Resolution for the New Year

I Resolve:

• That I will grieve as much and for as long as I feel like grieving,
and that I will not let others put a time table on my grief.

• That I will grieve in whatever way I feel like grieving, and I will
ignore those who try to tell me what I should or should not be feeling
and how I should or should not be behaving.

• That I will cry whenever and wherever I feel like crying, and that I
will not hold back my tears just because someone else feels I should
be "brave" or "getting better" or "healing by now."

• That I will talk about my child as often as I want to, and that I
will not let others turn me off just because they can't deal with
their own feelings.

• That I will not expect family and friends to know how I feel,
understanding that one who has not lost a child cannot possibly know
how I feel.

• That I will not blame myself for my child's death, and I will
constantly remind myself that I did the best job of parenting I could
possibly have done. But when feelings of guilt are overwhelming, I
will remind myself that this is a normal part of the grief process and
it will pass.

• That I will not be afraid or ashamed to seek professional help if I
feel it is necessary.

• That I will commune with my child at least once a day in whatever
way feels comfortable and natural to me, and that I won't feel
compelled to explain this communion to others or to justify or even
discuss it with them.

• I will keep the truth in my heart--the truth that my child is always
with me in spirit.

• That I will try to eat, sleep, and exercise every day in order to
give my body strength it will need to help me cope with my grief.

• To know that I am not losing my mind and I will remind myself that
loss of memory, feelings of disorientation, lack of energy, and a
sense of vulnerability are all a normal part of the grief process.

• To know that I will heal, even though it will take a long time.

• To let myself heal and not feel guilty about not feeling better
sooner.

• To remind myself that the grief process is circuitous--that is, I
will not make steady upward progress. And when I find myself slipping
back into the old moods of despair and depression, I will tell myself
that "slipping backward" is also a normal part of the mourning
process, and that these moods, too, will pass.

• To try to be happy about something for some part of every day,
knowing that at first, I may have to force myself to think cheerful
thoughts so eventually they can become a habit.

• That I will reach out at times and try to help someone else, knowing
that helping others will help me to get over my depression.

• That even though my child is gone, I will opt for life, knowing that
is what my child would want me to do.

Jingle Bells

Kerrigan's all-time favorite Christmas song was "Jingle Bells." It was one of the first songs she learned to sing, and even though she never really got the words right, she put her whole heart and soul into singing. Here's a video of one of the first time she sang it for me.

The First Year

For many people, Thanksgiving is a time for family, food, and football. It was for us, too, up until last year. When our Kerrigan passed away Thanksgiving morning, the day took on an entirely new meaning for us. That was the day our lives were shattered and our family broken apart. We lost a little piece of our heart and soul that day, and since then, there's been an emptiness in our lives that will never be filled.

For us, Thanksgiving will always carry with it the stigma of being the day we lost our precious daughter. And, for me, the day has lost all meaning. This year, I had the mentality of "Why should I be thankful when such a large piece of my life is missing?" But then I have to remind myself that I have a wonderful husband who has stood by my side and held me up every day, a beautiful little boy who has brought his own little light to our neverending darkness, and a family who has offered us nothing but love and support through these challenging times.

We had been told that the days leading up to the anniversary are harder than the day itself. I now fully agree with that statement. The week leading up to Thanksgiving was difficult beyond words. The few days before Kerrigan passed are now cemented in my head, and I couldn't help but run through every second of every day. The day before Thanksgiving, we had watched "The Muppet Christmas Carol" and she had helped me make Jell-o salad. She'd been so excited to push the buttons on the blender that she did so before I had a chance to get the lid on. Needless to say, the kitchen and I were soon covered in hot, sticky Jell-o mess! I remember how meticulously she counted out her three handfuls of marshmallows for the Jell-o, how she had desperately wanted to go sledding down the huge snow pile outside the car care center, and how we had to tell her "No" because she was running a lowgrade fever and we didn't want it to get any worse. She made sure she had her special can of olives that she had picked out just for her. She was so proud of it that she showed it to everyone she happened upon in the grocery store. We had ramen noodles for dinner, and she couldn't contain her excitement about playing with her cousins the next day. She went to bed like every other night...pajamas, story, night-night kisses, and a cup of strawberry milk. And then sometime between 5:30 and approximately 7:30, she was gone....and our lives would never be the same.

We thought that time was going to crawl by without her special little spirit in our lives to brighten our days. However, the opposite has become the norm. Time has sped up and slipped past us. A year has gone by like a week. We celebrated the anniversary of her loss, and it seemed like she's only been gone for a few days. It so hard to believe that the little brother she was so excited for will be a year old in two weeks. I wish time would slow down a little so that we can enjoy our time with Jasper more, but, at the same time, I am exceptionally thankful that time is speeding by. It just means that we're that much closer to the day when we'll be reunited with our sweet girl. Until then, we get by day to day...relishing in the knowledge that she isn't far. Her spirit is still here in our home, and we know that she's always watching over us.

Honey, Honey

Here's the prequel to Kerrigan's "Crocodiles and Honey, Honey" video.

Happy Halloween!!

Basket Case

This is one of the best examples of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" in the Richardson household. Don't ask me what on earth my daughter was doing when she decided that a plastic play grocery basket made a nice helmet. Don't ask me what possessed her to continually wear it while bouncing on her zebra. Don't ask because I simply could not give you any sort of answer. Kerrigan is as Kerrigan does. It wasn't only her name...it was a way of life. And in her way of life, baskets make perfectly good helmets!

What's Normal Now?

What is Normal Now?

NORMAL is trying to decide what to take to the cemetery for Christmas, birthdays, Valentine's Day, and Easter.

NORMAL is feeling like you know how to act and are more comfortable with a funeral than a wedding or a birthday party. Yet, feeling a stab of pain in your heart when you smell the flowers, see the casket, and all the crying people.

NORMAL is feelin glike you can't sit through another minute without screaming because you just don't like to sit through church anymore, and yet, at the same time, feeling like you have more faith in God than you had before.

NORMAL is having tears waiting behind every smile when you realize someone important is missing from all the important events in your family's life.

NORMAL is not sleeping because a thousand "what if's" go through your head constantly.

NORMAL is having the TV on the minute you walk into the house to have some "noise" because the silence is deafening.

NORMAL is telling the story of your child's death as if it were an everyday common event and then gasping in horror at how awful it sounds, and yet realizing it has become part of normal conversation.

NORMAL is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your child's memory and their birthday and surviving those days, and trying to fin a balloon or flag that fits the occassion. "Happy Birthday"? Not really!

NORMAL is a new friendship with a bereaved parent and meeting over coffee and talking and crying together over your chilren and worrying together over the surviving children.

NORMAL is being too tired to care if you paid your bills, cleaned your house, did the laundry, or if there is food in the house.

NORMAL is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have 4 or 5 children because you will never see this person again, and is it worth explaining that one of them has passed away. And yet, when you say 4 children to avoid the problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your child.

NORMAL is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for you to feel, so that everyone around you will think you are "NORMAL."