Thursday, June 10, 2010

Fake It 'Til You Make It

I’ve been thinking a lot the last day or so about appearances. Many times when I sit out in public somewhere, I wonder if people can tell just by looking at me that I recently lost my child. Because I feel like it exudes from my pores. Sometimes when I’m with people other than Ed, I feel like my smile is plastered on my face—my brain, thoughts, and words are on autopilot, but the sadness still just emanates from my person.

I went to the office for the first time yesterday, just for a few hours. I had the weirdest feeling about it. As I sat here contemplating this post, searching myself to try to put my finger on the emotion, I think I’ve figured out that it is guilt. I think one of the (many) reasons I was dreading going back to the office is that it would seem to others like the ultimate act of “moving on,” of returning to normalcy—if Mandy is going back to work, she must be OK. I’ve had a similar concern with Facebook—many times a day, a third-person thought about something I’m doing or thinking pops into my head. In days past, those things would usually end up on my Facebook page. I’m also usually generous with exclamation points when I wish happy birthdays or comment on others’ good news. But since Hudson died, I have not wanted to post my normal chatter on my Facebook status. And I haven’t felt like exclamation points. All this time, I’ve been telling myself that I was worried that my Facebook friends would somehow think I’ve finally “moved on” or that exclamation points just aren’t appropriate for a mother who’s been grieving the death of her child for less than a month.

But I’ve only just this second realized, as I’ve been writing this, that it’s not what other people think that really worries me. I’ve said to Ed several times since Hudson died that I physically feel as though someone is standing on me, stepping right in the middle of my chest. The weight is nearly unbearable. As each day goes on, if I don’t have a good cry, the weight justs get heavier and heavier. When I finally do cry, the weight lets up, at least for a little while. The last few days, that weight hasn’t been the same, or at least, I haven’t noticed it as much. And it scares me. As it turns out, I’m the one, actually, who is worried that I am somehow “moving on” and leaving my grief and my little girl behind. It feels like a betrayal. Rationally, I know that this is totally absurd, but I also know that this is exactly what I’ve been subconsciously concerned about. (And I’ve certainly learned that grief is not rational).

Donna, one of Ed’s dearest old friends from Chapel Hill, spoke at Hudson’s memorial service in North Carolina about “dressing for power.” She suggested we adopt this mantra from the business world as we face a seemingly impossible future. “Fake it 'til you make it,” she said. After the service, she came up to me and gave me the string of beautiful blue beads she was wearing when she spoke (Donna doesn’t know this, but our favorite color for Hudson was blue—Ed always said that, like me, blue was Hudson's best color, too). I have worn those beads on many, many days since then—days when I feel especially vulnerable, like the day we went back to the PICU to pick up the keepsake box with Hudson’s handprints and footprints from the night she died, the day Hudson’s ashes were delivered, the day we saw our grief counselor for the first time, and many others. I wore them to the office yesterday. I call them my “power beads” (thank you, Donna). Wearing them does actually make me feel stronger. But my need to wear them helps me remember, I think, that although I am starting to heal, I’m not “moving on.” The sadness is still overwhelming, but I’m keeping up appearances. “Fake it 'til you make it.” That’s what I’m doing.

22 comments:

  1. I don't know how you move on after all that you have been through. I do know that I think you are returning to life's normal (if that is possible) pattern. Its all part of the healing process. Hudson will forever live in your hearts and minds. She will never be far away from them. But each passing day will change the sadness you will feel. You will never completely recover, but you will learn to live again.

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  2. There is not a soul who knows you or Ed that will ever believe you are "moving on" in the way that guilts you. You will never, ever “move on” from Hudson - - just as you have never moved on from your mother's death. You are moving forward not on.

    Remember the day we spent driving and talking about the loss of your mother and my father? We had not moved on, my dear, just forward.

    I remember telling you how I long to talk about my dad simply to keep his memory alive and so he lives on. You said the same of your mother. And, you will do the same with Hudson.

    You are allowed every feeling in the world right now….but, hear me clearly, don’t you ever feel guilty for trying to live. I love you.

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  3. I don't have any words as adequate as the ones already written for you here-- just all the good thoughts we can muster sent your way.

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  4. From one exclamation point abuser to another on hiatus: Yes, you're moving on. But only into the new world which, in Hudson's physical absence, still includes her spirit and her memory and the hopes and dreams you and Ed had for her. Those will never leave you. In fact they can be, and I'd say are already, motivating you forward. 'Til then, by all means, "Fake it 'til you make it." Thinking of you all every day with love.

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  5. I am learning so much through these posts. I love what Sharon posted..."don't ever feel guilty for trying to live." Letting these feelings and honest emotions out are making me feel empowered. I have always been champion at holding things inside and not minutely knowing how to communicate my true struggles and feelings. Much love and thanks for letting us inside!!! (mega-exlamations) Ginny

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  6. Mandy, when I told my boss at work about what had happened to Hudson, he related a story to me about a man who used to work in the press office at the Capitol. He'd lost his boy and wore a black bowtie every day to work as a sign of his grief. At Hudson's DC memorial, your brother told me of a homeless man in Chapel Hill who says that he's never gotten over the death of his child and simply cannot live a normal life because of it.

