Signs…

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This past December 30th 2020, I worked for the first time on my daughter Lily’s birthday, I did try to get it off, but no one is allowed time off over the holidays. I am sure I could have said why I wanted it off and had been granted but I didn’t want to play the dead child card. So I worked, two work friends checked in to see if I was ok, and that meant much more than I previously realized.

It rained that day.

Every December 30 since 2012 her first birthday after she died it has been sunny, we have gone to White Rock the city by the ocean where she was born to throw lilies in the water. It has been a cold but sunny day each year. This past December 30th 2020, her should be ninth birthday, that I worked.

But this year it rained, for the first time.

In the past few weeks since, I have found three dimes, one in a pocket, one on the laundry room floor and one in the garage. I know, I know, so what, but why is it always dimes? Why not pennies, or quarters, or any combination of random coins? Since her death I have kept the dimes, now a pile by her candle that I light, when I feel the need to.

This morning, I woke up to a smashed angel, the angel that sits atop her container that holds her ashes on my mantle. I have around ten random angel statues around in and and out of the house, this is the third I have found broken in the last few years. It doesn’t upset me, but it doesn’t feel right either. The first one was broken in my garden to which no one could figure out how or why, I figure weather? Softened and cracked it…to the pieces it suddenly sat in…the second also in the garden but a different area, had broken a wing suddenly, maybe a bird? and now the third, most likely knocked of by one of the cats, though I never heard it fall even though it was in the still of the night sat broken on the floor this morning. I glued it together as best I could. But its still broken, as she was, my broken daughter who died.

I wore a purple sweater to her funeral, purple because she had this purple knit tuque that she was given at the hospital when she was born, that had a blood stain on it from where they poked her in vain to get an IV in on the day she died. That stain is still there, faded, but there. Now when I see that same lavender purple I think of her, but all purple belongs to her now. Today, as I walked into my closet, the first thing I saw was that purple sweater, that I wore February 18 2012, a sweater I have only worn a few times since and always in her honor. It is not like it sits at the front of my closet but today I saw it immediately and put it on.

In three days it will be February 18, nine years to the day she died. It snowed yesterday. Not odd for many places but odd for the temped northwest. I was given the day (the 18th) off originally but then scheduled to work. I asked three times for it to be fixed, it finally was. I cant work that day. Her birthday in a way is not the worst even though there is no celebration, it is still the day she came into this world and our family. So in that sense not a sad day. But February 18th was the worst day in my life, forever. The hardest decisions were made, the most painful goodbye followed. A day etched in my mind as I become trapped in those quiet white halls of the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit all over again. I remember every second of that day as though they just happened. Then it all blurs, the next day, the next week, the next years, all a blur.

On February 18th, in the past, there have been rainbows, butterflies and hummingbirds that have suddenly appeared. I wonder what sign if any there may be in three days…

Thanks for reading,

Sheri

Triggers

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This image is from a commercial about insurance? Not babies, but this .5 sec shot caught me, froze me. Sets a series of thoughts, emotions and highlights the post traumatic stress that squeezed my heart in that moment.

I remember her foot in my hand. Her tiny sweet itty bitty foot…

The molds the hospital made for us of our beautiful girls feet and hand. With her purple toque that still has her blood stain.

Her first week home after 1 month in the hospital.
In 8 days, it will be the 9th deathversary of my sweet girl, my first daughter, my third child, my sons first sister. I always wonder, who she’d be today.

It will be the 9th time, I re live your death, those last few hours, days, moments with you. This photo below just 2 days before you went back to the hospital. We had so much hope that morning, so much love. Gone 8 days later on February 18 2012.

Will they ever know how this changed them. As they anticipated their sister but suddenly lost their mother, no warning, no reason, but she was gone, at the hospital for a month. Happy now both mom and sister home. Not knowing what was to come in the next weeks and how the next few years are affected and will change their upbringing. My heart breaks for my boys when I remember the before. And acknowledge the after.

