Turns Out, Grief is Really Complex

I've entered a new stage of grief, and this one is 100% the most difficult. I hadn't felt it much before now, but here it is.

Guilt.

The day I went in for an emergency ultra sound (Tuesday), the imaging looked fine. The doctor explained she could do an examination but for a few reasons she would prefer not to. I knew I should have told her to do the examination anyway. But I held my tongue because she wasn't worried.

EVEN THOUGH THE ULTRA SOUND TECH SAID SHE THOUGHT SHE SAW A CONTRACTION???

The day I unknowingly went into labor (Thursday) I spent a good amount of time on the phone {gently} arguing with a nurse about how I was feeling. I knew something was wrong. I told her that I knew something was wrong. I told her all of the symptoms I was having that the doctor told me to look for. She shrugged it off and I let her. If I had gone to the hospital right then, Andreas would probably have made it full term.

These memories have entered my nightmares. I'm not cut out for this. And the more I type the more I realize that this is a nasty combination of guilt and anger. Why am I suddenly so angry?

Why did I let this happen? My mama instinct told me and I didn't listen. This is my fault.

Andreas, I'm so sorry. I love you.

I'm Okay

Andreas Mateo Jacquez. Andreas Mateo Jacquez. Andreas Mateo Jacquez. I repeat his name to myself all day long with the fear that if I don’t he will start to slip away. As time moves on, memories fade. It’s only natural. But I never want to forget him. Please. Don’t let me forget how it felt to hold him and kiss his teeny little head. I refuse to forget how he would grasp his tubes and suck on them like a pacifier. I miss rejoicing as we watched him kick his hands and feet to show us that he was feeling good that day. I want to tell the whole world about him, but what do I say? He spent such a short time on Earth and yet he means everything. What can I say that will help others understand? For 12 days he withstood poking, prodding, medication adjustments (surely resulting in headaches and nausea) and isolation. My recovering body could not physically withstand the NICU for long, so my visits were always too short. He was so fragile that no one could hold him. I worry that he felt alone. I can only pray that angels were with him to lift him up and bring him comfort. He was so pure, so innocent- surely he was never left alone.

What am I supposed to say when people ask how I am doing? I know they are asking with a genuine heart, so I want to give a genuine answer. But it’s complicated. Sometimes I notice that people expect me to be feeling better. To be more functional. Usually it doesn’t seem to be in a negative, “Why are you still moping?” kind of way, but in a hopeful, supportive, loving kind of way. The problem is that if you really want a truthful answer, I’m not okay.

On a good day I can spend some time doing a chore or two or three. Maybe talk to a friend or run an errand. Admittedly, making plans with friends is risky because there are days that leaving the house just isn’t possible. Sometimes I push myself to go just to end up in tears at Target. Luckily, when good friends meet good days there is room for some healing. Mario and I have been building a garden together, which has been an outlet for both of us. I am grateful for fresh air and a partner who loves, supports, and grieves with me in his own way.

Many of my days are middle-ground days. On these days the tears flow freely, but only when I am alone. Around others I am skilled at disguising my truth and distracting myself just enough to keep going. Unfortunately, fighting the heartache becomes the most difficult at night. No matter how tired I am, how little sleep I’ve had that week, how many medications I take- I cannot sleep. I think and think and think and think and think for hours. It. Never. Shuts. Off. Help.

More days than I would like to admit are dark days. Can’t stop crying for anything days. Barely enough energy to move from the bed to the couch days. Can’t concentrate for more than 2 minutes at a time days. When it gets really bad, my eyes are forced closed. Suddenly I am back in the NICU reliving holding my baby boy as he takes his last breaths. It feels incredibly real. I can’t get out- and in many ways I don’t want out because I long to be there and hold Andreas again. But something doesn’t feel quite right. I feel trapped- like a prisoner. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t move. My heart races and the room spins. And when my eyes are finally forced open, it takes my mind many moments to adjust to the vision of the actual room that I had entirely forgotten I was in.

