Irreverent Eloquence

     It's been so long since I've posted. My fingers are slipping to all the wrong keys and I can't quite get my posture correct sitting at this little desk tonight. I feel quite like a square peg in a round hole here. I've arched my shoulders and stretched my neck, adjusted the lighting and shifted my hands back to home-row. I'm trying, that's the best I can say.      Aksel and I have returned to our hometown after ten years living away. We'd only moved three hours north but it was a lifetime apart from this place, it was our own space. We built a marriage, a family, renovated a house and moved ourselves, settled into a routine that was comfortable if not fully functional. Funny thing about that original move, we'd done it when we were young. We had such stars in our eyes and such big plans. Of course when we began it was a simpler life, a lot less baggage in the way of boxes and emotions and obviously fewer little people in tow.      Sin...

      Last year this day meant so much to me. I launched a week of self-reflection and forced positivity and I started with  Griffin's Shoes , a look at who I was as a newly bereaved mom, Griffin's mom.      This year, a dear friend messaged me to start my day, one who also shares the title of Bereaved Mother, telling me that I was on her mind and wishing me well. To be honest, with so much going on in our lives with four busy little bodies buzzing about, I had forgotten that it was Sunday, May 3rd. I forgot that this was the launch of "Beth Week" again  with its many days to reflect on who I am.      I acknowledged the reminder, though did I appreciate it? More than a year into this loss world, I find days randomly strewn into my calendar that have caught me feeling like Beth the Bereaved. I know I valued the label once, now I'm not certain I'll ask for it on a special day every year.      The history of this...

     I talked to a really good friend today, reviewed our plans for the weekend and discussed how our week has been shaping up. She mentioned that she read last night's post, and before she could tell me her reaction to it, I confessed how frustrated I was that I couldn't push myself harder to get the details on paper. Then I twisted the sentiment, telling her how frustrated I felt that I needed to delve at all, that I had felt compelled to mark the date this way, lamenting. I was irritated that I couldn't have written about my evening with my kids in the here and now instead. She listened patiently and I could hear her giving me the space to get the stream of thought out, all the real emotions and the story of my night that went with it.       It felt better, marginally, to focus on the present and my success with my kids rather than all my failures. I was ambitious last night, after realizing that I had grocery coupons that were expiring and desperately...

         I can't write this post. At least not well. Not the way it needs to be written, with authority and pride, with the heart that it deserves. The first cut was the deepest, was the worst for me.  April is Cesarean Awareness month and with four of them, quite literally, under my belt I should be an old pro and be able to speak comfortably on the subject. Yet I really can't. There is not a single comfortable thought in my mind about this type of birth, this surgery that I have endured and survived so many times.  Maybe you know already, that my first c-section, my second daughter's birth, was a simple one. She was breech and though I disagreed with the plan, she was evicted too early at 34weeks because she was low on fluid and the doctor was worried.  There is so much you should know about how that one cut, the first cut, was not right. I'm certain it was textbook and perfectly executed. But it was all wrong for me.  Ho...

(originally written 4/21/14)             I've never understood the gravesite part of death. Who chooses a plot in a random lot to be buried with strangers and why? In my healthcare directive I have written up what to do with my remains- I'm to be cremated and taken somewhere my family would like to visit. Scatter me in the lake, sprinkle me in the woods, plant me under a new tree to fertilize a tradition. I've wanted to be where my family is or at least somewhere they would like to come to visit me.        Despite this "wanting to be visited" part of my wishes, I've not really been one for cemeteries and gravestones. It seems antiquated and sad and very distant in my life where I've moved from city to city more than twice in the last eight years alone.        When my son died we needed to make decisions about his little body. There is no emergency fund labeled for just such an occasion as 'Death of Our Child,' s...

       I'm fed up. So over this. Ugh. Can you hear it? The juvenile whine, the annoying repetitive nature and immaturity in my voice. I hear it. I'm sick of it too, this attitude that comes with Grief. I have long held the belief that to enjoy the good times in life we need to endure tough times. It seems only logical to me that I could never appreciate the full depth of joy in life if I was born on a sunny day that never turned to gray.        Why then can I not logic my way through this Grief? It should be simple enough to say to myself, endure this difficult time and you will see soon, soon enough, how wonderful again your life will really be. I can say it, sure, plenty of times, coach myself in the mirror even. It doesn't seem to help. I am peevish with my reflection, irritated that I cannot be convinced that there is purpose here, in this loss.        Had we not endured enough? Was there not enough trial in our lives be...

If I could show you how this all feels, days and weeks, months, a year out from the beginning of this strange life, I suppose it might look like a bruise.  I've seen plenty as a mom and a nurse. Assessed cases of road rash and broken bones, surgical incisions and blisters. I've dressed wounds, packed fistulas and watched ulcers heal from the inside out. They are all gory things to me still, bloody and granulated, crusty and scabbed. Even the casted or stitched ones are sad, the pain so acute and necessary.  It's this pain I watch and treat. My little girls trip as they run in the yard, tip over on a bike with training wheels removed. I try to stand still as they pick themselves up, wait it out as they take the first breath and feel the force of the injury. So far, they've been so lucky, nothing broken. I've tried to be the mom that holds back on the band-aids, letting them ask if they are needed while knowing that most of the time, they are not. Most of th...