Thanks for reading,

Sheri

The absent Birthday

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Lost:  disappeared, forfeited, mislaid, misplaced, missed, missing, strayed, vanished, wayward, abolished, annihilated, demolished, destroyed, devastated, eradicated, exterminated, obliterated, perished, ruined, wasted, wiped out, wrecked, absent, absorbed, abstracted, distracted, dreamy, engrossed, entranced, preoccupied, rapt, spellbound, taken up, adrift, astray, at sea, disoriented, off-course, off-track,   bygone, dead, extinct, forgotten, gone, lapsed, obsolete, out-of-date, past, unremembered  


 

The words above, the  many synonyms for the feeling of being lost, mentally, physically, emotionally; lost.

Not in everyday life however, not anymore. I will concede that the terrible raw heartache that follows a death does ease over time, though I will not agree that ‘time heals all’ because that is a relative saying. Relative to the events that occurred to cause your grief. But the pain does subside, the confusion and frustration do ease. The longing pops in and out unannounced and at times you feel overwhelmed again. The missing never goes away. But it does get easier.

Having said that, there will always be times throughout the year that are hard, that I/we feel lost. A moment of reflection triggered by a memory. A dream that causes confusion for a short time upon awaking, a place that reminds you of that feeling of devastation, even if for a second. It is there buried in the memory, the past.

I should/ would be in a flurry of busy today and the days leading up to tomorrow. Days leading up to a child’s birthday tend to be filled with excitement and planning. making a cake, putting up decorations, easing the enthusiasm at bedtime for the upcoming event.

Instead, a fog rolls in filled with desolation, the feeling of feeling lost settles. What to do today; nothing, says my body and mind. Do we make a huge extravagance at our loss, over and over, year after year while most secretly wonder why are they not over it…

Do we pretend it is just another day, that  would inevitably bring feelings of guilt and shame that are in themselves hard to live with just to avoid others un-comfortableness.

Should we remember in silence to avoid unease, sometimes anything can feel like too much but nothing also feels wrong.


 

Happy Birthday my angel

Lily Emma Olive Hall

I miss you

I live for you

I will love you

I will remember you

 Everyday until I die

 

6

 

Thanks for reading,

Sheri

 

Moving on from grief; my journey to accepting acceptance

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Moving on from grief; my journey to accepting acceptance

As I walked into my house late, arriving home just before midnight after a long ten hour travel day, carrying my youngest to her bed, whose birthday happens to be the following day, a quiet stress in the back of my mind as I have nothing planned. She wakes in and out of sleep as I place her down asking to watch the Trolls movie before bed , as I shush her that its very late and to go back to sleep. I walk past Lily’s photo that sits outside what was Lily’s room but is now Hopes.

I pause for a moment, as a tiny quiver of shock goes through me, why did I enjoy this trip so much? For so long, five years to be exact I cannot remember really enjoying anything, not fully, not appreciating what or where it was we were, we have gone to Hawaii twice and Mexico once since she died, I “enjoyed” those family trips, but if I am honest, I was never happy during them, not as I felt during this trip. Was it not having thought about her as much? No, that’s ridiculous, of course I thought of her, but perhaps the veil has lifted, maybe the dark clouds that I felt attached to my heart lessened their grip. She is always in my heart but during this trip it was not like it is when I am at home surrounded by her memory, her presence, our loss.

Having just returned from an incredibly satisfying family trip, one that was to be underestimated but had over returned; that was fully dreaded, line ups, fast food, adults in costume, ugh, Disneyland. But we planned to see lots of other parts of California as well. Who knew the republic that is the state of California is so beautiful; San Clemente pier, Huntington Beach, Pasadena Ranch, even LA and Anaheim were cool to drive through, which started my pondering……

Guilt approaches my thoughts, but I quickly realize, no, that is not right; I deserve a reprieve from my self-imposed guilt. I am proud for the hard treacherous journey my grief has taken me through, what I have learned, how I have changed and grown. I am happy I was able to enjoy such a memorable family trip with my still living children, to be present for the first time in….well, how long makes me sad for them, my beautiful children that are alive, the ones that have received less of their mother because she has been stuck in a whirlwind of her grief.

