Because of Cora…More on infant loss and grieving through the pain and happiness.

Infant loss. Baby girl Cora Jane LeFlufy. June 2, 2010.
June 2, 2018.
Infant loss. Baby girl Cora Jane LeFlufy. June 2, 2010.
Today would be Cora’s 8th birthday. Eight years ago today, she lit up our souls with her unexpected arrival. Eight years ago tomorrow, she plunged us into the abyss of grief and darkness with her untimely departure.
Eight years-some of them in a blink and some of them with the endless, painful ticking seconds on a clock composed of grief and despair.
Every year, these two days come and go and I power through a gauntlet of emotions-sadness, anger, loneliness, wonder, awe, gratitude-
but the journey always takes me to the same place: peace.
All that we went through-before, during, and after Cora-was a gift. Yes, you read that right. A gift.
It seems strange to think of it that way, but death (especially the death of a child) has this uncanny ability to trigger growth of our self-awareness and understanding. Grief shows us who we really are-good, bad, ugly-and, if we’re lucky enough (like I was) it shows us how to accept all aspects of ourselves and how to make changes that make us feel better about ourselves and our life’s purpose.
Because of Cora, I now understand all my shit and I know how to deal with myself.
Because of Cora, I no longer waste time on shit that doesn’t matter to me nor do I languish over anything that makes my heart hurt or causes me to question my feelings. If it makes me feel sucky, I feel through it and move the fuck on.
Because of her, I give less fucks. If something doesn’t directly affect my life or cause injustice for someone or something I believe in, I simply don’t give a fuck about it. Don’t take this the wrong way, I still give fucks, just about the things that matter most to me. I don’t care what people think/say/do about me unless it physically hurts me. I don’t care what people think/say/do about you unless it physically hurts you. But I still care about all the animals…they are one fuck I will always give. 🙂
Because of Cora, I’m both more compassionate and less tolerant (more about this in my next blog).
Because of Cora I don’t beat myself up over my mistakes and I’m faster to forgive myself and others.
Because of Cora, I’ve tapped into the power and presence of Source energy-where I can feel her and my other babies and my mom and so many others.
Because of Cora, I’m a much better human than I ever was without her (even though I am much less kind to whiners and complainers than I used to be).
How can a gal not feel grateful for that kind of gift? She was worth every second of the 30 hours we had with her.
Happy 8th Birthday, Cora Jane. 🤸🏼‍♂️👼🏼🤸🏼‍♂️

June 3, 2018

unplugging a baby from life support

Up to this point, it has been too painful to look at this pic, let alone share it.

It seems fairly boring unless you know that this is a pic of Cora’s BC Children’s caregivers unplugging her from life support. Now that I’ve told you that, it has a lot more impact, yes?

It was the first and last time I held her and she died in my arms almost immediately after they stopped her machines.
They wanted me to hold her for awhile while the machines were keeping her body alive, but I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t handle one more second of knowing she was already gone while machines kept her blood pumping and heart beating.

I brought her into the world and I was determined to hold her when she left it again.
After all, it was the least I could do for her after allowing people to poke and prod her for 24 hours.

Born healthy and thriving only one day before and braindead 30 hours later.

It’s hard to wrap my brain around, even eight years later.  Even knowing the sequence of events and the tragic mistakes that led to it, and regardless of how happy I am in my life right now, it still hurts if I think about it.

This pic is a painful reminder that love is a gift and we never know how long we have with our loved ones. It’s a reminder to love harder, laugh larger, give less fucks about the small annoyances and what others think of you (as I may have already mentioned a few times above…). None of that crap matters. Remind yourself regularly how blessed you are to have your fave people in your life (even when they annoy you so much you sometimes want to hit them upside the head with a plastic shovel…). As surreal as it sounds, they could be gone in a blink.

8 years ago today. RIP Cora Jane.

Surviving Infant Loss: You gotta feel it to heal it!

Call it a combo of smoke constantly blocking out the sun, writer’s block, and social media sadness overload (or maybe it should be called Social Media Sickness – SMS)…Whatever it is, here I am, feeling like a bag of shit in the middle of my fave time of year and carrying that heavy cloak of grief on my shoulders again. Of course, it’s all for a really good reason.

Let me explain.

When I say “writer’s block” what I actually mean is this:

Trying to write a book about the death of our daughter (in hopes that I can send it out into the world that other grieving parents may find it, read it, relate to it, and understand that there is light in the darkness and still hope for happiness) is really brutal on the heartstrings045_DSC_0067-123-Edit.

I’ve spent the last seven weeks reliving every horrific moment of Cora’s life and death and even though I thought the darkest aspects of my grief were gone forever, I’m realizing they are always there, lurking below the layers of seven years of life that have grown over them. I may have buried them, but now I’m the Indiana Jones of Memory, just digging that shit up and bringing it back to the surface to cause chaos and wreak havoc on my heart and my life again.

