tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38158167377137231682024-02-20T16:25:19.890-05:00Exploring HollandShannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.comBlogger1431125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-16680456650752047212022-09-26T23:16:00.001-04:002022-09-26T23:16:10.019-04:00Seasons and Grief<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqu_EdchNDbHu67DfRniC8B-17ghK2CeKMrQcU4n_hLoD7g-86REGFzzEsRtO92c_N6W4xQ9_P4r5ijY6sxXrbEvS7KxOJ4AuRFRlaS8Ki3e_pDO6WnXJAOR1FacXQMoojnWYWEIIcx1IfoxgVb1uVEbJ05aoo3_ESwZNqB6C6j5L5MXTeQuBzw/s1440/Trees.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqu_EdchNDbHu67DfRniC8B-17ghK2CeKMrQcU4n_hLoD7g-86REGFzzEsRtO92c_N6W4xQ9_P4r5ijY6sxXrbEvS7KxOJ4AuRFRlaS8Ki3e_pDO6WnXJAOR1FacXQMoojnWYWEIIcx1IfoxgVb1uVEbJ05aoo3_ESwZNqB6C6j5L5MXTeQuBzw/s320/Trees.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>We are entering autumn, a heightened grief season for Matt and me. There are the looming dates on the calendar - Waverly's birthday, Waverly's deathday, Oliver's deathday. Halloween, a favorite holiday for our family, and Thanksgiving. Fall is a season of plenty and harvest, but also decline and death. It is a season that, for me, best represents grief. The joy and sorrow themes I have written of so often.<p></p><p>This season knocked me over. I have been so busy with my new job assisting families in anticipating their own grief and navigating their child's death. I think I forgot to tend to my own heart and hurt. I have been so aware of transference, countertransference, boundaries, use of self, etc. that I have tucked my pain too far away.</p><p>I am learning. Find balance in my practice.</p>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-75007620772898556402022-06-07T19:13:00.001-04:002022-06-07T19:13:17.213-04:00It's Been a Year<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQT6O-433SIuwoyYRYtfGiAY6dWnF-r8LpR1uuFlu_xZtfqwU_tOxrisQmaU9sAMDDnY-uyQDxoP-K244xJzLmVVmtC9JZkDzvKT9PjfwipJoaSzEo5AVLBgvOsfUUqAQtzqRC2Jka1jPiJBXsQ7DGDyHZEMZbBwVLfxR67Pjm5ZmA7p6oln0SOg/s4032/0F165401-9822-45FE-9371-DD93BEEBB31C.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQT6O-433SIuwoyYRYtfGiAY6dWnF-r8LpR1uuFlu_xZtfqwU_tOxrisQmaU9sAMDDnY-uyQDxoP-K244xJzLmVVmtC9JZkDzvKT9PjfwipJoaSzEo5AVLBgvOsfUUqAQtzqRC2Jka1jPiJBXsQ7DGDyHZEMZbBwVLfxR67Pjm5ZmA7p6oln0SOg/s320/0F165401-9822-45FE-9371-DD93BEEBB31C.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I graduated last month with my MSW. Three years of challenging classwork and internships. I had spent many years trying to figure out my vocational purpose and it wasn't until Waverly and Oliver died that I realized a career as a social worker was the answer. I am able to utilize my talents and skills, along with the many lessons I learned along the way as Waverly and Oliver's mom and caregiver, to support families. I have taken a position working in a pediatric hospice as a social worker and grief therapist. This is difficult work. Sacred work. Stepping into delicate spaces with families, offering support in an unfixable situation. I have to leave my grief behind as I enter to serve other children and those who love them. It is a space I feel comfortable in, a space I can be of help in, and a space my children prepared me for.<p></p><p>Waverly should have graduated this year. She should be preparing for a gap year, university, or some other fabulous adventure. I walked across a graduation stage in her place. I donned a cap and gown. I added her name to my cap. A little reminder that because of her, I am here. </p><p>For Waverly. For Oliver.</p>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-29847277537287540692021-05-03T13:36:00.001-04:002021-05-03T13:36:38.564-04:00Bereaved Mother's Day<p>Yesterday was Bereaved Mother's Day. I first heard about this significant day last year. Part of me pushed against the idea to further delineate ourselves when we are and will always remain mothers. Yet another part appreciated the pause, the creation of space for mourning and lament.</p><p>I haven't written at all this semester. I was busy in classes full-time and interning at an inpatient hospice facility two days per week. All of my writing was done for professors to follow a rubric and secure an A. There were a few reflection papers where I struggled with writing from my heart, after practicing a clinical APA-driven style for so long. Even professors were requesting more of me in my writing, which was comical given how much I had worked from my first semester to remove myself from my writing. Next year will be my quest for balance.</p><p>I have one more year of graduate school and fieldwork before I am officially going to secure my MSW in May of 2022. It has been a journey and I have been stretched, challenged, yet tethered to my goal and purpose.</p><p>I took a death and dying class in the spring that helped to bolster my desire to work within the dying community. I will be working with children who have been given a life-limiting diagnosis in the fall and their families, and with children who have lost a significant loved one. It is going to be difficult, holy work. I am looking forward to learning, listening, and creating sacred spaces.</p><p>We are over a year into the pandemic. We love our new home, but still feel we have a lot to learn about her and our community. We are beginning to explore more, having been vaccinated. We are continually thrilled about this new vibrant walkable neighborhood we are able to call home.</p><p>While we adore our new surroundings, I have found myself feeling quite far removed from Waverly & Oliver. I can no longer go to their rooms and feel their presence, smell their closets of clothing, lay on their quilts. I can't remember each space where they stood and recall a moment. They are everywhere in the new house, photos, special toys, artwork, quilts, but it is more memento than presence. They were and are no longer.</p><p>In an effort to accomplish all I needed to this semester I may have separated myself a little too much from my grief. I felt untethered at times, without a foundation to secure me. While working in hospice, I learned to rely on my mounting professional experience to draw from, instead of my personal story. This was a vital lesson and paramount to my ability to be effective with my patients and their families. I hope to spend this summer processing my work experiences and working through various personal things that came up that I had to shove aside for another time.</p><p>Mother's Day is six days away.</p>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-39781132685368659252021-01-12T12:51:00.001-05:002021-01-12T12:51:14.062-05:00I Am Oliver's Mom<p> I have not taken the time to write for a few months. The heaviness that comes with November and December was certainly at the root, along with my internship and the end of a busy semester.</p><p>On December 5th we honored the day Oliver died. Two years. Two achingly long years. We gathered outside on a very chilly night with a few friends who were present then and are still our supporters today. We drank wine, laughed together, and reminisced. They have learned to follow our lead and dip into our grief when we signal. We share a very special little boy and the memory of his death is a tie that binds us.</p><p>I am continuing my internship with a local hospice agency. Yesterday I was able to spend the day shadowing a lovely social worker at the facility where Oliver died. Albeit a smidge apprehensive, I have done a lot of work on myself and my grief to come to the decision that the time was right to enter that special place and carry not only my personal story but all of the experience I have gained thus far as a social worker. I waited in the lobby where I vividly remembered entering to tell my friend who spent the night sleeping on the couch that Oliver had died. I remembered coming out to the lobby to meet friends who had gathered to say their final goodbye and drive Matt & me home to our now-empty house.</p><p>During rounds, I realized that I would be seeing the nurse who was our angel on earth when Oliver was admitted to the facility. She made more of an impact on all of our lives than she will ever understand. Matt and I delivered flowers to her many months after his death as a thank you and also a way for me, in particular, to work through my grief and trauma. When she came into the room, I was thankful for masks to hide my identity. However, after a brief introduction as an intern, she looked back at me, convinced she had met me before. I said "You were our son's nurse. I am Oliver's mom." and with those words, she began to cry.</p><p>I wasn't sure how to respond. Thankfully people began to chat amongst themselves and gave her a few minutes to gather herself. We all moved forward and I kept avoiding her gaze because it felt incredibly intimate. I saw her throughout the day, we smiled, and I saw her so lovingly speak with families who are experiencing their own loved ones' death. She is a gift to so many.