I am pretty resolved that from here until the day we meet again, my holiday wish will be to have my son.
Last year I think I was still in such a stunned state that Christmas went by in a blur. This year, though, I feel the heaviness of him not being here with us.
This year we did Christmas a little different. We rented a cabin last weekend, which was the big present for the family, and we just bought the kids a few things they wanted. Less junk, more memories.
The whole time we were at the cabin I imagined what our lives would be like if Colton were there with us. How we'd be chasing him, keeping him from the stairs, cuddle with him by the fire ... I realized I miss the little things he'd be doing. Like eating at the table with us, or laughing and trying to talk along with us. Though he was never part of our lives, I still feel like he is missing from the moments that matter. That there is a gaping hole in the space he should fill in our time and lives.
Now, with Christmas just days away, I feel this heavy sorrow that he isn't here. I wish he could curiously play with the wrapping, unsure of what it is or how to handle it. I wish he could want everything out of the boxes ... just to play with the boxes. I wish I could chase him away from tipping the tree over, and sit and watch his awe of the lights and decorations. I wish I could tuck him in Christmas night, grateful for all of our family.
But it just feels like something is missing. And it is. Our son, our Colton, is missing. And now I realize it's time to learn to live with those gaps, those empty places he will never be. The hard part is figuring out, when the only piece that's missing will never come back to feel the void.
Merry Christmas in Heaven, Colton. I love you and miss you so much.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore .. .. ..
Remember when Dorothy wakes up after her adventures in Oz, wondering if it was all real??
Or have you ever gasped for air, not realizing you'd been holding it without even realizing it?
Friday morning I sat up in bed, looked around and wondered how I got there. I took a deep breath, a breath that felt like the first refreshing gulp after a long plunge underwater.
People had said after the first year things get better. People said it wouldn't be so cumbersome, so heavy. People said and I didn't believe.
Yet, there I sat, feeling victorious. Feeling free.
I didn't realize how terrified I'd been. How choked and drowned I was in the sorrow and the fear of the first year. The fear of what things meant - or didn't mean - without Colton. I didn't realize how much I was suffocating until I began to breath again.
I survived. I survived his loss, his birth, and finally his burial. All the days that haunted me in sleep and wake, that tortured and taunted me, threatening to destroy me.
I survived.
For whatever reason my son was taken from this earth, but not from me. He is alive all around me. I just have to look and find him and seek out those that reassure me and not those that drown me. I have to focus on the love, not the loss. I have to remember I am stronger, braver, more able than even I give myself credit for. That if I can make it through the first year, I can make it through anything.
Life still swirls around me. I still feel on the outside looking in most days. Though I smile and laugh and tiptoe back into the madness. I find myself excited, hopeful about things to come. Little things, big things, every thing.
I realize life didn't lose meaning, I was just too scared to find the sense in it all. I was too scared to engage because once you do the door is wide open to be sucked in, sucked away, and lost in the twirling circumference around you.
This, however, is not the mother Colton knew. I find myself ashamed in sorts of the way I've been. I speak of wanting to honor my son by being myself, yet I sat for a year choking in the grief not even realizing I was holding my breath, waiting for something worse to happen. I think, at times, I really wondered if I'd survive. If I'd make it. Or if one night my heart would just stop beating, too. At times I wished for that. Just let my heart give out and let me be with my son.
And then it all snapped. I took a deep breath, I saw the world around me. I made it through to the other side. I have no delusion that everything is fine. Things will still trigger me, my heart will still ache, I will always long for my son. But I am here. I am alive. And I will be okay.
Happy be-a-little-lated Unbirthday sweet Colton.
Happy rebirth to me.
Or have you ever gasped for air, not realizing you'd been holding it without even realizing it?
Friday morning I sat up in bed, looked around and wondered how I got there. I took a deep breath, a breath that felt like the first refreshing gulp after a long plunge underwater.
People had said after the first year things get better. People said it wouldn't be so cumbersome, so heavy. People said and I didn't believe.
Yet, there I sat, feeling victorious. Feeling free.
I didn't realize how terrified I'd been. How choked and drowned I was in the sorrow and the fear of the first year. The fear of what things meant - or didn't mean - without Colton. I didn't realize how much I was suffocating until I began to breath again.
I survived. I survived his loss, his birth, and finally his burial. All the days that haunted me in sleep and wake, that tortured and taunted me, threatening to destroy me.
I survived.
For whatever reason my son was taken from this earth, but not from me. He is alive all around me. I just have to look and find him and seek out those that reassure me and not those that drown me. I have to focus on the love, not the loss. I have to remember I am stronger, braver, more able than even I give myself credit for. That if I can make it through the first year, I can make it through anything.
Life still swirls around me. I still feel on the outside looking in most days. Though I smile and laugh and tiptoe back into the madness. I find myself excited, hopeful about things to come. Little things, big things, every thing.
I realize life didn't lose meaning, I was just too scared to find the sense in it all. I was too scared to engage because once you do the door is wide open to be sucked in, sucked away, and lost in the twirling circumference around you.
This, however, is not the mother Colton knew. I find myself ashamed in sorts of the way I've been. I speak of wanting to honor my son by being myself, yet I sat for a year choking in the grief not even realizing I was holding my breath, waiting for something worse to happen. I think, at times, I really wondered if I'd survive. If I'd make it. Or if one night my heart would just stop beating, too. At times I wished for that. Just let my heart give out and let me be with my son.
And then it all snapped. I took a deep breath, I saw the world around me. I made it through to the other side. I have no delusion that everything is fine. Things will still trigger me, my heart will still ache, I will always long for my son. But I am here. I am alive. And I will be okay.
Happy be-a-little-lated Unbirthday sweet Colton.
Happy rebirth to me.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
The Eye of the Storm
They say in the eye of a storm everything stops. The winds are whirling around you, debris ripping through the air. Yet the spot you are in stays completely still, untouched, numb to the chaos around it.
The world around me continues to turn. People bustle from place to place, errands to run, things to do. Work continues to flow all around me. Children continue to run on the playgrounds.
Yet, in my little bubble, there is silence. There is stillness. I am stuck, suspended in this time, with the chaos around me and stunned stillness in me.
This week a year ago I realized my son was dead. Tuesday a year ago - today - I confirmed it. In about two hours will be the year difference in today and the start of meds to induce my labor. Tomorrow is the actual date - 11-16 - that we confirmed Colton was dead and began the process to release him from my body, which was so desperately holding on to him. Thursday (last year Wednesday) was a day of blur, a day when I realized that as each moment passed part of me seeped away from myself and into the storm whirling around me, shredding everything in its tracks. And Friday will be the 18th ... the day Colton's body (his soul long gone) entered this world. And the last little bit of strength gave like a rope frazzled enough to snap.
People talk to me, and I hear them, yet I do not process. Thoughts pass through my mind and leave no footprint for future reference. All I can think about, all I can feel, is the deep loss and desire to have my son with me.
I know, realistically, that won't happen. I know he is gone and this situation cannot be fixed. I know, reasonably, that no amount of tears will fill the gaping valley ripped in my heart when I lost Colton.
Yet the tears still fall in buckets. The sadness still swallows me whole. The world, if only - hopefully - for these next few weeks, freezes and there is nothing but the emptiness he left behind.
I continue to work. I continue to be domesticated. I visit with friends, I make plans. I pretend to be normal, to be infused in the storm around me, in the cyclone of life.
Inside me, though, is a stillness, a silence, a void ... Just like any center of a storm.
The world around me continues to turn. People bustle from place to place, errands to run, things to do. Work continues to flow all around me. Children continue to run on the playgrounds.
Yet, in my little bubble, there is silence. There is stillness. I am stuck, suspended in this time, with the chaos around me and stunned stillness in me.
This week a year ago I realized my son was dead. Tuesday a year ago - today - I confirmed it. In about two hours will be the year difference in today and the start of meds to induce my labor. Tomorrow is the actual date - 11-16 - that we confirmed Colton was dead and began the process to release him from my body, which was so desperately holding on to him. Thursday (last year Wednesday) was a day of blur, a day when I realized that as each moment passed part of me seeped away from myself and into the storm whirling around me, shredding everything in its tracks. And Friday will be the 18th ... the day Colton's body (his soul long gone) entered this world. And the last little bit of strength gave like a rope frazzled enough to snap.
People talk to me, and I hear them, yet I do not process. Thoughts pass through my mind and leave no footprint for future reference. All I can think about, all I can feel, is the deep loss and desire to have my son with me.
I know, realistically, that won't happen. I know he is gone and this situation cannot be fixed. I know, reasonably, that no amount of tears will fill the gaping valley ripped in my heart when I lost Colton.
Yet the tears still fall in buckets. The sadness still swallows me whole. The world, if only - hopefully - for these next few weeks, freezes and there is nothing but the emptiness he left behind.
I continue to work. I continue to be domesticated. I visit with friends, I make plans. I pretend to be normal, to be infused in the storm around me, in the cyclone of life.
Inside me, though, is a stillness, a silence, a void ... Just like any center of a storm.
Monday, October 31, 2011
I cried myself to sleep ...
For some reason the past few days have really been difficult. Tomorrow being the first day of November seems like the inevitable is so soon. As long as it were any other month then the anniversary was obscure and distant. Now it's only a few very short weeks away. And the reality of it is crushing.
I cried last night because I missed my baby. I cried because I wonder what he'd look like today. Would he be walking already like his brothers or still stumbling along, preferring to crawl? Would he have a tooth already or be drooling constantly without anything to show for it? Would he be baby-signing and talking or stubborn and just smile and cry when he wanted something? Would he sleep well through the night or still be fussy? Would he be a size 12 months or 18 months? Would he ... would he ... would he ... ?
Daydreaming (and night dreaming) are the enemy. They are the times where the haunting of what's been and what will never be seep in and terrorize the mind ... and the heart.
Eleven days until the day I believe my son died....
Fifteen until I accepted it...
Sixteen until they confirmed it...
Eighteen until he left me forever.
And I don't know how I'll make it through even one without drowning in these tears.
I cried last night because I missed my baby. I cried because I wonder what he'd look like today. Would he be walking already like his brothers or still stumbling along, preferring to crawl? Would he have a tooth already or be drooling constantly without anything to show for it? Would he be baby-signing and talking or stubborn and just smile and cry when he wanted something? Would he sleep well through the night or still be fussy? Would he be a size 12 months or 18 months? Would he ... would he ... would he ... ?
Daydreaming (and night dreaming) are the enemy. They are the times where the haunting of what's been and what will never be seep in and terrorize the mind ... and the heart.
Eleven days until the day I believe my son died....
Fifteen until I accepted it...
Sixteen until they confirmed it...
Eighteen until he left me forever.
And I don't know how I'll make it through even one without drowning in these tears.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Lucky? Eh, I think not.
Yesterday I got sucked into a conversation (my own fault, I should have walked away) about stillbirth/baby loss.
The comment was made that we are lucky to have a gravesite to visit. That early miscarriages don't have that place to mourn.
I was dumbfounded. Lucky?
I carried my son to a point where if he'd been born alive he'd have lived. I went through two and half days of induced labor. I pushed my son into a silent room, the heaviness of reality that he was gone... Up until that moment, as absolutely ludicrous as it sounds, I held out hope. I thought maybe, just maybe, he'd cry. He'd be alive and it was all a mistake, a bad dream. His weight would shift inside me and I'd - for a split second - think "see, he's fine".
I held his little body, the poor shape it was in, and loved him with every ounce of me. I couldn't fully comprehend how he could be dead. He was perfect in every way. His little mouth and nose.... His beautiful head of hair. He was gorgeous and perfect.
We had to chose a box to bury him in. A 2' box that had extra room. I don't consider that lucky.
Every time I visit his gravesite ... which I am "lucky" to have ... I fight the urge to dig with my bare hands to get to my son and run away with him. I do know it's only bones at this point and his soul is long gone, yet I just wish I could have him close to me.
I feel like such a horrible mother. Like I abandoned him or buried him out back like a pet. I feel like I let him down and every time I go see him I am reminded of all those feelings.
