Forever In My Heart Friday

My daughter died today. My first born. The child that forever changed my life for the better.  At 6:56 pm on Friday, July 17th, 2015, I laid in a hospital bed with my daughter Myesha Raven-Symone, wrapped her in my arms just like the day she was born, said my goodbyes with her sister Chloe, and I gave her back to God. Today marks three years since I endured what would inevitably be the worst day of my life. The fact that three years have gone by already is baffling. Grief has warped my sense of time. My life has changed greatly and with all that I have been through, it is shocking that I have made it this long without her.

There is a hidden misconception that, “all is going to eventually be well”.  NEWSFLASH! That’s not how it works. Looking back, I thought the pain of losing my daughter would ease up in year two.  Was I in for a heart-wrenching surprise!  That second year felt more like a leg sweep and left me feeling at times so empty that I didn’t even know if I was truly alive on some days. I found myself easily staring off in a daze. Following people through the store that looked like her from a distance, like a lunatic. Grief is ugly and plays havoc with our emotions as well as our physical health. I can say I actually felt genuine heart pains at times. Pains that burned in my chest and would take my breath away. A broken heart does exactly what every sappy, sad love song tells us it will, leaving us with a pain that aches in the depths of all that we know. Undeniably, the worst pain anyone will ever have.

When Myesha died, I immediately went into what some would call full-blown shock.  I functioned in a daze for months.  I too had flat lined over and over again, showing little to no emotions.  I cried, but I didn’t sob.  I smiled, but I didn’t laugh.  Exhausted all of the time.  I just wanted to stay in bed with the drapes pulled tight so that not a single ray of light would penetrate the darkness. The same darkness that shadowed the way I was feeling.

As the months rolled on, I began slowly moving out of the fog of everything and facing the hard reality of what had just really happened…

MY DAUGHTER REALLY DID DIE.

Unexpectedly.  Young.  No warning.  Nothing.

I was living the cliche, “Here one day, gone the next”.

I finally stopped kidding myself that she might possibly come walking through that front door. Coming to terms with the fact that she was gone. Accepting the quietness, the emptiness of my house, without her there. All of her photographs still hanging on the walls that are reminders of both her once powerful presence and her now irreversible absence. This was the hard sting slap of reality. This is the new life I am expected to live with without Myesha in it.

So here I am going into year three and I can already feel my grief changing once again.  It has quieted some, but the sadness is still there. A sadness that I have mastered the ability to conceal. I can at least talk now about Myesha without tears flowing like a river down my face. The one thing I have not mastered is how to prevent myself from dazing off into my thoughts around others. This I have found to be more of a challenge because I never know when something might cause a trigger and take me away in those memories. It’s moments like these that I battle with myself the most. Feeling like I deserve the sadness, but not wanting to be alone because of how sad the loneliness makes me feel.

Grief has no expiration date. It never fully goes away. It doesn’t mean we will never be happy again, it just means that we will always have a wound on our hearts. Living with grief is a way of remembering and honoring that person. It is not to be dreaded but embraced. There will always be days that are harder than others. Hell, there are still days I feel like quitting. But there is this tiny voice inside of me, that is not my own, that is not like any I have ever heard before, that reminds me that my life is not over and my journey is not yet finished. What I can take away from all of my experiences at this point is that love has no expiration date.

Mommy loves you Myesha. To the Moon and Back Again. Forever In My Heart Friday. FIMHF

Imagine that you are a safety inspector for newly built roller coasters. Your job is to go out and inspect the rollercoaster for any defects, to make sure the repairs are made properly and then to be one of the 1st passengers to actually ride the roller coaster to make sure is up to quality standards. Obviously, if this is done correctly, nobody is injured or hurt and the rollercoaster passes the inspection and is open to the public. This is very much the role we take as a parent. It’s our job to bring our child into the world and to teach them right from wrong and to make sure that they are prepared as young adults to enter into the world as productive human beings. To inspect the choices they make along the way.  As a parent, we cannot become negligent in this role.  It is our job to consistently and proactively be involved. Let me help you understand where I’m going with all this….