When someone asks me how I am doing, how do I explain all of that in one breath? I can’t. Until someone has a better idea I guess I will stick with, “Oh, I’m okay.” But do you know what I am most definitely not? Okay. I am not okay.

Tonight I read a quote from another grieving mother: “Grief feels like homesickness without ever being able to return home.” Even though I know there is a divine plan and I know I will hold Andreas again, the only thing that can cure my everlasting homesickness is to rock my boy in my arms now. I have decided that time will not make this better. Maybe it will become easier to cope and run errands and do homework, but the truth is that Andreas is gone and nothing can bring him back to me in this life.

So This Is Grief

I’m sorry for your loss.

Until recently, I thought those words felt so insincere. Now that I have heard them over and over again I realize that they are more than they seem. Because those that love you, really mean it. Because what else is there to say? Because with a loss so deep, sometimes there are truly no other words.

There is, however, a different five word phrase that has come to mean more to me than I ever could have known: “We will never forget Andreas.” I am terrified that he will disappear. His time on Earth was so short, it’s starting to feel like he was never here. If his own mother feels that way, how quickly might he disappear in others’ memories. But he is loved fiercely. He is a spirit son of God, just as real as you or me or the person that you love most in this life.

Am I a mother? Of course I am. But I hardly feel like a parent. I never heard him cry. Never changed a diaper. Never so much as held him until we knew he was leaving us. In fact, the only parenting decision we got to make for Andreas was whether to attempt resuscitation. And when it came down to it I couldn’t even make the decision, leaving Mario to do it on his own.

Every day I sit in his unfinished nursery to remind myself that he is real. I rock alone where I thought I would rock my sweet boy. I picture myself feeding him, changing his diaper, singing him to sleep, and laying him in his crib. I picture my heart as whole. And those moments are the only time that I feel okay, even for an instant.

There is so much more that we are grieving than I can even put into words. It took us over a year to finally get pregnant with Andreas. He is our miracle. Now we have to wait two more years, they say. What an awfully long time for this crib to sit empty. I don’t know that my mama heart will survive.

Will I ever be okay? Realistically, I know the answer is yes. Right now it feels impossible- like the notion is laughable. Sometimes I wonder if I will wake up from this dream. In the morning I reach for my belly, and it’s a painful reminder that this is real. My energy level is so low that a short trip to the store immobilizes me for the rest of the day and sometimes for the next day too. I grind my teeth so hard that the resulting headache never subsides. The things that used to bring me joy no longer do.

So this is grief. What a dark being you are. You are not my friend. And yet, I can’t let go of you. I fear losing you means losing Andreas more than I already have. So maybe we can try to coexist in harmony. What do you say, worth a shot? No? Okay thanks anyway.

Ed: an [Auto]Biography

I have this voice in my head that I like to call Ed. Ed tells me a lot of things that aren’t true. To put it frankly, Ed is a straight-up bully. It took me awhile to understand that Ed is a part of my life, and coming to understand his role is something that I am still working on every day. Keep reading to find the [abridged] story of how Ed and I came to be.

I became overly aware of my weight and how I looked in third grade. I obsessed over unflattering pictures of my stomach, silently referred to my legs as ‘thunder thighs’, and compared myself to all of the other girls. This led me to do things such as reading nutrition labels (didn't know what calories were yet so I literally looked at grams of fat, lolz), obsessing over the scale, and labeling the foods I was eating as ‘good’ and ‘shameful’ to eat.

Fast forward to high school. I was almost always on some sort of diet. Constantly restricting what I ate as a way to control what I hated the most about myself. When I couldn’t take it much longer, I would snap, and suddenly I was eating anything and everything that I could get my hands on, though very much in secret. I was dying to have control, yet I recognized that food was the one that had control over me. The vicious cycle of dieting and binging ultimately caused me to gain more weight, magnifying the feelings of shame and imperfection that I was already feeling. Restricting food intake and binge eating were methods for me to numb whatever negative or hard-to-face thoughts I was having. I was convinced that if I just lost a certain amount of weight, I could finally be happy with who I was. The problem with dieting was that it never did bring me that happiness. When I lost 5 pounds I wanted it to be 10. When I lost 10 I wanted it to be 20. On top of that, I was embarrassed about the fact that I was insecure, so I worked hard to make sure that no one outside of close family knew about my dieting habits.