    No one could blame you if you were heartbroken, like these men, always and forever. Your loss is so great. As Sharon writes, we -- your friends -- hope that you can move forward eventually, but never on. Your strength has amazed us, but we know that you will always be grieving.

    As some time has passed, I've felt some anger over Hudson's passing -- for the cruelty of it and for taking the joy that you exuded and replacing it with unbearable sorrow.

    On the occasions when I've seen you since Hudson's death, I've felt a bit weird discussing normal things, smiling while conversing. On the one hand, I don't want to deepen your sorrow by dwelling on it. On the other hand, I feel like crying with you, but I would never ever want you to have to comfort me.

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  7. I feel the same as others posting above...and please know that you don't have to fake it around your friends...it is okay to show us how you are feeling and we will be there to comfort both you and Ed. Kirsten

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  8. I know that feeling guilty is part of the process after losing anyone we love. I imagine that it is especially true when the lost one is your child, a person whose entire being was yours to nurture and protect. It feels wrong "to move on" ... like we are abandoning the person we lost. I think "moving on" is a misleading phrase... Of course, we never stop missing loved ones we lose. And we will always cry about them. Rather than "moving on", I think it's more accurately termed learning to live without them and learning to manage our grief so that we can participate in our own lives again. The grief will always be a part of us, just as the joy of their memories will always be a part of us. It is a matter of being able to go about our daily lives, carrying our grief with us rather than having it paralyzing us. I don't think it means our grief is any less. We simply learn to cope and allow ourselves to continue living. It is difficult and takes an enormous amount of strength. But we build up the strength over time -- and with the help of our friends, shedding our tears, talking about it, and engaging in the things in life that we've always done or always wanted to do. You're not abandoning your grief over Hudson. You're just building up a little more muscle to carry around the heaviest of all weights.

    I think I can speak for all of us that love you and care about you when I say that we want you and Ed to be happy again. It will never be the same, this is true. And we are all on that journey with you, believe me. It may take a long, long time and maybe it will be sooner than you expect. But all of us want to see you do "normal" every day things and to enjoy them (or get pissed off at them, whatever the appropriate response). We want to hear you cheering on the Heels and spouting off about dook basketball. We want you to laugh at 40-Year-Old Virgin like it's the first time you've seen it. We want to see you pursue your careers to your utmost satisfaction. And we want you to join the company of your friends and loved ones for dinner or drinks or hiking, etc. and to let your spirits enjoy it to the fullest. And I think that Hudson wants that for her mommy and daddy, too.

    We love you ~~ Lindsay

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  9. C.S. Lewis' "A Grief Observed" is a book that was helpful to my father when he lost his parents, and I have read it also. His description of the physical feeling of grief really strikes a chord with me: "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering of the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing." I know what he means, about the swallowing. Because there really is a physical feeling in your chest, or in your throat. It's amazing how universal that can be (and yet how personal).
    (Did you want all these comments? If not, just tell us to hush.)

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  10. Mandy wow- your sharing of this insight is so particularly courageous it makes me feel intense admiration and at the same time something like protective of you.

    I like what Lindsay said about building muscles. When you work out properly, you have to gradually increase either the weight or repetition in order to build the muscles. You are starting at the opposite end of this process with the MOST weight you can bear and unrelenting repetitions. From this perspective it can only get lighter.

    Also, being OK and having moved on are NOT the same thing!!

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  11. This is a very brave thing you've written. Thank you for processing some of this publicly; it's rare that one has the chance to catch a glimpse of these important parts of being human.

    In my own emotional life, I often deal with what is perhaps an offshoot of the first thing you described (the part just before "But I've only just this second realized..."). My own patterns of depression and joy are often so unpredictable (or different from what's "normal") that I'm afraid to let others think that I've "moved on" from a difficult period. What I fear is that I somehow will lose "standing" in others' eyes to struggle, to backslide or relapse or whatever you want to call it, once I am seen by others as having "moved on." Like healing or "getting better" is a one-way ratchet, and people expect all emotional motion to be positive. I've spent lots of time (and money!) trying to figure out just why I'm like this, and I don't really have an answer. That's just how it seems to work for me.

    I mention all of this not because I imagine you are experiencing anything like this, but to meet your candor with my own, as a way of letting you know how very much I appreciate what you're sharing, and the opportunity it's giving us, your friends, to reflect. -- Eric M.

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  12. Dear Mandy,

    I read your post and I was not sure if I wanted to respond here or privately. This is where you are processing, so here is where I will answer.

    I am glad you have been able to reach into the power of the beads. I thought the power came from the vivid color and the simple design. I had a clasp put on so that is could be worn as a single/double necklace or wrapped around your wrist as a bracelet. I put a clasp on it to make it as versatile and wearable as possible. Just remember they are just beads, the power comes from within.