Wednesday was nothing short of an emotional day for me filled with anxiety and tears. I received a phone call and an email notification from my daughter’s public school letting me know that they were going to do a lockdown drill that will be completely unannounced. From what I am aware this is the first time that a drill like this has been done unannounced like this. Not even the staff members are aware that this is a drill. While I understanding the importance that they take these types of precautions and perform such drills, it hurts my heart.

I remember when I was in grade school we did tornado drills. I could always look out the window and see that the sun was shining and I would know that it was “just a drill.” When we did fire drills and we exited the classroom one would instantly assume that it was just a drill if you didn’t smell any smoke for the most part. But with a lockdown drill for a shooter inside of your school, there is no precedent for knowing whether this is a real live lockdown or just a drill. So it crushes me to think that for 10 minutes every staff member and child in that school is scared, anxious, hearts pounding in their chest wondering if they are going to be able to survive.

As a parent, we all have this sense of protectiveness when it comes to our children. We always hope that our children don’t die and that they live long and healthy lives. But as a grieving parent when we lose a child, that sense of awareness is taken to a whole different level. A level that is completely unexplainable to those who have not endured the gut-wrenching heartache. The realization that your children can be taken away from you by death makes life a little bit more difficult. We become overprotective. We can become extremely emotional at the drop of a hat. Today, just the thought of my daughter having that sudden fear that her life was in danger and knowing she would feel instantly sympathetic for her mother at the thought that she would lose another child, it brought tears to my eyes. As a parent, if this type of awareness of what is happening in our society today does not hurt your heart then you are not doing your job to raise your children the proper way. Because I cannot imagine that any parent would ever want their child to have to experience this type of anxiety or fear.

It is time as parents we stand up and do our jobs. Parent’s need to be aware of their child surroundings, the people they hang out with, their friends, where they are at, at all times and what they’re doing. It is our job to be a parent and not a friend.  If we do not have our child’s passwords to every social media account and we are not checking their phones on a regular base, then we are not doing our job.  Screw the “Oh I trust them.  I want them to have some privacy.”  I don’t care how well a parent “THINKS” we know our child or how sure they are that our child will always do the right thing, I can guarantee we are WRONG! Children are still children no matter if they are teenagers or not. At some point, they’re going to mess up because it’s a part of the learning experience and no child is perfect. Every child will make mistakes and every child, even with the most innocent of mistakes will always try to get away with something that they know they should not be doing.

So why is it that we as parents are not doing our part to parent our children and protect not only them, but protect the people around us, the people we love the most, our neighbors, our friends and our community. I would hate to be that parent who gets a phone call and is told that my child, the child that I raised that I thought was good in all manners, just shot up the school because they were pissed off at a friend, or a teacher, or somebody else that hurt their feelings the day before. What kind of disservice are we as parents doing to our children for us not to realize, sense, or see that something is going on in our children’s lives? As parents, we need to be fully aware of their social media accounts and text messages. IT IS OUR RESPONSIBILITY to snoop through their rooms and go through their drawers to make sure they’re not hiding things or keeping secrets.

We are not our children’s friends, we are their parents and it is our job, it is our duty to do just that and to parent them. I ask you today parent’s to please take a few moments to talk to your children. Go through their rooms when they’re not home. It is our house, not theirs, we pay the bills. Take their phones from them when they’re not expecting it and go through every text message and every social media account. Hold them accountable and set that level of expectation so that they are fully aware of what is expected of them.  Screw privacy.  Screw being worried that they will be mad at us.  Respect is worth more at the end of the day and when our children are grown, they will respect the fact that we cared enough to want what is best at all times!!

Baby mine, don’t you cry.

Baby mine, dry your eyes.

Rest your head close to my heart,

Never to part, baby of mine.

Little one, when you play,

Pay no heed what they say.

Cause you’re so special to me,

Sweet as can be, baby of mine.

If they knew all about you,

They’d end up loving you, too.

All those same people who scold you,

What they’d give just for the right to hold you.

From your hair down to your toes,

You’re not much, goodness knows.

