Unveilled

The time has come to share another step in 'our' process.  A few of us had memorial tattoos done.  The first being my Dad. Shortly after Reece passed, he arranged to get his first tattoo ever! Which would be a portrait of Reece! He actually ended up getting another tattoo prior to this, I suppose to 'prepare' himself for what he was about to do. lol

The tattoo was done in Saskatoon at Tantrix Tattoo and Body Art by artist Mike Thompson-Hill.  The same tattoo artist probably didn't know that this was going to set off a both creative and meaningful connection between our famillies and his shop.

My girlfriend, Erin Mowat, got angel wings tattoo in memory of Reece and to symbolize their very special bond.  Grant's Mom, Kathy, got a tattoo on her wrist of 'Mr Sun" peaking out from behind a purple banner with "Reece" written on it.  I saw how these tattoos were great memorials to Reece and would be beautiful symbols to carrie with them.  However, I didn't feel a personal need to get a tattoo at the time (early on in the 'grief process').

As a year and then another passed, Grant talked more and more about getting a phoenix rising from ashes, as testament to his 'process'.  It showed how after losing Reece he had to pick himself up from nothing and continue on, and find continued purpose in life.  It seemed so fitting for him. 

Since we moved to our small town I had started planting various varieties of lillies and daisies. Generally attempting to stick to bright 'sunny' yellows and Barney purples and some hot pinks (all in honour of Reece).  Someone sent us a packet of SweetPea seeds. I planted them, and they grew beautifully. I was actually shocked, I rarely have success with growing things, let alone from seed. They were pink, and purple.
Reece's nickname was Sweetpea. 
Needless to say, I realized at somepoint that a flower tattoo would be in the future for me.  A flower to honour each of my beautiful girls.
I brought the idea to Mike and let him run with it. He designed the perfect piece ... HUGE mind you... (lol) but perfect :)

Tantrix owner Leanne Thompson-Hill, honoured Reece by creating a charity (Reece Ryde Memorial Tattoo Charity) where that Tantrix artists donate their creative efforts and time to provide grieving parents with a memorial tattoo.  Check out their website to see up-to-date tattoos that are helping parents move forward.

And in honour of my 'process', I will be unveiling a new blog soon as well! Something happier, something different....the journey continues!

Photo Courtesy of BurntBlack Photography

Cry a Little and Give Thanks

The worst thing and the best thing a grieving person can do, is drive alone in a car listening to the radio. 
Maybe this sounds ridiculous, maybe this sounds completely reasonable, I'm conflicted.
But here's the deal.

When you are a grieving person (in my case a grieving parent), the worst (aka hardest) thing to do is face your grief and allow it to envelop you.  You may (I have) live in constant fear that if given into, it may hold you in a death grip of it's own that you will never escape from.
At the same time, we walk a fine balance act.  Because, if you never make yourself vulnerable, and never allow yourself to be 'sad' to grieve, you will never move forward. You will never have a reasonable standard of 'quality of life'.   You will inevitably become consumed with avoiding your grief.

Today I had one of these moments- driving to work I was listening to CBC radio (OK I am now sounding officially old) and usually they have interesting and sometimes uplifting/funny stories.  Today wasn't one of those days.  I had been reminded the day before that today would be the 7th Anniversary of the disappearance of Tamra Keepness, the little girl from Regina, that vanished from her home.  A story that I would imagine kept most parents glued to newscasts for at least a year or so afterwards, waiting for updates and possible clues. However as time moves on, I know all too well, people forget.
Although there was brief mention of her, the story they discussed instead was the tragic tale of another little girl from Regina, now in Calgary. A little girl who beat the odds once, by having a heart transplant at the age of only 4 months. However, now she has cancer, a rare form affecting the soft tissues, which does not respond well to current treatments. Listening to her mother was literally gut-wrenching.  And I so desperately wanted to pull over and call every person I knew and get them to run to their radios, so they too could hear her talk about her daughter. 
She too is a grieving mother.  Although her daughter is still here physically, she knows her time is limited.  She sounded so hopeless and terrified and yet so brave and full of love.
I don't know this woman, but I can still hear her voice.  It had a desperation that only a grieving mother can know.  I wished so badly, that I could be there with her, offer some sort of comfort or encouragement.
Instead I've decided to write this, and encourage everyone I know to listen to her story and to hopefully appreciate their own circumstances a bit more.  And if you are grieving, to encourage you to spend a little time alone (not necessarily in  a vehicle) somewhere and allow yourself to grieve. Allow yourself to remember the one you lost.

