kaoruyogi

[kaoruyogi]

I wanted to tell you that I think of your Adeline every single day. I carry both of you in my heart <3

Thank you so much 💖 I miss her every moment of every day.

[kaoruyogi]

Felix (Eyjafjallajökull Korneliasdottir)

Aasimar Sorcerer, Grim Jaw & follower of Tyr. 

Character belongs to @kaoruyogi

[kaoruyogi]

Tears and Tree Frog Fingers: Notes on Grief

There is a disquieting weight to grief. It follows wherever my husband and I are. It quadruples when we're in the same room. This deluge of gravity offers the near promise of dragging the walls and ceiling and furniture inward onto us both. To implode our house, the house that is suddenly too big and too silent. To crush the bodies we never thought could be so fragile.

I can't help but wonder if this weight is what I felt missing from Adeline once she was gone. She was too light. The heft of her enormous personality and her fighting spirit and all the love we poured over her was missing. Her tiny hand that had affectionately wandered across my skin and tangled itself in her daddy's chest hair went feather-light. I instantly longed for all the intention in the grasp of her tree frog fingers.

I have done nothing but long for her since. I am cloudy and unfocused. Nothing means what it used to.

There is no counterpart to an orphan. No real term for parents whose child has died. The internet calls us "Loss Parents." I'm a Loss Mom and my husband is a Loss Dad. We have been orphaned by the loss of our daughter. 

She died, and we were unceremoniously shoved through the back doors of a club we never wanted to enter. In point of fact, we never even considered we might find ourselves anywhere near it. It is a place in the periphery. It exists in the obscurity of averted eyes and the endlessly perpetuated notion of impossibility. Only ever visited by someone four or five or eight degrees removed from the person sparing it a glance. Never them. Never us.

We live now in this dark place, lit solely by the broken hearts of other Loss Parents. We wander amongst one another. We feel the brush of sad, empathetic fingers as we pass. As we weep and howl facts about our little girl and her tree frog fingers into the dark. As we pray someone will hear us and remember her with us.

Some of our friends and family visit. We touch their hands through the marred glass. We beg them not to be afraid to come back. We beg them to be gentle with us. We beg them to say Adeline's name for as long as they live. Because we will.

When the doctors came out of surgery, they told us to follow them to a small room for families who need quiet. But I knew they did not mean us. The families whose babies and children were going to live needed protection from us, from our grief. I told them I didn't want to go. I went anyway.

The nurse sat beside us. The two doctors sat across from us. The matter-of-fact one, more gregarious and acclimated than the taller one, said what I naïvely thought he still might not say. Even in this small room meant to insulate passersby. 

"I'm so sorry. I wish there was more we could do."

I screamed and wailed and sobbed until I thought my chest would shatter. I thought my lungs would crack and disintegrate. I thought my heart would splinter and burst. I was a hand grenade. Every three seconds I was certain I would detonate. Every three seconds I didn't. I was just three seconds closer to being forced to live in a world without my daughter. 

The matter-of-fact, gregarious doctor was telling us how Adeline's room would be staged when we were ready to go back in. He was telling us how we could hold her as long as we wanted, how they would ensure she was comfortable while we tried to convey a lifetime of love before she slipped away. Before the heft of her transformed into this implosive gravity. Before the rarer form of this bastard of an infection she never should have contracted forced her to orphan us.

I don't make wishes anymore. I used to. All the times you learn to as a child. When the clock hits 11:11, when you see a shooting star, when you blow out your birthday candles. I held my breath against panicked gulps of air and worried sobs in every tunnel I drove through on the way to her that last day. I held my breath and I made my wishes. The wish I wished the hardest would not come true. Our baby girl was stolen from us little more than twelve hours after the bastard of an infection began. So, wishing is a reflex I am unlearning. 11:11 is just a time, shooting stars are just burning space trash, and birthday candles just serve to make cakes a little prettier. I have no more breath to hold in tunnels.

Our daughter was our oxygen. We have been forced to try and evolve into the kinds of creatures who can manage without. For us, looking forward or back delivers only pain. There is a sliver of time, a scant twenty-five to twenty-six days, that must somehow sustain us for a lifetime. That was what those twenty-six days were. Her lifetime.

