Tag: loss of a child

Getting Stuck in the “Why” Cycle

stephaniemoorewrites

The last couple of weeks have been hard for me.

They’ve been, “Why Rory” weeks.

Why didn’t Rory have temperature?

Why was she walking around, doing okay-ish until it was too late?

Why did we only get 36 hour from the time any symptoms hit?

Why didn’t we get inspired to do more?

Why were other family members throwing up with her?

Why wasn’t she buckled over in pain?

Why weren’t her symptoms more severe to alert us?

Why is my daughter gone?

Why?

Why?

Why?

I allow myself time to be sad and angry. I allow myself to cry in bed. I allow myself to hit pillows. To scream and shake my fists. Those feelings are real and have to be felt. To do otherwise is just pushing down emotions and that’s not effective for me.

But I don’t allow myself to live in that head space.

It doesn’t bring her back.

It doesn’t change the past.

It doesn’t help me be a better person.

It doesn’t make me a better support for my husband and sons.

In fact, it does the very opposite for the last two. I think if you were to ask Lance, he’d say I’ve been rather irritable the last couple of weeks.

I’ve had trouble fighting my way out of the depths I was in.

But I feel like I’m starting to see lights above the water.

Lots of lights.

Beautiful purple lights.

A New School Year Without Her

stephaniemoorewrites

Rory would be going into 5th Grade this year.

Dax was in 5th Grade when Rory died.

I’ve spent the last week thinking of what she would be doing and what she would be learning.

Factions

Decimals

Writing 5 paragraph essays

Spelling

We’d still be working on her handwriting, I’m sure.

Ugh. I got sad thinking about it.

Then I had a new thought.

Rory, this is what I wish for you this year:

I hope you’re continuing to learn.

I hope you make new friends.

I hope you skip through fields.

I hope you give lots of hugs.

I hope you visit us in important moments and in the everyday.

I hope you feel our love constantly.

Here’s my hope for us:

That we see you and feel you surrounding us.

Love you, baby girl.

Promised Blessings

stephaniemoorewrites

As a family we were reading Romans 8 today.

A verse stuck out to me. Which was already highlighted so must have stuck out to me before.

Verse 18:

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.”

What an amazing promise!

The minutes since Rory’s death have been painful.

The days of missing her feel so long.

The years feel overwhelming.

Decades, unfathomable.

Is all of this worth it? Was Paul right that our sufferings will not even compare to the glory we’ll have in the next life?

That’s the hope.

That’s where faith comes in.

Faith that she still lives.

Faith that she’s happy.

Faith that she’s with Jesus Christ.

Faith that we’ll be together again.

Faith that the second I die Rory will be running into my arms.

I day dream about that moment.

Yearn for it.

I don’t know that there is a greater promised blessing than that for me.

My girl. In my arms. Never to be parted again.

A Special Prize

stephaniemoorewrites

In each of the Rory’s Bags of Love we have a special prize.

Rory needed extra help at school and went to resource everyday. There, she worked with so many amazing teachers.

One of the things Rory absolutely loved was earning prizes for her hard work.

Two weeks before she died, she kept telling me she was working toward getting chocolate ice cream.

The week before she died she came home with this chocolate ice cream eraser.

She carried it around with her. Pretended to eat it, licking her lips after each pretend bite.

She loved this prize!

After she died, I carried that eraser in my pocket for weeks.

I carried joy with me, Rory’s joy.

Our hope is that the kids that get these bags will love their little special prizes as much as Rory did.

Joy, I hope they will feel joy.

So Many Deaths

stephaniemoorewrites

I have a degree in history.

I’ve studied about many wars. Many struggles. Many deaths.

It wasn’t until I started to work at the National Archives and read personal accounts that something became blatantly clear.

These were sons I was reading about.

Daughters.

Fathers.

Mothers.

Sisters.

Brothers.

Uncles.

Aunts.

From that point on as I read about history, it was personal. The people that were dying on the pages meant something to someone else. Probably lots of someone elses.

And since Rory’s death, I’ve taken it one step further.

Their deaths are an empty seat at the table.

At the movie.

In the car.

In the pew at church.

When going on vacation.

Everywhere.

From November 13th, 2017, there will always be someone missing from our family.

I used to feel bad when deaths would occur, now it’s almost debilitating.

These mass shootings.

I can’t even.

So many families.

The sorrow, grief, fear that are taking over their lives.

I hope this isn’t a norm for our future. For my boys’ future.

Something has to change.

Please.

Something has to change.

My heart and love goes out to the victims’ families.

Too many empty seats.