Forever In My Heart Friday

Forever in My Heart Friday. FIMHF. Week 48. This past week has been nothing short of surreal. I have found myself pushing others away and just trying to get through each day.  I’ve only worked out one time this week, outside of the classes I teach, because I just can’t find my motivation to get out bed right now. It’s almost been a year now and I still find myself asking the same questions over and over again: Why do I still feel so much pain? When am I going to get through this? Why can’t I just find some sense of normalcy? I try to find ways to keep myself busy. But it never really makes the time go by faster; it just makes each day seem more and more meaningless. At my quietest moments I realize I am more lost than I have ever been in my entire life. No one has the right answers anymore. No sense of closure. I pretended like everything is okay because I don’t want to appear weak and vulnerable. I don’t want others to worry about me or cause more pain and anxiety by letting them know I sometimes feel as if I’m in the midst of an extended marathon of emotional breakdowns, consequently building an emotional dungeon around myself. I’m sure that those who are close to me can see my broken heart, as they say it changes us both emotional and physically. What a difficult and frightening journey. This is not only the hardest thing that I’ve ever been through; it is also the hardest thing that I will ever go through. A form of peace, knowing that anything else that’s thrown my way will be nothing compared to what I’ve went through since the day she had that ankle surgery. Or is it??

Myesha had her ankle surgery June 29^th 2015. Through a series of recent events that not very many know about, Chloe will now have to undergo foot surgery June 28^th to remove a growing cyst in between her 3^rd and 4^th metatarsal. Exactly one year later I am now being thrown in the midst of an emotional hurricane that I am not equipped to deal with. As I try to remain calm and strong for the sake of my daughter who has already had multiple anxiety attacks since we got the news from the MRI and saw the surgeon. But I find myself at this point completely numb to it all. An emotional response that I realize is not fair to Chloe, but the only way I can deal with it right now. Again completely unfair. I try to reassure her that everything will be fine. But I myself cannot come to grips with the reality and surrealness of the situation. I get it. I’m not expected to be perfect. My experiences have made me unique. I am more seasoned, complicated, and intricate. These struggles in life are constantly challenging my character. But I just wish God would show a little mercy right now and cut me some slack. So next Tuesday, if anyone remembers, a few prayers our way would be greatly appreciated. Mommy loves You Myesha! FIM <3 F

Forever in My Heart Friday. FIMHF. Week 47. So yesterday, Corban in such a solemn voice tells me, “I wish we could take Myesha’s ashes and put them back together again.” I blankly starred over at him. Words of comfort have run out.  I don’t even know what to say to my children anymore.  All too often I struggle to find a way to comfort myself.  All I can say anymore is, “I miss her too”, and offer them a hug.  There’s nothing more to say.  Nothing more I can do.  I found myself that night picking up her urn and holding her in my arms the way you would hold a baby.  I turned on some music on my phone and just sat there and sang to her, rocking her. It was such an overwhelming desire to just hold her in my arms again.

It is times like these that the world becomes dreamlike, a surreal place where all of your thoughts and feelings become blurred as the concept of time disappears. Imagine yourself on a roller coaster as it slowly takes you to the initial peak, rapidly sending you down the other side. It twists and turns, takes you upside down, and yet, you feel nothing. Everyone around you is screaming, laughing, they have their hands in the air. And there you are. It’s as if you’re in an out of body experience. A feeling of numbness has sub come and disassociation has found a way to consume you. This feeling actually has a name. It’s called Anhedonia.  It’s a common response when a person experiences sudden trauma or anxiety. Anhedonia is the inability to experience pleasure from activities usually found enjoyable, e.g. exercise, hobbies, music, sexual activities or social interactions.  The trouble is it’s difficult to explain feelings of nothingness to people who feel a general something-ness. When you feel nothing, the world seems to make less sense.  You look in the mirror and barely recognize yourself. Experiences and people that once evoked joy and happiness evoke nothing at all. Hand in hand with exhaustion, even day to day activities, including the ones you used to enjoy, seem all to overwhelming or foreign. You alienate and isolate unable to imagine being a “normal” person ever again, filtering through information as you are able, instead of all at once. It’s not even a sense that this is all just a bad dream anymore. You are fully aware that your worst nightmare is now reality. “My child is dead.  She’s never coming back.”

