Nathalie Himmelrich

Inspiring Hope | Finding healthy ways of Grieving | Writer

dear... letters

Dear Fear

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Photo by Melanie Wasser on Unsplash

Having published my book Grieving Parents: Surviving Loss as a Couple a year ago and being weeks away from having the book published in its German translation, I’ve been reminded of the vulnerability it brings: Having my name out there, my opinions, my story, my suggestions – they all leave room for criticism.

The idea of having your most vulnerable time of your life neatly packaged in 200 odd pages for the whole world to read can bring up fear, as I was reminded in a recent conversation with a fellow grief coach, who is contemplating putting her story into a book. I said: “fear has a role of protection” and “have a conversation with the fear” which I thought was a great suggestion for myself too – maybe even for you?
Here is mine.

My conversation with fear

Dear Fear,

We need to talk. You’ve been with me on and off all my life. I know you protect me from pain, hurt and disappointment. I get it. I appreciate your concern and caring protection.

Whereas in the past you visited from time to time, it seems now you’ve moved in permanently.
In the past few years since the death of my child and my mother you’ve become ever present. I can feel you in my bones. I can feel you in my recurring thoughts, day and night. It’s draining my energy to have you live here with me. Is it that you feel I can’t continue living without you?

You’ve been with me, holding me while I held my daughter as she passed away and you sent your companions ‘numbness’ and ‘shock’ to ease the pain. It worked for a while… Until I noticed that I couldn’t avoid the pain. Even if you would have done anything for me to avoid it, it wasn’t possible on the long run.

You’re with me all of the time

You kept me at home, under the duvet, ignored calls for me and had me stare blankly into the world. You’re with me, every step of the way, alongside my parenting journey. I can even see you in my husband’s eyes, hear you in his ‘be careful, or you’ll hurt yourself’ sentences. You’re right by my side in every step my daughter takes and you make me scream at her for fear she might get hurt – and for fear that I would get hurt in the process of it. That’s when you send your colleague ‘self-judgement’ to come in right after you’ve done your job.

What you couldn’t turn away was the hurt I felt from someone’s thoughtless comments. Friends have disappeared and you make me wonder what I might have done wrong. You’re worried I’ll end up old and lonely. At times you’ve even gently suggested not to mention my daughter, when the question asked was: “Is this your only child?”

You’re present when I talk, walk and even when I sleep. You tell me to become better again, to become a nice sociable person again, or people won’t like me. I worry more, sleep less, question more, think deeper.

‘Anger’ isn’t your friend, nor colleague or companion. You’re afraid of the anger because you can no longer control me, while he’s around. You fear the things I’d do or say when the anger is around. You fear the people that will leave me for my anger. You make me afraid of my anger and its destructive tendency.

I need to be brave

As much as I appreciate your concern and care, you’ve also kept me from stepping out and doing things, trying things in a new way. As true as it is that I’m tired of pain and hurt, I also need to be brave to make a difference, to continue living boldly and allow my daughter to do just the same.

How can we find a way together?

This article was first published August 5, 2015 in Still Standing Magazine.

Thank You, Friend

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handlettered quote
Handlettered quote by Nathalie Himmelrich

Thank you, friend, who is still addressing Christmas cards by including A’Mya’s name.
You are one of those who get it. Seeing her name makes my heart sing and my face light up with a smile.

Thank you, friend, who shares Facebook memories with me adding meaningful words. You connect me with the past in a way that is filled with grateful remembrance. It’s through your words that I can hear you remember her with me.

Thank you, friend, who checks in, year after year, on specific dates. Anniversaries don’t just go away because my child is dead. We celebrate her and love her from afar. No presents are given but she is still here with us. In our hearts.

It seems to me that when I write about A’Mya, some people take that as me being sad or depressed. It is not (always) the case. I’m remembering my child. This is honouring her memory because I don’t have the luxury to make memories as we do with the children that are alive.