But, you’re so precious to me,

Sweet as can be, baby of mine.

This was the lullaby I sang to all of my children as babies.  As they got older not so much, except for Myesha.  She was my child that struggled the most with peers and was often picked on because of her weight.  So this song was the one of choice when she would cry herself to sleep as I sat on the side of her bed and brushed her hair back away from her face with my fingers until she fell asleep.

If only grief were as simple as closing a door or turning off a light switch.  As time passes the emotions never seem to heal that void, that longing to have our child back.  Time does not heal all wounds. I mean who really came up with that line of shit anyways. As a grieving parent our world has now crashed down around us, and no amount of glue will ever put things back together like they once were. Family pictures are dreaded because it’s hard to call it a family picture when a part of our family is missing.  It’s an empty chair that will never be used again at the dinner table.  A spot on the couch that was our child’s favorite that will never seem the same without them in it.  A towel that gets washed that was once their favorite, that now we feel guilty for continuing to use.  Oh yeah, even a towel. All the unexpected triggers that go off like bombs that take us to our knees.

As I try to declutter my life I find it becomes increasingly harder now because I just can’t seem to throw away anything that Myesha made, in fact I can’t throw away anything that was hers now.  Just a few weeks ago I went through a backpack full of her stuff and with the backpack was an old body pillow and a bed pillow.  I shoved each of them to my face as hard as I could to try and find a small glimmer of hope that they would still smell like her.  But they didn’t.  Yet I still couldn’t get rid of them.  A pillow.  An old ass silly pillow.  But THAT pillow was still a pillow that my beautiful baby girl would curl up with every night.  A pillow that probably caught a few of her tears that I missed and heard so many secrets that as parents we are not to find out about.  A pillow that has no purpose anymore except to serve as one more token of reality that my child is gone.

There are times I can feel Myesha’s presence around me.  She shows me signs that she is close and is watching over us. I know she is still with me, but I just wish I could have more.  I’m selfish like that I guess.  I want to hear her voice.  I want to feel her arms wrapped around me and squeezing me tight.  God I want to hear her laugh again and be silly with her. Make jokes that will have us both laughing until our stomachs hurt and we have tears streaming down our faces.  I want to jump in the van and roll down the windows and sing with her.  I want to turn the radio on in the kitchen and cook Sunday breakfast with her.  Dance in the kitchen. I want to brush her hair, her beautiful, thick, soft, curly hair.  All the times I complained about braiding it or flat ironing it, has now left me with such a since of guilty.

I bought watermelon flavored Twizzlers the other day (another trigger) and all I could think about was how if she knew I had some they would quickly disappeared. It’s those little things I took for granted, the little things that eat away at me the most sometimes.

What I wouldn’t give to have that front door open one more time and hear, “MOM, I’M HOME!!”

Mommy Loves You Myesha

The more time passes I understand that it’s okay to live a life that others don’t understand. Some days are just not as easy as others. As the evening winds down, my thoughts are free to roam and they always seem to find her. As a grieving mother I can tell you I’ve mastered the art of silent crying. I can be sitting right next you and as long as you’re not staring at me, you would never know I was crying. I find I do it often anymore because ugly crying is just exhausting and draws too much unwanted attention. Odd really if you think about it. Tears have no sound, yet always make the most profound statement of emotional heart break and sadness.

And as the sun rises, once again I am able to smile in the morning like I wasn’t crying last night. Mommy loves you Myesha. You are sooo beautiful.

 

 

My first born child, Myesha Raven-Symone Reed. My little miracle that changed my life for the better.  A mother has more than just a physical connection that begins from the moment we feel our child in our womb, there is also an even stronger emotional and spiritual connection.

Some days I sit and reflect on the five years we spent alone, just Myesha and I. The days I spent playing with her, reading to her, the naps we shared, she was my entire world. I knew every feature she had.  From her “fish” shaped birthmark on the right side of her stomach, to the way her once “baby receding hair line” blossomed into a full thick head of curly locks.  I’ll never forget that as a baby whenever she got excited she would rotate her feet and hands in a fashion that always brought laughter and smiles to everyone who saw it.

