Hard days and nights

No, not a play on that old Beattles song. Yes, I think they are way cool, but really, I don't want that song stuck in your head for days. What I'm talking about is how hard my days and nights have been lately. Geez, I feel like I've been whining a lot in my blog, and I don't mean to, but I guess I've been taking on too much. Again.

The other day was an anniversary of sorts. I'm a doula in my 'spare time'. For those that don't know what that means, I'm basically a labor and delivery assistant. I've done this for years, for friends and family. I even started to do it professionally. My very first 'official' client was an incredible woman, having her first child. When the big day came, I spent over 20 hours with her, helping her labor. She ended up having a C-section, and the baby didn't make it. It was 'just one of those things'. To have a child not make it, in this day and age of medical technology, was horrific. Even knowing that I wasn't responsible, I still felt that there should have been something that I could have done. This woman trusted me to help her bring her child into the world, and I feel like I failed her.

No, she never blamed me. On the contrary. We became friends. I was at the birth of her second child, an amazingly beautiful daughter. She recently added another daughter to her family. Both of her girls are totally beautiful, and their pictures hold places of honor on my desk. I doubt their momma knows how much I treasure them.

But I take anniversaries hard, as many of you know. My mom's death knocked me for a loop, and it still does. Five years later, and you were akll witness to the mess that was me at Christmas. I get that way on her borthday as well.

Maybe that's why the past few days have been so difficult. I knew the anniversary was coming, I knew it in the back of my head. When I went shopping with my little girl the other day, we got flowers to put on the babies grave. It would have been the baby's birthday. When I saw that headstone, covered with snow, it all came rushing back to me.

I'm not the momma that lost my baby, but that passing still has a very deep impact on my life. I rejoice in their growing and very beautiful family, but I still mourn the child that is gone.

Why share this? Well, it's been on my mind a lot this week. And it was brought even closer to home when a new friend lost a family member. I was reminded again of losing my mom, and how I dealt with it. I was reminded of the loss of that baby, and how they dealt with it.

I talk about my mom every day. Every single day. I tell my kids about her, silly stories of growing up, things she liked, the way she sounded. To my kids, even the ones to young to really remember her, she is more than just someone that died five years ago. She's still "KK", and they talk about her almost as often as I do. We share things about her with each other. Even the younger two have 'memories' of her, that have been given to them by me and the older children.

And my friend that lost her baby? She talks about him to her younger ones too. On each of their birth announcements, the baby that was lost was mentioned as their 'special angel'. Those girls will grow up knowing that there was someone before them, and that person was real, and that person lived, and that person was loved.

What a legacy to my mom. What a legacy to that baby. I am so thankful that a friend told me to talk about my mom to my kids, so they wouldn't forget her. It has kept her alive in my heart and alive in their hearts. I am thankful that I passed that on to my friend that lost her baby, so she can keep that baby alive in the hearts of her other children.

Yes, I think that we have to move on, and to 'get over' a death, to learn to accept it, to learn to grieve. But I do not think there is ever a time when we should be expected to forget a loved one that has left us. I still grieve my mom. I cry sometimes out of the blue, when I see a bright bouquet of daisies (her favorite flower, and my only tattoo), when someone talks about Paris (it was her dream to go there, and she saved all 5 postcards that I sent her from there), when I hear a Conway Twitty song on the radio (she just loved him!). I've learned it's ok to cry. It teaches my children that the feelings of loss take time to heal. But after my tears, I can smile, at the beauty of those daisies, or the memories of her face when I brought her home a small Eifel Tower, or the sound of Conway's gravelly voice on the radio. That's something else my children have learned - smiles come after tears. And that's ok.

Because sometimes you have to go through the rain in order to see the rainbow.

Sometimes, there are hard days and nights. But the morning always follows the darkest night.

Always.