Yesterday you turned ten.
Another year without you.
Two whole hands of birthdays without you.

We celebrated and honoured you, as we usually do.
We made pancakes and wondered what you would look like as a ten year old.
We went mini putting and go karting talked about what things you would like. Would you like softball like your older sister? Maybe soccer like your younger sister?
We ate cake.
We discussed preparations for our upcoming trip back home.
We talked about the fun things we might do this week.
We talked about boring things like the mountain of laundry to be done and other chores because life doesn’t stop for grief. Eventually grief intertwines with life. We give ourselves the space to feel sad or angry that you’re not here with us and we can enjoy cake to mark a milestone or go out to run errands or head into the office for another day of work.

At the end of the day, we go to bed with you safely tucked away in our hearts.
A kiss on your urn
A look up to heaven
A thank you for watching over your sisters
Love

How can it be 9 years since we held you and said goodbye?
108 months
3, 287 days

It feels like a lifetime. So much has happened in our lives since you died, and yet I can close my eyes and be taken right back as if no time passed at all.

One thing that remains the same is the love for you we all carry. Your sisters still like planning celebrations for your birthday and look for ways to honour you.
This year we were able to go strawberry picking and even tried making our own jam for the first time! Your sisters were excited to cut the strawberries and mash them in the pot, while stirring and stirring. Only minimal arguing about who’s turn it was.
Whether the jam turns out or not, I will keep the memory forever tucked away in my heart.

How do I say goodbye?
How do I put into words what you meant to me?
How do I put into words how much you meant to me?
How do we do life without you?

It shouldn’t have been your time yet. We had so many more memories to make.
So many more laughs. So many more jokes. So many more hugs. So many more kisses from the dogs. So many more coffees. So many more chats. So many more projects to hear about. So much more reminiscing with you. Now we reminisce about you.
Someone didn’t get the memo that it wasn’t supposed to be your time.

How do we honour the life you had?
How do we honour the life you gave?
How do we carry our love forward?
How do we ease the pain?

I was lucky enough to know you before we became family.
I was lucky enough to have a mother-in-law I called a friend.
I was lucky enough to live with you and to learn from you.

We shared so much more than a last name and I will forever be grateful for all of it.

Thank you for everything.

Has it really been 7 years?

There are still moments when it feels like not long ago I held you in my arms. But most often it feels as though time is moving so fast – the days, weeks, months fly by. It can’t be seven years, but somehow it is.

As more time passes I worry I won’t remember every detail about you, every memory we made together in your short life.

I worry people will forget you.

But when I think of you, I think of love and then I worry less.

I think of the love we shared. Grief is love and I know I still feel so much grief because our love was so big and so strong. My love for you is still so big and so strong.

I think of the love I receive on your birthday – there are still people who remember you and I so appreciate the loving notes from each and every one of them 🙂

I love hearing your sisters talk about you – what our family would be like if you were here, what you would have wanted to do for your birthday, what they want to do to celebrate your special day. They love celebrating you!

I love that our little family continues to celebrate you each year. And each year it gets a little easier to feel love and joy rather than lean into the sadness of not having you here with us.

I love that I am your mom.

I love that even though time continues to fly, we take the time to just be together and celebrate you.

I love that after 7 years your sisters still want to have a special day just for you.

I’m still not sure how we made it to 7 years, but I do know I will continue loving you for 7 more plus infinity.

A week ago you turned 6.

For your birthday we went on a family getaway to Niagara Falls. We went on the boat to the falls, the Skywheel, go karting (little sister and I came in last, Daddy and big sister won), even mini golf in the rain! We had ice cream, pizza, cake, pancakes.

It was an incredible little trip!
On your birthday we chose joy and celebration. You deserve to be celebrated just like your sisters. They love celebrating you and planning your special day. Their love for you and desire to include you warms my heart. It makes it a little easier to choose joy on a day that feels anything but.
As much fun as we had, we missed you every step of the way.
How we wish you were here.

If you were here we wouldn’t have to choose joy. It would just be a joyous day.
If you were here the weeks before and after your birthday wouldn’t be so heavy.
How I wish you were here.

The weeks leading to your birthday are heavy emotionally and physically. I’m sensitive, vulnerable and just so tired. Most days it takes all I have to get through the day doing as little as I can.
The weeks after your birthday are heavy still. Only now the sadness starts to wane and the anger settles in.
Anger that you died.
Anger at the people who don’t show up.
Anger at the world for moving on the next day.
Anger at myself for not speaking up.