The one that has yelled too quickly because of their interrupting, poorly timed ways, their normalness, brought noise into my grief, where I wanted so much to simply be alone in silence. I have loved them, fed them, clothes and cleaned them, yes. But the mom that used to wrestle and laugh so freely has been trapped in a broken heart. That realization alone makes me sad for them, for me. I needed my time, I cannot believe five years past in a fog, although, it was thickest the first few years, it is lifted seemingly, I think. I am sure it will roll in from time to time and I welcome it, but I am also happy to feel happy again. I am happy to have a random dance party with loud noise at no notice with my kids. If asked, I wonder what they’d say of the last five years. Probably not much, as we all know, we are all way more self centered then we see. They may not have even noticed my withdrawal, not as I felt it, or see in hindsight. I was harder on them and they loved me more.

My heart now an ache for the time that has past, five years in a child’s life is huge, and the physical, emotional and mental growth that happens. I cannot go back; I can cherish specific moments of course, but am happy to feel other enlightening emotions again. Happy to be the present mother they deserve. I still miss and love my child that died five years ago, but my acceptance of her death has come with the revelation that I cannot change the past, nor need to dwell in its circumstances. But do need to focus on what we had and still have. This by no means that she will be forgotten just remembered differently, without the pain of guilt and remorse; but with love for the luck of having had her for a moment, along with the life lessons she has taught.

It brought me to a conclusion, if only for myself. We are all aware, some mildly, some very familiar with Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s five stages of grief. At some point in raw grief after a loss, we want answers we want to understand what is happening; at times we are so lost we want to know if and when it will end. So Ross’s theory of five stages is where we inevitably find ourselves reading about. At first I agreed with them whole heartedly, it makes sense for grief to have a timeframe of stages, all of which also make sense in completing in order to “move on”, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance but what comes with these stages is not a time frame put on them by Kubler-Ross herself but by society, Somewhere, over time, since her now famous book called ‘On Death and Dying’ was published in 1969, society has given the grieving about a year to get through their stages of grief, a few months to mull in each one.

This is where I completely disagree with societies standards on grieving, seeing as it has taken me a five full years to get to acceptance, one could say each stage deserves a full year to fully live in and become aware of the stage your are at. For example the first year I was trapped in denial not even aware I was, because it was the shock that took quite a while to wear off, then a denial that I could not really comprehend that this had happened to me, to her, to us. I honestly did not believe it for a very, very long time, combined with the night terrors caused by the PTSD I suffered, it felt like a dream at times, with me not being able to wake up. Then the anger came, but it came at a time when a lot of people thought I should have been done grieving, after a year. And yes, I was angry, at everyone and anyone that dare mention her name, or their grief! The bargaining came in different forms around year three, begging for bad things to not happen, hadn’t I gone through enough? I would do more to help others if only my living children would be left alone. As depression sets in due to the length of time that has passed, you feel confused, others wonder what’s’ wrong because it has been so long, although in reality, is four years that long?

So you begin, again, searching for answers, or help, or ways to move forward because you have spent time in the other stages you are ready to deal with this depression, and not that long ago, as I said earlier, the trip I just took with my family was the first I really enjoyed, felt at peace and allowed myself to be happy. Had I reached acceptance? And if I had why did I feel bad about it? Did I assume I would grieve forever? Yes. Was I prepared to grieve forever? Yes. Often when the tears came less frequently just that fact made me sad, like the further away her life moved, the less I felt her in my heart, but that is not true. I can take as many moments I want to remember her and should be thankful the whirlwind does not just snatch me up as it used to, but it is a process of constant awareness, as well as, allowing myself to still grieve if I felt the need, but also to feel happy with what we have and where we are at, without guilt.