Recovery and "Flashbacks"

We are happy to say that Gabrielle (our youngest, now 2) has now had her tonsils removed. She is a week post-op and is slowly improving. We hope that now that the ineffective glands are removed she'll be able to avoid anti-biotics!  Of course the other peripheral benefits are just as important to us as a family- the lessened visits to the Dr., no more Emergency Room visits at late hours, no more stress of missing work, no more worries that she will get so seriously run-down that she won't be able to fight-off infections or viruses...

No, finally we can see the light at the end of the tunnel as far as Gabrielle's health is concerned and honestly not a moment too soon.  I was reaching (had reached honestly) my breaking point.

In addition to the constant reminder of Reece as a result of having a sick little one, I carried the guilt of having to be a working parent and be away from her.  And when I did 'put her first' and had to miss work, I felt as though I was being judged for missing work.  The guilt and pressure from all sides has been mounting, making me feel as though I was fighting a losing battle at work, home and as a parent.  I'm more hopeful now than I was a week ago, and more hopeful than I was 2 months ago when I wrote the following excerpt (but did not publish at the time)...

Lately, perhaps the last 4 months or so I have been stuffing my grief. I finally confessed it to Grant the other day...


Our youngest has unfortunately suffered from what are basically "defective" tonsils. For her the last year (the entire 2nd year of her young life) has been a series of Drs visits and rounds of antibiotics.
All too often I find myself looking at Grant and saying "It's like Reecey all over again".
To complicate our already intensive feelings of fear and inadequacy in our parenting abilities, last winter she also fought Croup a number of times; and we have been worrying and waiting for that to hit again this winter, with her immune system run down from her many strep throat infections and colds.


In August we were able to book an appointment with an Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist (ENT) for the first week of Nov. In November we went to our appointment (conveniently with Gabby suffering from yet another case of strep throat). The ENT agreed ;quite readily that the tonsils needed to go, but he warned me that the wait could be 8 - 10 months.
Now here we are in Jan obviously with some time yet to go.
She has had quite a few bouts of strep since Nov, and had an ear infection last week. At that appointment our family Dr let us know we might have a surgery date for March BUT that it wasn't official until we get the letter from the ENT's office.
Her ear infection took a turn for the worse 2 days after starting antibiotics, when we would have expected to see improvement, she spiked a fever and cried from pain.
We went to the Emergency Dept at the hospital, where they treated the symptoms and upped the dosage of the antibiotics she was already on. 2 days later, the fever an pain were still there, so we returned. The Dr at that point ran a series of tests and started stronger antibiotics via an I.V.
That was yesterday. We had to return this morning for another dose.
The trip in, was what spawned this post.


This morning was the worst yet. It's difficult enough to have to go to the same hospital where we last held Reece. To be admitted in the same spot where we were once met by nurses who tried to soften the blow of what reality was about to hand us that morning Dec 27, 2007.
This morning it was just Gabs and I. Normally when we take her to the hospital both of us go. One to drive. One to sit next to her in the back seat, and monitor every little movement, breath, whimper or request.
Today I was on my own.
The radio turned up.
After losing Reece, I am never in a quiet vehicle. I've learned that the short 15-20 minute drive on the same highway that takes us to her grave, I cannot be in silence. I need to blast sounds, to keep the sound of my own thoughts at bay.
Today though, after leaving town and reaching 'cruising speed' I looked in the rear-view mirror to check Gabby's status in the back seat.
She was sleeping. Her soother had fallen out. She was still.
I turned down the radio so I could try listening for breath.
I couldn't hear anything over the normal road noise.


When I looked back at her, her eyes were closed and bluish, her face pale, her lips puffy from warmth and sleep. She looked exactly like Reece at her funeral.


I was torn- do I pull over and wake her? or just drive faster to get to the hospital where the people who are better qualified to take care of her are?


It was terrifying to say the least.