I know as a parent of a newborn we are supposed to sleep when the baby sleeps, but at times I just couldn’t put her down after she feel asleep.  I couldn’t look away from her.  The simple fact was, I create this wonderful little miracle. She was a part of me.  She needed me and I needed her. Most would not know the countless nights I bounced, hushed and cried myself because Myesha would not stop crying and was unable to sleep because she had colic.  It was nights like these I would second guess my ability as a parent and if I was even cut out for this gig. Her father would even load her in her carseat and drive around for hours in the middle of the night to get her to stop crying and allow me to get some much needed rest.

As she got older not much changed. Most nights I found myself next to her in her toddler bed, unable to leave her alone because she was scared to sleep by herself. She would always say, “Mommy brush my hair”. So I would run my fingers along her head, down the side of her face, watching her slowly fall asleep,” as I sang her favorite songs; “Baby Mine,” “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” or “You Are My Sunshine.”

No matter how old she was though my gazes and stares never stopped.  The small glimpses that would cause me to catch my breath because she seemingly grew overnight.  My biggest fear was loosing her, but not in death.  It was the slow moments in life when your children grow up and slowly slip away into their own independence that scared me. As a parents we begin to see ourselves in them as they grow older. It’s thrilling and frightening all at the same time. Everything she did, the way she would sing, the way she would laugh, it all made me marvel at the gift she was. The gift I created.

What Myesha probably never knew was that even up until the age of 18, I still upon occasion crept into her room and watched her as she slept.  Brushing the stray hairs back so I could see her beautiful face.  Laughing quietly as she often slept on her back with her knees bent, one leg crossed over the other.  How she slept like that I’ll never know.

Year two after the loss of a child is when reality really hits. It seems as though once the fog of the first year lifts, reality hits like a punch right in gut. It knocks the wind out of me and leaves me breathless.  On most days I can deal with her death and hold back the tears, accepting that she’s gone. But as every holiday and every anniversary rolls around it always takes me back to that day. Today, July 17th. That silver lining attitude of “everything happens for a reason” fades quickly and I am still left with hurt and betrayl. I hate that I have to miss her.  I should be able to call or text her to see how she’s doing. Alive and well and making me laugh like she always did.  To be able to see her face to face anytime I want. I will always believe that she deserved so much more from life.

As a grieving parent some days we find ourselves unable to escape that aching pain and overwhelming sadness that comes in waves. It’s such an empty feeling that only those who have experienced a child loss would understand. At times we have to stop our minds from wondering because there because of the fear that we may sink back down into that “dark place”.  Pissed off about the way life has turned out. Pissed off because our child deserved to grow old and pass away peacefully in their sleep after a long life of achievements.  Pissed off because they deserved to celebrate all the milestones of life and us as their mother, would be able to enjoy those moments with them.  Pissed off because damn it, it’s just not fair!  Nothing about death is fair.

These days I find that I can control my emotions for the most part.  I can actually talk about her without breaking into tears.  When a child dies, it’s not something that is ever expected, nor is it ever something that we welcome.  Never do we think, let alone fathom, it could happen to us.  Undeniably though, having your child die is the worst pain you will ever go through, ever!  Mommy loves you Myesha!  FIM<3F

I love being a mother. But now I am the mother of a child that has died and that makes Mother’s Day very hard. It’s a terrible day for those of us who have lost a child. Other days of the year I find I can make it a few hours without thinking about my loss. Other days of the year I can pretend that I am an ordinary person and that life is normal, but not on Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day is that “slap in the face” reality that my oldest child, my first born is gone. I have slowly come to terms that I will never feel complete without her.