    You ask the question can people see that you and Hudson no longer live in the same plane. No they can't. They can see that something has happened to you. They can see that a great tragedy has shaken you to your soul. But they can only see it if you let them see it. There are very few places that we are able to be that naked or vulnerable. Mostly people don't see it because were are faking it. Faking it has its uses. Never underestimate the power of boundaries.

    But if you find yourself in a place where you feel seen or safe being seen and you feel like crying...CRY. Scream. Roar.Moan.Howl. And when it is over, savor that fleeting calm like the passing of the storm. When we are sick and feel the need to vomit, we often will suffer for hours fighting the need, ignoring our bodies need to get something out. We always feel better afterwards, even if it is for a brief second before the waves start again.

    As for moving on. You are moving. We are always moving. Even when spend hours sitting on our couches staring out the window we are moving. But there is no moving on. Merely moving. Sometimes in our show shoes because we don't want people to see us cry. And sometimes in no shoes as we hope that if we can plant our feet and ground ourselves the storm inside of us will not tear us asunder. You are moving my friend, because that is what we do in this world. And women who were their power don't give a damn what people think about how they are moving in this world. Women who are smart enought to wear a little power recognize this life is hard, and everyone is doing the best they can. You are doing the best you can.

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  13. Mandy, you seem so amazing at seeing inside yourself. Your clarity and understanding of yourself is inspiring. I know you're not looking for justification, but you did bring to words what I feel as well. I'm also "faking it til I make it", although on a teeny tiny scale compared to yours. I know I go about my day, changing diapers, grocery shopping, honking at annoying drivers, making jokes, facebooking...trying to distract myself and "move on" so that when people say "how are you?!" I don't blurt out "I'm awful. I feel so sad about losing Hudson and feel so much for her family and friends." I just say I'm fine. And then several times a day I check in on your blog, or your status, or kiss the little picture we have of Hudson on Cecilia's wall, and hug my daughter so tight she can't breathe. And I return instantly to that heavy spot you speak of, where your heart just aches and the tears are unleashed. So on a teeny tiny scale, I know what you're feeling. For some, it's the only way you can cope - to check in and out when you can bear it, so you can process at realistic speed and so you can still take care of your general well-being: eat a meal, pay a bill, interact with someone, for even short moments of the day. It will probably be like this for a very very long time. And you will never move on completely. But you will learn to cope. And you will always remember. And she will always be loved. And every emotion you have is always justified. Here's my hug for tonight. Thousands more ready at a whim. XOXOXO

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  14. Mandy, Megan Mazzochi sent me the link to your blog. I'm an '89 Chapel Hill alum and live in the DC area and wanted you to know I am thinking of you and appreciate your blog honoring your daughter, the life you had together, and your loss. I have two small boys. My youngest had a health scare last summer when he was three months old. We spent two weeks at Children's Inova Fairfax. Our son pulled through, but I came away changed and raw. I was unprepared for the helplessness and anger that swept over me every day. I cringed when I saw the chaplain because I knew what was happening in the room next door, and I could not bear the thought of my child dying. I remember thinking that if I lost him, I would feel guilty for ever having a moment where I wasn't missing him. For any joy. Would he want this for me? I'm pretty sure not, and yet, I knew I would feel it. And I wondered how I would recover. I hope I would find the strength to take the path you are choosing - of contemplation, honor, and healing. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, experiences, loss and grief and for reminding me that I could recover. Thank you.- Rainey Astin

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  15. a friend of mine said after his mother died, that "you get through it but you never get over it." it sounds like that's what you're trying to describe here.

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  17. Mandy, I am Shawn Zellers Aunt Fran. Your sharing has helped me...as I am certain it has helped many. Personally, I feel odd when I am asked (by someone not aware of my suffering) "How are you?" Like your multiple exclamation marks...I want to respond cheerfully; while I know I am dying inside. That simple,everyday question causes me to vacillate between wanting to be a positive energy, to needing comfort and understanding. Then I wonder if the person asking really wants to know anyway, so I just respond with an empty "fine". "Fake it, til you make it" will be the motto I will live by, and I will be inspired by your courage. You see, I didn't experience the unimaginable pain of losing my toddler child. I am 56 years old and I've experienced miscarriage and the death of a loved one...but what I am suffering now...is the rejection of my adult son. I prayed for Hudson during her last days...and now I pray for you and Ed. God Bless you and comfort you on your healing journey.

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  18. Oh gosh. I think I know what you are getting at. I was scared to put make up on. That was my big thing for some irrational reason. Because I feared that other people would think, 'oh she's taking an interest in her personal appearance now, she must be fine.' The first time I wore some into the NICU I felt like a traitor. Just awful.

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  19. I so can relate. Thank you for sharing your story and thoughts. Helping me understand some of the feelings I have for a huge loss in my life. God bless you and yours. May you find peace that passes all understanding (Phil 4 v 6-9).

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  20. Thank you for being so articulate.

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