But it reminded me of my confession to Grant. That over the last few months, my grief has been growing, as I've been stuffing it away. It's been building and I've been staving-off the breakdowns. Avoidance- it's what I do.
But it was hard to avoid this, I was locked in a moving vehicle with what seemed like my Gabby and my dead daughter at the same time.


It was like the universe was telling me - LOOK AT HER, it CAN happen again, it WILL happen again!! You have NO control.


What I had confessed to Grant was that over the last 4 months or so, quite often I had been thinking about suicide. Not actually carrying it out. But just an image of myself having a way out. I think that my subconscious was needing an alternative to the only other options I have, which is to accept reality and face grief.
That Reece is gone and that life has gone on without her. That there will always be this empty spot between Aiden and Gabrielle.
And that I have no control over what happens to anyone, even my children. The ones that the universe has entrusted to me, to care for; yet reality is, I can't protect them to the extent I want too.
Gabrielle's constant illnesses have been literally a daily reminder of how fragile children are, and how little control you have over protecting them from the world.
So what have I learned about grief lately? Well... that it's never over. You truly cannot avoid it.

Why am I hopeful now? Well I had a reality check over the last week.  After many heart-to-hearts with Grant and with my Sister (who in-spite of her young age sometimes had great insight into 'life') I have a long term plan for our family, for our family and for my career.  I am working on keeping things that happen in day-to-day life in perspective. I also realized now that I have unrealistic expectations of others, that some people just are the way they are and not to take it personally if they treat you badly.

After also having a heart-to-heart with our family Dr (who has been a rock for all of us) I realize I'm not alone in my experience, that she knows many other people that have experienced exactly what I am now. 

And funny enough, a friend of ours called to talk to Grant one night about 'guy stuff', he's the last guy I would ever think would end up in my 'grief blog' but he said that (and I'll quote) "the grass is always greener on the other side, and there's assholes everywhere". 
It was exactly what I needed to hear on that day and he would never have known.  (Thanks Pat ;) )
But it's just one of those signs that's making me a believer.
That maybe there is a Creator and there's messages for you if you're listening.


If you know someone that has lost a child suddenly please refer them to SUDC, they have been a great support for both Grant and myself.

Tomorrow we have an appointment with an Immunologist. To look at why our youngest is continually sick with Strep throat infections.
My concern is that while fighting one of these Strep infections, her poor little immune system will be so run-down, so weak that if she contracts some other virus (like Croup- which she had a few times last winter) she will not be able to fight off the virus.

like Reece.

I told the Dr that treated Gabrielle most recently (for an ear infection, which was treated by I.V. antibiotics- which in my opinion is pretty extreme not to mention traumatic) that history was going to repeat itself. It was literally playing-out before our eyes. Our worst nightmare, all over again.

Why was no one coming to our rescue?
Why wasn't there a Dr, a Specialist, a Scientist, ANYONE, coming to our aide and saying "HEY, we hear you! We understand how perilous this is! We won't just throw you the everyday treatment and the minimum required attentiveness. We will protect your daughter. We will take care of your family!"

No. Don't be fooled by naivety and false-idols.
If you want your child to be protected, if you want your child's best interests looked after- you better plan to do it yourself.

Tonight I decided to head to this appointment with as much information I could possibly provide. The Immunologist is going to look at Reece's medical history and Gabrielle's. I told him I would bring immunization reports and my copy of the official autopsy findings.

I had not read the autopsy results.

It took about 7 months or so to get the results. I believe they are dated July 2008. It was torture waiting for that envelop to come to us in the mail. I had hoped it would find an answer. Put a name to whatever it was that took her away from me. Give me something to be angry at. Give me something to hate, instead of myself. At least for a moment.
But by the time it came, our Dr had already got a copy, and had summarized it in a few sentences for us. She said it was likely a virus, something unknown, Reece was already so sick... etc
So I never looked past the first page. Not past the first line honestly.

But tonight as I grabbed the pile of papers out of the plastic tote we have filled with Reece's keepsakes, I thought I should read it. Maybe there was something in there that I should know. Maybe there was something that would help me form some helpful questions for tomorrow's appointment.
I wasn't wrong. But I certainly wasn't prepared for the wave of sickening grief that came over me.
As I read through the first page, I realized that this person writing it, was very 'official', they were following a process which they probably did daily. And Reece was just another 'body'. Just another number.
To say it 'hurt' to hear the Coroner describe my baby, Reecey, in such a way would be too simple.
The Coroner has to describe every little detail. Of course, I understand this.
But some things hurt so horribly, I don't have the words to describe it.
The Coroner noted the clothing she was in. It was noted that her jammie pants were dirty.