Anger.

It’s hard to remember what it’s been like the other years. Am I always this angry after your birthday? Is it getting worse? Am I over-reacting? Am I the only one who feels this?
How long will it take to process this emotion?
I’ve been avoiding processing it. Instead choosing to numb myself of feeling in the hopes I’ll wake one day and it will be gone.
How I wish you were here.

If you had one wish, what would it be?
Your big sister asked me this recently. I responded with something diplomatic and generic about ending war and hate-motivated crime.
Your sister’s response floored me.
“I wish Melissa never died and was still with us.”
Wow. Didn’t see that coming. They think about you even when I least expect it.
Today I wish for my anger to go away so I can go back to living life and these incredible moments with your sisters.

But my forever wish will always be that you were here on earth with us.
How I wish you were here.

*When I’m looking back
On the time that we shared
Hope you know you were loved
And that I always cared
I always cared…
I know in my heart
That we’ll meet again
I know deep inside
This isn’t the end

*I Wish You Were Here by Dropkick Murphys
Check it out on YouTube !

I woke up feeling a heaviness in my chest.  
Dates are major triggers for me. Often I feel it physically first. I don’t even need to look at the calendar to know a significant date is approaching. 
I forced myself out of bed and got started on my day pushing the heaviness aside as much as I could. 

Later that day I read the devastating news that Chrissy Teigen and John Legend’s baby died. My heavy heart shattered for them. How unfair that another family is experiencing this. How I wish I could protect all the babies in wombs so no other family would have to know the excruciating pain that runs deep when your baby dies. I took a moment for them. Silently offering support from across the continent. 

Later in the day I started seeing stories that made my blood boil. There were people out there who had the audacity to tell this couple that they shouldn’t be sharing such personal news. They shouldn’t be sharing because it’s disturbing, it’s too sad, people don’t want to know about dead babies, people don’t want to see or hear that these things happen, people don’t want to see people crying because their baby died, that they should keep their grief to themselves. 
Are you fucking kidding me, was the first thing I thought. How dare people tell a family how they should grieve or share news of their baby’s death.
I did some digging because I just couldn’t believe that people could be so selfish and ignorant. Sure enough it was true. Then it dawned on me that I shouldn’t be so surprised – this happened to me too.  I’ve been told I shouldn’t share my journey. I’ve been told to get over my grief. I’ve been told I’m selfish when I put my grief ahead of other things. I’ve been told to bury my feelings and move on. I’ve been told not to talk about it, to keep it quiet because people don’t want to hear about such depressing things. I’ve always kept it to myself because it only affected me, but hearing it happen to someone else set off a defensive instinct in me. I can’t protect Chrissy and John and all the other families in our loss community from these comments. I can stand up today and plead with you to understand the added layer of pain these comments cause. 
Please, please do not ever tell someone to get over it or not to share just because you don’t like it. If you see something on social media you don’t like just keep scrolling. It’s actually that simple. 
If you feel like one of these comments wants to come out, shut your mouth, stop typing. 
You do not have permission to tell someone how to grieve. 

Once again because this is important. 
You. Do. Not. Have. Permission. To. Tell. Someone. How. To. Grieve. 

Sending love and peace to Chrissy and John and anyone else missing their baby. 

I’ve never been great at controlling or managing my reactions to the actions of those around me. One minor action from someone can ruin an entire day. A larger infraction can set off a downward spiral that may take weeks to recover from. I’ve never really understood why I let this happen, even when I’ve come to recognize it happening. It has taken a long time to understand that how I feel has a lot to do with the environment around me. I let things that are out of my control take control of my emotions. Learning this about myself has set me on a path of learning how to retrain my brain. I need to learn how I can stop the bad from taking over my life.
One thing I’ve come across recently is the idea of ‘and’ statements or ‘yes, and’.
These types of statements give me the ability to acknowledge and accept the negative of a situation while also reminding myself of the positive.
It seems so simple, but when your brain is wired to focus on the bad it’s not easy to put into practice. I’ve been working hard at it the last week or so and it’s making a difference. Melissa’s birthday is always an incredibly difficult time, both leading up to and the weeks after. Last year I spiraled so far out of control I ended up in the darkest season I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t come out of it until 7 or 8 months later. This year I was determined to not let that happen. This year I decided to let the good overcome the bad.

On Melissa’s birthday I can double over from the pain of grief AND I can celebrate her the way she deserves.

I can be sad she’s not here to celebrate with us AND I can be happy watching her sisters pick out a stuffy for her.