</p><p>As I drove home after a truly educational day, I pondered her reaction. And my feelings about it. My initial response was she remembers us because Oliver was such an amazing little patient. (Which he was!) But I quickly realized that his death, which I hold so near and dear as my story, was also a story for her. The story may carry some true weight and trauma <i>for her</i>. Children don't die very often and even more rarely in a hospice center. Her remembrance may hold pain and sadness that I never considered before. Nor should I. It is not a grieving person's responsibility to manage their own grief and those of others, remember the "dump out" theory. Yet I need to acknowledge others' participation in Waverly and Oliver's deaths as their <i>own</i> experience.</p><p>Grief continues to surprise and challenge me.</p>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-36773006375198355912020-11-18T15:02:00.001-05:002020-11-18T15:02:21.939-05:00Five Years<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDPZr0167ETOk2NlQCRljTRioHpE0mc8i900HspZWe14iP08wlLT1EBO9TEAAscVXygZUYBtZ_0hzDRBeve_Dy85LP5ECugo_I7dyfc5640K7Vacw1JknlyrxtV6q7iBEfZKUR0Yi-nw/s5616/untitled-92.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3744" data-original-width="5616" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDPZr0167ETOk2NlQCRljTRioHpE0mc8i900HspZWe14iP08wlLT1EBO9TEAAscVXygZUYBtZ_0hzDRBeve_Dy85LP5ECugo_I7dyfc5640K7Vacw1JknlyrxtV6q7iBEfZKUR0Yi-nw/s320/untitled-92.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I rarely include photos of Waverly's last days on my social media, but I thought I would share this beautiful picture of Wavey taken a few days before she died. It was taken by my dear friend, as we snuggled on the couch watching Cinderella with BaaBaa and Minnie Mouse in her arms. She looks so incredibly peaceful, yet unable to open her eyes, eat, or speak.<p></p><p>The fact that five years have passed since her death is incomprehensible. I cannot believe she would be seventeen years old, in her junior year of high school. Matt and I were recently reflecting on this and we spoke about how difficult it is to imagine what she would be like. When she was diagnosed at age four, we knew her time with us was short. As the disease progressed, we were in persistent toddlerdom. While I love the idea of imagining all of the wonderful things she would have accomplished, I am stopped by my desire to not idealize her and all she would be. Maybe it is my enneagram four-ness or the sense that she drew such a short straw in life already. It is easier, now, to simply remember all she was. And all she always will be.</p><p>We spent the last weekend in Cape May for a mini escape to one of our favorite places in an effort to focus on each other and remember. I always spend time searching for sea glass as I wander the beaches. The first time I found sea glass was on Prince Edward Island with Waverly. It is a little tradition for me to walk and talk to her as I search. On my final day of hunting, after not being able to find a single sliver, I had my back turned to the surf. I wave snuck up behind me and soaked my shoes. I could almost hear Wavey laughing. And as I looked down, there was a piece of sea glass. My little jokester relishing in my soggy feet, but rewarding me with a treasure.</p><p>I am halfway through the day. My eyes are constantly dripping tears. I have sad songs on repeat. I took off of work. I stayed in bed all morning. My phone has been dinging with texts and fellow grieving moms have called. Flowers have been delivered to our door. I walked in the cold for a coffee, enjoying the crisp air and crunching of leaves beneath my feet. A candle is burning. We will have a fire and wine tonight, remembering and mourning.</p><p>I miss you, Waverly Mae.</p>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-91219103989927654372020-10-12T21:50:00.000-04:002020-10-12T21:50:01.287-04:00Everything<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDQynGmsLT8WDED2_UZr3Nv6c51uoOM2Sitse9-o2jBDx-Ro3t-vNEuSAxOZkvcuYCyg74QMm-rurHphbpp4zFxjEYjwmmENaxBVxun0HyVug8IQk_hp1cGOphCU7Xt11bW1SgzzDlA/s2048/1E0ECE6A-2646-412D-98FC-3B5575C42052.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDQynGmsLT8WDED2_UZr3Nv6c51uoOM2Sitse9-o2jBDx-Ro3t-vNEuSAxOZkvcuYCyg74QMm-rurHphbpp4zFxjEYjwmmENaxBVxun0HyVug8IQk_hp1cGOphCU7Xt11bW1SgzzDlA/s320/1E0ECE6A-2646-412D-98FC-3B5575C42052.jpeg" /></a></div>I took this photo about six weeks before Waverly died. We were at NIH for a last-minute attempt to fix what we knew was happening. We saw our favorite doctor, ran all of the tests, and left empty-handed. However, in the absence of an answer, we actually did have a clear idea of what was happening. Our little girl was dying and we were unable to stop it. I remember vacillating between an assurance that my intuition was correct and unbelievable rage that I could not stop it.<p></p><p>There was a tenuous balancing act when we included Oliver in her care and also felt like we were exposing him to his future. I remember this feeling being especially clear on this particular day. Yet, he happily leaned on his big sister's bed, sharing the iPad and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse with her. </p><p>Autumn always evokes emotions and memories. As a family, we loved the cooler weather that arrived in October. We often traveled during this time of year. And of course, both of the kids' health took a turn for the worse and we entered the long vigil of anticipating death. This is the time of year when I feel the weight of my grief. It takes the shape of a huge, heavy blanket. I can curl up under it and hide away for a while. </p><p>I am continually amazed by the beauty that arrives at this time of year. So much color. Houses look alive with lamps and candles. I love having the windows open, chilling the house, inviting in the scent of fires, and the sounds of crows. It is the perfect time to bury myself under the weight of my loss. </p><p>I found a dead goldfinch at our backdoor last week. It had flown into our kitchen window. I cried because that is what I do. It brought this poem to mind. Linger. Pause. It could mean something. It could mean everything.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">Invitation by Mary Oliver</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh do you have time<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />to linger<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />for just a little while<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />out of your busy</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">and very important day<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />for the goldfinches<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />that have gathered<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />in a field of thistles</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">for a musical battle,<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />to see who can sing<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />the highest note,<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />or the lowest,</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">or the most expressive of mirth,<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />or the most tender?<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />Their strong, blunt beaks<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />drink the air</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">as they strive<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />melodiously<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />not for your sake<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />and not for mine</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">and not for the sake of winning<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />but for sheer delight and gratitude –<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />believe us, they say,<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />it is a serious thing</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">just to be alive<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />on this fresh morning<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />in the broken world.<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />I beg of you,</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">do not walk by<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />without pausing<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />to attend to this<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />rather ridiculous performance.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #1f1f1f; font-family: futura-pt; letter-spacing: 0.5px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">It could mean something.<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />It could mean everything.<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />You must change your life.