So perhaps this state of numbness is nature’s way of slowing us down to heal, protecting us from the overwhelming emotions. You learn that letting go of how you “should” feel and find people who are willing to accept you for how you do feel makes a big difference. Slowly realizing that grief is a life-long adjustment to be embraced and not feared. Eventually you will begin to once again engage in activities that gave you pleasure in the past and develop new interests. You will begin to see and feel a possibility of hope for a meaningful life ahead.  There is no set time for grief. The loss of your child is the loss of a part of you. Mommy loves you Myesha. FIM<3F

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Forever In My Heart Friday. Week 46. If your best friend died today, what would you do? The shared secrets that will now linger as nothing more than treasured memories. The painful goodbyes etched into Facebook walls. The text messages exchanged come to an end. Seems like yesterday at times that you just talked to them, remember? You just saw them, don’t you recall? How is it they are no longer breathing the same air your stinging lungs are grasping for? But the reality is that it’s been 329 days now. How long is a 329 days? It’s both an incredibly long time and no time at all. When something exciting or awful happens, you’ll immediately want to tell them and hear their reaction to the situation. Then your heart will sink a little, and you’ll have to tell someone else, but someone else just won’t get it, so it’s not worth it. Reality has slapped you in your face and left a sting. You realize things will never be the same. Sobs and hyperventilation create a language only the heartbroken can understand. That’s when you lose yourself. You break down. I am talking can’t-utter-a-single-syllable, barely-able-to-gasp-for-breath, legs-incapable-of-supporting-you, hands-trembling, stomach-aching, eyes-swelling, stage five level of loss. Left with no choice but to feel it. Feel every single solitary fiber of inconceivable misery. You are never going to see them again. Ever. Staring at the face of reality that their voice will never fill the space between your ears. Attempting to remember their eyes. Their smile. Their mannerisms. Their presence. Sadness so great you emotionally cut yourself until you can see the bone of your soul. Unable to save yourself from the anguish.  Nobody else is going to save you either. You are left knowing you have to be your own hero. Talk yourself down from that ledge. Squeeze your pillow tight on the nights that your thoughts seem to burn like a shooting star in the night sky, making that wish that will never come true.

If I could speak to myself one year ago today, I’d have a lot to say. That version would never be able to fathom the loss I was about to experience. And never could I predict the journey I would begin the day my daughter, a best friend to so many died. Myesha was a wonderful friend to so many. As I watch the posts on her Facebook page from her friends, it warms my heart. So I send a heartfelt “Thank You” to each and every one of her friends that reach out to me through text messages and Facebook.  Letting me know she is still with you. That you feel her presence. You all know I was a mother to all of you and that will never change just because your best friend, your sister is gone. The thing about life is that all of us are going to experience great loss, if we have not already. Nothing anyone could have said could have prepared us for this, but I believe I have learned these lessons to help others; whether it is to cope with grief, or how to live life more fully.

Forever in My Heart Friday. Week 45. There used to be a running joke between Myesha and me. One day she came home from school and I was cleaning.  Not just your average, ordinary, tidy up cleaning. But the, clean the base boards, oil the wood, clean the cabinets, etc., type of cleaning.  I don’t remember who died that day, but this type of cleaning used to be my stress reliever. So from that day on, whenever she walked in on me cleaning like “that”, Myesha would sarcastically inquire, “Dang!! So who died today?”  This always made us both just crack up laughing.

Not a day goes by that the surreal feeling releases it’s anchors from the pit of my stomach. That sick, empty feeling that overtakes me and tells me it’s real.  I yearn to often escape into a pretend world where I can find joy again.  That place where I can hear her voice, her laugh, her smile, the dialect of her conversation.