Everyone’s journey is different but I think if we can all collectively agree that each stage deserves a year and not to expect someone to feel normal until year five the burden of grief will be lessened on the grievers. But also to so mention it is not limited to this time frame, I have met parents that did not feel “normal” until year seven and ten, what I am trying to say is that the notion that grief lasts a year is ridiculous, the notion that it never ends is also silly though, I once believed it would never end, and I still have moments of intense sadness, clearly not as frequent or uncontrollable but today five years later and I am able to laugh freely without shame, enjoy moments without guilt. I am not saying yours will only last five years, everyone’s journey is different and some grief may only last a couple years. All I know is that back in those first six months when I attended bereavement meetings a blubbering mess barely able to string coherent words together, the common sentiment to me from those that had multiple years, some decades behind them and their grief, they said, ‘it does get better’ and I was so comforted by that phrase. And the fact that they saw my pain and came up to me to tell me it gets better in hopes of lessening my pain. I appreciated those words, as I hope you appreciate mine now. It does get better, in your own time at your own pace.

Thanks for reading,

Sheri

Ps, I would love some feedback, I started out intending to write a completely different post about my vacation without my fourth child but in following my heart and letting my fingers type, I am surprised at the conclusion and turn it took. If you have a similar experience with grief or writing or any other feedback on my conclusion please comment below. Thanks – much love.

It is ok to be sad

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I feel you rolling your eyes, as I hit post. Another grief post you think! Your pain is no longer because it wasn’t your child you lost, it was mine, so you did feel sad for a bit after, you don’t understand how or why I am still grieving or posting sad stuff about grief. I get it its not your loss, you don’t feel it every day like I do and you don’t want to remember it  as much as I do. You might think I am bitter or want sympathy, I don’t. Just know that my heart hurts when I glance at the spot on the floor where she stopped breathing, that I have trouble thinking of moving because this is where she lived for 2 short weeks. Every time I hear a story of tragedy or a life lost I cry for her. Am I stuck? no I am human. I am a mother that gave birth to a beautiful baby that struggled to live, to breathe, that spent 5 weeks in the NICU, not sleeping, not feeling and slowly breaking. That was almost four years ago I know, you think I must have moved past this pain, I have another little girl right. She is my savior, yes. but also my daily reminder of my first little girl that is not here. Would they be best friends? or Would they fight a lot?  I wonder. And yes that too makes me sad. Immediate grief after a tragedy is overwhelming, its consuming and then time takes it away, little by little the intense memories fade and it is easier to ‘pretend’ life is what it is.

Today is October 15th- International Awareness of Stillbirth, miscarriage and infant loss

A day that makes me sad but grateful to have met and to be a part of a community of women, amazing women, that too have suffered a loss, something that is not openly spoken about but should be, something that people are uncomfortable to bring up, leaving the person(s) that suffered the loss alone. Why are we told not to share a pregnancy until 3 months? in case you lose the baby right, we don’t need to upset people like that! but then we suffer alone with our loss. Not right. After I lost my daughter, after she was born at full term, after she was given a birth certificate because she lived past 21 days (the time the government thinks your baby needs to live to be considered a human!) even though we all know as soon as we see that pink or blue line we have a child in our life, whether they live past 21 days or not, to be deemed a person! Different issue, I move on. The stigma that surrounds uncomfortable feelings needs to stop. People need compassion not shame. I don’t know how to change the world into thinking its ok to be sad, we do not need to ‘pretend’ to be happy all the time. As Buddha says ‘Life is suffering’ I believe we have pockets of happy moments or happy feelings but if you truly look at the world and live true, you see that it is about surviving, surviving tragedy around us, surviving, genocide, rape, famine , disease, homelessness, joblessness, then death. Acknowledging life’s struggles does not make us ‘negative’ it makes us real and if you let yourself feel the sad you will better be able to appreciate the happy.