</p><div><br /></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-8573741932407090092020-09-23T15:55:00.000-04:002020-09-23T15:55:01.292-04:00The Quilt<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCggHVIgYfyiW8bTarCS3FRZzet7Jbu-30h9B5DPK9PFxFC3NXNnQ0PKhyyKchmppbiBsx8FQ29pEdiU-YO6dhOvRnSz8bOP6lv5jgKURaORYPalikmwc-rsC2n60DaejTiqjUMq__qg/s3024/A73D64FB-4CA9-4B73-BAAD-1FF13578086F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCggHVIgYfyiW8bTarCS3FRZzet7Jbu-30h9B5DPK9PFxFC3NXNnQ0PKhyyKchmppbiBsx8FQ29pEdiU-YO6dhOvRnSz8bOP6lv5jgKURaORYPalikmwc-rsC2n60DaejTiqjUMq__qg/s320/A73D64FB-4CA9-4B73-BAAD-1FF13578086F.jpeg" /></a></div>Here is a photo of the quilt. There are so many memories stitched into this fabric. Some of my favorites are the Donald Duck tee we had made for Oliver's Make-a-Wish trip to Disney World. His Nationals t-shirt. A purple tee from preschool with his name and handprint. His blue and yellow checked shirt he wore for our final family pictures with Waverly. And the many pairs of Hanna Andersson jammies he wore in his final months. With autumn upon us, it is the perfect time to cozy up and remember.<p></p>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-77959028327027452222020-09-07T22:56:00.003-04:002020-09-07T23:06:27.915-04:00There it is<p>This is the longest break I have taken from my blog since I started it over thirteen years ago. There has always been an update, change, or simply something I wanted to save for posterity's sake. Grief work, a return to graduate school, and a move have all been part of my recent storyline. And then COVID. The world slowed and my life felt like it had stopped. No summer classes to attend, no volunteer opportunities, no summer travel, just simply sitting in my new home wishing we had central air conditioning.</p><p>I have struggled to access my emotions this summer. Being in a new home, a space where Waverly and Oliver have never lived has had its negative ramifications. While I love the smaller space, charming backyard, and walkable neighborhood, I am saddened to know that my children never set foot in this house. My memories are intricately tied to my senses. The smell of their rooms, memories of them playing, laughing, and dying in our Fairfax house, all provided me with a touchstone to my feelings. The house itself was a wealth of memories, with Disney cartoons and movies providing the soundtrack.</p><p>As we were moving into our new home in March, a friend graciously agreed to make us a quilt of Oliver's clothes. I packed up three gigantic boxes and handed them over, just before the pandemic. Today, she delivered the finished product and I am over the moon excited to wrap myself in memories. The timing was perfect. I had realized last week that I haven't been able to cry much since we moved. Typically this is a routine cathartic experience and I felt blocked. Tonight I unfolded the quilt and removed some of the extra pieces of clothing from the box she returned. Within a few seconds the tears welled up and I found my missing lament.</p>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-65307982364725583282020-06-17T16:51:00.001-04:002020-06-17T16:51:58.879-04:00Hello. My Name Is...Grieving during a pandemic is uncharted territory. In a way, I have found it to be a point of connection between myself and the world. Anticipating disease is a feeling with which I am quite familiar. Loneliness has been a major theme throughout the last decade and longer. Our family existed in a type of isolation for many years. However, the melancholic aspect of my personality feels rather crowded at the moment. People are grieving graduations, sports, family reunions, vacations, little leagues and so much more. I understand the use of language to describe loss is scant. Yet I wish we could preserve the use of grief for actual loss due to death. Sometimes I think it is a way we overdramatize our lives and other times I wonder if it is a way to lessen the weight of the word, given our death avoidance culture.<div><br /></div><div>Time is incredibly fluid in grief. Waverly died over four and a half years ago and Oliver died one and a half years ago. I vacillate between feelings of yesterday and another lifetime. I miss one child intensely one day and the other the next. There is a chasm between then and now. And then I will sense the overwhelming pressure of grief as if I am experiencing the seconds after their final breath.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few weeks ago Matt and I spent a few hours sitting outside with our new neighbors. It was a spur of the moment get together and seems to quickly become weekly given the quarantine. We poured ourselves G&Ts and walked over to introduce ourselves. Thankfully, Matt and I are able to read one another and it was obvious we both planned on avoiding the details of our story. We wanted to keep it light and breezy. As someone who values authenticity and walking among the dark places in others' stories, I find this difficult. But dropping two dead children on potential new friends can also be a bit much. They know we moved into a small home and there are no children present. We do still own a minivan, which is probably a bit of a head-scratcher.</div><div><br /></div><div>This isn't new. Returning to graduate school has provided me with lots of awkward introductions. Once inside our home, Waverly and Oliver's faces gaze down from walls and shelves. Their presence is undeniable. I can no more move on as I can forget. Their death hasn't ended my story, instead, it has shaped it and added depth of experiences and characters. I am not defined by my grief, yet it has changed me.</div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-37811610772693243942020-05-18T13:24:00.000-04:002020-05-18T13:24:26.920-04:00Fallow<div style="text-align: left;">It was in the months after Waverly died. Sitting in the living room of a friend's home, I was attempting to find a word to define the period of time in which I found myself. She said it. Fallow. The time of rest given to a plot of land to rest and be still. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I struggled to find a purpose beyond grief and anticipating more grief. I felt ashamed at my inability to be productive. Over time, I was able to scrape up the energy required to relish the time I had with Oliver. Matt and I made lists of new places to go, things to do and special memories to make. We indulged. And then, as his death was imminent, another surge of energy sprang forth. This one pure adrenaline and a mother's instinct. Our focus was narrowed and the only job we needed to do was to make Oliver's death as peaceful and dignified as we were able.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After his death, my grief intensified. After Waverly died, in an effort to protect and reserve, my mourning for her was only able to move so deep. Now there was nothing before me and I could allow myself to fully feel the weight of my loss. Crushed by the burden, yet free to explore all of the dark and beautiful places within lament.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Grief has no timeline, no stages, no completion; but rather swirls, dead ends, entrapments, ups and downs, pits, and mountaintops. And it can be fallow. Still. Uncultivated. Left alone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-10266192503717273372020-05-01T20:27:00.001-04:002020-05-01T20:27:54.168-04:00Up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am sitting in our living room with the windows open and candles flickering. Spotify has been playing various playlists throughout the day and I just had a desire to listen to the theme song from the movie "Up". It is called "Married Life" and it is one of my favorite cinematic scenes, showing snapshots from a husband and wife over the years. Near the end, there is a poignant shift in the music as the woman grows ill and dies. It always makes me cry. And to be honest, I have only watched passed this point once.</div>
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There is something about the shift in the musical score. It slows and grows incredibly simple as they approach her death. For whatever reason, I simply had to listen to it tonight. Not only do I think of Matt, who I joke actually looks a lot like Carl. But it feels a bit like a soundtrack to our lives. Instead of being left alone, we are left childless.</div>
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Our time in our new home has been wonderful. However, in the midst of the move, not to mention a global pandemic, I am feeling rather unsettled and ungrounded. I want to tie balloons to a lawn chair and go off for an explore. </div>
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I remember hearing the song the last time we were at Disney World with Oliver, just two months before he died. It was dark and quiet as we were walking down Main Street USA to leave the Magic Kingdom. This song played and it couldn't have been more poignant. It is a musical representation of the life course. And I remember the final few moments of the song and realizing how appropriate the music was to our own story with Oliver.</div>
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I felt the need to have a good cry tonight and this song was my catalyst.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-91276386627072095092020-04-04T14:47:00.000-04:002020-04-04T14:47:18.331-04:00They Are Here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We have officially moved from our house in Fairfax into an area closer to DC. The actual move was much less difficult than I had anticipated. I think I had done a lot of emotional heavy lifting preparing to make the decision to move, so the actual actions had less of an impact. When Matt and I completed our final walkthrough of our old house, it felt like we were in a museum. As if we were stepping into a place of significance where two amazing people once lived. The house felt barren and hollow, just memories of what was.</div>
