The first Christmas after my daughters died, I felt like I
was being torn in two.
After having three healthy boys, we lost our identical twin girls
in the spring and summer of 2011. They were born in May – Fiona, stillborn and
Brigid, twelve weeks too early. Brigid died of an infection in the NICU at the
end of June, just a few days shy of seven weeks old.
There were times that I felt my young boys – who were 5, 3,
and 1 at the time – were the only thing that kept me going. Their hugs and
smiles and laughter are what got me out of bed every day. But at the same time
their demands and neediness, which were normal for children their ages, also
made it very hard to find the time to process what had happened. Sometimes I
just needed to sit and “be.” Be still, be quiet, be crying. But I didn’t have
that opportunity.
Some days, I’d cry all day, but I still had to get things
done – laundry, dishes, groceries, meals. Usually, though, my morning shower
was my crying place, and as soon as they went to bed at night, I’d start
again. Whether it was one hour or ten hours, I’d cry every day. My eyes
were permanently burning and bloodshot and swollen. This was not how I’d
envisioned going into the Christmas season. That year, there were supposed to
be pink things in among the items under the tree. There was supposed to be a
pretty stocking – two, actually - next to the boys’ truck and train ones. That
year, things were supposed to have been so very different.
For the boys, it was just another Christmas. Sure, they knew
that their sisters had died, and they’d grieved their loss. But they had
moved on, as they should have, and were ready to celebrate. And I had to try to
keep up the magic and excitement for them when I really just did not have it in
me. I think that was the hardest thing about that first Christmas: shopping and
decorating and baking and crafts, and trying to put on a happy face for them,
when my heart was utterly broken. If getting through the months after their
death was hard, the Christmas season felt nearly impossible. It was a time when
the boys’ enthusiasm was at a peak and the loss of my girls felt even more
profound. My heart was torn between my living children and the ones that I’d
lost, and the feelings couldn’t have been more different.
That year, we did no visiting. For me, relationships with
family members were strained after our losses. They weren’t great before,
truthfully, but they couldn’t withstand the incredible strain of the situation.
We were never so needy as we were when our girls were dying and we were trying
to care for our boys while I was on bed rest for months, and the relationships
just did not flow in that direction. It was difficult, but in some ways, it was
actually a relief not to have to go and interact with them. We stayed together
as a family and just soaked up all the time together we could doing simple
things– driving around with hot chocolate to look at lights, baking cookies
from pre-made dough, and ordering an easy Christmas dinner from a local grocery
store that we picked up the day before. There was no schedule. No one was
expecting us anywhere. We did things in our own time and only when and if we felt
up to it. I really never knew which day was going to be the one that I cried
nonstop from morning to night. The one that sideswiped me and left me unfocused
and struggling just to put one foot in front of the other.
So if you find yourself facing family gatherings for your
first Christmas, even if you have really supportive family members, you might
want to just ask people from the start not to have any expectations of
you. Please find someone else to make the pies. Ask another person to coordinate
the cookie exchange. Just try to release yourself from any responsibilities so
that you can take each day as it comes. And sure, you might feel up for baking
or going out one day, but give yourself the freedom to see how you feel first.
To incorporate our girls into the season, I bought two
beautiful angel ornaments and wrote their names on them.
It was special to me that they were pretty, and it was
special that their names were on them so that we thought of our beautiful girls
every time we saw them. I think anything that has their names on it is a
treasure - ornaments or jewelry or a little picture - if you can find a way to
incorporate their names into your every day, it means so much. I felt like they
were – and are – still a part of our family’s Christmas because their angels
are on our tree. For some reason, though, I couldn’t bring myself to include
their names on our Christmas card. I just wasn’t there in my heart. I’m still
not, and that’s okay. Do whatever feels right to you in those cases.
There is no right or wrong way.
This is the third Christmas since our girls died.
Since then, I have been writing about life after our loss and making memorial
sketches for other families who have lost a baby at
Little Winged Ones. I find
writing out my thoughts and experiences and helping others who have lost their
babies to be very healing, but I still feel a bit melancholy around the
holidays. I still struggle, especially, with the need to be “on” for my living
children, who are still young and so very happy during what is the most
exciting time of year for them, when there are days that my heart is just
overwhelmed with sadness. But if I can take a little time for myself – to just
have some alone time to process and grieve and cry if I need to – that helps me
to stay focused, when I’m with them, on making it as fun and exciting as it can
be. If you have other children who are looking to you to make this Christmas
fun for them when your heart is broken, don’t worry if it is different this
year. They will understand and adjust – they’re remarkably adaptable. Any
little thing you do with them is special to them, so find simple things to
do.
Not every Christmas will feel as difficult as this first one
does. Be gentle with yourself.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Read Eileen's blog
HERE, find
her Still Standing articles
HERE, and connect with her on Facebook
HERE.