For many it is inconceivable that there are daily situation that make me remember. Most of those are not even through my own rummaging through photos or memorabilia, which we anyway have very few. They are just daily mundane incidents that are somehow wired in with A’Mya shaped hole in my heart. Many times I can’t even explain why or how – and it is not important. I don’t have to justify my heart’s longing for my child.

She is my child. She is right here with me, even if not visible to the world. This is just the point. Because she is not physically here, some people assume that she does not or no longer exist. We all have thoughts, wishes, dreams and even though they don’t all exist (in reality) they are still here.

Thank you, friend, you who acknowledges A’Mya’s existence, even if you have never physically met her. You validate her importance to my heart. You validate my heart.

Thank you, friend, who understands that triggers are neither rational nor logical. Your acceptance of my vulnerable heart makes me trust your ability to share my tears with, those that will remain invisible to the rest.

THANK YOU, FRIEND.

This article was first published December 7th, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

Dear Old Me

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grief quote

It’s been a long time since I last saw you, in fact it seems like an eternity. Still, I remember you. And I miss you, old me.

You had an air of realistic positivity. New things you approached with curiosity and delight. Even though I would say you were cautious, you also loved the thrill of skydiving or meeting new people. Your open and friendly nature was easy to be around and you generally enjoyed life.

You were not ‘old me*’ then, you were young and energetic. It’s just to me, it’s seem that you are no longer…

By no means were you completely naive but you had this childlike openness to new things. You even approached pregnancy with this openness, even though you weren’t considered ‘young’ anymore. The unexpected news of identical twins was met with a burst of laughter and delight.

Even though you had a sensitive nature all along and experienced deep emotions, you enjoyed life and took its experiences with glee. The picture I keep in my mind is you skipping along the path, pointing out the colors of the clouds in the evening sky and hugging trees.

I don’t do that anymore. Serious and many times overly anxious would be the words to describe the new normal me. Highly sensitive to noises and crowds, nowadays I prefer to stay at home over a night out. People around me probably don’t think of me as easy to be around.

The forest and its natural beauty still brings me absolute pleasure and joy, or should I say ‘again’ as it hasn’t for what seems years. Just yesterday I laid under the warm towels from the dryer, enjoying the smell and the comfort of the warmness. You did enjoy this and I just remembered as I was doing it. I had forgotten you, old me …

There seems to be many things that I have forgotten about you. First I was upset, really upset that you were no longer around. Screaming and shouting for you to return, for things to be like when you were me. After some time I realized that loss had stolen you from me. The only way to continue was to get to know the new normal me. Forced acceptance.

After some months or years I slowly forgot you. With that I noticed that (many) friends of the old me had also disappeared. The new me made new friends, mostly other new normal ones. And life moved on as much as I wished to turn back the clock.

The link between you, dear old me, and the new me is however never forgotten. It’s right here in my heart. The child we both dearly miss.

Maybe you would have never left, if the child was still with us.

Missing you,

The New Normal Me

*NOTE REGARDING THE USE OF ‘OLD ME’:

The term ‘old’ is not to mean old by age, but the person before the loss.

This article was first published November 2, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

Dear Non-Bereaved Parent

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grief quote by nathalie himmelrich
Handlettered Quote by Nathalie Himmelrich

I know you care for me and am so glad you’re reading this. I know that you can’t fully comprehend, nor would you want to, what it means to be a bereaved parent. Honestly, I’m still finding out for myself.

To live without my child is not something I ever wanted to learn and yet it’s what I have to. I see that you want me to feel better. Let me assure you, you’re doing the best you can to soothe my pain, yet it is here and will be here… until it lessens.

It won’t ever go away completely and this is ok. Can you be ok about it with me?

Remember my child with me

I hope you will have the courage to remember my child with me until we part. Please remember this: You may speak her (or his or their) name, you may remember her birthday or anniversary with me, whether that is by sending me a text message, card or flowers – it doesn’t matter, it’s the thought that counts.

Please do not fear my tears or my sadness, it means that I’m thinking of her or missing her. It’s not that I am permanently broken or sick, just broken-hearted and grieving.