We have so much more love to give her. Because she is no longer here to receive it directly, it, too, is forced to evolve. It takes shape in our grief, in our tears, in the laughter we find when telling someone about the stink-eye she gave the nurses or the way she would stand her tiny diapered butt in the air when she felt excited and indignant. Our love has nowhere to flow but out into the world now. All we can do is beg you to receive it.

Please, discover our little monster. Walk with us and learn about our Adeline. Spread word of her as you see fit. Feel the love we've lent to you when you hold your own children.

Remember her.

[kaoruyogi]

Tears and Tree Frog Fingers: Notes on Grief

There is a disquieting weight to grief. It follows wherever my husband and I are. It quadruples when we're in the same room. This deluge of gravity offers the near promise of dragging the walls and ceiling and furniture inward onto us both. To implode our house, the house that is suddenly too big and too silent. To crush the bodies we never thought could be so fragile.

I can't help but wonder if this weight is what I felt missing from Adeline once she was gone. She was too light. The heft of her enormous personality and her fighting spirit and all the love we poured over her was missing. Her tiny hand that had affectionately wandered across my skin and tangled itself in her daddy's chest hair went feather-light. I instantly longed for all the intention in the grasp of her tree frog fingers.

I have done nothing but long for her since. I am cloudy and unfocused. Nothing means what it used to.

There is no counterpart to an orphan. No real term for parents whose child has died. The internet calls us "Loss Parents." I'm a Loss Mom and my husband is a Loss Dad. We have been orphaned by the loss of our daughter. 

She died, and we were unceremoniously shoved through the back doors of a club we never wanted to enter. In point of fact, we never even considered we might find ourselves anywhere near it. It is a place in the periphery. It exists in the obscurity of averted eyes and the endlessly perpetuated notion of impossibility. Only ever visited by someone four or five or eight degrees removed from the person sparing it a glance. Never them. Never us.

We live now in this dark place, lit solely by the broken hearts of other Loss Parents. We wander amongst one another. We feel the brush of sad, empathetic fingers as we pass. As we weep and howl facts about our little girl and her tree frog fingers into the dark. As we pray someone will hear us and remember her with us.

Some of our friends and family visit. We touch their hands through the marred glass. We beg them not to be afraid to come back. We beg them to be gentle with us. We beg them to say Adeline's name for as long as they live. Because we will.

When the doctors came out of surgery, they told us to follow them to a small room for families who need quiet. But I knew they did not mean us. The families whose babies and children were going to live needed protection from us, from our grief. I told them I didn't want to go. I went anyway.

The nurse sat beside us. The two doctors sat across from us. The matter-of-fact one, more gregarious and acclimated than the taller one, said what I naïvely thought he still might not say. Even in this small room meant to insulate passersby. 

"I'm so sorry. I wish there was more we could do."

I screamed and wailed and sobbed until I thought my chest would shatter. I thought my lungs would crack and disintegrate. I thought my heart would splinter and burst. I was a hand grenade. Every three seconds I was certain I would detonate. Every three seconds I didn't. I was just three seconds closer to being forced to live in a world without my daughter. 

The matter-of-fact, gregarious doctor was telling us how Adeline's room would be staged when we were ready to go back in. He was telling us how we could hold her as long as we wanted, how they would ensure she was comfortable while we tried to convey a lifetime of love before she slipped away. Before the heft of her transformed into this implosive gravity. Before the rarer form of this bastard of an infection she never should have contracted forced her to orphan us.

I don't make wishes anymore. I used to. All the times you learn to as a child. When the clock hits 11:11, when you see a shooting star, when you blow out your birthday candles. I held my breath against panicked gulps of air and worried sobs in every tunnel I drove through on the way to her that last day. I held my breath and I made my wishes. The wish I wished the hardest would not come true. Our baby girl was stolen from us little more than twelve hours after the bastard of an infection began. So, wishing is a reflex I am unlearning. 11:11 is just a time, shooting stars are just burning space trash, and birthday candles just serve to make cakes a little prettier. I have no more breath to hold in tunnels.

Our daughter was our oxygen. We have been forced to try and evolve into the kinds of creatures who can manage without. For us, looking forward or back delivers only pain. There is a sliver of time, a scant twenty-five to twenty-six days, that must somehow sustain us for a lifetime. That was what those twenty-six days were. Her lifetime.

