I hate grief.

I hate the way it leaves me feeling vulnerable and exposed.

I can't go into what happened today, but I got the sense that someone used the sadness of my story for their own benefit and it just makes my stomach turn.

Maybe they did.

Maybe they didn't.

Either way that's the feeling I was left with.

The feeling of being used.

I hate grief.

I hate that I have never mastered the art of sugar coating my feelings about what happened to Peyton.

My daughter was born very, very sick.

My daughter suffered a tremendous amount in her short life.

My daughter died, struggling for breath, in my arms.

How the hell do you sugar coat that?

How do you sugar coat that for the rest of your life you are going to miss this little being who could have and should have been somebody?

Who could have and should have been given the same shot at life as the rest of us?

Yes my life is full of many joys.

Yes I am grateful for the blessings that each day brings.

Yes I am looking to the future with a renewed sense of hope.

No that does not erase what happened to Peyton, or the fact that her absence is permanent.

I hate grief.

I hate that I can't hide my grief, even when I want to.

I hate that if a stranger learns of what happened, and asks me about my daughter, I am going to cry.

Why do I do that?

A stranger is not worthy of my tears.

I have earned my tears.

In every hope I had for her, and fear I felt for her while she was here.

In every terrible decision that had to be made.

In every moment of this life that I should be sharing with my daughter but can't because she now lives in the cold earth.

I have earned my right to my tears.

A stranger has not.

I hate grief.

I hate the judgement that sometimes comes in that moment.

I hate when they say, "I am sorry," 

but their eyes say "You still cry over this?", 

or their tone says, "What is wrong with you?"

I hate grief. 

I hate that the only thing I have had to cling to through this journey is my honesty, and today I felt like someone twisted that honesty into something else, something perverse.

I hate that my tongue got tied in that moment, and what I wanted to do was scream and tell them how inappropriate they were, or that it must be nice to live in a world where the worst day of my life is just another bonus to something they were trying to accomplish, but I couldn't. 

I froze.

I hate grief.

All of it.

I hate that people can't get that grief IS what it is.

The definition is "a reaction to a major loss." 

That's what grief is.

I hate that people always want to put some damn title on it.

They want to summarize it so they can feel more comfortable about it and separate themselves from it.

Depression.

Weakness.

The inability to move on.

"Oh I don't have that," they can tell themselves,

 or,

"I've never been in your shoes, but if I were, I am sure I would handle it better."

I hate grief.

I hate the stigma that surrounds grieving a baby.

I want to know what exactly society considers a "normal" and acceptable response to losing your child?

Pretending she never existed?

Would that be a more "normal" response?

Or just more convenient?

Either way, if you see the devaluing of the life of a child as "normal," and grieving their absence as "abnormal," then you are the one with the problem, not me.

I hate grief.

I hate it more than anyone watching me go through it ever could.

Grief is messy. 

It is tiring. 

It is forever.

Not the darkest days of course. 

Nothing compares to those early darkest days.

But if you somehow think that a year or two years or ten years or fifty years later, my daughter's life should no longer matter to me anymore, than I don't want to associate with you.

I do not see her as any less deserving of my love because her life was brief.

If you do, than I consider that your shortness of character, not mine.

I hate grief.

I hate feeling like I have done something wrong for experiencing it.

My child died.

I didn't seek that out.

It happened to me.

Nothing about this is a choice.

If I could, I would go back to September 3, 2008.

I was 42 weeks pregnant.

I was excited for her arrival.

I had no idea what was to come.

My life was so good.

The implication that any part of grief is a choice frustrates me.

I hate grief.

Most of all, for making me defend it.

I hate grief.

I hate the way it leaves me feeling vulnerable and exposed.

I can't go into what happened today, but I got the sense that someone used the sadness of my story for their own benefit and it just makes my stomach turn.

Maybe they did.

Maybe they didn't.

Either way that's the feeling I was left with.

The feeling of being used.

I hate grief.

I hate that I have never mastered the art of sugar coating my feelings about what happened to Peyton.

My daughter was born very, very sick.

My daughter suffered a tremendous amount in her short life.

My daughter died, struggling for breath, in my arms.

How the hell do you sugar coat that?

How do you sugar coat that for the rest of your life you are going to miss this little being who could have and should have been somebody?

Who could have and should have been given the same shot at life as the rest of us?

Yes my life is full of many joys.

Yes I am grateful for the blessings that each day brings.

Yes I am looking to the future with a renewed sense of hope.

No that does not erase what happened to Peyton, or the fact that her absence is permanent.

I hate grief.

I hate that I can't hide my grief, even when I want to.

I hate that if a stranger learns of what happened, and asks me about my daughter, I am going to cry.

Why do I do that?

