Monday, October 31, 2011

October 2011 Poem

Found this poem on facebook from a mother from my Compassionate Friends group and wanted to share with you all.

Grieving Mothers

I Miss My Child

Don't ask me how im doing, you don't really want to know
you want me to say im doing fine, not let my feelings show
you talk about your children, but you never mention mine
you think thats showing that you care, that i will think thats fine
but my child is still important, i love them just the same
it hurts that you wont talk of them, afraid to say their name
the club that i belong to, it gets bigger everyday
i hope i never see you there, of that i hope and pray
its a group of special people, whose hearts are forever broken
and our pain is only doubled when our angels names are never spoken
we're angel moms and angel dads, and we want you to remember
that we didnt ask to join this club, or ask to be a member
so when you ask that question, and i say that im just fine
give me a hug and say to me "your not, no need to lie"
all we need is understanding, sometimes a shoulder too
if the roles were reversed we'd do the same for you

by Michelle Garner
(a amazing mother)

Sunday, October 2, 2011

My first meeting and a trip to Michigan

On Tuesday October 4th, I will join a group called Compassionate Friends for the first time in Fort Wayne. I am nervous, scared, sad, and happy about going. I am not sure what to expect but I do know from connecting with some of the members on Facebook that seems like the group for me. This is a support group for parents who have lost their children. I am hoping this will help me through my process of grief. I also joined a "private" group on Facebook with other CDH moms who have lost babies. It has been such a blessing. I continue to stay in contact with another mother whom I met during my time in Michigan and she is wonderful. She lost her daughter one week before Aiden passed. Please keep her family in your prayers as they continue to struggle with the passing of their baby girl. I am actually meeting with them this weekend in Michigan. They are having a rememberance day on October 8th and Greg and I will attend. This will be the first time we have been back to Michigan and I am hoping for strength to get through this program.  I have been reading books to help me with the loss of Aiden. I am having a memory chest made for me to put some of Aiden's belongings in to keep in the family room. My mom had his name written in the sand by Christians Beach. It is a couple in Australia who write children's names in the sand during sunset and then sends you the file. It is absolutely breathtaking. I will try to post it.                                                 
I have put together a collage of pictures as a tribute to Aiden on one of our walls in the house. I can't wait until its complete. We have many other pictures of Aiden on our home but this will be "his wall". We received Aiden's urn and it is absolutely beautiful and sits on our mantel. I also received my urn necklace and it is also beautiful and it makes me feel so close to Aiden. My sister's friend is helping me complete a scrapbook of Aiden. I can't wait to see the finished results. We engraved pumpkins this week and made one for Aiden of course. Cole decorated it with happy faces:) Greg, Cole and I have been attending church much more since Aiden has passed and it was especially hard to attend the first time after Aiden passed because church was the last place we saw Aiden because his funeral service was held there. Today at church was even harder because of the messages and a couple sat in front of us with a newborn baby about 3-4 weeks old. Of course he was a boy. Greg and I were heartbroken through the service but glad we were in church and were together to learn on each other. I am getting ready to go back to work in a few weeks and not looking forward to this at all. My work requires me to work with families, children especially babies and this will be so hard on me. I hope I have the strength to make it through each day. I am posting a poem I came across another blog and it touched me so much that I have to conclude with it. Thank you everyone for continuing to support us through our loss of our beautiful angel baby, Aiden.


Normal is having tears waiting behind every smile when you realize someone
important is missing from all the important events in your family's life.

... Normal for me is trying to decide what to take to do for Birthdays
Christmas,New Years, Valentine's Day,and Easter.

Normal is feeling like you know how to act and are more comfortable with a
funeral than a wedding or birthday party...yet feeling a stab of pain in your
heart when you smell the flowers and see the casket.

Normal is feeling like you can't sit another minute without getting up and
screaming, because you just don't like to sit through anything.

Normal is not sleeping very well because a thousand what if's & why didn't I's
go through your head constantly.

Normal is reliving that day continuously through your eyes and mind, holding
your head to make it go away.

Normal is having the TV on the minute I walk into the house to have noise,
because the silence is deafening.

Normal is staring at every child who looks like he is my child's age. And then
thinking of the age he would be now and not being able to imagine it. Then
wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it will never happen.

Normal is every happy event in my life always being backed up with sadness
lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart.

Normal is telling the story of your child's death as if it were an everyday,
commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone's eyes at how awful
it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of my "normal".

Normal is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your
child's memory and his birthday and survive these days. And trying to find the
balloon or flag that fit's the occasion. Happy Birthday? Not really.

Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special my
child loved. Thinking how he would love it, but how he is not here to enjoy it.

Normal is having some people afraid to mention my child.