There is no set time for grief. I have found that I have to let go of the concept of how I “should” feel about all of this. Because there is text book, no manual, that could possibly ever be accurate unless it contained only two words in the entire book.  “Just Be”.  Because even on a good day, I’m still doing bad.  Knowing that grief is a lifelong process to be embraced and not feared has helped a lot. I have too since learned and tried to prepare myself emotionally and mentally as important dates and anniversaries roll around and I feel myself “dip”.

Life will never be the same but eventually you get better. For several hours, days, or weeks, you may not feel grief.  Then suddenly you meet someone, or see something, or hear something, and grief resumes.  For me I found a wax hand casting of Myesha’s last night while looking for something. Sitting on my dresser, where it’s been for years, so not to get broken.  But the basket in front of it kept it hidden from clear view and I had forgotten it was even there.  I picked it up. I held her “hand” in mine.  I carefully dusted it off and studied it.  Looking at every finger, the top side of her hand, the palm of her hand.  I could clearly see her nail beds and make out the creases in each finger.  The way her hand was positioned in the casting, I placed it up against my cheek, closed my eyes, and for a few short moments tried to remember what it felt like for her touch me. To feel her hand pressed so endearingly against my face. Last night was a hard night.

I have learned to try and take on my struggles alone as of late. If I could give my grief a new diagnoses, I would diagnose myself with “Prideful Grief”.  It’s where we are too “proud” to ask or accept help.  When asked how we are feeling, we have learned to live behind a facade, masking our feelings and just say “fine”, when reality we are falling apart inside.  We are apt to think “I can do it by myself” not realizing how truly unprepared we are to handle this on our own.  The word “proud” means to hold one’s self high, to turn one’s head.  Those of us who are grieving so often do this to overcompensate for how really low we feel.  We are stubborn about letting anyone know how we feel too.  We shut other’s out, not return phone calls and text messages because we automatically assume that others are probably growing tired of hearing us talk about “it”.  This makes it difficult for others to give us the help and support we so desperately need. But on the same hand, those of us grieving have watched people around us become uncomfortable at times and feel the need to “error on the side of caution” so as not to upset us.  This just leaves us feeling more forgotten. If grief is being complicated by “pride”, the hardest thing to do is reach out to ask for help….

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news.  And you come through.  It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly — that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp”

Mommy love you Myesha FIM <3 F.

Forever In My Heart Friday. FIMHF. Week 44. I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve watched this show over the course of my life, specifically with my best friend Cheryl, over and over and over again in high school and college. In fact, she named her youngest daughter Shelby!  But now, NOW I can’t even fathom the idea to watch it because it’s all so real to me.  The raw emotions Malynne expresses, played by Sally Fields in the video clip, is the exact emotions I felt 44 weeks ago and often what I feel now. I’m talking about white-hot, body-shaking, screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs ANGER. When we are grieving, anger is another indicator of how much we loved the person who died. If you feel anger over your loved one’s death, you owe no one an apology for your grief or your anger. It is human to be angry and underneath your anger is your pain. Anger can be unattractive, there’s no question about it. It’s messy and unpredictable, sometimes loud and violent. And in a world where we like things to make sense, it’s often unacceptable. Being angry is a way of channeling energy, of making some sense of the pain. When you are protesting an unjust loss, you may have every right to be angry. Emotions aren’t always rational and logical. Feelings are neither right or wrong, good or bad. They just are. And for some of us, being angry may be preferable to feeling the underlying hurt and pain of loss. The more you truly feel it, the more it will begin to dissipate and the more you will heal. It is natural to feel deserted and abandoned, but we live in a society that fears anger. Anger is strength and it can be a mainstay, giving temporary structure to the nothingness of loss.