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With a lot of work, our new house is feeling more and more like home. For months we had lived in a de-personalized house. Photographs were removed and everything that gave the home personality were removed. It was thrilling to unpack boxes of photos and mementos. I have spent time trying to replicate what we had into a new smaller space. Our new home has a ton of builtin bookshelves, so I have been busy creating little shelves of memories. A Handy Manny toolset and plastic tea set are on display, reminding us what was and the wonderful time we had pretending with Waverly & Oliver.</div>
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One of the first things I did when we moved in, was to place these painted rocks in our front yard. An obvious marker that this is our home.</div>
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Moving in the midst of a pandemic has been challenging. We have met neighbors from a safe distance. Our new neighborhood feels much more friendly and social. We love to sit on our front porch and wave to passersby. Watson and Matilda have settled in and Matilda has decided she is the block captain and watches everyone who walks by.</div>
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All of the boxes have been unpacked, yet things are still finding their place. I was able to hang some pictures on the walls, so I can see the kids' smiles. Our guest room, which I continue to refer to as the kids' room, is a work in progress as I attempt to create a welcoming space for guests.</div>
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Grieving in a new home when the entire world is social distancing is quite difficult. I have a healthy fear of Covid-19. However, I have lived in fear of illness or death for so long as a mother, that this feels strangely familiar. The isolation isn't good for my sorrow-filled heart. I am trying to remain proactive in reaching out and speaking with friends on the phone or over zoom. I actually have found myself missing watching the world busily passing by, while I watch from the sidelines. It has provided a true expression of how grief separates us and slows us down. With everyone slow and separated, I am having trouble finding my place.</div>
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I am writing this while snuggled in a blanket on my front porch. The wind is blowing the wind chimes which have my children's initials etched in copper. The birds are singing. And although the blackbirds are elusive in this neighborhood, other birds are filling in and providing a beautiful score. Our home smells like home, because of candles and oils which conjure up memories of Waverly and Oliver. They are here.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-27199688315018793632020-03-11T14:21:00.001-04:002020-03-11T14:21:13.295-04:00Saying Goodbye<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We sold our house! Within just a few days of listing, we accepted an offer and officially closed on the house yesterday. We are still living here for a few more weeks until we close on our new home in Alexandria. We found the perfect little bungalow for the next phase of our lives together. It is small and charming in a lovely neighborhood with easy access to the metro. We are so excited to make it into our own little oasis.</div>
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Matt and I have found that our bodies will tell us when it is the right time to take another step forward. And this house process has been no exception. Things moved quickly, but when something feels right, we follow our intuition. Thankfully our house sold quickly. It took us four tries to purchase a house, but we ended up with the best option.</div>
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Packing up the kids' rooms was the most difficult task, particularly Oliver's room. Over the past four years, I have purged and purged again Waverly's belongings. Each time I would feel ready to part with a few more items. Clothing was utilized to make a quilt. Other items were donated to friends, which brings smiles to our faces each time we see their daughters wear something of Waverly's. It is as if a little piece of her continues to explore the world. Toys that held memories were no longer required to have on hand because I was secure the memory would remain.</div>
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Oliver's room was much more difficult for me. I had removed anything medical from his room days after he died. I passed his pants along to a dear friend who has a son with Sanfilippo. Elastic waist pants that look stylish are remarkably difficult to find. In every other way, his room remained as it was. I simply didn't have the energy or interest to change it. But it was time. First, all of his wall decor was removed. I had made baseball-themed pennants for his tenth birthday party and then strung them up in his room. Then I went through toys, saving some and passing on most. Special train cars were saved, but tracks and bridges were given to a preschool program. I had found someone willing to make a quilt, so I went through every item of clothing and sorted what to save and what to pass on. I have delivered bags of hoodies, button-downs, and tee-shirts to friends. I have already found comfort knowing that I will see those items appear on kids whom I love and who loved Oliver.</div>
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Her room is empty. His room is empty. Our house is cluttered with boxes. It echos due to the lack of rugs and furniture. It is losing its power over my memories. I am feeling more secure that those memories are inside of me and will travel with me to a new home. There will be reminders of the kids throughout the new house. Their scents will permeate the space. Their faces will smile down from our walls. Their urns will be placed in the center of our home, the heart of the home where they will always remain.</div>
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There is a tree in the backyard of the new house. It bends at a 90-degree angle right outside of the back door and coves the back yard in shade. I am not sure what kind of tree it is yet, but I know it will soon begin to bud and blossom. Waverly would have loved that tree. I had a dream once that Wavey was playing in a forest singing a song while climbing over and under a similar tree trunk. In the dream, I stood hidden and watched her play and explore, thrilled to hear her sweet voice again. This tree is a reminder of that dream and a reminder that she is with me.</div>
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Saying goodbye to our Fairfax house is going to be incredibly difficult. We have lived here longer than anywhere else. It holds so many memories. As we move from room to room one final time, we will share stories and memories. We plan on having a moment with the house; thanking it for allowing us to stay here for a while.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-47281855714831126122020-02-12T20:05:00.002-05:002020-02-12T20:05:37.809-05:00Cut Down the Ribbons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Matt and I have discussed the possibility of moving for years. We love our house. It served our family well for the past eight years. However, our family looks different now. We no longer require four bedrooms, wide doorways, and roll-in showers. I have been looking at real estate options on and off for quite some time. We finally ran through the numbers and felt it was time. Much of our lives occur closer to the city. The ability to be at a friend's home in less than ten minutes sounds divine.</div>
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So the last two weeks have been a blur. With the help of my parents, we got our home on the market. We had five offers within the first two days. We selected the best offer and we hope to close in about four weeks. Depersonalizing our home and creating a blank canvas for prospective buyers has not been easy for me. I kept two canvases of the kids on the walls because I could not bear to see their little faces smiling at me.</div>
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We had landscapers come and prep the yard. The last task was removing the purple ribbons from our trees. A neighbor put them up when Oliver died. They are weathered and tattered, but I loved having them there. A tangible reminder of our grief. Two trees marked. Two lives lost.</div>
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Leaving this house is going to be difficult. It holds so many precious memories and some ugly ones as well. The old song "If These Walls Could Speak" keeps running through my head. It has been over a year. It feels right. I have learned over the years that the best way to move within grief is to listen to my body and heart. Both are telling me it is time. The memories this house holds are not bound by its walls. They are within me.</div>
