Death

Choice

Posted on by Lauren

I spent the better part of my thirties examining my past to better understand my present.

Now in my forties, I feel like I’ve got a solid understanding of how I came to be who I am. 

I understand that while I will never be able to fill the gaps for that lonely, lost little girl of my past, I sure can provide my own girls with a solid foundation. 

And instead of wallowing in what happened, I can forgive myself for my missteps, buckle up my shoes and keep walking, eyes forward. 

My childhood friends and I always mimicked my mom’s “You have a choice, Lauren.” speech. But my mom gets the final laugh because, she was right!

There are always going to be people we’d rather not be around or challenging, unavoidable life events.

We can’t choose those people or those events but we can choose how we handle them. 

It’s how we respond that matters.

I have quite a few friends enduring some major life changes this holiday season- deaths of loved ones, divorce and general heartache. 

To them and to all of you reading, I reach out my hand to hold yours and to remind you that in this holy season, you can also put those hands together in prayer to ask for God’s help. 

You’re not alone. 

We never are. 

That’s one choice we can’t make. 

Wishing you love, peace and joy this holiday season. 

Camille Vaughan Photography

Brave

Posted on by Lauren

I only knew to ask because I had already lost someone to suicide. 

Every story is different. 

But the common theme is, 

No one ever saw it coming. 

So, how do we change it? How do we help?

We courageously ask:

Have you thought of ending your life?

It’s a terrifying ask because we don’t want to hear the answer I heard:

“Yes. Last month.”

All I could think is Thank God I didn’t wait a minute longer to tell this person:

You’re not alone. 

We are not giving up on you, even when you give up on yourself. 

It takes bravery to ask and for them to answer. 

It’s June now, but May we all be so brave to ask.

Just ask.

Break

Posted on by Lauren

She was uncharacteristically angry. Snapping at her sisters with venom dripping from her teeth. 

Emmett and I looked at one another, eyes wide, silently wondering, “What in the actual hell?”

We chalked it up to stress before a big gymnastics meet. Perhaps she was feeling anxious. 

But her seething anger seeped from every crevice until finally, I took her aside and asked, “What is going on?”

And that’s when the dam of tears broke. She broke. 

“I’M SAD ABOUT OREO!”

Ohhhhhhhhh. Yes. This makes a lot more sense, now. 

6 family members. 1 loss. 

So many different coping mechanisms. 

Those that grieve obviously and openly (me). 

Those that grieve and move forward.

And those that bury and try to cope without ever fully addressing it. 

“Harper, trying to contain your grief without openly releasing it is like trying to contain your exploding slime. It will find its way out of its container.”

I encouraged her to write but she didn’t want to. “It will make me sad.” 

But you already are sad. 

Days later, she finally relented. 

She put on the sad music and allowed herself to get washed away in the flood of anguish that is losing a beloved pet. 

It’s too soon to know how much it helped but a writer myself, I know it couldn’t have hurt. 

6 family members. 1 loss. 

So many different coping mechanisms. 

We break. 

Thank You

Posted on by Lauren

I can’t admit to a silver lining because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to reverse the sudden loss of our beloved pet. 

But surely, I can recognize that in this time of deep grief and loss, our friends and family have surprised and overwhelmed us with great love. 

Oreo passed away the first night we were out of town. The news shook us and so did the minute we returned to an empty home ten days later. 

Grief consumed us the second we walked in-he wasn’t where we expected him to be. 

Instead, flowers were. 

Multiple bouquets of flowers, homemade cards and gifts greeted us, softening the deafening blow of his absence. 

In the weeks that followed, gifts continued to arrive- garden statues, grave markers, sun-catchers and a light memorial that we look at every. single. day. 

It’s no silver-lining. I wouldn’t trade this support for the life of our rabbit. 

But it sure is nice to know we aren’t alone in our grief; 

That our friends truly understand the depth of our loss and are brave-enough to acknowledge it. 

To ask us how we are doing, a month later. 

To hug us. 

To allow us to continue to cry. 

Thank you. 

Sad

Posted on by Lauren

“You don’t get to tell me about “sad”.”

Anyone who has lost someone will tell you that grief is non-linear.

Some days you realize it’s been several hours since you thought of your loved one which then triggers a new wave of sadness, realizing how the passing time has shaped your grief. 

Grief surprises my family at any point, all throughout any regular day. 

Nights are the most challenging, when my daughters lie down to sleep and miss their bunny brother. 