Every time I go by his nursery or sit in there I remember how close I was to holding him there. He wasn't an abstract ball of cells growing anymore. He was a baby, all grown and just waiting to join us. Everything was ready for him. Those things don't just go away. The room, his stuff, his headstone ... all there to remind me of how close I was before he was stolen from me.
I am not lucky to have those things. I am tortured by them. Though, without them I would probably feel the same torture. There is no luck in the death of a child.
The comment was made that we are lucky to have a gravesite to visit. That early miscarriages don't have that place to mourn.
I was dumbfounded. Lucky?
I carried my son to a point where if he'd been born alive he'd have lived. I went through two and half days of induced labor. I pushed my son into a silent room, the heaviness of reality that he was gone... Up until that moment, as absolutely ludicrous as it sounds, I held out hope. I thought maybe, just maybe, he'd cry. He'd be alive and it was all a mistake, a bad dream. His weight would shift inside me and I'd - for a split second - think "see, he's fine".
I held his little body, the poor shape it was in, and loved him with every ounce of me. I couldn't fully comprehend how he could be dead. He was perfect in every way. His little mouth and nose.... His beautiful head of hair. He was gorgeous and perfect.
We had to chose a box to bury him in. A 2' box that had extra room. I don't consider that lucky.
Every time I visit his gravesite ... which I am "lucky" to have ... I fight the urge to dig with my bare hands to get to my son and run away with him. I do know it's only bones at this point and his soul is long gone, yet I just wish I could have him close to me.
I feel like such a horrible mother. Like I abandoned him or buried him out back like a pet. I feel like I let him down and every time I go see him I am reminded of all those feelings.
Every time I go by his nursery or sit in there I remember how close I was to holding him there. He wasn't an abstract ball of cells growing anymore. He was a baby, all grown and just waiting to join us. Everything was ready for him. Those things don't just go away. The room, his stuff, his headstone ... all there to remind me of how close I was before he was stolen from me.
I am not lucky to have those things. I am tortured by them. Though, without them I would probably feel the same torture. There is no luck in the death of a child.
How quickly things change.. .. ..
It's amazes me how one minute I can feel fine, then a memory hits, and suddenly the world flips upside down.
Yesterday I was going about my day when the date suddenly hit me. October 17 ... exactly one year since Colton's baby shower.
That was one of the most magical days I can remember. I had so many friends join me to celebrate the upcoming arrival of Colton. People traveled up to six hours (one way!) to join us. The house was full of people. Laughing, sharing ... celebrating.
That day feels so abstract now, so surreal. I can't help but still be amazed at how quickly and drastically life can change. Just three and a half weeks later my son was dead. And I was being induced to deliver him too soon and without life. A life that so shortly before we were celebrating and showering with love.
Today is one month until the day I delivered Colton. As it closes in, so does the world around me. The reality of the last year, of the loss, closes in. The reality of the loss and how deeply it still hurts and saddens me. I miss my son, I wonder who he would be today. And I wonder how life can change all so quickly.
Yesterday I was going about my day when the date suddenly hit me. October 17 ... exactly one year since Colton's baby shower.
That was one of the most magical days I can remember. I had so many friends join me to celebrate the upcoming arrival of Colton. People traveled up to six hours (one way!) to join us. The house was full of people. Laughing, sharing ... celebrating.
That day feels so abstract now, so surreal. I can't help but still be amazed at how quickly and drastically life can change. Just three and a half weeks later my son was dead. And I was being induced to deliver him too soon and without life. A life that so shortly before we were celebrating and showering with love.
Today is one month until the day I delivered Colton. As it closes in, so does the world around me. The reality of the last year, of the loss, closes in. The reality of the loss and how deeply it still hurts and saddens me. I miss my son, I wonder who he would be today. And I wonder how life can change all so quickly.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
It does matter.
Throughout this grieving process I have battled with loss. And does it matter if it was 10 weeks or 40 weeks. Well, it does matter.
There is a huge difference between no heartbeat at 9 weeks and no heartbeat at 9 months.
There is a huge difference between cramping and passing tissue and being induced over three days and delivering your child.
There is a difference between the dreams of a nursery and a name and coming home empty handed to a fully prepared nursery with a child's name all over the place.
There IS a difference. It doesn't mean that both don't hurt. It doesn't mean both babies don't matter. It's just totally different and it does matter.
I sometimes wish I'd miscarried at 10 weeks. That I cramped and bled and lost the baby. Or gone in and there was no heartbeat then. At that point I could say "crap, that sucks" and move into another cycle and try again.
At 34w ... it's so different.
The doctor wanted to send me home on meds for three - four days to prepare my cervix. He wanted me to come home, huge tummy, baby inside me, and face my family and friends with my deceased son in my body. Thank God my cervix was already softening and dilating and he allowed me to go back to the hospital that night to begin induction.
Induction started Tuesday night; I delivered early Thursday morning. I do not recall so much from those long days and hours. I existed, I didn't live.
I had dreamed about delivery. I wanted an induction free, drug free delivery. Instead I was induced and on an epidural. I wanted my son placed on my chest and to begin nursing immediately. Instead the nurses took him to clean him, moisten his deteriorating skin, and make him presentable for me to say goodbye to.
Now all would be happy with just a living baby. I realized all else is so trivial.
I didn't get to miscarry and take some tylenol and go back to normal life. My milk came in full force. My body ached from delivery. I took vicodin for the migraines from crying.
I had to go design his headstone. I had to chose his burial plot. I had to pick which 2' box to bury him in. And I had to pretend for everyone around me that all was okay and I wasn't falling apart and shattered.
If people say a loss is a loss and there is no difference, they are sadly mistaken. And I sincerely pray they never have to know the difference. A loss is a loss and they all hurt. There is a difference, though. A huge difference. And it does matter.
There is a huge difference between no heartbeat at 9 weeks and no heartbeat at 9 months.
There is a huge difference between cramping and passing tissue and being induced over three days and delivering your child.
There is a difference between the dreams of a nursery and a name and coming home empty handed to a fully prepared nursery with a child's name all over the place.
There IS a difference. It doesn't mean that both don't hurt. It doesn't mean both babies don't matter. It's just totally different and it does matter.
I sometimes wish I'd miscarried at 10 weeks. That I cramped and bled and lost the baby. Or gone in and there was no heartbeat then. At that point I could say "crap, that sucks" and move into another cycle and try again.
At 34w ... it's so different.
The doctor wanted to send me home on meds for three - four days to prepare my cervix. He wanted me to come home, huge tummy, baby inside me, and face my family and friends with my deceased son in my body. Thank God my cervix was already softening and dilating and he allowed me to go back to the hospital that night to begin induction.
Induction started Tuesday night; I delivered early Thursday morning. I do not recall so much from those long days and hours. I existed, I didn't live.
I had dreamed about delivery. I wanted an induction free, drug free delivery. Instead I was induced and on an epidural. I wanted my son placed on my chest and to begin nursing immediately. Instead the nurses took him to clean him, moisten his deteriorating skin, and make him presentable for me to say goodbye to.
Now all would be happy with just a living baby. I realized all else is so trivial.
I didn't get to miscarry and take some tylenol and go back to normal life. My milk came in full force. My body ached from delivery. I took vicodin for the migraines from crying.
I had to go design his headstone. I had to chose his burial plot. I had to pick which 2' box to bury him in. And I had to pretend for everyone around me that all was okay and I wasn't falling apart and shattered.
If people say a loss is a loss and there is no difference, they are sadly mistaken. And I sincerely pray they never have to know the difference. A loss is a loss and they all hurt. There is a difference, though. A huge difference. And it does matter.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
October is Miscarriage and Stillbirth Month
... and I really don't want to deal with it. Or ... whatever.
Last weekend there was a candle-lighting ceremony and memorial for the babies lost and I didn't go. I thought about it, then didn't. I just couldn't fathom going and being around other people's grief. I don't want to cry. I don't want to wallow in loss.
It doesn't mean I don't want to honor or remember my son. I think about him every single day. And I hope that me living my life, moving forward, and continuing on is honoring him. I don't see how lighting a candle or commiserating with other mothers who've lost their children would make me feel any better. Rather, I feel like it would just bring me down.
I often wonder if I'm just in denial and am playing avoidance as to escape the pain.
I feel it sneak up sometimes. The other night I had a nightmare, a reliving of his birth again. The silence so very deafening. I woke up mad. Not sad, not crying, just mad. That should have been a wonderful, beautiful, full-of-life moment and it was death, silence, and stunning pain. There is no physical pain that can compare.
I am sure those things will come up more in the next month. Only one month and it will be the anniversary of his death. His delivery. His funeral. Everything that sucked about last year.
I feel anxious when I think about his approaching dates. When I think of taking him balloons to his grave instead of a cake and celebration with friends for his birthday. I'm just ready to get past those dates and look forward ... the past is too painful to continue to be reminded of what all we've lost.. .. ..
Last weekend there was a candle-lighting ceremony and memorial for the babies lost and I didn't go. I thought about it, then didn't. I just couldn't fathom going and being around other people's grief. I don't want to cry. I don't want to wallow in loss.
It doesn't mean I don't want to honor or remember my son. I think about him every single day. And I hope that me living my life, moving forward, and continuing on is honoring him. I don't see how lighting a candle or commiserating with other mothers who've lost their children would make me feel any better. Rather, I feel like it would just bring me down.
I often wonder if I'm just in denial and am playing avoidance as to escape the pain.
I feel it sneak up sometimes. The other night I had a nightmare, a reliving of his birth again. The silence so very deafening. I woke up mad. Not sad, not crying, just mad. That should have been a wonderful, beautiful, full-of-life moment and it was death, silence, and stunning pain. There is no physical pain that can compare.
I am sure those things will come up more in the next month. Only one month and it will be the anniversary of his death. His delivery. His funeral. Everything that sucked about last year.
I feel anxious when I think about his approaching dates. When I think of taking him balloons to his grave instead of a cake and celebration with friends for his birthday. I'm just ready to get past those dates and look forward ... the past is too painful to continue to be reminded of what all we've lost.. .. ..
Thursday, October 6, 2011
When it rains it pours.. .. ..
The last few days have been dreary here. The rain has been coming in waves, and when it comes it comes with a vengeance. Yesterday a good part of town was covered in a layer of water and throughout today the rain has continued.
I haven't been feeling great, so driving across town to get home for lunch was a daunting task I didn't want to tackle. Instead, I decided to go out to see Colton. With the heavy rains I knew his flower cup would be full and need dumped and probably a wipe down of his headstone wouldn't be a bad idea, too. The rain had let up - actually the sun was shining beautifully - so I headed over to check on my little monkey.
When I got to the cemetery I realized when it rains it really does pour.
Just this morning another baby was buried.
I just feel exasperated at this point. I mean, seriously?? Two in just a few short weeks of each other. I wanted to be wrong, that it was a cremation (the babies are surrounded by cremations) and NOT another baby. So I asked in the office. Yep, confirmation, two babies in just a few weeks time.
How unfair is it that these babies died? Here we are with Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years right on our heels and these babies left their families who were probably - like me last year - planning for celebrations ahead that included these little lives. Halloween has never been a big "holiday" for me, yet this year I find myself looking at the baby costumes bitter that I should be dressing up Colton in something ridiculously cheesy and people should be ooh'ing and aah'ing over how adorable he looks. And, of course, it goes downhill from there.. .. ..
When we first lost Colton Brian said he felt robbed. I didn't feel that way, though I empathized with how he must be feeling. Now I feel it too. I feel like all these memories we should be making, all these milestones we should be experiencing ... they have been stolen. By the darkness of death, by the sorrow of loss, by the emptiness left behind. We've been robbed.
My heart aches for these families that have joined our ranks. And what's odd ... I don't know what I would say to them if I had the chance to say anything. There is nothing good to say. Even as a mother who knows exactly their situation, I do not know exactly their pain. And, even having gone through this, even I don't know the "right" things to say. Which, if nothing else, gives me empathy for all those who struggle to say anything to me.