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We have yet to find our next house. It will come. And I will know when I enter it, that it will be the space which will hold new memories and remembrances of the old. Waverly and Oliver will be present and felt, never to be forgotten.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-58248400008338904612020-01-23T15:40:00.001-05:002020-01-23T15:40:18.594-05:00Muscle Memory & Senses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today was a strange day. I had a short list of errands to run this afternoon. I switched cars with Matt in order to accommodate all I needed to accomplish. </div>
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My first stop was the kids' school. We had one remaining piece of equipment that I have been holding onto. In an effort to slowly get our home purged to get it on the market, it was time to pass it on. Thankfully the school district is always open to donations and I love the thought that Oliver's chair will be used by fellow classmates. I parked where I always park in the bus drop off lane and was buzzed in. The new receptionist doesn't know who I am and seemed quite confused. Thankfully the school nurse was aware of my arrival and offered to help me lift the activity chair out of my van. We got it out and I pushed it through the school's front door as I have thousands of times before. However this time the chair was empty.</div>
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I then popped into the pharmacy that we used exclusively for Waverly and Oliver. It is an old school pharmacy capable of compounding. They know our family well. The smell of the shop and waiting in line to ask for McNeil was reminiscent of the hundreds of times I stood there to pick up prescriptions for the kids.</div>
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I made my way over to Jill's House to drop something off. I searched out the kids' pavers donated by friends in their honor. The warm fire greeted me and I thought about the many times I have walked through those doors with one or both of the kids for an overnight stay or day camp.</div>
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Our senses are powerful. The mere motion of pushing a wheeled chair, smelling familiar odors and feeling the warmth of a fireplace was enough to catapult me back in time to what used to be. The simple, yet straining, task of lifting a chair from my van felt oddly familiar. My muscles are no longer used to the action, yet the memory was present.</div>
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Since the new year, I have spent more time thinking about my future and less time reflecting on my past. I turn to remember and I see mighty peaks and valleys. I look ahead and the terrain looks rather flat and sparse. Hoping to find some lovely hills and plains along the way.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-66343538674771552412020-01-17T00:41:00.002-05:002020-01-17T00:41:39.319-05:00A New Year<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The calendar has finally turned and we are in January 2020. I have to admit that I crawled my way through the final days of December. Unlike prior years, I felt relief that the heavy dates of December had passed and a new year was upon us. The calendar stretches out ahead of me free of marked dates that carry tremendous weight.</div>
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I have entered my second year of grieving Oliver. I forgot how much the second year hurts. It's deeper. Darker. The thawing I have referenced before continues and the sores are exposed. For some reason, wound analogies speak to me when I am trying to define my grief. My sore is scabbed over, still rough and swollen. It bleeds when touched and requires gentleness.</div>
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I have been struggling with a bout of depression. I hesitate to even type the words because there is such stigma attached to depression. Yet I value honesty and authenticity. In the past, my emotions felt too big to manage. Now they feel too distant and hidden to access. I find this much more unsettling. I am working with a therapist and thankfully I have dear friends who avail themselves to me when I need support. Last week I sent out the alert that I needed estrogen rich friends to surround me. The next day I found myself plopped down on a couch sipping coffee and crying with some amazing women. I don't think communal weeping is done enough. It's cathartic and bonding. As is the comfort found in holding a hot beverage.</div>
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I feel weak. Fragile. Slow. The simple tasks of daily life can feel overwhelming. Often shame and guilt creep in to weaken me even more. I am reframing things. I try to avoid saying "all I did was..." and instead say today "I was able to...". I have begun my second semester of graduate school slowly working toward my MSW. Along with the weight of grief, I know I also carry the weight of experience, compassion, and empathy. And I have my beautiful children to thank for that.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-59845962407446184932019-12-26T15:45:00.005-05:002019-12-26T15:45:58.352-05:00December<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Matt and I were able to travel to Belgium and the Netherlands during the first half of the month. In an attempt to busy ourselves on December 5th, we found ourselves over the Atlantic, in exotic Iceland and then in Brussels in the warm embrace of dear friends. I was aware of the hours as the time ticked by, trying to adjust for time changes and remembering the what and the when.</div>
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When we fell in love over twenty-two years ago, we both had a passion for travel. It became a priority for us to explore the world together. And thankfully we were able to share that passion with Waverly and Oliver. Sanfilippo certainly constrained our ability to travel, but it did not squash it. Even though our destinations slowly narrowed and grew closer to home, experiencing different places was a favorite pastime. </div>
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As we began trip planning, it was obvious that I tend to want to revisit special places while Matt wants to make new memories. So we chose two new countries to add to our list. I was apprehensive because when I am in the throes of grief, I feel the need to grasp onto something, to ground myself. I worried that being in unfamiliar places I would flounder. Thankfully we were planning on visiting friends and their presence bolstered me.</div>
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I seek symbols of lament when I travel. It is a way to find comfort in the rich cultural history of grieving. We certainly don't have the rituals or symbols anymore in most households within the United States. Grief is to be done behind closed doors. Within faith communities, there is all too often a quick leap from mourning to hope. I am passionate about rediscovering historical norms in grief.</div>
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It was therefore joyous to see art that depicted death. The painting below by van den Tempel captivated me. Not solely because of the lovely family, but because of the child on the far right. Naked and held close by the mother, this child is dead. Traditionally, children who had died were painted into family portraits, naked to signify their purity in heaven. I love this idea! Not forgotten. Remembered. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsasPkBSuwdxpJTCkBF7tj5UdA9rpMgmwXWnoePAd_QCodByT57RQ-CFuj46Cb8VTjHeV8kSOo5eXZXjd0IjSdKn6JlbpxKmV4Q5bYfjpuNEIj0w3NMPupP5PD96g7GrCp18OAJwUVDw/s1600/7B19E9D8-5A08-4CFD-8DB3-254BF3876471.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsasPkBSuwdxpJTCkBF7tj5UdA9rpMgmwXWnoePAd_QCodByT57RQ-CFuj46Cb8VTjHeV8kSOo5eXZXjd0IjSdKn6JlbpxKmV4Q5bYfjpuNEIj0w3NMPupP5PD96g7GrCp18OAJwUVDw/s320/7B19E9D8-5A08-4CFD-8DB3-254BF3876471.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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A friend told me to see the Madonna of Bruges. So on a rainy night, as we wandered the quaint streets, we found the Church of Our Lady Bruges. We paid a small admission fee and explored the radiated chapels and transept. And then we found her - Michelangelo's Pieta. I was moved to tears. This mother, attempting to hold onto her son who is trying to move away from her grasp. We lit a candle and said a prayer.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6YTwDhRy-XTokge9t46OjmRVLzIESoXl1L36RFDWSJF7lJ-iCRhM0u15YrA3mdIEupw0F6W1Is6J1_az1uJraBeoSlgb-_KsYTWIgashCq6O9TEumKq099NRNQnRvKB-AhtBAwDyALw/s1600/51F786F9-8400-493F-9F47-FEB831D31CAD.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6YTwDhRy-XTokge9t46OjmRVLzIESoXl1L36RFDWSJF7lJ-iCRhM0u15YrA3mdIEupw0F6W1Is6J1_az1uJraBeoSlgb-_KsYTWIgashCq6O9TEumKq099NRNQnRvKB-AhtBAwDyALw/s320/51F786F9-8400-493F-9F47-FEB831D31CAD.