Suddenly I’m feeling everything deeply, crying all the time, and I have no energy to be social or put myself out there into the world. It’s exactly how it was when Cora first died and I was exhausted, angry at the world, and intolerant of bullshit…Oh! Wait. I’ve always been intolerant of bullshit. Ha!

After I came back from the other side, I truly thought that all my grief was gone. I felt so alive and so full of love and understanding for the world. I felt as though I would never again feel sad or angry or ever let the state of the world drag me down. Of course, anyone who has ever died and come back understands that human emotions and thoughts eventually return and immerse us in the day-to-day ups and downs of life again. We can’t escape our human experience -we are not meant to- but I am still genuinely surprised that I can feel grief this strongly again after seven years.

I saw a post on IG the other day and bells went off in my brain. Life is a spiral where we continually come back to the things we think we’ve conquered and understood so we can see the deeper truths in them. This is how spiritual growth happens. This is how we build up our strength and resilience – often through expanding our willingness to be vulnerable.

So I get it.

I get it that it fucking SUCKS to believe I’ve conquered a massive mountain only to find myself standing at the mid-way point again, staring up into the unknown above me with the weight of grief pressing me down, making it tough to keep climbing. I get that I will probably always be feeling it in one way or another until I, once again, head back to the other side.

I also get that I can’t just quit writing about her because it’s painful. I can’t just give up on this gut-driven, fierce compulsion to share our story in hopes that our pain will resonate with others and help them through their own. I get that it’s worth it and that I wouldn’t be compelled to do it if I weren’t meant to. I am and I will, even if it tears the scars open again.

When this happens to us, we can’t just shut it out. You gotta feel it to heal it, even when it pops up at inconvenient times or in my fave season when I should be full of light and mischief and beer!

So I’m rolling with it -feeling the feels, as they say – and balancing it out with exercise, friends, tears, beers, and belly laughs.

Hopefully, when this book is done and I’ve once again run the gamut of emotion and heartache, I will be able to sit back and feel the love and light of the incredibly positive impact Cora had on me and so many others in her short time with us.

Cheers.

Cora’s Would Be 7th Birthday.

NOTE: Repost of a post I wrote on Cora’s 3rd Birthday and then again last year. I just couldn’t write about her this year – something about it hurt a little too much.

Life, like childbirth, can be simultaneously painfully messy and beautifully rewarding.

We walk the paths we are meant to walk, even when they cause astronomical amounts of pain, because those paths lead to growth and new awareness. All we have to do is trust the journey and it will always take us where we are meant to be.

Losing our newborn (only one day after she was born) was definitely not how I imagined I would begin my latest journey of colossal transformation. It’s also not something I would wish on anyone, but the rub of it is I also know how good it can be for people to go through something so devastating. I am always grateful for every lesson I have learned from the experience of losing Cora, finding my way through the epic journey of grief, the mind-blowing number of people she touched and continues to touch, and the incredible people I’ve come into contact with as a result of her death. I’m grateful for the growth of my soul, especially the connection I’ve developed with my dearly departeds (who are always with me) and my soul guides (who are always whispering in my ear).

I honestly wouldn’t change any of it, even if I could, because it shaped me and opened me up to the bigger picture. I always say that her death awakened my soul and it’s absolutely true.

This is a repost from Cora’s 3rd birthday, but it’s still 100% relevant.

I remember everything about you. Your big hands and adorable “Johnson” feet. Your beautiful, huge, squishy lips. I remember how your fingers felt wrapped around my finger and how you felt in my arms. I remember the feel of your soft skin and your silky hair – so much of it and so curly, like your dad’s. I remember the beautiful sound of your tiny, soft cries when you first graced us with your presence and how your little face screwed up in anger when the NICU team was assessing you.

I remember how hot your head and feet were when I would cup them in my hands and sing to you, trying to get your vitals to stabilize. And I remember the one and only time that you opened your eyes and looked up at me while you squeezed my finger. You seemed so strong that I thought nothing would ever take you from us.

I also remember how your eyes became blank and empty a few hours before you left us and how your daddy had to look away until the nurse closed your eyes because he couldn’t bear the thought of you already being gone. I remember looking down at your beautiful, but extremely swollen face as you were dying in my arms and I remember thinking that no person should have to lose two babies in one lifetime. I remember knowing, instinctively, that this time was different and that it was going to change me completely and that my life would never be close to the same again.

I remember absolutely everything about you and our brief time together – all of the pain, beauty, joy, heartbreak, and grief. I remember it all so vividly, but what I remember the most is love. A love so full that it radiated through me – all-encompassing.

If I forget everything else about our experience with you – your hands, your feet, those lips, the feel of your soft skin and cheek against my lips; the pain and all the other emotions of bearing and then losing a miracle child – I’m going to cling to the love forever. That love was the greatest gift I have ever received.

Happy 6th Birthday, baby girl. My gift to you is to love all that I am while I continue to carry all that you are inside my heart.

DSC_0040-74-21