We have so much more love to give her. Because she is no longer here to receive it directly, it, too, is forced to evolve. It takes shape in our grief, in our tears, in the laughter we find when telling someone about the stink-eye she gave the nurses or the way she would stand her tiny diapered butt in the air when she felt excited and indignant. Our love has nowhere to flow but out into the world now. All we can do is beg you to receive it.

Please, discover our little monster. Walk with us and learn about our Adeline. Spread word of her as you see fit. Feel the love we've lent to you when you hold your own children.

Remember her.

[kaoruyogi]

It's been three weeks. God, I miss my little girl. I just want her back.

[kaoruyogi]

Three days ago, I lost my daughter.

I realize some of you didn't know I had given birth, and that was, in part, because that was a difficult thing to talk about in and of itself. The short version of the story is that on May 28th I was diagnosed with preeclampsia. On May 29th, given my rapid deterioration, my OBGYN had consulted with the maternal-fetal medicine specialists where they were transferring my case, and they decided I needed to check into the hospital immediately.

Just a couple hours after I checked in, I was told it was likely the doctors would need to take my baby out as early as a few hours from then, but that the longest they might be able to wait was a few days. I had gained what we now know was around 40 lbs of fluid weight, and a lot of that was sitting in my lungs. They later discovered it was also crowding the space around my heart (where they also found a previously undiagnosed defect) and that my heart was regurgitating some blood, essentially pumping fractionally backward. In short, I was dying. They gave me steroid shots to expedite the development of my baby's lungs, and on May 30th, 34 hours from when I checked into the hospital, she was born via emergency C-section. Her gestational age was 25 weeks and 6 days.

We named her Adeline. She was a beautiful little ass-kicker from the moment she was born. Noisy, opinionated, a little contrary, and, as the entire staff of the NICU described her, feisty. My husband and I spent every moment we could with her. We held her skin to skin for hours every day. She liked to rub her tiny hands and long fingers on our chests, and she liked to squidge the toes on her long, skinny feet--the feet I'd passed along to her--against the tops of our stomachs. She learned the sound of our voices and started opening her eyes and getting her best oxygen saturation when we arrived, when we talked to her, when I sang to her. She hadn't figured out that she didn't need to raise her eyebrows to open her eyes yet.

She had her setbacks, yes. She was a micro-preemie. But her prognosis was good. She was doing well, improving constantly. She was gaining weight and breathing better. She stayed feisty and gave the stink eye to the nurses who did her CARES. We joked she was making a hit list for when she grew up.

At 5 am on Thursday, her nurse called to tell us they'd found evidence of a new infection in her bowel. Not long after that, they called again to tell us they were transferring her to a hospital that was further away but had a level 4 NICU in case--*in case*--she needed surgical intervention. We were stressed about the distance from us and we were worried because she was sick, but I started driving there immediately. My husband came a few hours later.

The doctors and nurses worked quickly and diligently on her, but her infection seemed to be progressing abnormally rapidly. They pushed up a planned surgery to try to save her. They did everything they could. Ultimately, though, there was nothing more they could do. We held her, talked to her, sang to her, kissed her. She passed away in my arms, comfortable and knowing we were there and that we love her. She was just 26 days old.

A piece of us is missing now. We love her more than anything.

Goodnight, my love. Get some rest.

[kaoruyogi]

Three days ago, I lost my daughter.

I realize some of you didn't know I had given birth, and that was, in part, because that was a difficult thing to talk about in and of itself. The short version of the story is that on May 28th I was diagnosed with preeclampsia. On May 29th, given my rapid deterioration, my OBGYN had consulted with the maternal-fetal medicine specialists where they were transferring my case, and they decided I needed to check into the hospital immediately.

Just a couple hours after I checked in, I was told it was likely the doctors would need to take my baby out as early as a few hours from then, but that the longest they might be able to wait was a few days. I had gained what we now know was around 40 lbs of fluid weight, and a lot of that was sitting in my lungs. They later discovered it was also crowding the space around my heart (where they also found a previously undiagnosed defect) and that my heart was regurgitating some blood, essentially pumping fractionally backward. In short, I was dying. They gave me steroid shots to expedite the development of my baby's lungs, and on May 30th, 34 hours from when I checked into the hospital, she was born via emergency C-section. Her gestational age was 25 weeks and 6 days.