This year will be my second Mother’s Day without Myesha. It’s been 667 days since I heard Myesha’s voice from her lips.  667 days since I ran my fingers through her hair and curled up next to her in the hospital bed once last time.  667 days since I laid my head on her chest and took in as many deep breaths as possible because this would be the last time I would smell her scent. 667 days since death became something very real to me. 667 days since the machines slowly flat lined, a squealing sound that will haunt me forever……

As each holiday comes and goes I find myself trying to convince myself that I can make it through the day without crashing. More often than not though I’m exhausted at times from putting on a happy face when my chest is aching from the burden of pushing tears back. Mother’s Day is supposed to be a day of celebration, but it’s hard to celebrate when one of your children is gone. I try convincing myself that this will be just another day, but that’s nothing more than a lie I tell myself as a coping mechanism. The truth is, it still hurts.  It will always hurt.

Understand that it’s not just ‘the day’ that makes it hard. Often it’s the days leading up to and following it that weighs me down. Grief is so unpredictable that it’s scary to make plans for Mother’s Day because I’m not sure how bad my heart will hurt. The anticipation and the let down is very exhausting. The anxiety of being surrounded by people and feeling obligated. I’m not sure if I’ll even feel like being around people. I’m not sure that I will even want to get out of the bed. But maybe, just maybe, being surrounded by people will force me to try and ignore the pain once again and just push through the day.  I really just don’t know. It’s the unknowing, the pressure, that is so overwhelming as the day draws near each passing year.

My love as a mother will never change. I will love Myesha the same on Mother’s Day as I do on any other day.  I will continue to miss her just as much.  I will miss my breakfast in bed that she always made me.  I will miss the way she would rally her sister and brother’s together to make sure the house was cleaned and I didn’t have to lift a finger.  I will treasure all the Mother’s Days gifts that I have found recently from when she was just a little girl in school.  I will pull these memories close to my heart and keep trying my hardest not to forget any of them.  I will tell everyone how thankful I was to be Myesha’s mom for 18 years.  I will continue to hold her close to me even through death.

I am a mother.  My grief is real….

Mommy LOVES YOU Myesha Raven-Symone Reed

***A mother is always a mother. If you know a mother whose child has died, at any age, please acknowledge her motherhood as well as her pain. The greatest gift for a bereaved mother on Mother’s Day can be the simple, but hugely powerful, recognition of her motherhood. Even though our children have died, we are still mothers—to all of our children. The simple act of recognition allows a bereaved mother the validation she so often seeks and sadly so often finds missing. A hug and a “Happy Mother’s Day,” even if that seems improbable, could mean more than anyone could imagine. Talk about her child. Use her child’s name in conversation, no matter how brief. Many bereaved parents long to hear other people speak their child’s name after he or she has died. Many non-bereaved people assume that if they mention the child, this will somehow “open the wound” or “remind” us of the loss. You can trust that we are already thinking about our children and that the wound is ever-present. Our children are never, ever far from our hearts and minds.  One of the greatest fears for a bereaved parent is that no one, except for us, will remember our children. If you have a special memory of a child, send a card with a story of that memory enclosed. It will likely be a cherished treasure. Even a card simply wishing a mother a happy and peaceful day is a gesture that is greatly appreciated.

Each of us has moments in our life that demand every ounce of courage and strength we have, and then some. Most of us glide through life under the assumption that everything’s going to be just fine.  And we work hard to make it so.  But for some of us, inevitably something in life happens that changes everything. Plans have suddenly been derailed. As the world around us comes to a screeching halt, life continues on with or without us.

With that comes that time of year when most try to enjoy the warmer weather and start “spring cleaning”. Well, let me confess I have grown to dread it. So I just stopped doing it. Avoiding it. Dust is now my friend. Why?  Because every old toy, blanket, bike, clothes, etc., that belonged to Myesha is nothing more than a reminder of a moment in time, that I realize now, I took for granted and will never get back.  Never.  It brings me to tears with every piece of baby clothes, every hand made gifts she made me in school, the handwriting of hers on her papers, as I’m left grasping to hold on to EVERYTHING because it’s all that’s left.  Just stuff. Stuff that no one else is even going to want when I’m gone except for her brother and sister. It truly turns one into what some would refer to as a “horder”.  A horder with only gut wrenching memories of what once was with a child whose life was taken away so suddenly and tragically. In these moments we are a clear observer of an unfiltered experience and our soul is moved to a deep abiding awareness of how things really are.  The suffering and the joy.