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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We arrived home exhausted, but grateful to be back in our home. We bought a tree, so late in the season, we had only a few trees to choose from. Thankfully, we found a lovely fir and our house was soon filled with the scent of pine and the twinkle of lights. Inspired by all of the creativity we experienced on our trip, I decided to make ornaments using dried flowers from Oliver's funeral. They have been hanging in our garage for over a year and I decided it was time to break them down into something beautiful. Each globe is filled with different types of eucalyptus and other greenery, plus a purple thistle. They turned out beautifully. I have been happy to share them with people who stepped into our lives and loved Oliver well.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBILRlYUBtDZasFdbtwqOoWCjuzVjddgzCihx5isBUdMB2npzC5r2UHFLnjrMMWNeAml2cSwdHlRBUULNJhFqM-7MFLQOXftAJZasE5ONzc7WplmJI3ON743lQImnx04YfY-BaJnoTgQ/s1600/1BF72CC5-722F-4FE1-BD6D-326DBE6A342C.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBILRlYUBtDZasFdbtwqOoWCjuzVjddgzCihx5isBUdMB2npzC5r2UHFLnjrMMWNeAml2cSwdHlRBUULNJhFqM-7MFLQOXftAJZasE5ONzc7WplmJI3ON743lQImnx04YfY-BaJnoTgQ/s320/1BF72CC5-722F-4FE1-BD6D-326DBE6A342C.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Christmas is over. We survived. We had friends and family invite us to various celebrations. We stepped back into some traditions and ignored others. We managed. We have two difficult days looming on the calendar. Oliver's birthday is on the thirtieth and the new year is mere days away. Like most people experiencing grief, the new year brings another reminder of time passing away. Our loved ones are another year removed. We have to reach back farther to access photos and memories.</div>
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To my fellow lamenters, I see you. I understand the heartache and the forced smiles. I am thankful for another holiday season where we have been able to see glimpses of joy and hope while holding our sorrow close to our hearts.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-4232469079225195962019-12-03T23:49:00.001-05:002019-12-03T23:49:26.899-05:00Anticipating One Year<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69IAYpBQYpPpa_rKELEtsIp7TZf4INwAAyVYaZvGWr1eHFkmcHHsxPm9pmMeg3JdVajduDN1tMNDmftB-TmxXwJjlaaZhTPopzui7arlqzVpawZgOjVXjHD4hZEkGXKZC_IRClyrf8Q/s1600/9FC9C285-B049-4730-9EE4-837F10AB1FCD.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="927" data-original-width="1600" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69IAYpBQYpPpa_rKELEtsIp7TZf4INwAAyVYaZvGWr1eHFkmcHHsxPm9pmMeg3JdVajduDN1tMNDmftB-TmxXwJjlaaZhTPopzui7arlqzVpawZgOjVXjHD4hZEkGXKZC_IRClyrf8Q/s320/9FC9C285-B049-4730-9EE4-837F10AB1FCD.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I cannot believe we are approaching one year since Oliver's death. It doesn't seem possible. I feel like I need more time between then and now. I have spent many years trying to live in the moment. With the kids, I was holding onto my time with them. And now that they are gone, I am holding onto my grief. I have said before that my grief can, at times, feel like a heavy down comforter. It protects me and the weight allows me to feel the weight of my loss. </div>
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Oliver's death was anything but peaceful. His final few days were riddled with pain and anguish. Matt and I worked with Oliver's nurse to find relief, but nothing we were doing was working. We were making major health decisions on little sleep. Our emotions were frayed, anticipating the loss of our son. And the immense pressure to provide him an easy passing was crushing. On the morning of December 4th, after an especially difficult night of multiple nurse visits, failing pain pumps and frustration, I demanded that Oliver be transferred to the inpatient facility. </div>
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We gathered items to make a sterile room feel like home - twinkle candles, family photos, flowers, favorite blankets. Lotion, fresh clothes, stuffed animals and a book of prayers. As we awaited the ambulance's arrival, we broke down. Rapid fits of sobs and then pulling myself together to be strong. We loaded him onto the gurney and I remember how frail he looked. His pallor. The way his face winced and contorted with every moment. His body temperature was so high and yet my motherly instinct was to cover him and keep him warm.</div>
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Both Matt and I internally worried he would die in the ambulance. What a terrible end to Oliver's story. Thankfully we arrived and were welcomed. An angel of a nurse took over the nursing duties and I could simply be his mom. Heavy-duty pain medications were administered and within a few hours his jaw relaxed, his body stopped tremoring. He was as peaceful as one can be after the throes of anguish.</div>
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I am not ready to share the rest of his story. Our final few hours with him are sacred and I haven't allowed many people in to hear my memories. On December 5th, in the wee hours of the morning, Oliver took his final breath. I can still hear the air passing through his lips one last time. After years of anticipating the moment, I still screamed.</div>
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I have experienced four anniversaries with Waverly. There is no right way to honor the moment. Nothing feels right, because nothing is right. My daughter is dead. And in two days nothing will be right again. My son is dead. Time is distancing me from them. I miss them every day, but the anniversaries are different. They hold more weight, more emotion. What is and then was.</div>
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Please keep Matt and I in your prayers. Light a candle for Oliver on Thursday. Share a memory you have of him. Remember. Because my greatest fear is that Waverly and Oliver will be forgotten.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-84154402814665291432019-11-25T00:09:00.003-05:002019-11-25T00:09:51.141-05:00Signs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiCLpCYNPmnvuLvoEzwqYzSXRYw0uwQMpI6EK7A4sTR8UJWvcugmEEd475j1NwclRuTD_O4316b9BIPpFOphGwrldHXv59o3iId_w7B6JqRkLbekP8w0Fc9pU66FK_Uh1a5YEAKOgtQ/s1600/IMG_1463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiCLpCYNPmnvuLvoEzwqYzSXRYw0uwQMpI6EK7A4sTR8UJWvcugmEEd475j1NwclRuTD_O4316b9BIPpFOphGwrldHXv59o3iId_w7B6JqRkLbekP8w0Fc9pU66FK_Uh1a5YEAKOgtQ/s320/IMG_1463.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>
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One year ago Oliver gave us quite a scare. He was providing us with clear signs that his body was growing tired. Thankfully we had prepared as best we could. Hospice was already a part of his team and our friends were ready to put some plans into action. Matt left work abruptly, knowing he wasn't going back for a while. Even Watson was aware of the shift within our home, although Matilda was puppy oblivious.</div>
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One of the lessons I learned from walking Waverly from birth to death was to spot the signs and respond. We nestled into our home. I had favorite scented candles burning and twinkle lights to create ambiance. Meals were being delivered. People came over to say their goodbyes. </div>
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I obsessively ordered paper towels and toilet paper in bulk, because for some reason it seemed appropriate. Grief, anxiety, and anticipation caused me to do some odd things. </div>
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We took Oliver for a walk on a lovely November afternoon. I have a picture of Waverly in almost the exact same spot weeks before she died. We arranged for friends and our priests to come over in the evening for a final eucharist. It is one of my sweetest memories.</div>
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As the days continue to pass, memories and emotions will intensify. The first anniversary was painful with Waverly. I anticipate the same for Oliver. Revisiting the moments and remembering the feelings are natural for me. It is the way I grieve. Friends are filling in pieces and helping me see more clearly in my fog.</div>
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For eleven days we waited, watched. </div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-40442572535589669342019-11-17T18:49:00.000-05:002019-11-17T18:49:52.168-05:00The Eve of Four Years<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On The Death of The Dying</div>
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Though we need to weep your loss,</div>
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You dwell in that safe place in our hearts</div>
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Where no storm or night or pain can reach you.</div>
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Your love was like the dawn</div>
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Brightening over our lives,</div>
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Awakening beneath the dark</div>
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A further adventure of color.</div>
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The sound of your voice</div>
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Found for us</div>
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A new music</div>
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That brightened everything.</div>