Jump forward again to college. BYU is full of talented, smart, beautiful, spiritual, Christ-like, fun, musical, social, hard-working (should I keep going or do you get the point?) people. I compared myself to everyone around me. I set impossible standards of perfection in almost every aspect of my life. When I didn’t meet them, I was a failure. But I kept all of these feelings inside, never telling a soul- not wanting to burden anyone, and not really understanding things for myself. I pushed away those hard-to-deal-with emotions by using the same disordered eating I had experienced in high school, only magnified. This meant eating little to no food, sometimes for days at a time, binging to higher extremes, eating almost every meal in my car for secrecy/embarrassment’s sake, telling white-lies to participate in such behaviors, and eventually purging when I felt my food consumption was unacceptable.

I didn’t recognize that I was participating in such harmful behaviors until a few years into my college experience. My binge eating was at its worst, and as a result, I saw myself as less of a person. I was spiraling into a deep, depressive pit without allowing myself to acknowledge that I needed help. At this time, I came across a blog of a friend of mine about her eating disorder recovery (Living Life to My Fullest). I stayed up into early hours of the morning reading through her experiences, because I couldn't help but notice that I was also reading about myself. Accepting the idea that I might be facing the very same challenges that this friend had once gone through required tearing down a nasty wall of pride. Eventually I made an appointment with a therapist on campus.

Heaven knows where I would be if I hadn’t made that initial appointment. My Eating Disorder, or E.D. as I often like to refer to it, is mean to me to this day. Yes, Ed tells me a variety of cruel things about my body and food. But he also interferes with other aspects of my life as well. He likes to tell me that I’m never a good enough friend, daughter, or (almost) wife. He likes to tell me that my students deserve a better teacher. The stinker even tries to convince me that everyone else would be better off if I just didn't exist. Ultimately, he tells me that anything short of perfection will never be good enough. However, attending therapy has allowed me to recognize Ed’s role in my life and begin a battle of fighting Ed’s logic. I am developing a sense of self-worth that isn’t reliant on what Ed thinks of me. Some days, Ed debilitates me, but most days, I rise above Ed. How liberating it will be when I can finally say that I am free of Ed’s chains.

There are a few things that I would like people to understand about eating disorders. These are some common misconceptions that allowed me to convince myself for so long that an eating disorder couldn’t possibly be me.

First of all, you do not need to look a certain way to have an eating disorder. I used to believe that all people with eating disorders were severely underweight. Not remotely true!

Secondly, behaviors do not need to be exclusive. For example, I have gone through periods when I restrict, binge, and purge all in one day. In my group therapies, we often referred to this as a pendulum; periods of restriction swing to periods of binging. Sometimes the pendulum moves quickly (both behaviors are exhibited in one day), sometimes it moves slowly (months or even years). But it is common for behaviors to adapt and change over time.

And lastly, EATING DISORDERS ARE NOT ABOUT FOOD. This one took me a long time to understand, and I'm still developing an understanding of what that means for me. Simpliscitally speaking, my poor relationship with food and my body tends to stem from a setting impossible, perfectionistic standards for myself and, naturally, failing to meet those standards. I have a hard time viewing my strengths and weaknesses realistically, which can prove to be crippling.

Any questions or concerns, PLEASE feel free to reach out to me. My hope in writing this extremely vulnerable passage is to help someone else find support, the same way I did after reading my friend’s blog.

Iubesc

It has now been over 6 weeks since I stepped on the dreaded airplane to come home from Romania. I expected my experience in Romania to be the hardest thing I had done in this life {at least so far}. I was wrong; coming home proved to be much harder.

