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It’s funny how things change. From top to bottom. For so long I could hardly recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror.
I wasn’t familiar with this new girl’s passions, with the way grief felt unbelievably comfortable, or even with her new circle of friends (and online friends).
I had to relearn who I was becoming. I had to accept her.
Before losing our first born, I had every intention of going back to school to study Art History, travel the world and read tons of books about ancient artifacts.
And before losing her, my biggest disappointment was not being accepted into grad school right after college.
Today I could care less if I stepped another foot in college. I might, someday, but the wind has changed. My desire isn’t to study ancient tombstones, or visit the Sistine Chapel and revel in it’s awesomeness.
My passion is here. Walking, talking, breathing grief… and healing.
My passion changed the moment I watched my helpless one pound little girl – who was so full of life inside me for 29 weeks – struggle to take her last breath. Horrific and life-changing all at once. I remember thinking not too long after walking away from her hospital – that I couldn’t believe women had actually survived this kind of sadness. This kind of tremendous grief. This kind of nightmare.
As much as the thought of returning to her hospital hurt to even think about, I knew, for me, it was something I had to do. I just wanted to wrap my arms around another mama saying goodbye to her newborn child and let her know she was not alone. Grief feels incredibly isolating, even with a rockstar support system.
It wasn’t long before I was trying to do something in her memory there. I tried many, many times to get involved in different, creative ways, but since it is such a large hospital there were so many channels to go through and the process was painful and discouraging to say the least. (And I only share this to encourage you if this is your experience! Hang in there, sometimes these things take time!)
I waited impatiently for the right door to open, and one day almost a year ago I got an invitation to join a group of parent advisors to the NICU at her hospital. I almost died of happiness.
Inside I knew I was different. The moments I lived for, the moments that I felt so proud of, were so incredibly different than the ones I ever imagined. But a thousand times more rewarding.
A few days ago another ‘moment’ occurred. A chance to share our Jenna to improve end-of-life care that the hospital delivers to the children and their families. Talk about an honor. That her life, and our whole experience there, will somehow impact families sadly walking the same road.
And then there was the lantern release a few weekends ago. There just aren’t words for that experience – to be surrounded by 100 or so people missing the children in their life, honoring their lives together under one sunset (or in our case, a looming thunderstorm) with glow lanterns populating the sky above us.
Today I hardly recognize the girl in the pictures from 3+ years ago. Her dreams were different. Her muse lacked something potent to real creativity. Her ambitions were shallow, even.
Today I can look in the mirror, and the person looking back isn’t such a stranger anymore. She is driven by the day that changed everything and the kind of pain that leaves an impermeable scar. She is fueled by a mother’s love to share just how precious life is because it has proven to be so extremely fragile.
I don’t know where you might be in your journey, but even if you still cannot recognize the person in the mirror after your loss, I hope you know you are not alone. Grief has a way of affecting every aspect of your life.
Have you noticed that your goals or passions have changed at all since your loss?
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About Franchesca
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Oh, I can relate. My passions have changed, too, to being a resource for other bereaved mothers. To looking forward to support group meetings because there, my babies live. I can use their names and talk about my pregnancies and no one thinks I am strange to be talking about them three years later. To devouring books about grief so I can know what to recommend to others. My vision now is to make sure that every bereaved parent in our area knows how to find the local resources that are available so no one thinks they need to travel this road alone.
Amen to that!!! So many people shrivel up when I bring up my first daughter, and so thankful for those that will still listen to stories about her. You are no doubt bringing such a comfort to families in your area after your loss, that is so awesome. big hugs!!!
WOW, how true is this.. I often look at myself and don’t even know who I am anymore. I look at old pictures and wonder who that person was, and realize I will never be that person again. The second I walked out of the hospital with only a memory box of my daughter Addison I knew I wanted and needed to do something in the honor of her. I haven’t figured it out just yet, but I know eventually I will.
Yes, I am sure you will too! It’s almost like a whisper from heaven that they give us these new goals and passions in life. Wishing you all the best!
Oh I totally get this, I can remember looking at pictures of the “me” before we lost Hadley and not even recognizing her. Now I can see myself in who I am now and who I used to be even though they are two completely different people.
So true! I also feel like two completely different people when I look through old photos. It is incredible that these beautiful little lives have such a deep, lasting impact.
I don’t know the woman you once were, but I do know the woman you are now is simply beautiful. xoxo
Thank you so much Mary xoxo
I actually had an acquaitence tell me ” I seemed different”. Why yes I am..and it’s because of my beatiful daughter..and I’m not going back!
Amen to that!
Your writing is the first I have read about an Angel mom wanting to have presence in the hospital system. I am reading this as I consider offering my own presence to bereaved parents at the hospital I work at. Today, my reality takes me into the depths of orienting to the challenges of working with Cancer survivors. But that wasn’t the original plan. My fantasy at this time was to be home parenting my 4 month old twins and my toddler. Last September, I was newly pregnant and planning for time off, with no inclination to work. Last January, I was attending the hospitals bereavement group, but was employed elsewhere, my current job location completely off of my grid. Who knew I would be practicing at the same hospital I was grieving at?. How fantasy contrasts reality. How the nights darkness and tears contrast with the days brightness and “I’m OK” demeanor. But with the pain comes a deep appreciation for the potential to transform. My pre-infertility days lacked depth and focus. My younger self contrasts deeply with the need to extend my rehab skills as well as my experiences with loss. Even if it risks the likelyhood of opening the wound again and again. I would not have taken such risk before losing Andrew, to willingly walk into the pain of seeing ordinary individuals, like myself, with radiation burns. To see hopeful parents at their most vulnerable acute stage of loss. How and why do I look forward to my bimonthly bereavement group? Because it hurts everytime, and there is growth thereafter. We all reap the benefit of making the time to pause and remember our little ones, our well-placed intentions expand. But with the lack of familial expansion comes the potential for heart expansion. We have all taken the opportunity to grow our compassion for the benefit of all. It’s what keeps us moving forward with meaning, still feeling deeply, still standing.
so beautifully put Jean. It is so healing to let that opportunity flourish for the benefit of other grieving and hurting hearts. Your story is incredible. I am so sorry for your losses, but thank you for sharing your journey. I know it is bittersweet but truly inspiring that you are now working where you also grieved.
xxxx
I can totally relate – I’ve been thinking about this today – I’m not sure that the course I deferred from is the one that I should be doing, so I’m looking into changing. What was important before our losses is less so now, even many many years later.
Thank you so very much for posting this. We lost our first son in June and I have been still dealing with infertility and feel like I keep getting beaten down. I just found old pictures of my husband and I from five years ago yesterday and completely lost it looking at the former us. Both of us are different and our priorities are changed drastically. I almost don’t even recognize him either anymore. But luckily for me he has been the most amazing support system and is a better man than I ever could have known. I know that I am one of the lucky few who will be okay because of him and his never ending love. I truly hope that we can all create something wonderful in this world in honor of our lost children. Thank you again for this post it really makes me feel less alone.
I know what you mean, the first time I saw our wedding photos after our loss it was extremely hard. We were such different people. I am so thankful for my hubby as well, don’t know where I’d be without his support. So glad you can relate to that!! We are definitely so lucky, so blessed! Sending big hugs xxx
Thank you for that, we are moving ahead with clomid now, not without breakdowns and fighting myself and I really needed all of this.