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Whatever you enfolded in your gaze</div>
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Quickened in the joy of its being;</div>
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You placed smiles like flowers</div>
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On the altar of the heart.</div>
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Your mind always sparkled</div>
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With wonder at things.</div>
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Though your days here were brief,</div>
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Your spirit was alive, awake, complete.</div>
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We look toward each other no longer</div>
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From the old distance of our names;</div>
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Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath</div>
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As close to us as we are to ourselves.</div>
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Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,</div>
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We know our soul's gaze is upon your face,</div>
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Smiling back at us from within everything</div>
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To which we bring our best refinement.</div>
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Let us not look for you only in memory,</div>
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Where we would grow lonely without you.</div>
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You would want us to find you in presence,</div>
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Beside us when beauty brightens,</div>
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When kindness glows</div>
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And music echoes eternal tones.</div>
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When orchids brighten the earth,</div>
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Darkest winter has turned to spring;</div>
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Mat this dark grief flower with hope</div>
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to every heart that loves you.</div>
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May you continue to inspire us;</div>
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To enter each day with a generous heart.</div>
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To serve the call of courage and love</div>
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Until we see your beautiful face again</div>
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In that land where there is no more separation,</div>
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Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,</div>
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And where we will never lose you again.</div>
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John O'Donohue</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-43208003771844898112019-11-04T10:23:00.000-05:002019-11-04T10:25:09.788-05:00November Guest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Nats have clinched the World Series title in an epic game 7. Matt and I attended the watch party at Nats Park. It was such fun cheering on our team with 36,000 fellow fans. And the moment they won was more emotional than we thought it would be. We screamed and jumped, elated by the win. We also embraced and held one another for a while, wishing Oliver could be watching the game with us.</span></span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And just like that, October baseball was over and November came rushing in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our church celebrates All Saints Sunday on the first Sunday in November. I love the act of remembering loved ones who have died in the previous year. We submitted a photo of Oliver and awaited his face smiling at us from the chancel. It was a lovely moment to have him there with us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: start;">"My sorrow, when she’s here with me,</span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: start;">Thinks these dark days of autumn rain</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; text-align: start;"><br />Are beautiful as days can be."</span></span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">- Robert Frost - </span></span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am a fan of the days growing shorter. It allows the evenings to feel moody, with candles lit and lamplight casting shadows. I love being in a cozy environment and November delivers. We are entering a busy season for all, but especially for our little family. Birthdays and death anniversaries all happen within these two months. It all feels overwhelming.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My grief feels like a blanket during this time of year. I want to curl up with it, allow its warmth to envelop me. It serves as protection and comfort. It is a friend, a companion.</span></div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-13666551444870800312019-10-22T22:29:00.002-04:002019-10-22T22:29:46.026-04:00Go Nats!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_puKRyOMauzVn_PLNnEzR3x-auilI2hyp8g6V0LOpWdr63jgHXNYvnYPsX6N7GJjYhUng0unihlKjayGm2K1J6Uvds1wf2ORdQqANk63YEbOpJgjSYAmtGeYRxfWQZSwOmw5jckEUEg/s1600/56A4D5B2-D681-4C2B-96F1-66577B8F8752.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_puKRyOMauzVn_PLNnEzR3x-auilI2hyp8g6V0LOpWdr63jgHXNYvnYPsX6N7GJjYhUng0unihlKjayGm2K1J6Uvds1wf2ORdQqANk63YEbOpJgjSYAmtGeYRxfWQZSwOmw5jckEUEg/s320/56A4D5B2-D681-4C2B-96F1-66577B8F8752.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I took this photo at Oliver's last Nats game. It was the end of their 2018 season. Nats games had become a typical Sunday activity for our family. We took the kids to many games over the years, but after Waverly died, we bought a Sunday package. Every Sunday when they were in town, we went. Oliver got to run the bases after the game when he was still walking. Our first year we sat in the sun and quickly learned it was simply too hot for him (and me), so our second year we upgraded to shade seats. We saw the Nats play in spring training on a trip to Disney World. Oliver received a personalized jersey for Christmas. </div>
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Last year we opted to forgo the package and just went when Oliver was having a good day. We didn't know if he was up for as many games. So they became that much more special for us. The Nats provided us with a little bit of normalcy in what always felt abnormal. Nats Park is fully accessible, with lots of seating options for fans with mobility issues. Oliver was handed batting practice balls from ushers and free cotton candy in the later innings. </div>
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When he was younger, he used to love watching any sport. He slept with a football for almost his entire life. He always had good hand-eye coordination. And we have a video of him learning to kick a ball when he was two years old. As he grew up and Sanfilippo took a greater hold on his mind and body, we never quite knew how much he understood the game. However, he was always calm when we were at the park. The roar of the crowd didn't seem to bother him. We sometimes had to pull out the iPad so he could enjoy some Mickey Mouse, but for the most part, he simply enjoyed the day out.</div>
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Our Nats are playing remarkably well this year. I am watching them right now in game one of the World Series. Matt and I have been devoted fans this season. And watching them get to this stage has been amazing. They are a remarkable team. In my magical thinking, I like to think they are doing this for Oliver. Like this is all a cosmic wink from our boy.</div>
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Whatever you are doing, Oliver, keep it up. Your Dad and I are loving cheering for our team. Your jersey is hanging in your room. Your hat is hanging on your bedpost. Your birthday baseball decorations are still on your bedroom walls. We often have one of your baseballs in our hands for good luck.</div>
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Go Nats! Thanks for making this year a little bit magical for us.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-57745036838766836552019-10-09T18:03:00.002-04:002019-10-09T18:03:27.005-04:00October<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I haven't written in about a month because I simply don't have a lot to say. We just crossed the ten-month mark and December 5th is rapidly approaching. The season has finally changed and the autumnal weather brings with it memories. The caws of the crows, the sounds of the crunching leaves, and the smell of vanilla birch candles all take me back to this time last year. I remember wanting to create a cozy space for our family because my soul was telling me Oliver's time on earth was quickly coming to its end.</div>
