Capture Your Grief

Capture Your Grief

I’ve debated joining in this month’s Capture Your Grief project, a month of “mindful grief, healing, and storytelling”. I found the ‘Writing Your Grief’ course to be overwhelming. I appreciated the prompts and the group’s thoughts and beautiful words but found it really difficult to keep up with. I don’t know if it was too much with the new job, or just too soon. But I’m keeping all the prompts and planning on looking at it again later on.

That said, I think I’m going to attempt some of the CYG prompts.  Some I know I will skip, but ones that are more imaged based, I can probably attempt.  I’ve tried to see the sunrise this weekend, but the cloudy weather kept me inside. The weather channel predicts the sun will come out tomorrow, so I’ll set my alarm.


Nora was our first child. She was extremely wanted and we were so excited to meet her. We had three days with her. I hate that the majority of our time together we spent in such fear and anxiety. I try to hold on to the hours that we were hopeful but it’s hard not to think of that time without thinking of the crash that came with it. I will always remember waking up to a text from M. that I shared with everyone.  There was such hope that day. I don’t know if we will ever be able to be that hopeful again.



It felt like my chest was ripping in two. This one I might come back to at another time. I feel like I’m submerged at times and to start to really describe it might drown me.


This morning I came to my office early, sat on the dock and thought of Nora and all the people I know who have lost a child. The gloominess of the past few days really reminded me of our time in and post-hospital so it was really important to me to see the actual sun when I did this exercise. My intention for the month is to be happier in other’s joy but also not worry about being the “dark fucking cloud” that I fear I am. I thought being in a new office where people didn’t know what happened would be a blessing, but really it just looms over you. Just waiting for the “do you have kids question” or not sharing in my co-workers discussions of baby registries because to explain how I have this knowledge would lead to what I lost as well. Who wants to be the one to tell the pregnant woman that your daughter was born with cancer and died. But don’t worry, it won’t happen to you. I think I just detoured off ‘happy in others joy’.



I have issues with the word lucky. I talk to M. about how lucky we are to have the friends and family that we do, and I stumble every time. So let’s say, we are fortunate? But that brings up a stumbling block as well. I don’t think I will be able to say I am lucky again, but fortunate is getting closer. I don’t know what the exact word is to describe it, that I won’t be able to counter with ‘how fortunate/lucky could we be to lose Nora’ but our support circles are strong.

We live a few hours away from the majority of our family, but most were able to see Nora before we lost her. Some friends were not what I expected, and others stepped up big time. For the most part, my closest friends are still my closest friends. I would say that many have become family. They have seen me at my worst and have come back for more.

We found a grief counselor that specializes in infant loss, and she helped us realize that it is ok to grieve, and it’s ok to be angry and it’s ok to be less sad and less angry. Having a safe space to vent and cry helps. It feels almost more productive than when I cry at home. It also helps that I have M. to go with me.

M. is my strongest circle. In one of our first session, Heather told us to ignore anything we read about divorce after child loss. We are the only people that know what it was like and we are the only people who can truly understand what the other is feeling. The fact that we are seeking counseling together shows how strong our bond is and how high a priority is to us that we do this in a way that we grow together rather than fall apart alone.picture1


I’d secretly like to be less functioning. I’d like to stay in bed with the covers over my head and maybe stay that way for a few months.  Going back to work and getting out of the house was the right thing to do but I wish I didn’t. I know I should be proud of myself for moving forward in any way that I do, but part of me just doesn’t want to. I don’t want to see people or do things. I want to wallow. I don’t know if it’s because I want a physical sign of how much I hurt or how much easier it would be.




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