How can I just continue to live this ‘normal’ life when I’ve loved children on the other side of the world so deeply. Children that have so little. Children that need to be loved.

Sleep is impossible. When I do sleep, I dream of the little ones. Everyday I selfishly make plans to go back, thinking maybe it will fix that part of me that feels so broken. The logical part in me says, “Brooke what are you doing?” “Brooke, you don’t have the money to do that.” “Brooke you have to finish school.”

When I finally talk myself out of Romania, I start thinking of other areas of the world that could use an extra hand. Other places that have new experiences in store for me, to teach me more about the people in this world and how to love. “Brooke, FINISH SCHOOL.”

Here is what I have discovered over the past several months: the world is huge. The world is full of love, but the world also needs love. And this huge, crazy part of me wants to go everywhere and love.

Just before I left Romania, I had to complete a small assignment that required me to plan out how I would adjust to life in the States. At the time I thought it was just more busy work, but I recently looked back and reread it and it turns out that I needed to hear my own words.

“I can come to love those I serve at home in the same way that I love the children here. My goal is to utilize what I have learned about love in Romania, and use it to bless other’s lives at home.”

People keep telling me that I just need time to heal. I don’t quite think that’s the answer, and I certainly don’t want it to be. Instead, I need to lose myself in loving and serving others. I’m learning that this is a process. It’s so easy when it’s mapped out for me everyday as it was this summer, but now I really have to work for it.

Where do I start? I am so beyond imperfect. I need help. And so I am forced to fall to my knees. I believe that the ability to love comes from my Heavenly Father. I believe that as I plead with Him to know how I can best become His hands, He will provide me with the love necessary to serve.

Romania taught me that love through sacrifice and service is easy. Coming home taught me that it is hard. I’m still learning what exactly that means. I’m still struggling (immensely) to truly understand service and apply it to my daily life. But I do know that love is abundant, and that happiness comes from learning to love and sharing that love.

Quite honestly, I just think I had to write this post to convince myself to stay right where I am. I’ve just got to keep going and trust that I’m exactly where I need to be.

La Revedere Romania

I’m home! This is weird. Naturally I went straight to Chick Fil A from the airport, because waffle fries and crushed ice. I’ve been warned about reverse culture shock, but I was doubtful. I’ve lived in the states for 20 years, how could I possibly just forget after a short 3 months? Well, I’ve already been proven wrong. First, I had to order in English. And then I had to figure out what she meant when she asked if I wanted any sauce (What is sauce? Does it cost extra? What kind of sauce exists here?). It was ridiculous.

I had anticipated leaving Romania to be extremely difficult. I had prepared myself for the worst. Turns out it was harder than what I thought the worst could be. But it was also easy. It went something like this:

I gave each baby a kiss in their crib and told them I loved them. As usual, they each started crying, wanting to be held. So I gave another round of kisses. Surprisingly, this calmed them down (which was a bit of a miracle).

I moved to the older kids eating lunch. We did our usual routine- a kiss (“pup”), a handshake (“salud”), and a high five- three times each. I was about to leave the table but was stopped by one of my favorite little boys, who had just turned 3. He had turned his head in my direction, eyes closed, and lips puckered waiting for a kiss. I hope that picture never fades from my memory.

The last goodbye, with a sweet 4 year old girl, was the hardest. Despite the fact that she didn’t know it was my last day, she wouldn’t let me leave. I gave her a kiss and told her that I had to leave. Ouch. I told each child one more time that I loved them, and then walked out the door. I made the mistake of looking back and saw that little girl watch me walk away, probably assuming she would see me tomorrow. That was when I lost it. It’s hard to comprehend that I probably won’t see them again in this life. I love those children. They taught me that love is enough.

While I was preparing to come to Romania, I had this fear. The fear that my testimony of God’s love would be shaken. The fear of wondering how a God of love could allow so much bad in the world.