Please have the courage to sit with me and my pain, without needing to fix it. At times I might say “I need some time to myself” but more often, I do appreciate you being here, even without any words, keeping me company or doing something with me. Other times I might need a distraction and I might even laugh and experience some joy and then feel guilty again and cry in the next moment.

It’s ok, this is life and death: complex and paradoxical and not always to be understood.

The old me is gone

You probably feel that I have changed. You might even hope and wait for me to return to the ‘old me’ again. I’m sorry but that won’t happen. I’m forever changed.

Losing a child is like losing a limb. Even though the scars of the amputation will heal, it’s a permanent change and as much as it sucks, it is what is.

I have to get used to it.

Will you bear the chance to get to know me as your ‘new normal friend’?

I’ve chosen you as my friend because you have a big compassionate heart, yet I know it’s (almost) impossible to understand the unimaginable.

Don’t say things like: “Wouldn’t it be time to move on?” or “At least you have…”

I know you might say those kinds of things in an attempt to support me.

I know you’re well-meaning yet I’ve become sensitive and certain sentences are like shards of glass on an already wounded heart.

Even if you don’t understand, would you allow your heart to reach out and trust the sensitivity of my broken heart? (For examples on what to say instead, click here.)

I might not be up to celebrating pregnancy news, I might even feel jealous of those lucky mothers who are joyously carrying their children.

It’s not that I’m mean, it’s because my heart longs for my child and seeing those mothers with their children is a reminder of what I don’t have.

With time and healing, I will be sad less often or cry less often as at the beginning.

This does not mean I’m ‘over it’.

My child lives on in my heart and I will never get over the fact that I’m never to hold her hand in life.

Please do not confuse my healing with ‘been there, done that’.

My child might have gone with the wind, yet I’m still searching the world for signs of its fleeting presence.

Thank you for being here for me and with me.

Thank you for being my friend and having remained my friend through this.

Thank you for creating a new friendship with my ‘new normal’ self even though we wanted everything to remain as it was…

Thank you for remembering my child and therefore honouring me as her mother.

Wishing you peace,
The bereaved Mother

This article was first published August 3, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

Learning To Live Without You

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child asleep
Image from Nathalie Himmelrich’s personal archives

Dear Child of Mine,

Exactly 5 years ago I conceived you and your sister. I remember it so clearly because I reread the journal entries from that time, describing every day in January. Given our journey to bring you into this world hadn’t happened through natural conception, we started assisted conception at the beginning of January and I decided to document our adventure. But this is a story to be told another time.

Our journey brought us both of you, one to raise on planet earth, and one to learn to live without here present in physical form. I’m still learning… every day.

I’m finding it hard to find the words to express my thoughts and feelings in regards to learning to live without you. It’s something I neither expected nor wanted to learn.

Some have said to me: “No one should have to learn this”.
Others believe: “You were meant to learn this”.
Still others reply: “That’s not even a ‘learning’”.

I should?
I have to?
I never wanted to.
I need to?
I must?
… live without you?

Truthfully, I don’t exactly live without you. You are on my mind, every day. Some days more and some days less. We speak about you. Your sister speaks about you often. She misses you, more so lately, as she really understands the concept of impermanence. She wants a sibling to play with. She doesn’t understand and asks me repeatedly why you couldn’t stay.

I often wonder what the psychological imprint of an identical twin, with whom she spent the first 9 months of her life side by side, leaves behind.

I wonder whether there is consciousness that still connects you from your side with us on our side. We still think of you so often, what about you?

I wonder what you would be like, whether you’d be as energetic as your sister, as verbal and argumentative… I don’t need any help imagining what you would look like given you are identical twin sisters but I wonder how you would be different from your sister.

Would you have the same blond locks, the irresistible giggle when we’d play tickle games? Would you be as bossy as your sister and if so, who would be the one telling the other what to do?

I’m sure your kisses and hugs would be as sweet as your sister’s. Your enjoyment and excitement would match hers. You would probably listen to stories side by side and sing along with Frozen’s theme song together. I don’t doubt you’d enjoy art class, theatre and play group as much as she does.