After I lost my daughter, so many women came up to me and told me about their losses, a women lost her son when he was 21, another suffered multiple miscarriages’ but never told anyone, so many stories, so many women that suffered alone because society made them feel like they had to hide their shame because it wasn’t ‘happy news’ I call bollocks! I will continue to share my grief and encourage others to share because we are here for such a short time, all we have is each other. To help, to love, to pick each other up and hug.

Namaste

Thanks for reading.

Sheri

October 15 #PregnancyAndInfantLossAwareness

15% out of 100 pregnancies end in miscarriage.
1/160 stillbirths, estimated at 1.9 babies born still globally each year.
SIDS has declined dramatically since the 90s but still equates to roughly .3% of infant deaths annually.
Globally 2.4 million children died in the first month of life in 2019.
Death under 1year of age is 17/1000 and typically caused by birth defects.

The point of these stats is not to make you sad. But many do not realize how common this loss is, how many parents and would be parents are suffering in silence because this grief, these deaths are taboo subjects.
#PregnancyAndInfantLossAwareness

Below are two places that do research and help support education and families who have suffered these insurmountable losses.

https://starlegacyfoundation.org/about-us/

Dealing With My Grief

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I-remember-with-you-meme-707x70710 Ways to Honor Your Friend’s Child That Died This October

Do you have a friend whose baby died? Maybe she took a healthy baby home and months later her son died tragically of SIDS. Or maybe he never got to meet his baby awake outside of the womb because his daughter was stillborn. Maybe you have a friend who suffered a miscarriage more than once but once is enough pain to endure. Maybe you have a friend whose toddler, school age, or teenager tragically died.

****If you do know someone who has been shaken to their core by the loss of their child, no matter what age, please take a moment and honor your friend and her or his child by remembering them this October for Pregnancy, Infant, and Child Loss Awareness Month.
I know, right now you might be saying to yourself, “Okay, yeah I have a bereaved…

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A little help from above

I run the Houston Trail on my days off, after the run I walk down to the river to stretch. It is always an emotional feeling staring at the fast and strong moving Fraser River in all its full Fall glory. I love it. Its my me moment I would never give up. Anyway, today I ran with my glasses on, I hate to because they slide down the bridge of my nose as I start to sweat and near the end of the run I inevitably carry them in my hands.

Today I put them in my hoodie pocket with my keys as I lifted my sweater over my head at the end of the run. I was at my car getting water before I go stretch. I walked down, walked back without paying attention to the fact that my vision was blurred, got in my car, turned the engine, looked around and thought – shit my glasses, I reached into my pocket and to my disbelief they were not there. I frantically searched my surroundings, jumping ahead to how am I going to get home, I guess I can walk there and back and get my spare before pick up at 230…maybe I can call the police for an escort- no that’s ridiculous but I thought it.

Of course my husband who has been working from home for 20 months is on Vancouver Island for work this week for the first time in did I mention it’s been 20 months… thanks to covid.

So I kept re checking my pockets, am I going crazy, I retrace my steps, a man even asks kindly what are you looking for? I have almost given up, thinking I will drive to the end of this road and walk home… I see a squirrel about 7 feet away, comes down the tree in behind of my car toward the road, I hear a car coming from behind us so I walk toward it hoping to scare it from crossing, it darts back up the tree, I go in the direction the squirrel did and what do you know- right there on the ground were the little bugger stopped were my glasses.

I of course loudly said thank you to the squirrel and was able to drive home and start the zillion errands and cleanings that needs to be done on my only day off.

Here’s to the things big and small of the world!! Sent to help us when we least expect it.

This beautiful little wood pecker has been coming to visit when I sit on my front drive to rest and recharge after long busy days. Sit in my chair, staring at the sky. I heard his voice and wondered what it was, I looked around and there he was a few feet away.

The beauty in nature and its creatures can feel so healing in a way that we are able to look at things outside ourselves, appreciate the beauty in simplicity and are reminded that we are never alone.

Thanks for reading,

Go outside and enjoy the nature around you.

