
And yet, that loss too is often unacknowledged.
How do you celebrate a life that was lived only inside the comfort and safety of the womb? How do you share a photo of your precious baby when the only one you have (if you have any) is of him wrapped in a blanket, eyes closed, your eyes crying?
If a second pregnancy follows any kind of pregnancy or infant loss, friends and family almost always pounce on the opportunity to push a mama’s heart forward fast and furious to the future of her “rainbow child” making it even less likely her missing baby is acknowledged or remembered.
But she never forgets.
A mama’s heart never lets go of the life that lived inside her.
That tiny baby-one week, one month, full term-is her son or daughter.
Counted among the others.
Just as precious.
Always.
I’m remembering with you, my sweet friends. Tonight I will light a candle along with millions who also remember, to honor the baby I never held. May the multiplied voices and hearts joined together help others hear the message that our child matters.
Every child matters. ❤
I pull out the memories like treasures from a locked strongbox.
“Handle With Care” because they are all I have left.
But they are not enough.
They will never be enough to satisfy this mama’s heart.
We are supposed to have to remember our elders, our grandparents, even, maybe our spouse at some point-but not our children.
Read the rest here: https://thelifeididntchoose.com/2018/11/15/why-just-think-about-all-the-good-memories-doesnt-comfort-my-heart/
I am the proud daughter of a military veteran.
I am the beaming mother of a son who served and the aunt of a nephew currently serving.
And while others argue about why and where we send troops and fight wars, I pray that wherever they go and whatever they do, they return home safely.
It’s fitting that we set aside a day to honor those who choose to place their lives on the line to fight for love and country and freedom.
Because they do, I can rest secure in my own bed under my own roof.
Growing up surrounded by (mostly) men in military uniform, I learned early the difference between an acceptable salute and a sloppy one, between “Attention!” and “At ease!”, between a captain and a colonel.
I still stand a little taller and walk a little straighter whenever I’m on base. Habits of a lifetime are hard to undo.
I will never, ever apologize for the life of service and sacrifice my father and son lived and my nephew is living regardless of whatever politics may scroll across our newsfeeds.
I will honor the living, honor the dead and honor the families that support them.
Don’t let this day pass by without considering the cost of the freedom we enjoy every single day and the men and women who fought and still fight to secure it.
Right, left, middle of the road-your first amendment rights are safe because they are willing to serve.
We mustn’t forget.
Since Dominic ran ahead I collect poems, sayings and quotes that help my heart put words to what it feels.
I consider each one a gift.
Over the next few days I will share some of them with you-I hope you find them as beautiful and helpful as I do.
This is a beautiful, traditional Jewish blessing often shared with mourners.
No matter what I’m doing or where I am, I always remember Dominic. ❤
In the rising of the sun and it’s going down, we remember them.
In the blowing of the wind and the chill of the Winter, we remember them.
In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of Spring, we remember them.
In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of Summer, we remember them.
In the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of Autumn, we remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends, we remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength, we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart, we remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share, we remember them.
As long as we live, they too shall live, for they are now a part of us, as we remember them.
~Rabbi Sylvan Kamens and Rabbi Jack Riemer
A cousin whom I haven’t seen in decades recently contacted my dad in order to complete a family tree he is working to compile.
It’s a noble task and one I fully support.
But when my dad forwarded the request to me (because I had details on my own son’s wedding and his wife’s birth date) it was an unexpected trigger.
Typing away I added mine and my husband’s birth dates and the place and date of our marriage.
Then down the line of my children.
Fiona.
James Michael and his bride. Their wedding date.
Dominic. I have another date for him-one I never, ever thought I would live to record-the day he left this earth for his heavenly home. My breath catches in my throat.
Julian.
My youngest son who is now older than his brother ever got to be.
My second son has no descendants. Every molecule that was Dominic is now in the grave. No representation of his humor, his talent, his face.
His unique light has been extinguished from this world forever.
I realize that these dates will be filed away, made part of a record for those that come after without any understanding of the person they represent.
Just facts on a page.
History.
There is something about winter mornings that invite me to linger long in my rocking chair with my cup of coffee. It’s cold and outside chores can wait a bit.
When I sit here, my mind wanders to many things-mostly days gone by when my busy household would have made these long, slow mornings impossible.
And I miss it. All of it.
Especially the beauty of an unbroken family circle.
I try to hold onto the precious moments as long as I can.
We live in a noisy world.
Music, television, voices and the hum of electricity tunnel into our brains and distract us from hard questions and painful circumstances.
We live in a busy world.
If I’m not in motion, I am getting ready to be.
It is tempting in my grief to try to stuff life full of noise and busyness so I can ignore the pain and emptiness of missing my son.
Read the rest here: The Silent Joy of Memory
I have always loved candles. Something in the flickering light speaks to my heart.
It’s one of my favorite parts of early evenings-watching the candles I light on every flat surface cast a soft glow and chase the darkness.
Even a small light offers hope.
Christmas Eve is a natural time to gather with family and friends, to honor the ones no longer present, to share our love, our memories and our sorrow.
So when I ran across this post on a Compassionate Friends site, I wanted to share it. I hope it blesses your heart like it blesses mine.
This four candle ritual is a beautiful way to create space for tears and also invite laughter and hope into hurting hearts.
I know I’m not the only one who carries a calendar in my head that threatens to explode like a ticking timebomb. Days that mean nothing to anyone else loom large as they approach.
The date of his death.
The date of his funeral.
His birthday.
My birthday.
The day he should have graduated from law school
On and on and on.
How can I survive these oppressive reminders of what I thought my life would look like? How can I grab hold of something, anything that will keep my heart and mind from falling down the rabbit hole of grief into a topsy-turvy land where nothing makes sense and it’s full of unfriendly creatures that threaten to gobble me whole?
Every family,
every child that has run ahead and
every situation is unique.
What works for one person (even in the same family) won’t necessarily work for another. But there are some ways to make these days a little easier.
Here’s a list of what has helped my heart and the hearts of others walking this journey. Take what may help and toss the rest:
Most importantly, no matter what you do or don’t do, be prepared to give yourself grace whatever the day holds.
Don’t do what you don’t feel like you can do-even if you made plans ahead of time.
Do whatever helps your heart.
Hug anyone who chooses to come alongside and bear witness to this awful anniversary.
And hold tight to the fact that even the worst day only lasts 24 hours.
thelifeididntchoose 