Tag Archives: remember

Walk For The Cure

I spent the summer of my freshman year of high school taking care of my great grandmother who had dementia. We didn’t live near each other growing up, so by the time I was taking care of her, she really didn’t know who I was. Still, she was sweet, loved to take walks and sing songs. She would chat about everything.

My great-grandma

But after that summer, I moved to another city and wasn’t able to visit as often. My grandma shared the struggles of taking care of her mom, moving her into a full-time facility, and watching her continue to decline. When she passed away, I was sad that she was gone, but I also felt joy knowing that she was once again whole and at rest from all of the fear and struggle she had to endure.

So, when my father-in-law got the diagnosis of dementia stemming from a series of mini-strokes, I knew where the road would lead. I knew at some point, he wouldn’t know who I was, or who my husband was, his own son. And eventually, I knew that all of his memories would slowly disappear altogether. Even though I had been here before, nothing can completely prepare you for what lies ahead. I had dealt with grief and loss in the past, but this kind of grief was different.

Michael and his dad

My therapist calls it ambiguous grief. The kind of grief one has when having a loved one with a terminal illness. It settles in long before they physically pass away. Every goodbye could be the last one. You don’t know how fast the decline will be, either mentally or physically. It can cause anxiety, numbness, or both, ebbing and flowing throughout the entire process. And for me, the most important thing I knew about this type of grief is that it shouldn’t be navigated alone.

Then, really by complete chance, I saw an advertisement for the Alzheimer Walk back in 2010. It was going to be at the Dallas Zoo, which sounded like a lot of fun. Plus, I knew that in the coming years, this organization was going to become more and more important to us as a resource and a community. I knew, like with my great-grandmother, that there was going to be a point when I would feel the overwhelming ambiguous grief and complete helplessness. I realized that participating in this cause was something we could do to support not only our families, but everyone who is affected by this disease.

Our first Walk back in 2010.

This will be our tenth year to walk. We walk for caretaker support, to provide resources and aid to people like my mother-in-law who are caring for loved ones with this disease. We walk to remember those like my great-grandmother who already passed away. We walk to remember those like my father-in-law who are presently in the grips of Alzheimer’s. We walk for those in the future who will face this disease, that there will not only be better research and medicine, but a complete cure.

Our team is trying to raise $500 dollars, and I’m personally trying to do my part by raising $250. If you are able to help us reach that goal, please click the link below. But even if you can’t support us financially this time around, please keep us in your prayers or happy thoughts as we approach the walk this year. Pray for good weather and that everyone there feels loved and supported, that they aren’t alone in the struggle.

Link to my Fundraising Page

Remembering My Daughters

This past Saturday was the second anniversary of my first daughter’s stillbirth.  And the day before Thanksgiving was when my second daughter, who passed away in August, was due.  I wanted to take a moment, on this blog, to remember both of them.

I don’t have a lot of memories of my daughters.  I don’t know what their cries or laughter sound like.  I don’t even know what color their eyes were.  But I do have a few memories that I would like to share in honor of them.

My second daughter loved to dance.  Anytime I was in the car, listening to the radio on full blast (like I always do when I’m alone), I could feel my daughter kick and jump.  She especially liked the beats of Meghan Trainor for some reason.  My first daughter was also energetic, but she was smaller so I didn’t feel her kicks as strongly.  However, I definitely felt her move around a few times.

Both of my daughters were shy when it came time for the ultrasounds.  They both would put their hands in front of their faces whenever it was time for their close-ups.  It was both frustrating and freaking adorable.

Both of my daughters are very much loved by me and my family.  Their short lives on this earth have inspired me to live my own life to help others who experience loss, too.  And I know that they have brought my family closer, reminding each of us what is most important.

I may not know much about my daughters.  But I know that they are safe and loved where they are.  I take comfort in that and I have hope that one day we will be reunited again.

Another Step in the Journey of a Miscarriage

I haven’t really talked lately about what has been going on in my journey to become a parent.  Waiting on God’s timing can be a very frustrating experience, as I’m sure all of you know.  That biological clock is no joke.

Losing my daughter is always in the back of my head.  I wonder in the quiet moments of my day what she would look like, what our life would be like, if she had been born alive, full term.  Some days are worse than others.  When my emotions are running high, it’s difficult to see past my pain.  But most of the time, life runs pretty smoothly.  Pretty awesomely, actually.

See, I have these incredible moments in my life that keep my head above the waves.  Sunrises that stretch across the sky in beautiful pink and yellow hues.  Laughter with my husband that makes my sides and cheeks hurt.  Conversations with friends that remind me I’m not alone.  Quiet moments with God that fill me with an unexplainable peace.


These moments help me get through the more painful ones.  The negative pregnancy tests.  When people ask if we have children.  When the conversation ends awkwardly after our reply that we don’t.  Moments of quiet grief, wondering if we will ever have a yes to that question.

But those are simply moments.  Overall, I’m doing okay.   I still wake up with hope and joy.  My days are still filled with new adventures and experiences.  My life is still filled with love and purpose.

And one day, I will shout from the rooftops that our family is growing.  One day I will hold my child in my arms.  One day, I will experience all the frustrations and pain and joy and excitement of watching my own child grow up.

And I will use my present experiences to extend compassion to those who are waiting for their one day.  Remind them that no day is worthless.  That hope is worth holding on to.  And that God is walking with them through their journey, just as He has continued walking with me.