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I have found myself forgetting he is dead. Twice I have popped my head into the family room thinking I would see him stretched out on the chaise. And I am calling the dogs "Ollie" or "Chumbley" once again. His absence feels pronounced. I was lulled into a new normal for a short time, never forgetting him, but growing accustomed to my routine without him. It hurts. I hurt.</div>
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I met someone new a few weeks ago. In my always awkward way, I dropped the facts of my life. I have two children who died. She is older than me and wanted to know more, I shared. And within a few minutes, she shared that she too had lost a daughter many years ago. I asked for the little girl's name and I could see she hadn't spoken her name in quite a long time. We chatted and I asked questions, knowing that talking about loss does not make it worse. It allows us to remember a beautiful part of who we are. What a gift to share this moment with another grieving mother.</div>
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I have spent time speaking with my therapist about Oliver's final days. There was so much trauma and pain associated with his death. It has taken me almost ten months to even speak about my memories of those days. Releasing my avoidance to enter into that pain has been crucial to lessening anxiety. Taking some of the power away from the trauma has allowed me to focus on other less jarring moments of his last moments.</div>
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Oliver is missed. Waverly is missed. I miss all that was about our lives together. I miss who I was able to be with them. No buts or howevers. No pretty bow to tie up the story. Just a gaping hole in their absence and an abundance of memories.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-77983827562745961422019-09-13T12:00:00.001-04:002019-09-13T12:00:27.324-04:00Great Gifts, Great Gaps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I started graduate school a few weeks ago. Ever since I completed undergrad, I knew I wanted to return to school to further my education. However, it took me decades to decide what I wanted to pursue. As I looked back over my life experiences and thought about my dreams, I realized getting a Masters of Social Work would open doors for me to pursue giving purpose to my pain.</div>
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I applied and was accepted as a part-time student. I am starting off slowly with only two classes so I can acclimate to being back in an educational setting again after many years. </div>
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I have certainly had a bumpy start. My first day of class was also the first day back for our local school district. As I commuted downtown, my Instagram and Facebook feeds were filled with back to school photos. I became emotional thinking about what would have been the start of Waverly's sophomore year of high school and Oliver entering seventh grade. </div>
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After 5 hours of class, I was exhausted by the interpersonal heavy lifting I had to do. In both of my classes, we were asked to share our motivation for beginning the program. I decided to just put my story out there and shared that I had lost two children. It was kindly received by classmates and professors, but it required such emotional vulnerability.</div>
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I also left the campus that day feeling a sense of guilt. I was only there because my children died, allowing me the time to commit to my education. I left feeling stupid. My cloudy grief-stricken brain was foggy and slow, making it impossible for me to succeed. I left exhausted, not used to that much social contact. I also left knowing that I was given an incredible gift of time to think and learn. What a privilege to be able to study and increase my knowledge!</div>
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A very wise friend said that students bring great gifts and great gaps in the classroom. As I sat in class on Monday, I kept repeating that phrase. I have wisdom to share. And I have much to learn from my fellow students and professors.</div>
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Waverly and Oliver are my motivation and inspiration. Without them, I am not sure I would have landed in Social Work. I hope to use my experiences to be an advocate for the disability community. I hope to bring attention to palliative care and hospice, highlighting the incredible work they do for the sick and dying. I have a long road ahead of me, but Wavey and Ollie are lighting my way.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815816737713723168.post-69880130507692175552019-08-21T13:35:00.001-04:002019-08-21T13:35:04.107-04:00Visting Sacred Spaces<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEhpEt-d0x_8SVHO_YV_mdXBfu8Pfpe-IgK5pNwpHfk7MXOiT8bOR2OMVYVWFy5XffxLEoXwzYnjfFUbCZOti3yyDpsRICLSJcDiPfPzbUyJ8pe2URCYW1MCp4EfmadOA-s1bhdB1Vg/s1600/AC557B35-6CFD-49A5-84FD-779195915CBF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEhpEt-d0x_8SVHO_YV_mdXBfu8Pfpe-IgK5pNwpHfk7MXOiT8bOR2OMVYVWFy5XffxLEoXwzYnjfFUbCZOti3yyDpsRICLSJcDiPfPzbUyJ8pe2URCYW1MCp4EfmadOA-s1bhdB1Vg/s320/AC557B35-6CFD-49A5-84FD-779195915CBF.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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As I have mentioned in former blog posts, I have been struggling to return to Oliver's final days. They are dominated by such suffering and pain. And my own feelings of failure as his mother and advocate. When I write the word "failure" it is not my attempt to manipulate all of you to console me with words of encouragement. It is an accurate word which describes my perception.</div>
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I am learning that some people who have to make life and death choices struggle with guilt. It is normal and needs to be acknowledged. Intellectually, I know that I did everything possible to keep Oliver comfortable in his final weeks. However all I did was not enough. His ending was not like Waverly's. And because of that, I have been resisting revisiting those precious moments in time.</div>
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I meet with a grief therapist regularly and we have been working on getting past the mental block and remembering. Each time a memory would flash before my eyes, a panic attack would ensue. I have been writing Oliver's death story as a way to frame my memories. People who were by our side in those final days have also been contributing their own thoughts and memories, so I can fill in gaps.</div>
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One of the things Matt and I have been wanting to do since Oliver died was to return to the Adler Center. As incomprehensible as it sounds, returning to the space where Oliver died felt like a necessary step in my grief journey. When we entered those doors on the early afternoon of Tuesday December 4th, I had no idea what the next few moments held. But I knew that I would not be leaving with my son. As the EMTs pushed Oliver's gurney into room 106, a team of staff surrounded him. I backed up and allowed these strangers to encircle my boy. I spoke with the doctor about our concerns - Oliver was in pain and in our opinion under medicated. He agreed and promised to remedy the situation.</div>
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Over the next few hours, Oliver's angel of a nurse brought comfort to our entire family. She was gentle, knowing that each touch to Oliver's body solicited a wincing response. She worked diligently to bring his 106 degree fever down. She repositioned his fragile body. She spoke sweetly. She put a hand on our backs as we wept over our beautiful son. Within a few hours of her care, Oliver relaxed and finally looked peaceful.</div>
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I remember our nurse leaving her shift around 11:00 pm. Oliver's breathing had changed and we all knew he had mere hours left. I remember her goodbye. Her arms around us. She knew. We knew. We would not be there when she returned later the next morning.</div>
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Yet as she departed her shift, she did her job so beautifully. Room 106 was now dimly lit, with flickering faux candles, flowers, family pictures. Oliver was comfortable with pillows and stuffed animals surrounded his withering frame. Chaos had turned to calm.</div>
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We visited the Adler Center last night with a bouquet of flowers and a note in hand. We had called ahead to confirm that our special nurse was working and would have a moment to spend with us. We found her and she remembered us. She remembered my Oliver and the joy that brought to my heart was overwhelming. We hugged and tears were shed. We thanked her for taking over in the midst of crisis and allowing Matt and I to just be mommy and daddy.</div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03314523389648527978noreply@blogger.com1