And it’s true that often times, these past 3 months, my heart was sad. Sad to see so many children without a family who should have been there to love them most. Sad to see children who are so developmentally behind. Sad to see children sick in the hospital, some even near death, with no one to calm their fears and share their burden.

And even though I did feel sadness, I found a better understanding and developed a stronger testimony of Heavenly Father’s love. I gained an eternal perspective. And having that eternal perspective is what supplied me with so much joy this summer.

It’s beautiful to know that they do have someone to share their burden. They are not alone. They have a Savior, who knows their every pain, every suffering, and every sadness. I believe that through Jesus Christ these children will one day be resurrected and perfected. And I believe that they will be blessed throughout the eternities.

These children, as well as you and I, have a Heavenly Father whose love is greater than I could ever comprehend. I have faith that this God of love will take care of these children in his own way, and in his own time. Without that faith this summer would have been unbearable. But instead it was the happiest I have ever been. I believe that Heavenly Father’s plan is the Plan of Happiness. I believe that because he loves us with the most perfect love, he has prepared a way for us to be happy.

There is just one more thing that I haven’t stressed enough on this blog. I shared this summer with 11 other interns that I absolutely adore. They are some of the strongest, most faithful, and most Christ-like people I have ever met. They continually teach me to love, to work, and to have faith. Together we have shared some of the greatest joys and sorrows. 3 months ago I hardly knew their names, but today we are a family.

Love More: In Memory of Ashleigh Cox

This last picture is the branch president that we have all come to love so much. I wasn't expecting it to be so hard to say goodbye to the branch. We were so welcomed and felt so much love at that branch. The church is true all around the world!

Simple Joys

Yesterday I took a train for the first time. It was exciting for me to say the least.

Guided by a couple good Romanian friends, we took the train a couple of hours out of the city to visit a fortress, Cetatea Neamt.

It was a nice day. Our little train ride took us through the usual hills of Romania. But this time Romania was extra kind, and provided us with some pockets of sunshine.

You see? Those are sunflowers. I wish the picture did them justice. My poor friends on the train had to deal with me every 5 seconds, “Look, more sunflowers!” They brought out the child in me. They made me realize the importance of finding joy in simple things.

I’ve noticed a pattern here in Romania. It’s just so much easier to be happy. I’m sweaty 100% of the time, my feet ache, and there is no cookie dough. Absolutely none. So why am I so much happier?

David O. Mckay said that “Man’s greatest happiness comes from losing himself for the good of others.” I have learned the absolute truth of that statement, and I know that this is where much of my joy comes from (though I realize I have much to work on to accomplish truly losing myself in service). But there is something else.

I came here expecting to serve others. I was here to help and serve and love orphans. It was my job to help them. And I try my best, I really do. But they offer more to me than I could ever offer them. They won’t understand it in this life, but they have changed my heart. I don’t know if I’m making any sense, but what I’m really trying to say is that I think this joy that I keep speaking of stems from love, more than anything else. The love that these beautiful children show me, and the love that I have been able to develop as a result.

I feel it when Smalls gives me one of her slobbery kisses and then collapses into my arms with full trust that I will be there to catch her. I feel it when Darla reaches desperately for my finger to help her walk, and then hugs my legs as tightly as she can. I feel it when Nala falls asleep snuggled into my neck after an obviously long morning of tears and sadness. And I feel it when sweet Danny gives me that split second smile when she sees me coming to pick her up.

I had another experience with joy. Last week I found out that Smalls was going to be fostered. I had grown quite attached to her, so naturally I was so so sad to see her leave the orphanage. But the amount of joy I feel knowing that she now has a family to take care of her is beyond anything I could ever recall feeling before.

And then there is another joy that I have come to know better throughout my time here in Romania. The joy that can only come from the love of Heavenly Father. I know that he has given me a portion of his love to help me care for these children. And I know that that love provides joy. Seeing and experiencing that kind of love for children so small and with so little has broadened my understanding of the perfect love of God. And that is the most beautiful source of happiness.