Tag: emotions

Painful Todays

stephaniemoorewrites

The past month has been painful.

There have been triggers that I can point to that take up mental and emotional space. Which is already limited for me.

But I think a big part of it is: a settling in and a question.

In my mind this is what I’ve allowed myself to think:

Rory has moved on.

My baby girl passed away.

But I’ve expanded my verbiage to include:

My daughter is dead.

Those all mean the same thing. Different words. But words are important to me and I haven’t allowed myself to use that word much.

Died.

Dead.

They’re final.

My daughter will never walk through my door again.

Done. That’s it.

It’s not a new thought! I’ve been living with it for one year, seven months, and nine days.

What I’ve been getting stuck on is this.

How do I live the rest of my life with my daughter being dead?

It feels endless. The pain. The waiting. The getting by. It’s endless.

How do I live a whole life with my boys when I’m broken with pieces missing?

People do it.

Bereaved moms have reached out to me. They’ve survived decades now without one of their children.

I just struggle to understand how I’m going to do it. My ultimate hope of being with her again is death.

That’s what I’m straddling. My life here with the boys is important. I want to be here! But the life I hope to find in Heaven with Rory is equally important. I want to be there!

I have one foot planted firmly here on earth, loving my family. And one foot ready to jump to the other side.

It’s overwhelming.

I’ve been trying to take a step back. To focus on today.

Love today.

Care today.

Hug today.

Give cuddles today.

Spend time today.

Serve today.

I can make it through today.

Then tomorrow I’ll start again.

I’ll put that on repeat.

Though, I’m broken and not the mom or wife or woman I once was, I love my boys and husband with all I have left.

I can’t foresee the struggle between the two worlds ever changing.

But I’m working to bring a little Heaven to earth.

To include Rory in my work from day to day. To serve and love with her and for her.

Jesus Christ is my Hope.

He lives.

She lives.

With that hope, I’ll make today count.

And tomorrow.

And every day I’m gifted after that.

Mental Side Effects: The Impossible is Always Possible

stephaniemoorewrites

Rory’s death is statistically not great.

Her age.

How she died.

All of it.

It makes everyday feel like anything can happen.

Since her death, I panic a lot. Especially about my family.

When the boys sleep in longer than they usually do, I creep toward their door.

With every step I’m praying.

Please let him be alive.

Please let him be alive.

Please let him be alive.

I can’t breathe again until I see their chests going up and down.

Today, Chiler went outside and was lying on the trampoline.

In my head I kept trying to convince myself.

He’s fine.

He’s just enjoying the outside.

I couldn’t stand it.

I had to go outside and make sure he was okay.

Praying the whole way.

Time Will Tell

stephaniemoorewrites

“All will be well.

You can ask me how,

But only time will tell.”

–Gabe Dixon

A couple of months after Rory passed, I cried to Lance that we needed to have another baby.

Not that any child could replace Rory. She’s irreplaceable. One of a kind.

But I couldn’t see happiness in the future.

I wasn’t ready to stop being a mom to a young child. I wasn’t ready to not have a baby anymore.

My baby is gone. She’s gone.

And babies are hope. I mean, they’re a lot of work! But they encompass love, innocence, joy, and progression. Hope.

I’m not announcing anything here. There’s no baby in my belly.

As Lance and I talked about it, prayed about it, and talked to the boys, it felt okay.

It felt like having a baby is a righteous desire for us.

But it also felt like it wasn’t the only way we could go. There are other things that Lance and I could do in our future. That it wasn’t going to be as bleak as it felt.

I got the feeling that we’d be able to love and care for people. That my mothering wasn’t going to end as the boys left the house.

I have no idea what our future holds. It’s not something I allow myself to think about often. I still struggle to see joy in my future.

But somehow.

All will be well.

Only time will tell.

And Then They Sang

stephaniemoorewrites

This memory keeps coming back to me. Usually it means I need to share it.

The night that Rory passed away, Lance and I gathered our boys and went to my parent’s house.

There were a lot of people at the house. In the family room and in the front yard.

A lot of hugs.

A lot of questions.

A lot of disbelief.

A lot of sorrow.

A lot of falling tears.

In the middle of this tragedy, the three boys started to sing a children’s song from our church.

Their voices broke through the sorrow.

Their voices united them in their brotherhood. In their fear. In their strength.

As I was just trying to process what had happened. They were already searching for peace. In the best way they knew how. Music.

These are the words they sang that night:

Heavenly Father, are you really there?
And do you hear and answer ev’ry child’s prayer?
Some say that heaven is far away,
But I feel it close around me as I pray.
Heavenly Father, I remember now
Something that Jesus told disciples long ago:
“Suffer the children to come to me.”
Father, in prayer I’m coming now to thee.

Pray, he is there;
Speak, he is list’ning.
You are his child;
His love now surrounds you.
He hears your prayer;
He loves the children.
Of such is the kingdom, the kingdom of heav’n.

My boys face pain. Everyday.

The life they are living is different now. It’s harder. They carry a burden they can’t quite process and don’t fully understand.

I think back to that moment and tears instantly begin to fall.

They are light.

They are love.

These boys are my hope.

Mental Side Effects

stephaniemoorewrites

When Rory died, I feel like I was changed at the molecular level. That down to my cells, I would never be the same.

I’m not the same, but most of my cells probably are.

I’ve had quite a few mental side effects from the trauma of That Night.

One of them dealt with counting.

Since I was young, when my brain felt overwhelmed or when I was bored I would count things around me. It enabled me to focus in and make sense of my surroundings.

After Rory died, when I would start counting, I would be transported back to That Night. Counting the chest compressions.

What was once a coping mechanism was now a trigger.

I expressed this to our grief counselor. He gave me an exercise to help retrain my brain.

Every time I started counting compressions, I needed to replace the thought with something positive involving Rory.

I counted freckles.

I pictured Rory’s sweet face and would count her precious freckles.

Slowly, I’ve been able to count again. The thought doesn’t alway pop up. It still does sometimes, though.

But then I picture her chubby cheeks and find a small amount of peace.