Still, though, it just sucks. For them, for us, for all the parents who each day have to remember their life is missing someone so special. And everything that should be special is just a little tainted with the loss of our babies.
They say time heals ... time doesn't heal anything, it just takes you further from the impact. Things become less crushing, but nonetheless painful. The resolve at least brings comfort ... no sense hoping for something you know you'll never have. Just learn to live with the pain and sooth it when you can; and be prepared for the times it floods over you. Because when it rains, it truly does pour.
I haven't been feeling great, so driving across town to get home for lunch was a daunting task I didn't want to tackle. Instead, I decided to go out to see Colton. With the heavy rains I knew his flower cup would be full and need dumped and probably a wipe down of his headstone wouldn't be a bad idea, too. The rain had let up - actually the sun was shining beautifully - so I headed over to check on my little monkey.
When I got to the cemetery I realized when it rains it really does pour.
Just this morning another baby was buried.
I just feel exasperated at this point. I mean, seriously?? Two in just a few short weeks of each other. I wanted to be wrong, that it was a cremation (the babies are surrounded by cremations) and NOT another baby. So I asked in the office. Yep, confirmation, two babies in just a few weeks time.
How unfair is it that these babies died? Here we are with Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years right on our heels and these babies left their families who were probably - like me last year - planning for celebrations ahead that included these little lives. Halloween has never been a big "holiday" for me, yet this year I find myself looking at the baby costumes bitter that I should be dressing up Colton in something ridiculously cheesy and people should be ooh'ing and aah'ing over how adorable he looks. And, of course, it goes downhill from there.. .. ..
When we first lost Colton Brian said he felt robbed. I didn't feel that way, though I empathized with how he must be feeling. Now I feel it too. I feel like all these memories we should be making, all these milestones we should be experiencing ... they have been stolen. By the darkness of death, by the sorrow of loss, by the emptiness left behind. We've been robbed.
My heart aches for these families that have joined our ranks. And what's odd ... I don't know what I would say to them if I had the chance to say anything. There is nothing good to say. Even as a mother who knows exactly their situation, I do not know exactly their pain. And, even having gone through this, even I don't know the "right" things to say. Which, if nothing else, gives me empathy for all those who struggle to say anything to me.
Still, though, it just sucks. For them, for us, for all the parents who each day have to remember their life is missing someone so special. And everything that should be special is just a little tainted with the loss of our babies.
They say time heals ... time doesn't heal anything, it just takes you further from the impact. Things become less crushing, but nonetheless painful. The resolve at least brings comfort ... no sense hoping for something you know you'll never have. Just learn to live with the pain and sooth it when you can; and be prepared for the times it floods over you. Because when it rains, it truly does pour.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
New Neighbors
The other day I headed out to visit Colton. I had stayed away for awhile, for no reason I can really pinpoint. I had an unsettled feeling and didn't want to "press my luck".
I drove into the cemetery and over to his area. As I drive up I find myself very irritated. Colton's flowers were gone!! Now, I concede, they were a little faded and I had already ordered a new set. But, seriously, there are MUCH worse looking ones, why weren't THEY gone??!! He's the only kid on the block, too, so REALLY??!!
As I walked over to his headstone I was really upset. I mean, it just looks too plain and neglected without flowers. Like I don't even care or something. In my fury I was oblivious to everything else around me. Then two little dragonflies floated in front of me and caught my attention. Then they flew to my left...
... to the new grave that was recently filled next to Colton's. I just crumbled to my knees.
Colton's flowers hadn't been removed out of malice or neglect. They'd be moved for a funeral for another baby. Colton has his first neighbor.
I called B hysterical. I couldn't hardly stop sobbing to tell him why I was so upset.
First, I was so sad for these parents. I ached so badly, knowing the heart wrenching experience they just went through. I wanted to reach out to them, to let them know they aren't alone. To cry with them, to hear about their baby, to acknowledge their horrific loss.
Second, the thought of another baby dying crushed me. I knew sooner or later Colton would be surrounded by babies that left too soon, but to know another baby died. I felt like mine had died all over again. I felt just so sad.
Third, I felt sad for Colton and me. I was flooded with the pain and ache that I felt the moment we buried him. Wanting to pull him from that tiny little box and run, run, run until no one could catch us and hold him close to me forever. I ached for him, for his closeness and comfort.
I am (im)patiently waiting to see who this baby is... the grave was still too new for any marker. So I keep checking to see when a headstone is set and who this little life was...who joined Colton. I plan to leave flowers and a small card for the family. I know they are strangers, however I know that no matter how different we are we have a common tie that few others can relate to with us. And, somehow, that makes me feel like I do know them, or at least a small part of their story. They lost a baby, we lost a baby...
I hope it gets easier. I hope the next neighbor doesn't sting quite as deep. Though, realistically, I know that each one will pull on my heart, and each one will evoke a reaction. These are babies, innocent and pure, and gone. And there will never be less of an ache in that knowledge.
Sleep peacefully little ones.. .. ..
I drove into the cemetery and over to his area. As I drive up I find myself very irritated. Colton's flowers were gone!! Now, I concede, they were a little faded and I had already ordered a new set. But, seriously, there are MUCH worse looking ones, why weren't THEY gone??!! He's the only kid on the block, too, so REALLY??!!
As I walked over to his headstone I was really upset. I mean, it just looks too plain and neglected without flowers. Like I don't even care or something. In my fury I was oblivious to everything else around me. Then two little dragonflies floated in front of me and caught my attention. Then they flew to my left...
... to the new grave that was recently filled next to Colton's. I just crumbled to my knees.
Colton's flowers hadn't been removed out of malice or neglect. They'd be moved for a funeral for another baby. Colton has his first neighbor.
I called B hysterical. I couldn't hardly stop sobbing to tell him why I was so upset.
First, I was so sad for these parents. I ached so badly, knowing the heart wrenching experience they just went through. I wanted to reach out to them, to let them know they aren't alone. To cry with them, to hear about their baby, to acknowledge their horrific loss.
Second, the thought of another baby dying crushed me. I knew sooner or later Colton would be surrounded by babies that left too soon, but to know another baby died. I felt like mine had died all over again. I felt just so sad.
Third, I felt sad for Colton and me. I was flooded with the pain and ache that I felt the moment we buried him. Wanting to pull him from that tiny little box and run, run, run until no one could catch us and hold him close to me forever. I ached for him, for his closeness and comfort.
I am (im)patiently waiting to see who this baby is... the grave was still too new for any marker. So I keep checking to see when a headstone is set and who this little life was...who joined Colton. I plan to leave flowers and a small card for the family. I know they are strangers, however I know that no matter how different we are we have a common tie that few others can relate to with us. And, somehow, that makes me feel like I do know them, or at least a small part of their story. They lost a baby, we lost a baby...
I hope it gets easier. I hope the next neighbor doesn't sting quite as deep. Though, realistically, I know that each one will pull on my heart, and each one will evoke a reaction. These are babies, innocent and pure, and gone. And there will never be less of an ache in that knowledge.
Sleep peacefully little ones.. .. ..
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
My Heart Aches for You
It's coming up on one year since I lost Colton. As fearful as I've been about it, I am actually feeling good. I am feeling secure with where I am in healing and comfortable with the progress I made. I knew there would be challenges and today I was faced with one.
A good friend of mine went to her ultrasound today... Very sadly, the baby passed. There was no heartbeat.
I remembered with vividness the gut wrenching moment when the screen had no heartbeat and the look on the technicians face. I remembered that numb, empty feeling. I remembered that sinking feeling that this child inside me had no life surging through him. I remembered feeling lost.
My heart broke. For her this time, not for me. I felt like for once Colton had a purpose. I can be a shoulder to my friend, I can understand and support her. I can grieve with her. I can understand like no one else can. It doesn't make anything better or easier on her side, but I finally felt like I had a purpose through is loss.
I also realized it doesn't matter how far along you are (she was 17w), loss sucks. Once you see that heartbeat and then at any point you don't, the loss hurts the same. The reaction is the same. Sure, maybe it does get harder when there is a tangible baby to hold. Maybe it's harder before that, when there isn't a tangible baby to say goodbye to. Who knows, who cares. Loss hurts all the same and loss sucks.
I also realize that there is nothing good to say. Even being through it, there is nothing I can say or do that makes anything even the slightest bit better. It doesn't matter that I can relate or that I understand how she feels. It's still such a personal pain, such an alone feeling. There is nothing that remedies that ... nothing that can lessen that crushing blow.
Heaven has another angel ... much too soon, much grieved, much loved ...
A good friend of mine went to her ultrasound today... Very sadly, the baby passed. There was no heartbeat.
I remembered with vividness the gut wrenching moment when the screen had no heartbeat and the look on the technicians face. I remembered that numb, empty feeling. I remembered that sinking feeling that this child inside me had no life surging through him. I remembered feeling lost.
My heart broke. For her this time, not for me. I felt like for once Colton had a purpose. I can be a shoulder to my friend, I can understand and support her. I can grieve with her. I can understand like no one else can. It doesn't make anything better or easier on her side, but I finally felt like I had a purpose through is loss.
I also realized it doesn't matter how far along you are (she was 17w), loss sucks. Once you see that heartbeat and then at any point you don't, the loss hurts the same. The reaction is the same. Sure, maybe it does get harder when there is a tangible baby to hold. Maybe it's harder before that, when there isn't a tangible baby to say goodbye to. Who knows, who cares. Loss hurts all the same and loss sucks.
I also realize that there is nothing good to say. Even being through it, there is nothing I can say or do that makes anything even the slightest bit better. It doesn't matter that I can relate or that I understand how she feels. It's still such a personal pain, such an alone feeling. There is nothing that remedies that ... nothing that can lessen that crushing blow.
Heaven has another angel ... much too soon, much grieved, much loved ...
Monday, August 29, 2011
Like Hell You Will!!!
That's what I was screaming yesterday at Brian. I may have been overreacting a little. Maybe not. But that's how it came out.
His youngest and my youngest are about 1.5 years apart in age. And, for the most part, they get along really well. When they don't, though, it's a weekend full of referring and dealing with the "but he did" and "but he said" and yada yada.
This was one of those weekends.
Brian was leaving the house to run an errand and said, as he walked out the door and with a bit of frustration and anger, "This week we're cleaning out the baby's room and separating the boys".
My ears instantly rang with blood flow rushing through. My palms were sweaty. My vision went blurry. I opened the door (as he'd already walked out) and screamed "Like hell you will".
I lost it. I started bawling. He came back in and we fought for a minute. I was telling him he can help me make the boys learn to get along but he cannot take Colton's room from me. I am not ready for it. I am just not ready and I don't know if I can survive that right now.
He calmed me down and left, yet nothing else was said about it. I don't know if he still thinks he wants to do that. I know that I just cannot. The nursery is all I have left of Colton here. It's the only place I can go and feel him, feel peace, and feel like there's still a chance I'll be a mommy again. If he takes the nursery from me he also takes hope and he takes the last bit of Colton I can physically hold on to. And I'm just not ready for that. And I don't know when I will be.
As I have said so many times about so many things, I know it's not logical or fair. I know that there shouldn't be two kids sharing a room while one sits empty for goodness knows how much longer, if it would ever be filled again.
But I'm just.not.ready. And rushing me and making me do it won't help. I feel like I have made so much progress, like I have done so much to try to heal and move forward that I should be afforded the chance to take time on other things ... like his nursery.
I am just doing the best I can, and packing up his nursery is not something on the 'can' list right now.
His youngest and my youngest are about 1.5 years apart in age. And, for the most part, they get along really well. When they don't, though, it's a weekend full of referring and dealing with the "but he did" and "but he said" and yada yada.
This was one of those weekends.
Brian was leaving the house to run an errand and said, as he walked out the door and with a bit of frustration and anger, "This week we're cleaning out the baby's room and separating the boys".
My ears instantly rang with blood flow rushing through. My palms were sweaty. My vision went blurry. I opened the door (as he'd already walked out) and screamed "Like hell you will".
I lost it. I started bawling. He came back in and we fought for a minute. I was telling him he can help me make the boys learn to get along but he cannot take Colton's room from me. I am not ready for it. I am just not ready and I don't know if I can survive that right now.