I broke down in uncontrollable sobs at that point.

I remember holding her in the Emergency room, after the nurses wrapped her little body in a hospital blanket and gave her to me for the last time.

The last time I held my baby, she was in a hospital blanket. She looked like she was sleeping.

I remember thinking at some point, either at the hospital, or after, that her 'blankie' was dirty. Of course it was, she took it everywhere. And yes her jammies probably were dirty. She was a busy toddler, into everything.

I had never read this report. But it had always bothered me that she may have looked untidy. Honestly it's always in the back of my mind when we go to the Dr now with Gabrielle.

I've never told anyone this.

But before we go to the Emergency with Gabrielle I always make a mental note of what she is wearing. I guess it's always in the back of my mind, what if this is the last outfit she is in. As if a yogurt spot on a comfy shirt, is somehow a black mark on my parenting. But somehow, it makes me question - will they think I don't love her if she's wearing old pajamas instead of a cute matching outfit?

I'm sure this all sounds ridiculous to some people. But to me I have always worried what people thought. I worry that if I go to the Dr too much, someone will think I'm a hypochondriac and therefore not a fit parent. If I don't go, then I'm neglectful. It's a quandary, and I'm continually trapped in it.

Needless to say, to have it pointed out, officially, on a report, by a stranger, that my baby had dirty jammie pants on, and no shirt (they cut it or took it off her at some point)... it hurt to hear it.
I don't want strangers to pass judgement on my level of love or commitment to my daughter. And really I shouldn't care. But I do. It's what I do, it's who I am. It's the way my mind works I suppose.

But as I said earlier, I wasn't wrong to think that there may be something in the autopsy report that may be helpful for Gabrielle's appointment tomorrow. There wasn't a lot of info in there but I do have questions. The finding was that she died of 'sepsis'. But how she got to that point, or what put her at perhaps a higher risk of getting to the point of being that sick, is what we need to know, in order to protect Gabrielle.

Hopefully answers will be provided sooner rather than later.

Fumbling Towards Something

Lately I've been fumbling through. I thank the universe (and Reece) for bringing Gabby to us. She was a bright light in our dark existence to be sure. But now that she has surpassed Reece in age, which I was reminded a few days ago, I have lost again.

Until recently we could reminisce as if Reece were still in the room. Laugh about her milestones, compare her linguistic prowess to Gabrielle's pirate-like baby-lingo, and see glimmers of Reece's impish ways through Gabby's dare-devilish physicality. It's what parents do. Compare one child to another, and relish the differences, adore their uniqueness. Excite in what will come, and is yet to compare.

There's nothing now.

Reece is gone. Her time cut short at only 20 months.

I remember her as being so much more, than just 20 months. She had a 'way of knowing' that was beyond her.

But I'll never know who she would have become.

And again I count my losses. They seem to add up lately. One after another.

Maybe it's the time of year, that makes it difficult, but lately she is constantly on my mind.

Gabrielle turns 2 in a month. Normally I'd be planning, excited, looking forward to the occasion and bringing people together.

But now, it's all I can do not to cry all day at work. The mere glimpse of a thought of Gabby's birthday makes me sad. A picture of her and Aiden on my computer screen, serves as just another painful reminder that there is a 3rd child missing from the trio that should have been.

Christmas this year will be much like the year we lost her. She and Gabby so close in age, it will be hard not to be consumed with thoughts of her, and it will take everything in me to not let my grief overshadow the seasons festivities for the girls.

I already feel a pressure to 'keep up appearances' for everyone else starting and we are still months away from Christmas. Gabby was a great distraction while it lasted, but I suppose I knew all along that eventually I'd have to face facts- everyone moves on,

no matter how hard you dig in your heels.

It's what I've always done. Find distractions to focus on, rather than dealing with what is in front of me.