Normal is making sure that others remember his.

Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives, but
we continue to grieve our loss forever.

Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets
worse sometimes, not better.

Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to this loss,
unless they too have lost a child. NOTHING. Even if your child is in the
remotest part of the earth away from you - it doesn't compare. Losing a parent
is horrible, but having to bury your own child is unnatural.

Normal is taking pills, and trying not to cry all day, because I know my mental
health depends on it.

Normal is realizing I do cry everyday.

Normal is disliking jokes about death or funerals, bodies being referred to as
cadavers, when you know they were once someone's loved one.

Normal is being impatient with everything and everyone, but someone stricken
with grief over the loss of your child.

Normal is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying
together over our children and our new lives.

Normal is not listening to people make excuses for God. "God may have done this
because..." I love God, I know that my child is in heaven, but hearing people
trying to think up excuses as to why healthy children were taken from this earth
is not appreciated and makes absolutely no sense to this grieving mother.

Normal is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did
laundry or if there is any food.

Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have two
children or one, because you will never see this person again and it is not
worth explaining that my child is in heaven. And yet when you say you have one
child to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your

Normal is avoiding McDonald's and Burger King playgrounds because of small,
happy children that break your heart when you see them.

Normal is asking God why he took your child's life instead of yours and asking
if there even is a God.

Normal is knowing I will never get over this loss, in a day or a million years.

And last of all, Normal is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for
you to feel, so that everyone around you will think that you are "normal".†

Thursday, September 29, 2011

My first tatttoo

My first tattoo in rememberance of my son, Aiden James Reed. It hurt badly but it was so worth it. The picture isn't the best but I wanted to show it off. I will try to take a better picture and post later. Thanks:)

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

A poem I love........

What a Grieving Mother Really Thinks

Hello, Old Friend,
Oh, yes, you know
I lost my child a while ago.
No, no please
Don’t look away
And change the subject
It’s ok.
You see, at first I couldn’t feel,
It took so long, but now it’s real.
I hurt so much inside you see
I need to talk,
Come sit with me?
You see, I was numb for so very long,
And people said, “My, she is so strong.”
They did not know I couldn’t feel,
My broken heart made all unreal.
But then one day, as I awoke
I clutched my chest, began to choke,
Such a scream, such a wail,
Broke from me…
My child! My child!
The horror of reality.
But everyone has moved on, you see,
everyone except for me.
Now, when I need friends most of all,
Between us there now stands a wall.
My pain is more than they can bear,
When I mention my child,
I see their blank stare.
“But I thought you were over it,”
Their eyes seem to say,
No, no, I can’t listen to this, not today.
So I smile and pretend, and say, “Oh, I’m ok”.
But inside I am crying, as I turn away.
And so my old friend, I shall paint on a smile,
As I have from the start,
You never knowing all the while,
All I’ve just said to you in my heart.
~Kelly Cummings

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

My Wish List

I borrowed this from a blog that I read who borrowed it from Cherubs literature called “Wish List for Bereaved Parents” I modified some of it with my own words.

1. I wish Aiden hadn't died. I wish I had him back. If there is a way to get him back in my arms, I’ll find it. I don’t really believe he’s gone.
2. I wish you wouldn't be afraid to say “Aiden”. He lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that he was important to you as well.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about Aiden, I wish you knew that it isn't because you have hurt me. I never stop thinking about him, you didn’t remind me he’s gone. His death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
5. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn't shy away from me. I need you more than ever, even if I’m harder then ever to deal with.
6. I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about Aiden and Cole the weather and anything else.
7. I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child's death pains you, too. I wish you would let me know things through a phone call, a card or a note, or a real big hug. I’m so grateful for each and every time someone has reached out to us.
8. I wish you wouldn't expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of Aiden until the day I die.
9. I am working very hard in my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss Aiden, and I will always grieve that he is dead.
10. I wish you wouldn't expect me "not to think about it" or to "be happy". Neither will happen for a very long time.
11. I don't want to have a "pity party," but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal. Sometimes that means I’ll say things I don’t mean or are irrational. Thank you for letting me say them anyway and not taking it personally.
12. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I'm feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
13. When I say, "I'm doing okay," I wish you could understand that I don't feel okay and that I struggle each minute to get through the day. And I hate that my life is just “trying to get through”
14. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I'm having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I'm quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.  Expressing myself, even if you did something to bring out my worst emotions, isn't meant to be an attack on you.
15. Your advice to "take one day at a time" is excellent. I wish you could understand that I'm doing good to handle it at an hour at a time.
16. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When Aiden died, a big part of me died with him. I am not the same person I was before he died, and I will never be that person again.
17. I wish very much that you could understand - understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. But I pray daily that you will never understand.