As a grieving mother we have every right to act as our instints guide us.  All too often bereaved parents end up trying to fit in to what they feel is expected of them, rather than doing what feels right to the in the days, weeks and months after. All of the superficial noise and static of the world fades away and we have been touched at the very core of our being. Standing in the ashes of our plans, heartsick and face to face with risks, doubts, dangers, and possibilities that lurk in the fine print. As a result we are more aware of the frailty of life.  We become stronger and more sure of ourselves.

When a child dies it goes against every grain in our psyche. It’s not the natural order of things and we know it’s not how the world was meant to be. Life around us doesn’t stop. We find ways to keep going day to day in hopes that for just one day we can wake up and feel “normal”. Feeling guilty for having moments of happiness that seem undeserving because the child we so dearly loved is now gone. That in those moments where the memories don’t bring us to tears, that we can move forward day to day without feeling guilty. Trying to hide our real feelings. We fold our grief into ourselves and make it an integral part of who we are now.

Because we have hit the bottom, we’ve gone to the lowest place you can go. If we are lucky we might still find something solid beneath our feet so that we eventually can find a way to climb out again. They say there is a reason that our lives are fated the way they are. But that doesn’t make those grieving feel any better. The truth about survival is far more empowering and positive than is generally understood. So at my funeral don’t cry, there’s a part of me that’s been dead for a long time. Instead, celebrate in the remembrance of how I hopefully took my grief, what’s left of my life, and continued to find a way to inspire those around me, in some small way…..

For the most part of my life I lived under the assumption that life was essentially fair. I think the majority of us operate under this same principal, whether we know it or not. It’s engrained in our minds from a young age that if we work hard, get good grades, that we will attain our dreams. If we have children, they will out live us and grow up to be upstanding adults.  That we will be grandparents and spoil our grandchildren rotten and then send them back with their parents with smile on our face.

Then something happens.  A husband betrays us. A wife walks out the door and doesn’t come back. A child gets strung out on drugs. We get fired from our dream job. A best friend turns their back on us. These moments we come face to face with the reality that life is not fair, period.

Up until Myesha’s death I was living under the assumption that my children would always be protected.  That nothing bad would ever happen to them.  I would do whatever it took to be that “great mom”, who did homework with them, made them dinner, read them bedtime stories, that Girl Scout leader, that “soccer mom”, all so my children would have a better life and more opportunities than I did. It’s as if I was trying to strike a deal with life, and life be essentially fair, would honor that deal. On July 17th, 2015, I learned that there are no deals.

It’s those chapter’s of our lives when we will find one of those tiny little asterisk’s.  Those tiny, little disclosures no one can ever squint hard enough to actually be able to read and so we choose not to. Assuming it’s probably not really that important or that whatever it says probably doesn’t apply to us anyway. But when we get to the finale, we realize that it did matter and then we are left feeling pissed off and deceived.  My daughter’s sudden, painful death, like many things, was unknowable. It was that asterisk that I didn’t realize would ever have this type of impact.  Damn that fine print!

It’s our choice to believe what we wish and render our best guesses about why bad things happen, but every explanation of why this happened was completely unhelpful and unsatisfying to me at this point. The mystery of death was revealed to me that night in that hospital bed when I held her lifeless body in my arms.  Finding the strength to let go of her hand and move to the head of the bed to take out her braids. Braids that probably needed to be taken out several days prior but that was just not a priority.  Unknowing.  Blinded at the thought that MY DAUGHTER was really going to die!!

Feeling her oil softened, curly strands of hair between my fingers for the very last time and I brushed her hair. The silence of that process was deafening. No bickering and complaining like she always did when her braids where taken out.  To not have to stop a few times so she could scratch a scalp that would begin to itch from securely holding those braids for weeks at a time.  Nothing. Silence. Taking my time with each braid.  Being as careful as I could, like she could even feel anything anymore. I’m sure I was in shock.  My daughter, my first born was really gone….Forever.

I still don’t read the asterisk’s.