There’s a long list of people I can be angry with. Many times when I’ve grieved I’ve been angry, although I rarely shared those feelings. Anger is like an arrow, holding steady on the curve of the bow string, waiting for a release, it craves a target. There are many reasons to be angry when a loved one dies. You may be angry because the medical professionals did not do their jobs correctly, or the person who died left you alone with a legal mess, or in a bad situation, or committed suicide. Maybe someone is responsible for your loved one’s death through reckless or violent behavior. Then there’s the feeling that maybe God let you down and didn’t answer your prayers. Yes God. Anger at God is as permissible as at any other target. If we give thanks to God for good times, it seems only natural that God would bear the brunt of at least some of our anger.  Anger hunts to locate the author of the death with the hope that somehow our deceased loved one can be retrieved or in worst case scenario some type of justice can be served. Anger erupts when we have lost control. It is an emotional response designed to regain control. It is a defense against accepting one’s own sense of impotence. This helplessness may be the most painful dimension of a beloved ones death. Ultimately, left feeling very alone, ashamed, conflicted in ones grieving.

But you know what. I found for the longest time I didn’t want to talk about it my anger until recently. Maybe because I wanted to be able to talk about it but I was worried about other people’s reactions to what I would often think about. If they knew, would they think I was “crazy”?  Would people begin “treat me differently” because of where my thoughts we at, at times?

Perfect example that I will now openly share. (* Please note I am completely sane and would never, ever in a million years act upon my feelings of anger.), Remember Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation when Clark doesn’t receive his long-awaited Christmas bonus, loses his shit and gives an angry rant about his boss. Here let me take you back… “Hey. If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I’d like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here…with a big ribbon on his head! And I want to look him straight in the eye, and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-assed, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed, sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where’s the Tylenol?”  Yeah that moment. Priceless.  Well that’s how I felt about a certain member of the medial staff that was directly in charge of treating my daughter.  All I could think about over Christmas this past year was this moment right here and that certain person that I am still to the day so angry at. I already had it planned out what I would say to them.  How I would tell them that they have ruined our lives forever.  Yeah, that kind of anger.

But the reality is that anger is healthy. Initially, anger is nothing more than an attempt to ward off a reality which is seen as too devastating to one’s own sense of survival. Consider, too, that anger is not a “requirement” of grief because not every griever will feel its force. Anger is a normal part of grief—a bridge of strength and energy (at a time when there is little of either) across the abyss of loss. The way I see it, as long as you don’t hurt yourself or anyone else, you have my permission to be angry. Embrace that anger: accept it and embrace it. Anger must be expressed or ventilated in order for it to burn out. You’re angry because you love them and want them to stay close to you always. Selfish maybe, but normal and human. Then you can work on channeling your anger into positive action, to keep your loved ones memory alive every day of your life. Mommy Loves You Myesha. FIM <3 F

Forever In My Heart Friday. FIMHF. Week 43. “I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish, I wish tonight.”  If only life was that easy, right?? Reality is there is no star that can grant your truest wish. There will never come a time where I won’t think about whom my daughter would be or what she would be doing if she were here today. I wish people could understand that grief lasts forever because love lasts forever; that the loss of a child is not one finite event, it is a continuous loss that unfolds minute by minute over the course of a lifetime. The truth is that the factors that influence the course of our lives are bigger and more mysterious than what we will ever have any control over. Every missed birthday, holiday, weddings that will never be, grandchildren that should have been but will never be born– an entire generation of people are irrevocably altered forever.  How will I live with this loss? Will I survive this sadness? Will I ever love again? Who am I now? In what manner will I go on? How do I want to spend what’s left of my life? How can I honor my loved one’s life? And death? Is there more? What is the meaning of living? How can I find fulfillment now? Why am I here? Sure, it is unlikely that your loved one would want an avalanche of guilt entombing you with your grief. You have enough rebuilding to do, you had to watch a city crumble. Yet finding that purpose to keep going is a daily struggle at times.