Sheri

Sadness

sadness equates pain

sameness levels ordinary

hurt to which is unbearing

loss to which unequivocal

feelings that never disappear

thoughts that don’t heal

a heavy heart, a dropped tear

unexplained sadness from previous years

unconscious grief left unchecked

forced to flee from our regret

learning to live with a pain that fades

and a sadness that never goes away

Thanks for reading

sheri

Truth and Reconciliation…Words remind us…

Definition: word<pronounced<wərd, plural<words

A single distinct meaningful element of speech or writing, used with others (or sometimes alone) to form a sentence and typically shown with a space on either side when written or printed.a command, password, or signal. “I don’t like the word “unofficial””Similar:term name expression designation location turn of phrase idiom appellation vocable.

Definition: Truth<pronounced> trooth<noun

  1. the quality or state of being true.”he had to accept the truth of her accusation”Similar:veracitytruthfulnessveritysinceritycandorhonestygenuinenessgospelgospel truthaccuracycorrectnessrightnessvalidityfactualnessfactualityauthenticitydinkum oilOpposite:dishonestyfalsity
    • that which is true or in accordance with fact or reality.noun: the truth“tell me the truth”

Definition: rec·on·cil·i·a·tion: reconciliation; plural noun: reconciliations

  1. 1.the restoration of friendly relations.”his reconciliation with your uncle”Similar:reunitingreunionconciliationreconcilementpacificationappeasementplacatingpropitiationmollificationresolutionsettlementrectificationsettlingresolvingmendingremedyingrestoration of harmonyagreementcompromiseunderstandingpeacean end to hostilitiesamityconcordrapprochementdetentefence-mendingharmonizingharmonizationsynthesissquaringadjustmentbalancingsyncretizationOpposite:estrangementalienationfeudincompatibility
  2. 2.the action of making one view or belief compatible with another.”he aims to bring about a reconciliation between art and technology”

https://nationalpost.com/news/canada/how-canada-forgot-about-more-than-1308-graves-at-former-residential-schools#:~:text=Since%20May%2C%20more%20than%201%2C308,found%20on%20Penelakut%20Island%2C%20B.C.

The rezzy memes

 When 215 becomes 5296 and hardly no one is talking about it… there is a problem.

Words can hurt, words can heal, words that need(ed) to be said but can never be unheard. Words that trigger thought or memory. Words can bring up curiosity and wonder. Words tell a story, offer explanation, give instruction. Words can cause and altercation, discontent and confusion or bring up debate and discussion. Words emote feelings and expression. But for me the reason for this post on words is a trigger word. Trigger words are not always bad either. Many of us think triggered as we become angry, but a word can trigger a memory, a thought of a lost loved one. That is the trigger words I was thinking of yesterday as I made dinner, naming the food in my head as I cooked, the specific ingredient that suddenly triggered a name or person to which my mind relates it to. How often are words, smells thoughts triggers?

Sorry. A simple but extremely powerful word. Sorry.

Sorry for what I said. Sorry for what I did.

In recent months the residential school murders have been unearthed. Not discovered, as these communities have always known. And a few, who cared to learn, learned of residential schools and it’s torture of young indigenous children in post secondary because for what now seems to be obvious reasons the government has chosen not to teach it in the K-12 school curriculum, though some amazing teachers take it upon themselves to include it.

Having had many arguments with my “white” counter parts about reparations and the need to acknowledge what we as landed immigrants have done. They, for the most part throw out the usual, they don’t pay taxes! They have free reserve land, their drunks… It’s hard to listen to and I have always pushed back on these people. Mostly because I am a compassionate human who has empathy. But more so because my dad whose father was Filipino, to which made him look native with a white mother and was incessantly teased. For being native. Like there is something wrong with being a real native person to this country, an indigenous person with actual right to this land.

