Birth | Even A Girl Like Me

Yesterday was the first of many firsts.
It was the first time I celebrated a birthday without my mama on this earth.

She died on a Monday. July 17th.
It’s been a little more than 1 month and yet it feels like many more.
Grief is tricky that way.

I have grieved many things in many ways but none like this.
I’ve lived enough for 10 people in this one life and never have I found sadness to be as complex & intricately woven throughout my being as this of my mother no longer bound by earthly limitations.

I’ve been abnormally quiet over the last 4 weeks.
Even still I am thankful for each one of you who have reached out to express your condolences. I know that takes courage, especially when you aren’t sure what to say.

The relationship with my mom was complicated and now I am learning how that translates into a grief that is not without complication.

I have thrown myself into this campaign to raise money for baby llama, Callisto Stardust, in an effort to do something productive while processing how in the hell I’m supposed to handle this sorrow that continues to perplex & challenge me.

I’m finding that while one moment I’m laughing and completely okay, the next I’m in the bathroom stall of a public restroom bawling my eyes out after realizing that I won’t need to find a Christmas present for her this year.

Mom didn’t call before 8am to sing “Happy Birthday” referring to me as only she did, “Joy Beth.” (She’s the only one who has ever shortened my middle name of Elizabeth to Beth.) Once again something I never thought I would miss, I find myself longing to hear once more.

I’m learning.
Grief is grossly personal.
No two people will experience it the same way.
Including sisters. I’m certain I am processing & moving through the world differently than either of my sisters.
Guess what? That’s okay.

I know this has led to a great deal of judgment from those onlookers who know the person I was 2 decades ago. I’ve had to let go of that in an effort to get up in the morning and do basic life skills like brushing my teeth and making the bed.

This is a lingering grief. One I am now certain never goes away, only softens as healing continues. My hope is to learn from my experience in this that can only be described as the place after witnessing the valley of the shadow of death.

So instead of postponing or ignoring the many emotions that can surface all at once in this season, I’m asking it, as I do most things after the initial shock wears off,
“What are you here to teach me?”

I hesitated to ask in this case as I wasn’t sure I had the patience left to learn, but thankfully I have a group of the most badass women consisting of medical & mental health professionals as well as girlfriends who are willing to guide me while also pointing out potential pitfalls. If you do not have a therapist who truly sees and meets you right where you are while maintaining the goal of not leaving you there, l would strongly encourage you to seek one out.

These are the lessons I hope to be familiar enough with to share, offering hope to others not as far along in this classification no one chooses to join.

Teach me…

How to be a better listener,
When to keep my mouth shut,
When to explain my reasoning for why I’m not doing what everyone expects me to do,
How to be present with someone else’s pain,
When to sit in the silence many find deeply unsettling,
How to forgive someone for something they were not mindful of doing,
The meaning of acceptance without fully understanding.

I thought I had a decent grasp on grief. Not just one type, many.
Turns out, I’m still learning and growing.
And that, if nothing else, is beautiful.

(the gorgeous flowers around Mom’s pictures are all by my incredibly talented sister, Jennifer. Owner & Lead Designer of J. Riley Design.)

Last night I had a dream that I was pregnant.
My baby was born with complications and did not live long after birth.
In the dream the mourning process was so intense, I was sure it was actually happening to me. You know those dreams where something in your mind keeps saying, “This is just a dream. It’s not really happening. Wake up.” I had that somewhere in the background, but it didn’t matter. The pain felt real.

I was so sad and no matter what anyone said or did, it wasn’t helpful or comforting.

In 2005 I experienced a traumatic miscarriage. One that could have taken my life.
I remember the look on the tech’s face while staring at the monitor. It went from relaxed to furrowed. I said, “What’s wrong?”
There was silence followed by her reply, “Let me get the doctor. I’ll be right back.”
“Why? What do you see?” I begged.
“I’ll be right back.” she responded.

It’s amazing how quickly, pure unadulterated joy can turn into confusion and emotional chaos.

You can guess what happened next…the doctor came in to say that there was no heartbeat and it was no longer a viable pregnancy.
I watched her mouth move, not really hearing a word she said.
“I don’t understand?” I said.
“These things happen all the time.” she answered.
“Not to me, they don’t! This has never happened to me!” I screamed almost in a whisper.
“You’ll get pregnant again. Don’t worry.” she said as she patted my knee.

She then explained the procedure they would need to do to remove all the tissue that made up my “nonviable” pregnancy.
We walked to the checkout counter and scheduled the appointment for the next week.
That was a Friday and the appointment was the next Tuesday.

“What happens between now and then?” I asked.
“Maybe nothing…or your body may decide to start the process on it’s own.” she responded. “Either way, we will need to perform the procedure to ensure safety for you and future pregnancies.”

We walked through the door marked exit.

For the next little while her words played over and over in my mind.
“These things happen all the time…You’ll get pregnant again, don’t worry.”
It was surprising and upsetting to me how quickly this life was dismissed. Though present only for a short time in my womb, surely it deserved a little more acknowledgement?
Is it okay for me to be sad?
Is it silly of me to cry and feel like I’m losing my baby?
Is it ridiculous that I cannot even think about getting pregnant again while I’m still sorting out the details of restoring my body to normalcy after this miscarriage?

The next few days played out like a movie.
I began cramping at work, knew something was wrong, left work and drove home. By then I was hemorrhaging. I had never seen so much blood.

Chris was on his way home to take me to the ER.
I remember the nurse on the phone saying, “Stay with me until he gets there.”
She said an ambulance would take just as long, maybe longer by the time they found the house so it was better to wait on Chris. I remember asking her if I was going to die. She said, “Not if you get to the ER in time.”

I did get to the ER in time.
I didn’t die.
I went on to have beautiful, healthy, children.

When you ask me why I take pictures of families experiencing the loss of a child, I think this is part of the reason. My loss is nothing compared to the way some families experience losing their baby, but it was still my loss.

It hurt.
It was lonely.
It was scary.
I needed someone (preferably a girlfriend) to walk alongside me and just be.

Do you know a woman like that?
The kind who will just be with you and doesn’t require small talk or entertainment? They are content with the beauty of silence.

I think I had that dream last night because it prompted this post and someone needed to read these words today.

So for that someone…no matter what stage of pregnancy or postpartum you experienced your loss, all of the feelings you feel are valid. Feel them deeply and for as long as you need to. I am convinced, now more than ever, that is the only true pathway to healing and peace.