Some days we’re fooled into thinking it has quieted down and will remain that way. And, then we’re hit full force with a tidal wave of tears and anguish and we’re knocked flat from the painful force of grief. The hole in our heart is reopened and we suffer the raw pain of loss all over again. The grief caused by death is not only painful but profoundly disorienting-children are not supposed to die. Thus, we as bereaved parents must deal with the contradictory burden of wanting to be free of this overwhelming pain and yet needing it as a reminder of the child who died. After a child’s death, parents embark on a long, sad journey that can be very frightening and extremely lonely- a journey that never really ends. The hope and desire that healing will come eventually is an intense and persistent one for grieving parents. Grieving parents are “survivors” and each survivor travels this lonely and painful road in a way that only we can map out. In traveling this road, parents often respond differently, learn to live with their grief separately, and express their sadness uniquely. Grieving parents can and often do feel alone, disconnected, and alienated. This is why grief lasts forever. The ripple effect lasts forever. The bleeding never stops. Even when you are surrounded by loving and caring family and friends, you may still feel isolated in your grief. Your loneliness may be accompanied by a physical aching sensation. Your heart may literally hurt and feel as if it is breaking. It’s as if you have lost control of yourself and your emotions. Sometimes you fear you are losing your mind or sinking into a “deep hole.” You may feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness. There is no “moving on,” or “getting over it.” There is no rainbow, no fix, and no solution to my heartache. There is no end to the ways I will grieve and for how long I will grieve. I will grieve for a lifetime. Mommy loves you Myesha! FIM <3 F.

Forever In My Heart Friday. FIMHF. Week 42. IT’S HAPPENING!! PANIC! ANXIETY! BREATHE CRYSTAL…BREATHE!! There are so many emotions building up inside of me this week with the coming of Mother’s Day this Sunday. The oddity of it all is that the day itself is not nearly as overwhelming right now though as the anxiety and sadness which precedes it. The idea of Mother’s Day in our culture is painted as brightly and sentimentally as any Hallmark commercial. Signs appear everywhere telling you to not forget your mother, special brunches are offered at restaurants…the list goes on and on. The anticipation and the letdown can be almost excruciating. The crushing blows of a cruel reminder that yet another holiday that I will have to spend without my daughter. The holiday that celebrates my most important, A MOTHER!

On Tuesday my “Timehop” so kindly reminded me that on May 3^rd, 2 years ago it was Mother’s Day. My kids and I were in Playa Del Carmen having the time of our lives with Sheila, Trin and Emma.  Probably one of the best Mother’s Day’s ever.  Then it hit me.  That’s when I realized that Myesha was the party/event planner of the family.  She planned the holidays, the parties, and the special days.  I could always count on breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day and she made sure that all the chores in the house were done so I didn’t have to lift a finger.  She was the delegator on those days and Chloe, Malakhi and Corban never complained. Breakfast in bed was a given. Who’s going to bring me breakfast in bed now? Ohh, how I remember the first time she brought me breakfast in bed, she must have been about 5 or 6 years old.  I woke up to the smell of burnt toast with grape jelly on a little plate sitting on my stomach in bed.  She was so proud of herself.  And you know what?  It was the best burnt toast with grape jelly a mother could ask for.

When a parent loses a child we have now learned to master the art of pretending that we too are ordinary and that life is normal. At first, we are different because of the bitter raw sadness. We are left to struggle within our brokenness and to find a new way to live. We miss our child who was the very center of our world and we miss the joy of being a complete family. But over time, the sadness moves from our skin into our bones. It becomes less visible, but no less who we are. Without pause or hesitation life does continue on whether we like it or not. There are chores to do and bills to pay; morning comes, again and again. So we pick ourselves up and we live, but we are never the same.

Losing a child doesn’t take away our motherhood but everything about being a mom has changed since. I miss the life I once had. Now I’m on my own path of redefining where I now “fit” now in life.  I often miss my former identity. I miss my purpose in life that I had. But I’ve since come to terms that this purpose that I had set in my own mind was not the purpose God had for me or my family. My grief is slowly changing into wisdom. We who have lost children understand life’s fragility and beauty. We who have lost children understand that so many things just aren’t important. All that is important is those we love. All that is important is each other. Nothing else.