A stranger is not worthy of my tears.

I have earned my tears.

In every hope I had for her, and fear I felt for her while she was here.

In every terrible decision that had to be made.

In every moment of this life that I should be sharing with my daughter but can't because she now lives in the cold earth.

I have earned my right to my tears.

A stranger has not.

I hate grief.

I hate the judgement that sometimes comes in that moment.

I hate when they say, "I am sorry," 

but their eyes say "You still cry over this?", 

or their tone says, "What is wrong with you?"

I hate grief. 

I hate that the only thing I have had to cling to through this journey is my honesty, and today I felt like someone twisted that honesty into something else, something perverse.

I hate that my tongue got tied in that moment, and what I wanted to do was scream and tell them how inappropriate they were, or that it must be nice to live in a world where the worst day of my life is just another bonus to something they were trying to accomplish, but I couldn't. 

I froze.

I hate grief.

All of it.

I hate that people can't get that grief IS what it is.

The definition is "a reaction to a major loss." 

That's what grief is.

I hate that people always want to put some damn title on it.

They want to summarize it so they can feel more comfortable about it and separate themselves from it.

Depression.

Weakness.

The inability to move on.

"Oh I don't have that," they can tell themselves,

 or,

"I've never been in your shoes, but if I were, I am sure I would handle it better."

I hate grief.

I hate the stigma that surrounds grieving a baby.

I want to know what exactly society considers a "normal" and acceptable response to losing your child?

Pretending she never existed?

Would that be a more "normal" response?

Or just more convenient?

Either way, if you see the devaluing of the life of a child as "normal," and grieving their absence as "abnormal," then you are the one with the problem, not me.

I hate grief.

I hate it more than anyone watching me go through it ever could.

Grief is messy. 

It is tiring. 

It is forever.

Not the darkest days of course. 

Nothing compares to those early darkest days.

But if you somehow think that a year or two years or ten years or fifty years later, my daughter's life should no longer matter to me anymore, than I don't want to associate with you.

I do not see her as any less deserving of my love because her life was brief.

If you do, than I consider that your shortness of character, not mine.

I hate grief.

I hate feeling like I have done something wrong for experiencing it.

My child died.

I didn't seek that out.

It happened to me.

Nothing about this is a choice.

If I could, I would go back to September 3, 2008.

I was 42 weeks pregnant.

I was excited for her arrival.

I had no idea what was to come.

My life was so good.

The implication that any part of grief is a choice frustrates me.

I hate grief.

Most of all, for making me defend it.

Last weekend was the annual laying of the grave blanket on Peyton's hill.

Since her passing, my parents have made a tradition of providing Peyton with a decorated spray of greens meant to keep her warm and protected from the winter snow.

Here is a picture of my mother with last year's grave blanket...

Due to my being on bed rest, I wasn't sure that I would be able to join my parents on their trip up to see her this year. Ultimately I decided that since the cemetery is only a few minutes from our house, and since this stupid SCH had already cost me the chance of celebrating Peyton's birthday and balloon release with her, I would go along and just lay in the car if I had to.

This year my mother decided to go with a different style for the grave blanket, fashioning it into a candy cane. Didn't she do a lovely job of decorating it? I think this year's is her best one yet...

She and my father brought the candy cane over to Peyton's grave, and I watched from the car as hubs got to work attending to his little girl's spot. Even though she is not here, hubs still takes such care in making sure things are just right for her. He cleared out some fall plantings and cleaned up any lingering leaves...

When everyone was happy with the way things looked, hubs waved me over from the car and I joined in the celebration.

Here we are, all together - Hubs, Me, The Snowflakes, and Peyton...

(please excuse the awful, awful, wild static hair and lack of make-up

nearly a hundred days of bed rest will do that to you)

Peyton had a nice visit with her Gramma and Pop-Pop who said some prayers for her, and talked to her about the upcoming holidays...

There was even enough time to sing a few Christmas carols...

Our time with Peyton, unfortunately, was limited. On bed rest I am not allowed to stand more than 10 minutes at a time, and this short visit had my stomach and back in quite a bit of pain, but it was worth it.

I have really missed being able to visit Peyton on her hill these last few months. A mother feels her child with her always, it's a bond that even death can't break. But for me, that cemetery is sacred ground. It is where my child lays. Even though I carry her spirit with me everywhere, regardless of location, there is still something to be said for being so close to what remains of her physical being.

When we were expecting Peyton, this is certainly not the way I envisioned spending the holidays with my little girl, but nothing about living without your child can be expected. Though not ideal, our visit with Peyton was still nice, and I am grateful to my parents for creating this lovely tradition.

What traditions have you put into place to make "the best"  (or at the very least the "most bearable") of the holidays without your little one's here?