I’m learning to live without you. I like this statements as it implies a process, something that is happening. It does not proclaim an end or a beginning. I live, without you living by my side. It doesn’t mean I forget you. How could I. Why would I? There is no need to forget. In fact, it is healthier to remember with reverence.

Recently I read on a friend’s post, celebrating his son’s (who had passed as a toddler) 19th birthday: ‘Still learning to live without you’.

Still? There are different meanings to this word. Most likely in this context, it means: up to and including the present or the time mentioned; even now (or then) as formerly.

I have accepted the loss.
Still, I miss you. I miss your unique giggle.
Still, I love you. I love the memory of you and your sister in my womb.

Still, you are part of me.
Still, I am your mother and you are mine. My child.

As Lexi Behrndt from Scribbles & Crumbs so aptly said: “No passage of time will ever change this.” (Quote as I remember it…)

¸.•´*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*`•.¸

I love you. Full stop. 

¸.•´*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*`•.¸

This article was first published January 6, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

My Dear ‘Would –Be’ Child

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Handlettered quote by Nathalie Himmelrich
Handlettered quote by Nathalie Himmelrich

You are my ‘would-be’ child, you who would have turned five (four | three) last week. The children from Kindergarten would have celebrated with you in the morning. The rest of our family would have visited in the afternoon. We would be singing Happy Birthday to you and you would have impatiently ripped open your presents and whooped in joy.

Excitement would be here, given that you just started Kindergarten two weeks ago. You would say ‘I’m a big girl now’. I would walk with you and your sister to Kindergarten every day and I’d pick you up before lunch. Your sister would fight with you over the toys you both want to play with at the very same time. Your Kindergarten teacher would have two sets of identical twins in her class this year! You and your sister would each talk to one of the twin boys that live just a few doors down our street, and soon you would walk to Kindergarten with them, holding hands. There would not be one Kindergarten child missing this year.

Both of you would want my attention, often probably at the same time. It wouldn’t always be easy. Both of you talking at the same time would fry my brain. Your sister would have someone to play with and talk to, someone to stay awake with or wake up in the morning. You would share your toys and books and – of course – also fight over them and throw them around in anger.

You would love sweets, especially lollies and Gummibears. I would hear you scream for ice cream and say ‘mmmmh’ when eating homemade chocolate cake. Your favorite meal would be spaghetti. If you could, you would start the day eating an ice cream and drinking cordial. On special occasions you’d be equally happy if Daddy would make you banana pancakes. At any chance you would want to lick the bowl when I was preparing a cake. But then you would dislike brushing teeth not matter the time of the day.

Mostly I would hug and kiss you, my child, I would hold your hand and feel your soft skin. I would brush your curly locks and bear your screams for me to stop because the brush pulls on the knots. You would want me to braid your hair or make pony or piggy tails.

OH, MY DEAR ‘WOULD-BE’ CHILD…

I would do anything to have sleepless nights, difficult discussions or an angry face telling me to go away if I could…
Anything to have you kick me at night sleeping in the same bed when you’re sick or scared of the monsters under your bed…
Anything to see you learn to ride your bike, even if it meant you’d fall and many times I’d pick you up and I’d sooth your bruises…

Sadly you’re my would-be child, the one that lives in my heart.
The would-be five year old but forever three days old.
Even if you’re not seen by the world out there, you are with me every day, in my heart, in my thoughts, in my dreams, in my sleepless nights, in my quite moments.

You belong to me as I belong to you.
You are part of me and I am part of you.

Your Mama, always.

NOTE:

* I’ve previously heard that some psychologists recommend bereaved parents ‘do not grow up your child in your imagination’. My personal experience and that as a grief counsellor is that it is absolutely normal and common to do so. As painful as those ‘would-be’ thoughts can be, they are also a normal way for parents to live out their dreams and hopes of a life that was cut short, the would-be life of their child.
“It is normal for parents to report that they having an ongoing relationship with their child through their memories and mental life.” (Worden J.W. 2002)

This article was first published September 7, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.