But on Mother’s Day, as on each day of the year, I will think of Myesha, remembering who she was, how she changed my life for the better the day she was born and how she continues to make me a better person in death.  I will honor her life by doing the best I can with what is left of my life.  I will remain in the moment and treasure my memories.  And for this mother, that is enough. And though it may bring tears to my eyes and cause that knot in my chest to tighten, I will smile the biggest smile ever when someone wishes me a “Happy Mother’s Day” and say, “Thank you.” Mommy loves You Myesha! FIM <3 F

Forever in My Heart Friday. FIMHF. Week 40. There is no glue for my broken heart, no elixir for my pain, no going back in time. For as long as I breathe, I will grieve and ache and love my daughter with all my heart and soul. This week proved to be a pivotal one for me as I watched things unfold around me that I couldn’t control, that being the weather. I slowly endured the state of anxiety and panic as Tuesday came and we were under a tornado watch. In the past, I have always been that person that was not afraid of the storms. My grandfather was a storm chaser and the thrill of storms and the possibility of tornados always excited me, as I have seen many in my life. I always took the necessary precautions with supplies in the basement. Kids and I ready to retreat if needed into safety. I have always been one to say that everything is materialistic and as long as I have my children safe with me, everything else could be replaced. You can’t replace the lives of the ones you love. But now my perspective on all of that has been altered drastically. Now all I have left of my daughter, who died, is materialistic items. I cling to those. I cherish each drawing she did in pre-school, her baby book, her school papers that I kept over the years, the pieces of hair I took from her head as I unbraided it in that hospital room after she passed away. That is all I have, memories and materialistic treasures. As the storm clouds moved in I was consumed with unbelievable panic and apprehension. I felt as if I was going crazy, losing control of myself.  Of course I couldn’t tell anyone I felt as if I was going crazy. I’m supposed to be the strong one right? But my situation began to feel hopeless and my thoughts were jumbled.   I rushed around the house and started to rip her pictures down that were framed on the walls.  Grabbing bags and filling them with anything and everything I could find around the house that was hers.  I packed up the curio cabinet filled with her ashes, candles, gifts that people sent, pictures that her brother and sister have made in grief counseling, everything from the funeral, the white dress that was cut in half by the mortician that I wanted her to wear that was sent back, the hospital bag of her belongings that included the clothes she wore last when she was alive, Barney slippers, personal hygiene items, her Zumba jacket that she loved so much, that was all I was left to walk out of that hospital that horrible night without her. These are the items that I keep in my room so that I can on occasion, pull down out of the closet and hold to my face, to press against my nose and breathe her in, to feel her with me.  Items that I keep tightly wrapped in that hospital bag because I fear one day, they will no longer smell like her.  I watched as her brother and sister do the same, filled with the same panic and anxiety as me.  They begin to run around the house in panic and gather up items as well that mean the most to them.  Corban has 2 stuffed animals, both rabbits that he received in grief counselling.  One is “Cuddles Myesha”; the other is “Little Myesha”.  As we all carry bag after bag down to the basement in hopes that if the inevitable strikes we won’t lose what little we have left of Myesha, the materialistic stuff that never would have mattered until now.  But the storms passed.  Or have they?  I have now been confronted in an extremely painful and stressful paradox; faced with a situation in which I must deal both with the grief caused by Myesha’s death and now with the inherent need to continue to hold on to as much of her as possible. Then the next day, to only be recon fronted with the pain of putting everything back in its proper place, my grief likened to a raw open wound. I know that with great care it eventually will heal but there will always be a scar. It often seems as if I’m taking one step forward and two back. Grief has its common and its unique sides.  Like a snowflake or a fingerprint, each person’s grief has characteristics all its own.  I find it’s more helpful to remind myself that I do not have to have a timetable of how I should feel, or when I will get better. All I can do is take one day at a time, or half a day, or one hour at a time is sometimes more realistic. It may take much longer than I would like before my zest in life returns. Undoubtedly there are no rules, no boundaries, and no protocols for grieving.  Mommy loves you Myesha. FIM <3 F.