Walking into the living room to see the empty fireplace where he sat upon his throne is hardest for me. And the other morning before school, when I went to grab a glass bowl out of the cupboard and realized it was the one we used as his water dish. I openly wept.

I had to correct my husband, someone who has never owned a pet before, when he referenced the point in time when we would “get over” our loss of Oreo. 

No. 

That’s simply not how grief works. 

You never, ever “get over” the loss. 

Instead, I recently came across an article about grief as a ball in a box that contains a pain button. In the beginning, the ball is large and almost always triggers the pain but in time, the ball gets smaller, hitting that grief button less often. Still, the intensity of the pain of the loss never dulls. It’s as if it just happened, no matter how much time has passed. 

When we first heard the shocking, tragic news, I encouraged my girls to grieve openly. Not to hide. Suppressing only prolongs. We wailed and howled. Each girl took turns collapsing into my arms; sometimes, I held all four at once. We were away from home and we were broken. 

Others nearby thought a close human family member must have died. When they learned it was “just” our rabbit, they were relieved and had a hard time understanding the intensity and duration of our sadness. 

“I’m sorry our grief makes you uncomfortable.” I quickly retorted.  

But I will never apologize for the open expression of our sadness. 

“You don’t get to tell me about “sad”.” -Taylor Swift “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?”

Camille Vaughan Photography

Prevent

Posted on by Lauren

I remember. 

I wish I could but I never will forget the supreme loneliness I felt as a child. 

And I suppose that is why, as an adult, I feel so committed to seeing children.

Physical presence is not enough. 

Neither is saying “I care.” 

It’s action. 

Before I took the pills that landed me in the hospital, before I stood on the edge of the balcony threatening to jump, I cut myself as a way to ease the pain. 

I was 12 years old. 

So, when my daughter exhibits signs of distress, 

I take her seriously. 

When minimal interventions (intentional time together, changes to routine, etc.) fail to work, I take action: therapy, medication. 

Prevention is not easy

But it sure is preferred to regret. 

Love is Love

Posted on by Lauren

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Far

Posted on by Lauren

I spent the better part of my first forty years desperate for others to understand how far I’ve come from where I started. 

Surely, they’d respect and understand me more?

But now I know, we all have stories, untold. 

And it’s best to approach all with the grace we’ve always wished upon ourselves. 

Hold my hand. 

Lean in. 

We’ve come so far. 

Camille Vaughan Photography

Rescue

Posted on by Lauren

My daughter almost drowned today.

She’s a strong swimmer and had spent the past 7.5 hours in and out of the ocean.

It was the last ten minutes of our day on the beach, when she swam out to retrieve her sister. 

Her daddy was walking towards the trash cans.

I was 100 yards away, in my chair, recognizing that she was no longer on the sand bar but being pulled by the current. 

Only her head was visible when I started to run.  

She climbed onto me as I swam parallel to the shore, out of the current and into safety. 

Adrenaline coursed through my body as a lifeguard pulled up on his four wheeler.

“Nice rescue.” He offered. 

Apparently, as he tossed our trash into the can, my husband heard the guards talking on the stand about a mom running to her child

He turned and saw Emma in my arms.

“My God.”  He shook his head in disbelief. 

“Thank God you were watching.  I turned my back for just a second.”

And that’s how long it takes for someone to drown.  

It’s only been a few hours, but I can tell my relationship with my third-born has changed. 

She looks at me differently.

She has struggled with feeling overshadowed by her big sisters and replaced by her health-demanding youngest. 

Today, she felt seen. 

She’d been rescued.  

And it was by me.

Camille Vaughan Photography

All the Pretty Lights

Posted on by Lauren

Tonight held one of those moments in life when you recognize it’s special, while it’s happening.  

The kind where you know you are making unforgettable memories, real time.  

We went to see The Jesse Chong Band playing at Harborfest.  Today happens to be June 10, just one month exactly shy of our 13 year wedding anniversary, where Jesse and his band entertained a full dance floor.  

This time, we brought along our brood of four.  He played my most favorite cover of his:  Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes by Paul Simon- a song I requested at our wedding. 

Afterwards, as we walked to my dad’s condo, we awed the most incredible sunset- a sun so red and large, you could have plucked it right out of the tree.  

Then, we were bedazzled by our first drone show, right alongside my aging dad.  He’s lived in that front row seat on his balcony for so long, the fireworks have ceased to surprise him.  But tonight, at age 91, he saw something for the first time- and witnessing that experience for him was something I’ll never forget.  

It’s never too late.

LIfe continues to amaze.  

All the pretty lights.