He calmed me down and left, yet nothing else was said about it. I don't know if he still thinks he wants to do that. I know that I just cannot. The nursery is all I have left of Colton here. It's the only place I can go and feel him, feel peace, and feel like there's still a chance I'll be a mommy again. If he takes the nursery from me he also takes hope and he takes the last bit of Colton I can physically hold on to. And I'm just not ready for that. And I don't know when I will be.
As I have said so many times about so many things, I know it's not logical or fair. I know that there shouldn't be two kids sharing a room while one sits empty for goodness knows how much longer, if it would ever be filled again.
But I'm just.not.ready. And rushing me and making me do it won't help. I feel like I have made so much progress, like I have done so much to try to heal and move forward that I should be afforded the chance to take time on other things ... like his nursery.
I am just doing the best I can, and packing up his nursery is not something on the 'can' list right now.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Soccer Season Begins ...
... which should be awesome and fun (which it is) but it's also the "I haven't seen you since last season ... where's the baby??" season.
*le sigh*
Last night at soccer practice a mom from our team last year ran into me. She immediately brightened and said "how's the baby?? where is he???". My niece was standing there, too, and yelled "NO don't ask her that!!!". I felt so bad for my niece; she had such panic in her eyes. I told her it was okay and explained to the mom what happened.
Luckily she was one of the cool ones. She said, "I would tell you that he's better off and that it'll get better but that's just bull shit. That just sucks." It was refreshing to have someone cut the BS. And it was nice to have someone ask questions and talk to me, not hear the news and run like a swarm of bees was attacking. (which happens OFTEN).
However, it sucks to know that over the next few weeks I will run into people who I haven't seen since last season. A time where my belly was huge, waddling was the norm, and the "my baby is almost here" glow covered me. Now some days it's a strain to smile and pretend I even care to function. Especially on soccer days, or any day I know the probability is high of facing someone I haven't seen since before losing Colton.
The reminders of how life should be sucks. I should have my moby wrap with my son tucked in tight while he sleeps through practice. Or hold his little fingers as he tries to walk with my help. Or laugh at his wonder of the feel of the grass. I should have my baby. And I don't. And it sucks.
*le sigh*
Last night at soccer practice a mom from our team last year ran into me. She immediately brightened and said "how's the baby?? where is he???". My niece was standing there, too, and yelled "NO don't ask her that!!!". I felt so bad for my niece; she had such panic in her eyes. I told her it was okay and explained to the mom what happened.
Luckily she was one of the cool ones. She said, "I would tell you that he's better off and that it'll get better but that's just bull shit. That just sucks." It was refreshing to have someone cut the BS. And it was nice to have someone ask questions and talk to me, not hear the news and run like a swarm of bees was attacking. (which happens OFTEN).
However, it sucks to know that over the next few weeks I will run into people who I haven't seen since last season. A time where my belly was huge, waddling was the norm, and the "my baby is almost here" glow covered me. Now some days it's a strain to smile and pretend I even care to function. Especially on soccer days, or any day I know the probability is high of facing someone I haven't seen since before losing Colton.
The reminders of how life should be sucks. I should have my moby wrap with my son tucked in tight while he sleeps through practice. Or hold his little fingers as he tries to walk with my help. Or laugh at his wonder of the feel of the grass. I should have my baby. And I don't. And it sucks.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
ALMOST Punched a Pregnant Girl
As sad as it is to admit, and as bad I feel to admit it ... I almost punched a pregnant chick today.
I went to have some lab work done. As I am sitting there waiting to be called back a very noticeably pregnant girl walks in. I will say she was young, which is probably why I cut her some slack.
The tech asks how she's feeling and says "You only have a short time to go right?". The girl, very exasperated, says "Ugh, no, I am 34 weeks! I wish they'd just get her out now. I am so over it".
Blood.Boiled.
I took a few deep breathes to try and calm myself. It didn't work very well.
The tech called me back to draw my blood and I didn't say a word to her. I was steaming and didn't want to unload on this poor unsuspecting tech.
As I walked by this girl to leave I almost stopped to give her a piece of my mind. I didn't. I walked to my car ... and almost turned around, went back inside, and gave her a piece of my mind. Again, I didn't.
Had I, though, she would have probably cried. And I'd have felt bad. I wanted so bad to tell her my son died when I was 34 weeks. That I'd have given ANYTHING to have six more weeks. To have a healthy baby in my belly. To be miserably pregnant, swollen, tired, and "done". I wanted to yell at her and tell her to ENJOY this time with her baby.
And this one time I didn't care about her feelings. I didn't care if I made her cry. I didn't care. I was pissed and frustrated and I didn't want to hold back.
But I did. And she will get to continue to miserably bear the last six weeks of her pregnancy while I mourn the loss of mine.
I went to have some lab work done. As I am sitting there waiting to be called back a very noticeably pregnant girl walks in. I will say she was young, which is probably why I cut her some slack.
The tech asks how she's feeling and says "You only have a short time to go right?". The girl, very exasperated, says "Ugh, no, I am 34 weeks! I wish they'd just get her out now. I am so over it".
Blood.Boiled.
I took a few deep breathes to try and calm myself. It didn't work very well.
The tech called me back to draw my blood and I didn't say a word to her. I was steaming and didn't want to unload on this poor unsuspecting tech.
As I walked by this girl to leave I almost stopped to give her a piece of my mind. I didn't. I walked to my car ... and almost turned around, went back inside, and gave her a piece of my mind. Again, I didn't.
Had I, though, she would have probably cried. And I'd have felt bad. I wanted so bad to tell her my son died when I was 34 weeks. That I'd have given ANYTHING to have six more weeks. To have a healthy baby in my belly. To be miserably pregnant, swollen, tired, and "done". I wanted to yell at her and tell her to ENJOY this time with her baby.
And this one time I didn't care about her feelings. I didn't care if I made her cry. I didn't care. I was pissed and frustrated and I didn't want to hold back.
But I did. And she will get to continue to miserably bear the last six weeks of her pregnancy while I mourn the loss of mine.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Colton's Unbirthday
Yesterday was nine months since Colton left my body. Of course he had been gone a week prior in spirit. And that wasn't his due date. So yesterday it hit me that Unbirthday was the best way to describe the 18th of each month. It's not his birthday for a multitude of reasons.
One, that wouldn't have been his birthday if he had been born alive. Who knows what date that would have been. Two, birthday - to me - is the day you take your first breath and start your life here. He had the opposite. No breath to take. No life to live. And, most importantly, that term just makes the most sense to me.
It was said that it shouldn't be called his unbirthday because he was still born. While I get that I also stand firm that no one who hasn't gone through this can understand the thinking behind any decision made. For me, Unbirthday works. It makes me feel more ... settled ... about the date. I have had such unrest in my mind about the 18th. It's the only 'date' I have for him. But calling it a birthday just doesn't make sense to me.
Anyways. Ramble done. It's settled. November 18th is Colton's Unbirthday and that's how I'll celebrate it. Weird? Probably. Content? Yes. And really that's all I can hope for right now. Any further, deeper thought just boggles and upsets me.
I should be planning a birthday party right now. I should be browsing websites for party supplies, not writing on a blog about it. I should be planning the invite list and deciding cupcakes or cake. Not planning a trip out of town for his unbirthday weekend to escape from the reality that my son is dead. I said before I wasn't angry. Today I am. I am angry I was robbed of all the first. I was robbed of a little boy who I loved so much. I am pissed. It's not fair and in this moment I want to stomp my feet and throw a fit and say so. It's NOT FAIR.
It's just not fair.. .. ..
One, that wouldn't have been his birthday if he had been born alive. Who knows what date that would have been. Two, birthday - to me - is the day you take your first breath and start your life here. He had the opposite. No breath to take. No life to live. And, most importantly, that term just makes the most sense to me.
It was said that it shouldn't be called his unbirthday because he was still born. While I get that I also stand firm that no one who hasn't gone through this can understand the thinking behind any decision made. For me, Unbirthday works. It makes me feel more ... settled ... about the date. I have had such unrest in my mind about the 18th. It's the only 'date' I have for him. But calling it a birthday just doesn't make sense to me.
Anyways. Ramble done. It's settled. November 18th is Colton's Unbirthday and that's how I'll celebrate it. Weird? Probably. Content? Yes. And really that's all I can hope for right now. Any further, deeper thought just boggles and upsets me.
I should be planning a birthday party right now. I should be browsing websites for party supplies, not writing on a blog about it. I should be planning the invite list and deciding cupcakes or cake. Not planning a trip out of town for his unbirthday weekend to escape from the reality that my son is dead. I said before I wasn't angry. Today I am. I am angry I was robbed of all the first. I was robbed of a little boy who I loved so much. I am pissed. It's not fair and in this moment I want to stomp my feet and throw a fit and say so. It's NOT FAIR.
It's just not fair.. .. ..
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
And back down.
Today is a bad day. This week has been a bad week. I spent a large amount of my lunch crying. Bawling. For days I have been moody and not sure why. Once the tears started I couldn't start them. Brian asked why I was crying and I gushed "I just miss him so much".
I didn't even realize I had been thinking about him so much. I didn't realize how heavy my heart was and how much I longed to hold him.
The further away it gets the more panic I feel. I am terrified of losing all memory of him. Sometimes he seems like such a figment of my imagination with no real tangible proof he ever existed. I am paranoid that soon I'll be the only one that remembers him at all.
Even then I don't trust my memory. I don't remember things I feel like I should, I can't forget things I wish I could. Things I won't even subject others to know and remember themselves. I don't keep pictures of him around and now I'm frantic to print them and plaster them everywhere. I am so afraid of losing everything I have left of him.
He would be nine months a week from tomorrow. If he followed suit with his brothers he'd be walking with the furniture, eating solid foods, swimming in the pool, and as active and fun and full of mischief as could be. I wonder what his smile would look like. What color his eyes would be. How long would his hair be, and would it still have curls. I wonder if he'd still be nursing or just on a sippy. I wonder if he'd be a morning person or a night owl. I wonder, wonder, wonder.
Accepting that I will never know is easy. It's just fact. But wondering ... the what-if's ... I don't know if that ever goes away or will ever change. Well, it will change. It will morph to fit the age he's act, the developments he should me reaching. What would his little voice sound like? Which sports would he play or would he be into something else? ?? ? ?? ?
All I know is he left entirely too soon and I'll never know him the way I wish I could.
I didn't even realize I had been thinking about him so much. I didn't realize how heavy my heart was and how much I longed to hold him.
The further away it gets the more panic I feel. I am terrified of losing all memory of him. Sometimes he seems like such a figment of my imagination with no real tangible proof he ever existed. I am paranoid that soon I'll be the only one that remembers him at all.
Even then I don't trust my memory. I don't remember things I feel like I should, I can't forget things I wish I could. Things I won't even subject others to know and remember themselves. I don't keep pictures of him around and now I'm frantic to print them and plaster them everywhere. I am so afraid of losing everything I have left of him.
He would be nine months a week from tomorrow. If he followed suit with his brothers he'd be walking with the furniture, eating solid foods, swimming in the pool, and as active and fun and full of mischief as could be. I wonder what his smile would look like. What color his eyes would be. How long would his hair be, and would it still have curls. I wonder if he'd still be nursing or just on a sippy. I wonder if he'd be a morning person or a night owl. I wonder, wonder, wonder.
Accepting that I will never know is easy. It's just fact. But wondering ... the what-if's ... I don't know if that ever goes away or will ever change. Well, it will change. It will morph to fit the age he's act, the developments he should me reaching. What would his little voice sound like? Which sports would he play or would he be into something else? ?? ? ?? ?
All I know is he left entirely too soon and I'll never know him the way I wish I could.
Monday, August 1, 2011
I am always here, Mom
I feel like Colton, in little ways, tells me he is always here with me. Like at the airport and the butterfly on the wing of the airplane. The rainbow on a rainless day when I needed peace. Little things that calm my heart and make me feel as though he is saying "I am always here, Mom".