I bought this book for someone I know who constantly argued that ‘Natives” didn’t have it that bad, that we have made things up to them and that they were tired of hearing about it. I would constantly ask if they really knew the extend of what white settlers did to them? This book does an amazing job at pointing out the facts in timeline form what exactly was done by the newly formed Canadian government of white men who wanted this land and to diminish aboriginal people it originally belonged to.

Thank you for reading,

Sheri

My Flower

I love drawing flowers, chalk is my favorite. Thought I’d add a poem I wrote 8 years onto it.
Hope you’re well during this pandemic, keep hope alive. The light is getting bigger.

Thanks for reading,
Sheri

Broken

My son grunted from the other room, ‘whats wrong’? I yelled, my drawer he says. I get up and walk over, he’s visibly frustrated, the handle is off. I grab it and start to fix it, he says on the verge of tears, you cant, its broken. I see why he says that, though I have fixed this problem before. He is upset because this is my dresser, I gave to him because his broke. My dresser from before kids. I know the handles loosen and fall off. He is upset at not knowing how to fix the problem or that it happened at all. I say its ok. I got it. He leaves the room and I begin to shake.

I am suddenly 12 years old and alone fixing my drawer. I never had help. On one hand I am resilient, independent and strong. On the other I am alone, independent and unable to-trust. I fixed his dresser as I sobbed remembering how I had done this and similar tasks on my own, solely as a child. ‘figure it out’ was my mom’s best advice. Only advice. Figure it out on your own more like. Never help. I felt unloved. If she loved me she’d help me. She didn’t.

This photo is what triggered me. I was feeling good with clean skin, took this picture and all I saw is the scar on my right eye from my face hitting the steering wheel in a car accident at 21. My mom never asked what happened. I always thought it odd. As though she doesn’t care.

I chose, when I had kids, that I would be different than my mother. I would always do, be and help my kids. I would never let them ” figure it out” alone. What is the point of a parent? If not to help them grow, to teach and grasp life together.

My step mom told me once that my mom asked her not to help me…to pick me up if I called… She disagreed ( thank god) and picked me up when I was stranded..its not like I called often. I think it was twice in 5 years…but do you know what that meant to me, her showing up.

The world. It taught me how I wanted to raise my kids. That I cared and that I would always be there.

We all have issues, we’re all told to learn and grow and get over them but some, like abandonment from a parent are harder to accept and get over. Especially when that parent thinks they did nothing wrong.

You feel broken.

You feel feel alone. You get mad when people try to help because your used to being expected to do it on your own. You dont need help, you’ll figure it out. As a parent, to think my kids would ever think they are alone crushes me and I will always help them and be there for them. This world will break them, like we all do or are at some point but it will not be because I, their mother would not help them along the way.

Thanks for reading

Sheri

Personal content created by Sheri Hall

I wanted to have all my work in one post, these are all written by me, put on photos taken by me or drawings drawn by me that I created for myself, for growth, to share with my grief community, family and friends.

A poem for my angel on her 4th birthday

Thanks for reading, sharing and commenting.

Happy Spring.

Sheri

Life long grief.

Its not so much that I grieve (her) anymore but that I am shocked at how much it still hurts at random.

This February 18 will be the 9th anniversary of her death.

I am not consumed by grief but still get overwhelmed at times at the feelings and hurts that pop up.

The way they call mom because something fell, the way they look at me as I see her photo frame smashed, the way they say sorry as I quietly carry the remnants upstairs.. again, the rage mixed with pain, I hide as I struggle to control and deal with something I don’t know how to.I had this photo blown up Feb.25.2012 Steve thought it was too big and couldn’t look at it, so I had to put it in a room he didn’t go in a lot… its where the kids play.

The frame has been broken from it being knocked off the wall 3x in the last year during this pandemic. Why this year, I don’t know. Fine and untouched since made almost 9 years ago.I got the photo this big because I wanted her to be lifesize, I wanted to remember every inch and sometimes I wish I didn’t.

But not in the way it sounds but in that I wish it never happened. That had she lived these moments of pain and reflection wouldn’t happen.

Thank for reading.

Sheri