I can be disappointed by the inaction of those I wish I could count on AND be grateful and thankful for the incredible people who do reach out to recognize Melissa’s birthday.

I can feel angry AND I can feel love.
I can be full of grief AND full of love.

It doesn’t have to be one or the other. After all, grief is love and it’s important to acknowledge both.
Every negative emotion I can overcome is a step in the right direction. One step at a time.

I can’t control what others do AND I don’t have to let that control me.

I’ll never let you in.
I’ll give you glimpses, but you’ll never really know more than what’s on the surface.
I’m good at hiding and I’m good at lying.
I lie to myself all the time so it’s easy to lie to you, too. It’s so much easier than telling the truth.
It’s not that I don’t want to let you in.
It’s that letting you in means being honest with myself and sometimes that’s too painful or scary to deal with.
It’s not that I want to lie.
It’s that when I’ve told the truth in the past it was met with silence or judgement.
It’s a terrible feeling to finally muster up the courage to ask for help and be let down.
It’s hard asking for help. It’s harder asking for help when you don’t know what you need.

And so it’s easier to hide.

It’s easier to pretend I am all the help I need. After all, I should be in charge of taking care of myself and giving myself what I need, right? Well, sort of. I’ve come to realize that yes, I should be in charge of taking care of myself, but that doesn’t mean doing it all alone.
Being in charge of myself means…
Recognizing the signs and symptoms that I’m not ok.
Learning and understanding the coping strategies that work for me.
Finding ways to ask for help that don’t feel like I’m actually asking for help.
Asking for help in a way that works for me. For me, asking for help can look like scheduling alone time, ordering take out for dinner, a physically distanced walk with a friend, a break from work, a country road drive with the music turned up loud.

Being in charge of myself means being more proactive in caring for myself in the hopes that one day I won’t need to lie to myself anymore.
Any maybe one day I won’t need to lie to you anymore either.

The noise.
I can’t take the noise.
Everything is SO damn loud.
The rage inside me builds. I can feel it rising to the top. It takes all of my energy to keep it from exploding. I am not strong enough to keep it in and it explodes from the very bottom of my lungs anyway. It doesn’t make the noise go away. Everything is still too damn loud. Nothing makes the noise go away because so much of the noise is in my head.

On that day it became too much.
It was a beautiful summer day and I was working from home.
I couldn’t concentrate. I tried to distract myself, but nothing was working. Nothing had been working for weeks. I went outside to take a break. It didn’t help.
Suddenly I was overwhelmed with a feeling of desperation I’d never felt before. I desperately needed to escape the noise. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. I was looking for an answer to a question I didn’t know how to ask.
I was losing myself.
The noise was winning.
Everything went quiet and dark. I stood frozen in time believing the answer before me. It was quiet – the quiet I had so desperately been searching for.
In that moment all I wanted was to escape into quiet.

I was interrupted by something wet touching my hand. I looked down and there was my dog, Odin, nudging my hand with his nose. He gave it a lick when I looked at him. He looked up at me and nodded to the house as if he was telling me to go inside. We spent the rest of the day cuddled up on the couch.

In that moment I finally understood that I couldn’t get through any of this trying to be strong and taking all this on by myself.
It was still weeks before I told anyone about this and weeks more before I could bring myself to book an appointment with my therapist. I wasn’t even planning on telling her what happened. I was scared of what it would mean. I was scared of asking for help, from my therapist.
We did talk about it and surprise, surprise, it helped. Talking about it out loud helped, a lot. As much as it helped, at first it didn’t make my journey easier.
It was really frustrating.
Depression hit really hard.
Going to work took everything out of me.
In the months that followed I didn’t leave my house for much else.
In that time I did what I needed to take care of myself. I leaned on the supports I trusted the most. I didn’t always get the help I needed, but verbally saying “I need help” is still so hard. It took a while but day by day I eventually started feeling a little better. I started recognizing the early signs that I need a break before everything becomes too much and I shut down. It’s a work in progress. What works today may not work tomorrow. What “taking a break” means looks different depending on my symptoms. I’ve started to be a little more open and honest about my mental health. It helps knowing I have people on my side.
It helps knowing I have a dog on my side. A dog who is, perhaps a little more intuitive than I ever gave him credit for.

I hope to never again feel the way I did on that day and that is what motivates me to take better care of my mental health.

I will forever be grateful to the boy who gave me his paw and reminded me that help is there, even when I don’t feel like it is.