Yesterday we had a wonderful day, celebrating summer and family and life with our friends. We had forty people in our home, an equal blend of adults and children. People were in and out of the pool, 20 people at one point! There was wonderful conversation and laughter throughout the day. At one point I thought "this would be even better if Colton was here".
Just at that time a dragonfly fluttered into the back yard. He hoovered across the pool and circled around. For the rest of the day this dragonfly came in and out of the yard. Just one sole dragonfly making it's presence known and bringing with it the peace of "I will always be here". (If you are unfamiliar with the symbolism of a dragonfly please google it ... definitely a symbol of hope for me)
The peace of the dragonfly alone was all I needed, yet it didn't stop there. My friend brought her little girl over. She is almost five months old and such a good, sweet, beautiful little girl. I stole her for the day, playing with her, feeding her ... And finally in the evening she became very tired. There was too much noise and she was getting fussy. I asked her mom if it would be okay if I took her in and rocked her ...
I went into Colton's room with this little baby in my arms and I felt ... love. I felt peace and comfort. I sat in the glider intended to nurse and rock my son in and rocked this little girl to sleep. She so quickly fell quite and peaceful in slumber and it gave me time to just reflect and soak it in. Her mom came in to check and make sure I was okay. I was; but mom wasn't and left crying. She admitted that while I am doing okay she hasn't done well with his loss and it was hard on her. I appreciated knowing someone else grieves him, misses him.
Sitting there, though, rocking her little girl I felt at peace. I realized that I do want another baby down the road, but I'm in no rush. And if we can't have another baby, that'd be okay too. I won't change the theme of the room (which I'd been battling myself over) and I won't take Colton's name off the wall, but I'd add another child's name to the wall. Colton will always be part of our lives. That will always be his room, and maybe some day a little sibling's room. For now, it's his and it's okay that he isn't there physically. He is there, he is here, he is everywhere ... he is never further than a thought, a wish, a promise on the wind that he is okay.
The next three months are going to be hard. No matter how at peace I am, no matter how much healing I experience, his birthday will be difficult. I don't disillusion myself otherwise. However I am also confident that he will show himself that day and the days between now and then and the days after then when I need him most. And, more than anything, he will always be alive in my heart, where my love will always grow for him. He will never be more than a thought away. And that is comfort beyond reason.
Yesterday we had a wonderful day, celebrating summer and family and life with our friends. We had forty people in our home, an equal blend of adults and children. People were in and out of the pool, 20 people at one point! There was wonderful conversation and laughter throughout the day. At one point I thought "this would be even better if Colton was here".
Just at that time a dragonfly fluttered into the back yard. He hoovered across the pool and circled around. For the rest of the day this dragonfly came in and out of the yard. Just one sole dragonfly making it's presence known and bringing with it the peace of "I will always be here". (If you are unfamiliar with the symbolism of a dragonfly please google it ... definitely a symbol of hope for me)
The peace of the dragonfly alone was all I needed, yet it didn't stop there. My friend brought her little girl over. She is almost five months old and such a good, sweet, beautiful little girl. I stole her for the day, playing with her, feeding her ... And finally in the evening she became very tired. There was too much noise and she was getting fussy. I asked her mom if it would be okay if I took her in and rocked her ...
I went into Colton's room with this little baby in my arms and I felt ... love. I felt peace and comfort. I sat in the glider intended to nurse and rock my son in and rocked this little girl to sleep. She so quickly fell quite and peaceful in slumber and it gave me time to just reflect and soak it in. Her mom came in to check and make sure I was okay. I was; but mom wasn't and left crying. She admitted that while I am doing okay she hasn't done well with his loss and it was hard on her. I appreciated knowing someone else grieves him, misses him.
Sitting there, though, rocking her little girl I felt at peace. I realized that I do want another baby down the road, but I'm in no rush. And if we can't have another baby, that'd be okay too. I won't change the theme of the room (which I'd been battling myself over) and I won't take Colton's name off the wall, but I'd add another child's name to the wall. Colton will always be part of our lives. That will always be his room, and maybe some day a little sibling's room. For now, it's his and it's okay that he isn't there physically. He is there, he is here, he is everywhere ... he is never further than a thought, a wish, a promise on the wind that he is okay.
The next three months are going to be hard. No matter how at peace I am, no matter how much healing I experience, his birthday will be difficult. I don't disillusion myself otherwise. However I am also confident that he will show himself that day and the days between now and then and the days after then when I need him most. And, more than anything, he will always be alive in my heart, where my love will always grow for him. He will never be more than a thought away. And that is comfort beyond reason.
Don't ask, please don't tell
There are still triggers (and always will be, I am sure) that "get me". Things that stop me in my tracks, make me catch my breath, and leave me trying to find my footing again. One of those things is babies that appear to be around Colton's age. I can't help but look at them and think "that's what Colton would be doing now" .. "that's what he'd be learning, how he'd be developing".
I try to avoid these babies like the plague. I am okay with older or younger babies, however the babies right in his age range just ... get to me.
Friday night at softball my teammate had her granddaughter with her. A baby. That looked awful close to Colton's (would be) age. In my mind I kept saying "don't ask... just don't even ask". Of course, I asked.
Her response was November 18. I froze in place. Not only was this little girl "close" she was spot on the same age as Colton would be ... if he lived. They shared the day, one coming into this world and one leaving it. I said "she is adorable" and walked away. My knees were weak and my heart was heavy. I just went to Brian and fell into him.
I took a couple deep breaths, rejoined the group, and shortly thereafter we left. I was feeling sad. Just sad. Just "crap, I miss him".
I got home to an email from a friend who reads my blog and reached out to tell me how much it means to me and share with personal ways she relates. And I felt peace. I felt like God heard me needing reassurance and He gave it.
I miss Colton. I miss him so much. But - at least right now - it's getting easier to miss him and love him and not break under the weight of it.
I try to avoid these babies like the plague. I am okay with older or younger babies, however the babies right in his age range just ... get to me.
Friday night at softball my teammate had her granddaughter with her. A baby. That looked awful close to Colton's (would be) age. In my mind I kept saying "don't ask... just don't even ask". Of course, I asked.
Her response was November 18. I froze in place. Not only was this little girl "close" she was spot on the same age as Colton would be ... if he lived. They shared the day, one coming into this world and one leaving it. I said "she is adorable" and walked away. My knees were weak and my heart was heavy. I just went to Brian and fell into him.
I took a couple deep breaths, rejoined the group, and shortly thereafter we left. I was feeling sad. Just sad. Just "crap, I miss him".
I got home to an email from a friend who reads my blog and reached out to tell me how much it means to me and share with personal ways she relates. And I felt peace. I felt like God heard me needing reassurance and He gave it.
I miss Colton. I miss him so much. But - at least right now - it's getting easier to miss him and love him and not break under the weight of it.
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Why oh why?
One thing I will never pretend to understand is God. I honestly gave up trying. I don't understand why good things happen to bad people; why bad things happen to good people. I think I fall somewhere in the middle of those two groups, so those idiosyncrasies don't apply; so sometimes your normal-make-mistakes-and-try-to-live-right people get the shaft, too.
Yet God stumped me again yesterday. All morning I felt restless and this deep need to go to the cemetery. I don't go out there often. Probably about every two weeks for less than five minutes at a time, just to tidy up and make sure nothings taken and his headstone is clean. So for me to get a deep urge to go was odd. And I knew that if I didn't go it would bother me until I did.
So on lunch I drove over, just to do a quick drive by. As I drove in I became upset with God and his cruelty (as it felt in that moment). Very close to Colton's resting spot was a large canopy, chairs, and a tiny table set up for a funeral.
My heart skipped a few beats, my breathing was quick and shallow. I thought I might pass out from the anxiety and gut-wrenching pain that streaked through me.
Now, Colton is buried in a little baby area that has a row of cremations to the front and sides of the designated baby spaces. So, it's very possible this was for a cremation and not a baby. That was my only saving thought at the time. Maybe it wasn't a baby.
That didn't stop the tears though. Seeing the same set up we'd had eight months earlier just broke me. That day flooded back through me with the same current of anguish as if they'd set it up just for me again.
Why oh why, God, did you send me out there? Why did you bring up such pain and memories? Why would you torment me like that.
I wish I had a deep revelation or a peaceful feeling of "this is to help me heal and move on". I don't feel that way whatsoever. It was torture. And I keep fighting myself from calling to just ask if another baby was lost, another angel taken too soon. Another broken mother wandering this world missing the child ripped from her body and her soul.
Nothing would be accomplished by it, though. So I just wipe my tears, quietly sink into the silence, and pray this too will pass.
God redeemed Himself, as He often does, with a perfectly timed call from a perfectly wonderful friend. The news she carried was uplifting, a promise of good things to come. I didn't tell her (though she'll know now) how much I needed that distraction, that call. To be pulled from disorientation to direction and purpose again...
Matthew 5:4 - Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Yet God stumped me again yesterday. All morning I felt restless and this deep need to go to the cemetery. I don't go out there often. Probably about every two weeks for less than five minutes at a time, just to tidy up and make sure nothings taken and his headstone is clean. So for me to get a deep urge to go was odd. And I knew that if I didn't go it would bother me until I did.
So on lunch I drove over, just to do a quick drive by. As I drove in I became upset with God and his cruelty (as it felt in that moment). Very close to Colton's resting spot was a large canopy, chairs, and a tiny table set up for a funeral.
My heart skipped a few beats, my breathing was quick and shallow. I thought I might pass out from the anxiety and gut-wrenching pain that streaked through me.
Now, Colton is buried in a little baby area that has a row of cremations to the front and sides of the designated baby spaces. So, it's very possible this was for a cremation and not a baby. That was my only saving thought at the time. Maybe it wasn't a baby.
That didn't stop the tears though. Seeing the same set up we'd had eight months earlier just broke me. That day flooded back through me with the same current of anguish as if they'd set it up just for me again.
Why oh why, God, did you send me out there? Why did you bring up such pain and memories? Why would you torment me like that.
I wish I had a deep revelation or a peaceful feeling of "this is to help me heal and move on". I don't feel that way whatsoever. It was torture. And I keep fighting myself from calling to just ask if another baby was lost, another angel taken too soon. Another broken mother wandering this world missing the child ripped from her body and her soul.
Nothing would be accomplished by it, though. So I just wipe my tears, quietly sink into the silence, and pray this too will pass.
God redeemed Himself, as He often does, with a perfectly timed call from a perfectly wonderful friend. The news she carried was uplifting, a promise of good things to come. I didn't tell her (though she'll know now) how much I needed that distraction, that call. To be pulled from disorientation to direction and purpose again...
Matthew 5:4 - Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Inspiration
"I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge - myth is more potent than history - dreams are more powerful than facts - hope always triumphs over experience - laughter is the cure for grief - love is stronger than death."
- Robert Fulghum
Sometimes I actively search out inspiration to get me through the days. Today was one of those days. Yesterday ended up being more difficult that I thought it would be. I think the realization that next month will be nine months. For me, life is lived in three month spans, especially the life of an infant/child. Each three months is a milestone. This next 'milestone' is the last before the one year birthday/anniversary/whatever the hell it is now.
I couldn't fall asleep last night. I tossed and turned and tossed and turned. I thought I'd feel better when going to bed. A dear friend had out of the blue reached out to me and expressed how much she thought about me and Colton; how much Colton has touched her life. It made me feel so amazingly proud and full of light and happiness. Yet, when I went to lay down for the night I couldn't calm the anxiety and the sadness.
For almost two hours I fought my thoughts and begged myself to succumb to the physical and mental fatigue I felt. All to no avail. I finally reached over to the side of my bed and grabbed Colton's blanket. I pulled it close to my face. I felt the warmth and softness and I swear I smelt him in there. The comfort was instantaneous. I laid my head on the blanket and I fell into sleep.
I woke up still snuggled in his blanket. Through the night I must have gripped it like a winning lottery ticket.
I don't know why I have these spells of deep loss and sadness. Quite frankly it frustrates me and I get so irritated with myself. I feel like I have worked so hard to heal and yet I (feel like) I fail. I appreciate those around me who remind me it's "only been" x months, less than a year. And, that I'll always grieve, always hurt, always miss him.