I am trying desperately not to give in to my strong desire to completely break with tradition this year and do something different. I suppose to avoid the impending 'performance' I'll have to put on, for family and friends, neighbours and colleagues. That "yay, great ! It's the holidays. Grrrreat an entire week off " to sit at home and remember Reece isn't here to share it with us.

Maybe I'll find some wisdom in some readings this week. Until then, I'll guess just keep fumbling.

The reinvention of Mom.
Or grasping at straws……… mid life crisis or mid-mania survival….
It could be many things, this latest phase I have fallen into. But none the less, here I am.
As far as we’ve come in our grieving process, I am still very much, stuck.
I’ve been filled with pure joy, adding Gabs (Gabrielle that is) to our family. And with high hopes and positive thoughts I started a brand new job at the end of my maternity leave; with a huge organization, with many future possibilities. Perhaps I could upgrade my education over the years, or bump around the organization trying new things, really there were a lot of options.
However, after a number of months I’ve realized I am doing nothing more than treading water.
Putting in time, for a huge organization that is just that… a HUGE organization. I was a number. A number at the bottom.
I’ve recently come to the realization that my socialization has really screwed me over. A daughter of the modern ages, I’ve been taught I can do anything boys can do, AND all that my mother did.
Having never really know who I was or what I wanted I only clung to one truth.
I wanted a family. A family that included a cozy home, with children, relatives and friends we called relatives that came and went freely.
A bit idealistic to be sure but not entirely out of reach. Not beyond reality. I wasn’t dreaming of being an astronaut or brain-surgeon (I hate math).
Unfortunately reality being what it is, girls have to bend and break their daydreams to fit reality.
Where am I going with this you wonder?
I’ve decided that although I may never find a true career, that makes me jump out of bed in the morning and desire to work long days; at least I can make the rest of my life extra meaningful and fulfilling to make up the difference.
Which brings me to SRDL.
What is God’s name is SRDL? What is MummyAnge up to now?
WELL! I believe I have found my tribe. At the very least I’ve had an epiphany!
SRDL stands for Saskatoon Roller Derby League. Yes, roller, as in roller-skates; and, no, I have never done this before. Although I had looked into it a few years ago I was unsuccessful in finding any information about the local league. As happenstance would have it, at a Ladies Night at the local Dundurn bar, a woman announced that this league did in fact exist and we were welcome to come on out and try.
First, if you know me, and this is the first you are hearing of this, you are likely shocked. I am not athletic by any stretch of the imagination. In addition, to go try something new, potentially (STRONG potential) to embarrass and injure myself, goes against everything my anxiety-prone personality would typically allow. But I’m doing it.
I decided I needed something for me; something that my daughters can respect and perhaps aspire to. Something to stop my mind from thinking about all the issues we are having at home, with grief, with challenges with our children, with work, with council and community commitments and on and on.
I feel myself mesmerized by the skill, grace and confidence of the senior members of the SRDL. It's inspiring, and intimidating. I imagine in those moments of awe, I'm feeling what Reece felt when she'd watch kids on Barney sing & dance or hear a piano playing- completely absorbed in the moment and wondering "how can I do that?".
My hope is that by entering into a new and positive ‘obsession’ I can honor Reece by being a better mom, partner and person.

What you can't know

Things are not always this bad...however, truth be told- it's always somewhere just under the surface. Grieving the loss of a child, is a pain that lays in wait. Waiting for your weakest, quietest moments. And in those times, when I've been run down, tired, fed up with the day-to-day - it takes hold.
This is what I think about in those moments:


You can't know the pain that makes me sick to my stomach, late at night when the house is quiet and I am struck, with the very real fear that I may forget her smell.

You can't know what I grieve for late at night, when my girls sleep and I am terrified someone's God will steal them too.

You can't know the terror I feel late at night, when I realize that the world around me has moved on, and never remembers her, and who she'd be right now, what she'd be doing, how she'd be playing, how she would be loving all of us.

You can't know what it is to loose the star of the show, the light of my life, my reason for being.

You can't know this pain. Mother Nature will not allow it. It runs too deep. Your world would stop. You wouldn't forget.

You can't know how alone this is, and how much on these nights, I would give everything to be with her for just one moment.


Just one.

And as much as I beg and plead for that one moment, I can't have it.

I feel her slipping further away and there is nothing I can do. Nothing you can say.

Because you can't know.