We named her Adeline. She was a beautiful little ass-kicker from the moment she was born. Noisy, opinionated, a little contrary, and, as the entire staff of the NICU described her, feisty. My husband and I spent every moment we could with her. We held her skin to skin for hours every day. She liked to rub her tiny hands and long fingers on our chests, and she liked to squidge the toes on her long, skinny feet--the feet I'd passed along to her--against the tops of our stomachs. She learned the sound of our voices and started opening her eyes and getting her best oxygen saturation when we arrived, when we talked to her, when I sang to her. She hadn't figured out that she didn't need to raise her eyebrows to open her eyes yet.

She had her setbacks, yes. She was a micro-preemie. But her prognosis was good. She was doing well, improving constantly. She was gaining weight and breathing better. She stayed feisty and gave the stink eye to the nurses who did her CARES. We joked she was making a hit list for when she grew up.

At 5 am on Thursday, her nurse called to tell us they'd found evidence of a new infection in her bowel. Not long after that, they called again to tell us they were transferring her to a hospital that was further away but had a level 4 NICU in case--*in case*--she needed surgical intervention. We were stressed about the distance from us and we were worried because she was sick, but I started driving there immediately. My husband came a few hours later.

The doctors and nurses worked quickly and diligently on her, but her infection seemed to be progressing abnormally rapidly. They pushed up a planned surgery to try to save her. They did everything they could. Ultimately, though, there was nothing more they could do. We held her, talked to her, sang to her, kissed her. She passed away in my arms, comfortable and knowing we were there and that we love her. She was just 26 days old.

A piece of us is missing now. We love her more than anything.

Goodnight, my love. Get some rest.

[kaoruyogi]

Aaaaahhhhhhhhh it's so lovely!!! Tha k you so much!!!🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

I made this for my friend, @kaoruyogi

I promised her a picture of her (Aasimar) Felix with love interest, (Quarter Orc) Pender. I promised it back on her birthday. (A while ago...)

I'm sorry that it took me so long, and I hope you like the style I'm trying out. I hope this finds you well, my dear friend.

Pender belongs to the wonderful @sloth-race

[kaoruyogi]

More Practice. More Fjürna. I’ve cut her side fringe and removed her septum piercing. I’m also showing off a small portion of her tattoos!

[kaoruyogi]

And beside her was Felix...

I just love drawing her.

[kaoruyogi]

Man, I'm sure gonna miss all this hair I'm retaining after the baby comes and it alllll falls out...

[kaoruyogi]

I’ve been planning something like this for a while, and as I just hit a follower milestone, I figured what better time for a giveaway than now?

There will be two winners, and each will receive art of ONE character of their choice, in a style similar to these:

Now For a Few Ground Rules:

- This is open to people who follow me (yes, I will check) though new followers are welcome

-Only reblogs count as entries. There is no limit on the number of entries, but do be mindful of your followers

-No entries from giveaway blogs

-Characters will be drawn in a style similar to those shown above

-No furries or mecha. (I’m sorry, but basically I’m very bad at drawing them).

-No explicit NSFW or gore

-I also reserve the right to refuse any requests that make me uncomfortable

-Winners will be drawn on the 24th of May 2020 and will be announced within the week

-Winners will be decided randomly

-If you enter, please keep your messages or inbox open so I can notify you. If a winner doesn’t respond within 48 hours, I’ll choose another one. 

-For any other questions or queries, don’t hesitate to message me

-Also, please don’t tag this as “giveaway” as tumblr apparently has a problem with that

[kaoruyogi]

Just finished the Centaurs for the board game I’m creating art for!!

[kaoruyogi]

Just finished the mural in my baby's room, y'all!!! I hope she loves the mountains as much as I do...🥰🥰🥰

[kaoruyogi]

It is astounding to me how quickly after my husband finishes work he comes downstairs and starts making just so much noise.

[kaoruyogi]

Yes, Tumblr, please show me more ads about belly fat and women with six packs while I grow rounder and more swollen by the day. My puffy ankles really needed that motivation.

[kaoruyogi]

The thing none of us realized when we all said 2020 was the year of the crit was that we wouldn't be the ones rolling.