So, anyways, after a night like last night I needed some inspiration. In searching I found the quote above and felt ... validation. Strength.
Things will get better.
- Robert Fulghum
Sometimes I actively search out inspiration to get me through the days. Today was one of those days. Yesterday ended up being more difficult that I thought it would be. I think the realization that next month will be nine months. For me, life is lived in three month spans, especially the life of an infant/child. Each three months is a milestone. This next 'milestone' is the last before the one year birthday/anniversary/whatever the hell it is now.
I couldn't fall asleep last night. I tossed and turned and tossed and turned. I thought I'd feel better when going to bed. A dear friend had out of the blue reached out to me and expressed how much she thought about me and Colton; how much Colton has touched her life. It made me feel so amazingly proud and full of light and happiness. Yet, when I went to lay down for the night I couldn't calm the anxiety and the sadness.
For almost two hours I fought my thoughts and begged myself to succumb to the physical and mental fatigue I felt. All to no avail. I finally reached over to the side of my bed and grabbed Colton's blanket. I pulled it close to my face. I felt the warmth and softness and I swear I smelt him in there. The comfort was instantaneous. I laid my head on the blanket and I fell into sleep.
I woke up still snuggled in his blanket. Through the night I must have gripped it like a winning lottery ticket.
I don't know why I have these spells of deep loss and sadness. Quite frankly it frustrates me and I get so irritated with myself. I feel like I have worked so hard to heal and yet I (feel like) I fail. I appreciate those around me who remind me it's "only been" x months, less than a year. And, that I'll always grieve, always hurt, always miss him.
So, anyways, after a night like last night I needed some inspiration. In searching I found the quote above and felt ... validation. Strength.
Things will get better.
Monday, July 18, 2011
One thing I know for sure .. .. ..
We will not be having a baby for ourselves anytime soon. I thank God now that he threw obstacles in our way preventing us from trying.
In the beginning, right after losing Colton, I was obsessed with "when can we try again". I pushed Brian a lot to give me some indication of when he'd be ready. I needed to have another baby. I needed to fill the nursery with a child, with crying and giggling and late night nursing. I NEEDED it.
I was desperate for Brian and I to have a child together. We are so right together and our child would be raised by both parents in one home, something our other children don't have. I wanted to share a child with Brian, our child, our flesh and blood in one. I NEEDED it.
Through the past eight months of waiting and having the time to work through the emotions, my feeling about the situation has changed completely.
I no longer need a child. We have children. A whole home full, more than a lot of people are blessed with. I don't feel that deep need to have one of ours now. It's a want, not a need. And we have a child together. We made a beautiful little boy and he'll forever be our child. Even though he doesn't live here with us, we don't get to watch him grow, we don't have him here, he's still ours. If we have another child it will be a second child for us. Another blessing, another addition to our family.
I don't NEED to fill the nursery. I don't NEED to have a child.
I need to heal. I need to make it past his first birthday and see how that goes. I need to come to a place of complete peace and understanding. I need to be able to separate Colton and any other pregnancy/child we'd have. Mostly, I need to know we'd be having a child because we want to and that there's no need involved.
I refuse to have a replacement child. I refuse to work through my pain with another baby. I refuse to use a child to heal wounds they have no responsibility for.
And, truthfully, I may never get to the point that I will feel I'm far enough along tin healing o make that decision. We may never try again. If we do, though, we'll know it's for all the right reasons and for the hope of a new child, not the loss of another. Until then, we heal and love and pray and move forward to whatever our future holds.
In the beginning, right after losing Colton, I was obsessed with "when can we try again". I pushed Brian a lot to give me some indication of when he'd be ready. I needed to have another baby. I needed to fill the nursery with a child, with crying and giggling and late night nursing. I NEEDED it.
I was desperate for Brian and I to have a child together. We are so right together and our child would be raised by both parents in one home, something our other children don't have. I wanted to share a child with Brian, our child, our flesh and blood in one. I NEEDED it.
Through the past eight months of waiting and having the time to work through the emotions, my feeling about the situation has changed completely.
I no longer need a child. We have children. A whole home full, more than a lot of people are blessed with. I don't feel that deep need to have one of ours now. It's a want, not a need. And we have a child together. We made a beautiful little boy and he'll forever be our child. Even though he doesn't live here with us, we don't get to watch him grow, we don't have him here, he's still ours. If we have another child it will be a second child for us. Another blessing, another addition to our family.
I don't NEED to fill the nursery. I don't NEED to have a child.
I need to heal. I need to make it past his first birthday and see how that goes. I need to come to a place of complete peace and understanding. I need to be able to separate Colton and any other pregnancy/child we'd have. Mostly, I need to know we'd be having a child because we want to and that there's no need involved.
I refuse to have a replacement child. I refuse to work through my pain with another baby. I refuse to use a child to heal wounds they have no responsibility for.
And, truthfully, I may never get to the point that I will feel I'm far enough along tin healing o make that decision. We may never try again. If we do, though, we'll know it's for all the right reasons and for the hope of a new child, not the loss of another. Until then, we heal and love and pray and move forward to whatever our future holds.
Eight months ...
Already. Eight months today my little man was born. These last few weeks have been another roller coaster. It still catches me off guard when the dips come. I feel so good for weeks then suddenly I hit rock bottom again.
It started a few weeks ago when I got a random email from Amazon ... to notify me something from my baby registry had been purchased and was on its way!! What??!! I scoured the registry to figure out what they were talking about and there hadn't been activity for a long, long time. No reason for it to show up. Glitch in the system I suppose. Nevertheless, a tough email to receive.
Then last weekend I overdid it. Baby overload and complete meltdown followed. We threw a baby shower for my coworker and I offered to do games and purchase the presents. Which was fine. I was doing really well with it until it actually all happened. My mind kept floating back to my shower and my celebration and how just a few weeks later everything changed. Her theme is jungles, which of course has monkeys, which didn't help.
And during our celebration my very close friend was checking her phone ... her grandbaby was on the way. He was born during the shower. Which was great, wonderful news. He was term, but small. He was 18.5" and 5lb9oz. My heart hit the floor. He was shorter than Colton and only passed him by 2oz. And he was alive. And doing well. And Colton could have been too ... if he hadn't died before he even got a chance.
That night I went to bed and shortly thereafter woke to Brian shaking me and asking what was wrong. I woke up to a soaked pillow, sobbing uncontrollably. I was dreaming - flashing back, I guess - to the moment my doctor held Colton's lifeless body up and I fell into Brian's arms crying "My baby"... I didn't sleep well the rest of the night. All I could think about was Colton ... and losing him and how sad my heart was to have never known him outside of our short time together in my womb.
I am slowly pulling myself back up to being 'okay' again. Not crying as much. Last night we stopped by the cemetery. I tidied up Colton's headstone and decided he needs new flowers and a flag at his site. I felt peace in seeing him. But my heart was heavy. It appears the first baby addition has been laid to rest in his area. I cried for the family, whoever they are, and the pain we share.
I am constantly reminded, though, that healing is a process. It's not all done in a day or weeks or even months. Throughout the rest of my life new challenges, new anniversaries, new milestones will come and go and with them the pain will lull and rise. And I continue to work through it and ride it out. Knowing it's all part of the process and knowing that feeling - even feeling bad - is better than not feeling at all. The grieving will get easier, so they say. And some days it will be harder. Through it all, though, I have an angel watching me and reminding me I'm never alone and he's always right here with me.. .. ..
It started a few weeks ago when I got a random email from Amazon ... to notify me something from my baby registry had been purchased and was on its way!! What??!! I scoured the registry to figure out what they were talking about and there hadn't been activity for a long, long time. No reason for it to show up. Glitch in the system I suppose. Nevertheless, a tough email to receive.
Then last weekend I overdid it. Baby overload and complete meltdown followed. We threw a baby shower for my coworker and I offered to do games and purchase the presents. Which was fine. I was doing really well with it until it actually all happened. My mind kept floating back to my shower and my celebration and how just a few weeks later everything changed. Her theme is jungles, which of course has monkeys, which didn't help.
And during our celebration my very close friend was checking her phone ... her grandbaby was on the way. He was born during the shower. Which was great, wonderful news. He was term, but small. He was 18.5" and 5lb9oz. My heart hit the floor. He was shorter than Colton and only passed him by 2oz. And he was alive. And doing well. And Colton could have been too ... if he hadn't died before he even got a chance.
That night I went to bed and shortly thereafter woke to Brian shaking me and asking what was wrong. I woke up to a soaked pillow, sobbing uncontrollably. I was dreaming - flashing back, I guess - to the moment my doctor held Colton's lifeless body up and I fell into Brian's arms crying "My baby"... I didn't sleep well the rest of the night. All I could think about was Colton ... and losing him and how sad my heart was to have never known him outside of our short time together in my womb.
I am slowly pulling myself back up to being 'okay' again. Not crying as much. Last night we stopped by the cemetery. I tidied up Colton's headstone and decided he needs new flowers and a flag at his site. I felt peace in seeing him. But my heart was heavy. It appears the first baby addition has been laid to rest in his area. I cried for the family, whoever they are, and the pain we share.
I am constantly reminded, though, that healing is a process. It's not all done in a day or weeks or even months. Throughout the rest of my life new challenges, new anniversaries, new milestones will come and go and with them the pain will lull and rise. And I continue to work through it and ride it out. Knowing it's all part of the process and knowing that feeling - even feeling bad - is better than not feeling at all. The grieving will get easier, so they say. And some days it will be harder. Through it all, though, I have an angel watching me and reminding me I'm never alone and he's always right here with me.. .. ..
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
I went, I saw, I conquered!
Yesterday was the big ultrasound day. Well, technically, last Tuesday was the original date. I had worked myself up and was ready to tackle the ominous ultrasound room; then they called to reschedule. Yesterday ended up being the show-down day and I was not as well prepared as I'd hoped.
First, I was a ball of nerves all morning. I couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. I was just full of dread with the impending date with doom (or so I anticipated). I left work a few minutes too late and in my frenzy and stress I forgot my water. Later, this proved to be an issue as only half the ultrasound could be done, since my bladder was not full.
I finally arrived and they called me back. My heart was going a good thousand miles an hour by the time I entered the room. The ultrasound tech was so wonderful and nice. Thankfully she was not the same lady that was there the day we confirmed Colton's passing. (She was really nice as well; I just don't think I could have handled that too).
AS she did the ultrasound we made small talk then I finally mustered the courage to ask what I really needed to...
I asked to see the screen. She asked what I wanted to see in particular and I explained I just needed to see the screen. I needed to see that it's just a diagnostic tool. There isn't a sleeping child in my womb, locked in suspension on that screen. It's a harmless tool to reveal truths, not bring despair. She was kind enough to turn the screen, show me my uterus, empty of child but fluffy and full of hope for another.
In that moment so much anxiety and fear swept from me. As many times before I will confess the insanity and irrationality of my fears. I understand there wasn't going to be Colton on that screen. I understand that an ultrasound machine cannot administer doom, it simply reveals what's already there. I logically understand that.
Nevertheless, seeing proof of it helps. Confirming the reality and simplicity helps. And I am one step closer to removing fear from my life and finding hope again. Another hurdle behind me, another step. Another day in the right direction.
First, I was a ball of nerves all morning. I couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. I was just full of dread with the impending date with doom (or so I anticipated). I left work a few minutes too late and in my frenzy and stress I forgot my water. Later, this proved to be an issue as only half the ultrasound could be done, since my bladder was not full.
I finally arrived and they called me back. My heart was going a good thousand miles an hour by the time I entered the room. The ultrasound tech was so wonderful and nice. Thankfully she was not the same lady that was there the day we confirmed Colton's passing. (She was really nice as well; I just don't think I could have handled that too).
AS she did the ultrasound we made small talk then I finally mustered the courage to ask what I really needed to...
