Driving home the other day I noticed a mural that had been painted on the side of a building. It read “SURVIVE”.
Not survived. Not survivor. Just, survive.
That one word resonated in every cell of my body.
In a month where I survived the anniversaries of my daughter’s passing and her birthday, in no way do I feel like a survivor. Instead, I am continuously working on surviving.
Ok, so I know I wrote an entire blog post about how I refused to write about puppies just because it would make people feel better. Buuuuuuut that was before we brought one home. Since adding this beauty to our family there has been a noticeable shift in Jackson’s total body energy. This little pup is filling a hole in Jackson that I hadn’t noticed was there until she arrived.
This is the last photo I ever took of Miss A. Monday marks one year without the bravest, fiercest, strongest human I will ever know. It’s gone by in the blink of an eye and feels like an eternity all at the same time. I hate that the anniversary of my daughter’s passing is a date I now acknowledge. But it is, and you know what? It really fucking sucks.
This week I asked Adelaide’s Nurse A to write a post for me about her unique perspective of Adelaide and, specifically, how they communicated despite Adelaide being nonverbal. Because when you truly know someone, when you take the time to watch and listen, words cease to be necessary. But I’ll let Nurse A explain…
For the last couple years I’ve included my speech from this event as a blog post and even though more people were able to view it live this year than in the past, I believe there is still value in recording it here. Every word of this appeal is true and written from my heart. Thank you for reading and thank you for your support.
This is the face I made when someone would tell me that God only gives special children to special parents. Deep breaths cuz this tight rope is slick. I’m well aware that religion and faith are delicate topics but after years of receiving similarly distraught messages from hurt and confused caregivers I know that there are others out there that need to read this. Welcome to my intention convention.
“Maybe your next post should be about puppies.”
Look, I get it. The last couple blogs have come from a dark place, but here’s the thing, grief can be really f***ing dark. I could write about puppies or something else cute, fluffy and heart-warming, but that would be a false representation of where I am and unfair to all of those walking a similar grief journey. Grief is like playing pin the tail on the donkey but you’re spun around and blindfolded while underwater. You don’t know which way is up, let alone which direction the donkey’s ass is.
Ingredients
Grief resulting from a significant loss
Worldwide pandemic
2 days of basic socialization where grief and pandemic are discussed
At least an hours worth of tears
Pour ingredients into a container that is slightly too small to contain them all
Shake well
Let sit overnight in an overactive brain
Optional garnish: prior night’s used tissues
Best served with anti-depressants in bed
At some point during puberty most of us develop a little voice in the back of our heads whispering salty negative nothings. Ideally, as we get older we learn to ignore that voice, or at least turn down the volume a bit. Then you hold your child for the first time and it all goes to hell. I’m a fairly confident person and was able to tone out my inner negative voice not long after Jackson was born, but with Adelaide, with a special needs child, I’m not certain the second guessing ever goes away.
A rare diagnosis likely doesn’t come with a cure, and often not even a treatment, but it offers a navigational chart of what a future could look like. It comes with warning signs so you can line up the specialists in advance and a community of families battling the same rough waters. So, when you don’t have a diagnosis, sentences like, “I’m sorry mama, it’s NOT cerebral palsy” can be absolutely and bizarrely heartbreaking. Please welcome fellow warrior mama, Colleen Jendreas @keep_going_owen, to the blog…
This week, for the first time in nearly a year, Miguel and I stepped foot inside a hospital. A quick visit to Chicago before our annual family vacation to Lake Michigan provided us an opportunity to visit Rush University Medical Center where Adelaide had received care. During her life, the hospital became a home away from home. So, perhaps, it was no surprise that I felt closer to her within those walls than I had in months.
One step forward, two steps back. Two steps forward, one step back. It’s the medically complex/rare disease dance. Adelaide and I knew it so well we could even anticipate some of the choreography. She was an incredible dance partner even if it wasn’t a dance I would have ever chosen. As the dumpster fire that is 2020 barrels on I find myself doing my own solo routine, which I’ve aptly named: my chicken dance