Forever in My Heart Friday. FIMHF. Week 40. What did I do to deserve this life? Why me?  Thoughts that can’t be avoided when suffering strikes. As a result, I am left to live a life of unanswered questions. Unanswered questions that impact the way we feel about God and his mercy. I constantly search my conscience for some sin in my life that God must be punishing for. The constant questioning of “What is God trying to tell me through all my pain?” It leaves me feeling numb. Questions unanswered that often make me question God’s fairness. If, in fact, God is all-competent and all-powerful, doesn’t that imply God controls every detail of life? Why doesn’t God intercede on a more regular basis to save us from an endless ocean of grief that accompanies events like the death of a child? The Bible says God sometimes chooses to use the worst human suffering imaginable in order to achieve his great purposes, his pre-designed purposes if you will. To change us for our own good. God allows suffering to occur because he is actively involved in bringing redemption through our sufferings. That’s why we must live in faith, trusting that there is significantly more going on in our lives than what we can see. That’s why we must believe and trust that everything that is happening, everything that we are going through at this very moment is all a part of a greater plan. A plan that he has predestined that again will bring us into a state of happiness and joy. Holding onto my faith has been a struggle, but to live without it, is unthinkable.

But because I grieve, and I know deep sorrow, I also know unspeakable joy. I’ve clawed my way from the depth of unimaginable pain and suffering. So when joy does come, it reverberates through every pore of my skin and warms my soul. I feel all of it, and deeply at that.  I grasp on and love inequitably, without regrets. Because there is nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, I take for granted. Living life in this way gives me greater joy than I’ve ever known possible. The joy I experience now is far deeper and more intense than the joy I experienced before my daughter died. Such is the alchemy of grief I guess. I do believe God gives use “signs” if you will as to His greater purpose. But in the mean time I have no other choice but to become accustomed in learning to live in that “state of grace”. That transient encouragement from above that eventually I will discover my true purpose in life. Mommy loves you Myesha. FIM <3 F

Forever in My Heart Friday. FIMHF. Week 39. When I blog about Myesha, it’s not to get sympathy, but to keep her memory alive. When you are able to speak of your child after death it keeps their presence with you from far across the boundaries of the point where life meets death. It is a way to honor them, and a way to honor your own personal feelings. It gives them back a voice in a world hell-bent on forgetting. When you can tell your story and it doesn’t make you cry, you slowly realize you are indeed healing. I wish I could tell you that grief gets easier. That the terrible ache to just see your child one more time will become less with time, but I can’t. All too often you feel empty on the inside, but not in your mind. You simply learn to live with it, walk with it, and carry it. It becomes part of who you now are as a person, a friend, as a mother. I’ve learned that it’s okay to mourn and to be sad, disappointed and even angry. The permanence of losing a child shatters the core of your very being. You learn to accept that it’s okay to feel many different emotions all at the same time. Some of those emotions may even contradict themselves and that’s okay too. There are so many moments when I wish I could bring her down from Heaven and spend the day with her just one more time. One more hug. One more kiss. One more song together. One more chance to say “I love you”. This is what hurts the most. So to make the memories last, I need to hear the stories. The tales of days that forever more will now be nothing more than cherished memories. It’s often hard to sub come to the fact that I will never be able to make more memories together with her like the ones I did when she was alive, therefore, it’s important to make the memories last. Speaking her name, hearing her name, is like music to my ears. But for all the time I did have with Myesha, I am grateful. I would have rather had her as my daughter for 18 years then to never have had her at all. Yes, I say that a lot. Regardless of the sorrow, the sleepless nights, I would rather her be my daughter and I be her mother always. While most women will say there is not greater pain than to bear a child, I say there is no greater pain to lose one to death. I have become someone I never thought I would be. A Grieving Mother. FIM <3 F. Mommy love you Myesha!