I asked to see the screen. She asked what I wanted to see in particular and I explained I just needed to see the screen. I needed to see that it's just a diagnostic tool. There isn't a sleeping child in my womb, locked in suspension on that screen. It's a harmless tool to reveal truths, not bring despair. She was kind enough to turn the screen, show me my uterus, empty of child but fluffy and full of hope for another.
In that moment so much anxiety and fear swept from me. As many times before I will confess the insanity and irrationality of my fears. I understand there wasn't going to be Colton on that screen. I understand that an ultrasound machine cannot administer doom, it simply reveals what's already there. I logically understand that.
Nevertheless, seeing proof of it helps. Confirming the reality and simplicity helps. And I am one step closer to removing fear from my life and finding hope again. Another hurdle behind me, another step. Another day in the right direction.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Flight of the Fear
The last two nights I have hardly been able to sleep. Anxiety has riveted through me and kept me at a level of unease that has made it impossible to sleep, focus, or believe that things would be okay.
Today, though, I made it past those things and am another day ahead in my path to healing...
My youngest son flew all by himself today. He will be seven in just a few short weeks. You wouldn't know it by hanging out with him, though. He is articulate, outgoing, witty, and fun. He has a security about him that most adults I know only strive to achieve or at the least appear to have. So I was not concerned about him flying alone (he did have an unaccompanied minor attendant, so he wasn't ALL by himself).
Matter of fact, as we drove to the airport (at 3:30 a.m.) he talked to me about how excited he was. He explained to me that when the airplane takes off it's like a motorcycle popping a wheelie off of a big ramp. And that it's "awesome". He fully planned to make friends; at which time I tried to reiterate 'stranger danger' and that he needed to not talk the ear off of his neighbors. He talked about having a snack and a drink and went on and on about how cool it was.
See I wasn't afraid of how he'd do on the flight. I wasn't afraid of him getting lost, or being scared, or crying for the next five hours. Those things really didn't cross my mind.
No, I was afraid he was going to die. That his plane would crash. Because that's what my kids do ... they die.
After I put him on the plane I went to the window and waited until the plane left and I watched him soar safely into the blue sky before leaving. As I was standing there, praying that God not take another child from me, a butterfly floated up to the window, hovered, then flew and landed on the wing of the plane. I suddenly had peace. I knew that was God's promise. That he was sending peace, comfort, and a special angel to watch over the flight, to watch over my son. I felt a peace and a closeness with Colton. I fully and firmly believe both my sons were on that flight. And I felt calm; a calm I hadn't felt in days (maybe months).
My son made it safe. He says his flight was "awesome". He - luckily - sat by two other unaccompanied minors who he made friends with. Grandma reported they all waved and yelled goodbye, without a care in the world. Innocent pure happiness.
Today wasn't just a flight to vacationing with granny and pop for my son. Today was a flight of my fear, leaving me and being replaced with peace. Peace that God is in control. Do I believe my children won't die? No. I know fully they could still be taken from me at any time. The truth is our children are a gift from God, on loan to us, until they are called back home. However I do have peace that I cannot control this life. Worry and fear do not prevent bad things from happening; they do prohibit happiness from coming in. The peace of the fear taking flight from me is freeing. The peace of a flutter of a butterfly, the giggle of a little boy safe and sound, and the promise that an angel is always surrounding us. ~xoxo~
Today, though, I made it past those things and am another day ahead in my path to healing...
My youngest son flew all by himself today. He will be seven in just a few short weeks. You wouldn't know it by hanging out with him, though. He is articulate, outgoing, witty, and fun. He has a security about him that most adults I know only strive to achieve or at the least appear to have. So I was not concerned about him flying alone (he did have an unaccompanied minor attendant, so he wasn't ALL by himself).
Matter of fact, as we drove to the airport (at 3:30 a.m.) he talked to me about how excited he was. He explained to me that when the airplane takes off it's like a motorcycle popping a wheelie off of a big ramp. And that it's "awesome". He fully planned to make friends; at which time I tried to reiterate 'stranger danger' and that he needed to not talk the ear off of his neighbors. He talked about having a snack and a drink and went on and on about how cool it was.
See I wasn't afraid of how he'd do on the flight. I wasn't afraid of him getting lost, or being scared, or crying for the next five hours. Those things really didn't cross my mind.
No, I was afraid he was going to die. That his plane would crash. Because that's what my kids do ... they die.
After I put him on the plane I went to the window and waited until the plane left and I watched him soar safely into the blue sky before leaving. As I was standing there, praying that God not take another child from me, a butterfly floated up to the window, hovered, then flew and landed on the wing of the plane. I suddenly had peace. I knew that was God's promise. That he was sending peace, comfort, and a special angel to watch over the flight, to watch over my son. I felt a peace and a closeness with Colton. I fully and firmly believe both my sons were on that flight. And I felt calm; a calm I hadn't felt in days (maybe months).
My son made it safe. He says his flight was "awesome". He - luckily - sat by two other unaccompanied minors who he made friends with. Grandma reported they all waved and yelled goodbye, without a care in the world. Innocent pure happiness.
Today wasn't just a flight to vacationing with granny and pop for my son. Today was a flight of my fear, leaving me and being replaced with peace. Peace that God is in control. Do I believe my children won't die? No. I know fully they could still be taken from me at any time. The truth is our children are a gift from God, on loan to us, until they are called back home. However I do have peace that I cannot control this life. Worry and fear do not prevent bad things from happening; they do prohibit happiness from coming in. The peace of the fear taking flight from me is freeing. The peace of a flutter of a butterfly, the giggle of a little boy safe and sound, and the promise that an angel is always surrounding us. ~xoxo~
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Shit Happens
Today there was a news report posted on a site I visit that discussed stillbirth and the link with how much and how you sleep.
For reals?
All I could think is for fuck's sake!! It was the most uneducated, narrow, stupid article I have read in a long time. I mean, it was like 300 ladies they talked to and asked about sleeping before stillbirth. Namely sleeping on your left side v. any other way.
First, I can almost guarantee you they have no idea how they slept the night before their child died. I know that I don't remember most anything from the moment I confirmed my son was dead until I don't know when before. Most women I know that have gone through the same trauma say they are the same; they have no clear recollection of the days (or months) before "that moment".
Second, give us a break. By us I mean all the woman who have tried to recount ever step, scrutinize every sneeze, every trip, every twinge, every headache, every.single. freaking.second of their pregnancy and wonder where we went wrong. What did we do.
Coulda-shoulda-woulda.
I am done with the blame. I didn't do anything wrong. I ate right, I rested right, I took good care of myself and my son. SHIT JUST HAPPENS. Unfortunately, this is the crappiest of all crapies that CAN happen and it DID happen and blaming myself or my foods or my stinking sleeping habits just won't change a damn thing.
Stillbirth sucks. Plain and simple. Reaching for answers that just aren't there just adds to the frustration and grief. I refuse to live like that. And I wish people who don't know what they're talking about wouldn't pretend like they do. If they did they'd know they aren't helping anyone.
For reals?
All I could think is for fuck's sake!! It was the most uneducated, narrow, stupid article I have read in a long time. I mean, it was like 300 ladies they talked to and asked about sleeping before stillbirth. Namely sleeping on your left side v. any other way.
First, I can almost guarantee you they have no idea how they slept the night before their child died. I know that I don't remember most anything from the moment I confirmed my son was dead until I don't know when before. Most women I know that have gone through the same trauma say they are the same; they have no clear recollection of the days (or months) before "that moment".
Second, give us a break. By us I mean all the woman who have tried to recount ever step, scrutinize every sneeze, every trip, every twinge, every headache, every.single. freaking.second of their pregnancy and wonder where we went wrong. What did we do.
Coulda-shoulda-woulda.
I am done with the blame. I didn't do anything wrong. I ate right, I rested right, I took good care of myself and my son. SHIT JUST HAPPENS. Unfortunately, this is the crappiest of all crapies that CAN happen and it DID happen and blaming myself or my foods or my stinking sleeping habits just won't change a damn thing.
Stillbirth sucks. Plain and simple. Reaching for answers that just aren't there just adds to the frustration and grief. I refuse to live like that. And I wish people who don't know what they're talking about wouldn't pretend like they do. If they did they'd know they aren't helping anyone.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Anxious, so very anxious.
Two weeks from now is my follow up appointment with my OB/GYN. We will be doing another PAP which will tell us if the precancerous cells are gone, the same, or growing. And you'd think that would be the most terrifying part of it all, right?
The doctor is also going to do an ultrasound. He's going to check for any cysts or fibroid. My periods have been changing and some symptoms point at those possibilities. Even that I am okay with. We can treat those things.
We can't treat the anxiety I feel though. The anxiety of having an ultrasound in that office. I tried to talk the nurse into letting me go elsewhere, however they insisted on their ultrasound techs completing the scan.
I have to give her the benefit that she doesn't realize WHY it's such a big deal to me. She doesn't realize that the last time I was in their ultrasound room I saw my son's motionless heart and had to accept my son was gone. I let out the most primal, excruciating scream, one that I didn't even realize at that time belonged to me. That room is the place part of me died. Part of me shut down, went dark, and will never see light again.
Of course that room also only holds bad news for me. So there is the anxiety that the evil machine will again reveal bad news. Will it this time say I'm dying? Melodramatic, yes, but who'd have thought it would have provided that result last time?
I rationally know it's JUST A ROOM. I rationally know it's not cursed, I'm not cursed. I also know, rationally, that babies just shouldn't die. And that, obviously, this world is far from rational and anything is possible.
I pray that the next two weeks pass quickly. These migraines, nausea, and panic attacks need to leave with the passing time. I need calm. I need some good news and some encouragement. I need peace.
I just need it to be done.
The doctor is also going to do an ultrasound. He's going to check for any cysts or fibroid. My periods have been changing and some symptoms point at those possibilities. Even that I am okay with. We can treat those things.
We can't treat the anxiety I feel though. The anxiety of having an ultrasound in that office. I tried to talk the nurse into letting me go elsewhere, however they insisted on their ultrasound techs completing the scan.
I have to give her the benefit that she doesn't realize WHY it's such a big deal to me. She doesn't realize that the last time I was in their ultrasound room I saw my son's motionless heart and had to accept my son was gone. I let out the most primal, excruciating scream, one that I didn't even realize at that time belonged to me. That room is the place part of me died. Part of me shut down, went dark, and will never see light again.
Of course that room also only holds bad news for me. So there is the anxiety that the evil machine will again reveal bad news. Will it this time say I'm dying? Melodramatic, yes, but who'd have thought it would have provided that result last time?
I rationally know it's JUST A ROOM. I rationally know it's not cursed, I'm not cursed. I also know, rationally, that babies just shouldn't die. And that, obviously, this world is far from rational and anything is possible.
I pray that the next two weeks pass quickly. These migraines, nausea, and panic attacks need to leave with the passing time. I need calm. I need some good news and some encouragement. I need peace.
I just need it to be done.
Friday, June 3, 2011
A beautiful poem I found.. .. ..
An Angel Never Dies
Don't let them say I wasn't born,That something stopped my heart
I felt each tender squeeze you gave,
I've loved you from the start.
Although my body you can't hold
It doesn't mean I'm gone
This world was worthy, not of me
God chose that I move on.
I know the pain that drowns your soul,
What you are forced to face
You have my word, I'll fill your arms,
Some day we will embrace.
You'll hear that it was meant to be,
God doesn't make mistakes.
But that won't soften your worst blow,
Or make your heart not ache.
I'm watching over all you do
Another child you'll bear
Believe me when I say to you,
That I am always there.
There will come a time, I promise you,
When you will hold my hand,
Stroke my face and kiss my lips,
And then you will understand.
Although I've never breathed your air
Or gazed into your eyes,
That doesn't mean that I never was
An Angel never dies.
Author Unknown
Small Feats
I didn't clean the room. I tried. Well, I thought about it. But I didn't do it.
I did however make a large step toward 'recovery'.
I visited the L&D department. A huge fear of mine has been returning to a labor and delivery ward. Seeing pregnant people, newly delivered people ... and babies. Hearing them, seeing them ... yearning for one.
This weekend, though, I had the opportunity to face my fear. A friend of mine was so blessed to delivery beautiful twin girls as a surrogate mother. The opportunity to celebrate with her pushed me toward the courage to venture into a place of great emotion.
Amazingly, I was fine. I walked onto the ward and didn't collapse - as I feared. I didn't cry. I didn't panic.
I was excited. I was full of hope and wonder. I was OKAY.
When I met these babies ... I cannot explain the feeling. I was given the opportunity to hold them. I chose to hold the smaller one for two reasons: one, I love the underdog and two, she represented hope. She was only 4lb4oz. She was smaller than my Colton. And she was alive.
When she was born the doctor understood why she was so small. Her cord was attached at the side of the placenta. Not only was she alive, she was a miracle.
And if she could be a miracle, I could have one too.
I don't know if my friend picked up on how much seeing her and these babies helped me. I went because I wanted to congratulate her and the new mother. I went to celebrate life, the life of two precious little girls. And in doing so I regained part of my life. Part of my spirit. I regained hope.
And, to me, packing away the emotions trumps packing away the totes any day.
I did however make a large step toward 'recovery'.
I visited the L&D department. A huge fear of mine has been returning to a labor and delivery ward. Seeing pregnant people, newly delivered people ... and babies. Hearing them, seeing them ... yearning for one.
This weekend, though, I had the opportunity to face my fear. A friend of mine was so blessed to delivery beautiful twin girls as a surrogate mother. The opportunity to celebrate with her pushed me toward the courage to venture into a place of great emotion.
Amazingly, I was fine. I walked onto the ward and didn't collapse - as I feared. I didn't cry. I didn't panic.
I was excited. I was full of hope and wonder. I was OKAY.
When I met these babies ... I cannot explain the feeling. I was given the opportunity to hold them. I chose to hold the smaller one for two reasons: one, I love the underdog and two, she represented hope. She was only 4lb4oz. She was smaller than my Colton. And she was alive.
When she was born the doctor understood why she was so small. Her cord was attached at the side of the placenta. Not only was she alive, she was a miracle.
And if she could be a miracle, I could have one too.
I don't know if my friend picked up on how much seeing her and these babies helped me. I went because I wanted to congratulate her and the new mother. I went to celebrate life, the life of two precious little girls. And in doing so I regained part of my life. Part of my spirit. I regained hope.
And, to me, packing away the emotions trumps packing away the totes any day.
Friday, May 27, 2011
I think I can, I think I can, I think (hope) I can .. .. ..
As I approach this three day weekend, I think about all the things I can accomplish around the house. And then I realize my house is really clean. So ... there's not a lot to do...
Except...
I think it's time to tackle my dresser. The dresser that has everything from the hospital. Footprints, pictures, cards, notes, baby clothes ... Everything I haven't been able to bear going through for the past six months. Now, though, I think it's time I work through this and begin the closure and healing that we need.
The thing is, there isn't a lot to go through. Just a few small stacks. Those few small stacks, though, hold mountains of emotion and pain. I think, with anxiety, of seeing his little foot prints. Of holding his little outfits. Of reading through the masses of cards we received. I still feel awful - and guilty - that I've never thanked those who reached out to us. Truth be told, I couldn't tell you who the cards came from. Everything is such a haze and blur. I have no recollection of even opening or reading them.
I plan to start a bin for all of these things. I am hoping I can remove the vinyl lettering from his wall and somehow adhere it to the side of this bin. I will put in it the cards... the hospital papers. I will put in it a blanket or two. An outfit or two. His binkies with his name on them... the blocks from his baby shower that spell out Colton. Anything personalized will go into this box. Anything that I cannot bear thinking of another baby using.
If I can make it through that part, I will work on his room. I will fold up the pack and play and put it away. It's still sitting in the middle of his room; I had just put it together the Sunday before we confirmed he was gone. I will dust the furniture, vacuum the floor. I will wash and put away the blankets that are gathering dust around the room.
I will probably sit in the rocker and cry.
Hopefully, though, I will heal. I will close the pain into that box and let go of the heaviness of the task. I will be able to release the anxiety of packing the hopes and dreams, the condolences and pain, into a box to honor and remember Colton.
Hopefully.
Except...
I think it's time to tackle my dresser. The dresser that has everything from the hospital. Footprints, pictures, cards, notes, baby clothes ... Everything I haven't been able to bear going through for the past six months. Now, though, I think it's time I work through this and begin the closure and healing that we need.
The thing is, there isn't a lot to go through. Just a few small stacks. Those few small stacks, though, hold mountains of emotion and pain. I think, with anxiety, of seeing his little foot prints. Of holding his little outfits. Of reading through the masses of cards we received. I still feel awful - and guilty - that I've never thanked those who reached out to us. Truth be told, I couldn't tell you who the cards came from. Everything is such a haze and blur. I have no recollection of even opening or reading them.
I plan to start a bin for all of these things. I am hoping I can remove the vinyl lettering from his wall and somehow adhere it to the side of this bin. I will put in it the cards... the hospital papers. I will put in it a blanket or two. An outfit or two. His binkies with his name on them... the blocks from his baby shower that spell out Colton. Anything personalized will go into this box. Anything that I cannot bear thinking of another baby using.
If I can make it through that part, I will work on his room. I will fold up the pack and play and put it away. It's still sitting in the middle of his room; I had just put it together the Sunday before we confirmed he was gone. I will dust the furniture, vacuum the floor. I will wash and put away the blankets that are gathering dust around the room.
I will probably sit in the rocker and cry.
Hopefully, though, I will heal. I will close the pain into that box and let go of the heaviness of the task. I will be able to release the anxiety of packing the hopes and dreams, the condolences and pain, into a box to honor and remember Colton.
Hopefully.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Ignorance is Bliss
Did you know that 1 in 160 pregnancies end in stillbirth?
(American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG). (2009). Evaluation of Stillbirths and Neonatal Deaths. ACOG Committee Opinion, 383.) Just in case you think I'm making that up.
1 in 160.
That statistic is such a catch-22. On one hand it's reassuring. I wasn't just some abnormality. I wasn't the "only one", that "one in a million". On the other hand, holy crap, that's a lot. It's not uncommon, rather it's VERY common. And, therefore, it could happen to me again. Or to my close friends or family.
Of course, having this happen makes you realize how stillbirth is common. So many - too many - people come out and share with you that it has happened to them, too. People you'd never expect. No one really talks about it. Heck, outside of here I don't really talk about it .. .. ..
I would bet money that people - even people close to me - will forget in the next year that I lost a baby. I don't blame them. I think it's that whole out-of-sight, out-of-mind theory. Also, had I been in a tragic accident there would probably be scars. I don't have any noticeable scars; people cannot see a broken heart. It will be easy for others to forget (hell, I wish I could).
It does get frustrating, however, when people act like pregnancy is a simple thing. That labor should always be natural and a baby will come when ready. That induction is unnecessary ever. That "all my pregnancies have been great, so they always will be" ... I never realized how much the saying "every pregnancy is different" was true until this last was SO different.
The best way I can deal with this is to know that they will (hopefully) never understand. They will - hopefully - never lose a baby and with it the false security each healthy pregnancy gives us.
But ... well ... 1 in 160 ...
(American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG). (2009). Evaluation of Stillbirths and Neonatal Deaths. ACOG Committee Opinion, 383.) Just in case you think I'm making that up.
1 in 160.
That statistic is such a catch-22. On one hand it's reassuring. I wasn't just some abnormality. I wasn't the "only one", that "one in a million". On the other hand, holy crap, that's a lot. It's not uncommon, rather it's VERY common. And, therefore, it could happen to me again. Or to my close friends or family.
Of course, having this happen makes you realize how stillbirth is common. So many - too many - people come out and share with you that it has happened to them, too. People you'd never expect. No one really talks about it. Heck, outside of here I don't really talk about it .. .. ..
I would bet money that people - even people close to me - will forget in the next year that I lost a baby. I don't blame them. I think it's that whole out-of-sight, out-of-mind theory. Also, had I been in a tragic accident there would probably be scars. I don't have any noticeable scars; people cannot see a broken heart. It will be easy for others to forget (hell, I wish I could).
It does get frustrating, however, when people act like pregnancy is a simple thing. That labor should always be natural and a baby will come when ready. That induction is unnecessary ever. That "all my pregnancies have been great, so they always will be" ... I never realized how much the saying "every pregnancy is different" was true until this last was SO different.
The best way I can deal with this is to know that they will (hopefully) never understand. They will - hopefully - never lose a baby and with it the false security each healthy pregnancy gives us.
But ... well ... 1 in 160 ...
Friday, May 20, 2011
When to let go?
It's been six months now, and while on one hand that seems like such a short time on the other it feels like an eternity. Colton's room is still just as it was before we lost him. Nothing has moved, nothing has changed. And I often wonder what to do with it.
We plan on trying again. The timeline is a little blurred and uncertain, however we do know we want to try again. So I do not want to get rid of the things we'll ultimately need. The crib, dressers, blankets, clothes ... they all need to stay put. The clothes may or may not be used -- who knows what gender we'll get. But I hold on to them, and even if I do donate them someday some of them will stay with me, in a bin of "Colton's Stuff", to always keep as his.
Today, though, a friend of mine and I were talking about a young girl we know that's expecting her first child. She has very little and will struggle. And it was said that all the money she is making right now is going to buy diapers.
And it dawned on me I have hundreds - like 3 hundreds - of diapers sitting in a closet. Diapers that won't be used for at least a year. So I offered them. Then, immediately inside, panicked. Over diapers. I know that getting rid of the diapers do not get rid of the memory of Colton. I know this logically.
In a way, though, it almost feels that if I move anything out of that room I am giving away hope. I (feel like)am giving up on the idea that this room will be filled one day with a baby that will need them. I know that it's not rational, and I know that diapers are replaceable. I know that giving them away means nothing more than I don't need them right now and someone else could use them.
Still.
I will (probably) give her the diapers. And I will (probably) feel okay about it. And it (may) help me move forward and heal some more.
Though, I may just keep a few, just because they were his.
We plan on trying again. The timeline is a little blurred and uncertain, however we do know we want to try again. So I do not want to get rid of the things we'll ultimately need. The crib, dressers, blankets, clothes ... they all need to stay put. The clothes may or may not be used -- who knows what gender we'll get. But I hold on to them, and even if I do donate them someday some of them will stay with me, in a bin of "Colton's Stuff", to always keep as his.
Today, though, a friend of mine and I were talking about a young girl we know that's expecting her first child. She has very little and will struggle. And it was said that all the money she is making right now is going to buy diapers.
And it dawned on me I have hundreds - like 3 hundreds - of diapers sitting in a closet. Diapers that won't be used for at least a year. So I offered them. Then, immediately inside, panicked. Over diapers. I know that getting rid of the diapers do not get rid of the memory of Colton. I know this logically.
In a way, though, it almost feels that if I move anything out of that room I am giving away hope. I (feel like)am giving up on the idea that this room will be filled one day with a baby that will need them. I know that it's not rational, and I know that diapers are replaceable. I know that giving them away means nothing more than I don't need them right now and someone else could use them.
Still.
I will (probably) give her the diapers. And I will (probably) feel okay about it. And it (may) help me move forward and heal some more.
Though, I may just keep a few, just because they were his.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Suspended in time, and hanging by a thread.. .. ..
When everything comes crashing down you realize how you're really holding on by just a thread. I try to convince myself I am okay. That I don't think about Colton every day, that I'm moving forward and healing.
Last night I went into full panic mode. I couldn't remember the exact time Colton was born. I couldn't remember for sure how long he was. He weighed 5lb 7oz. I did remember that much, but the rest ... the rest just escaped me. Was it 4:24 or 4:44?? Was he 17 or 19 inches??
I was in full-on panic. I still haven't gone through the stack of "Colton Stuff" on my dresser, so I was frantically digging through piles of cards and discharge papers and baby clothes ... I couldn't find the papers with his stats on them.
Think, think .... The "fetal demise" certificate!! That must have it, right? Just like a birth certificate?? I run across the room and dig in the drawer and yank it out. Nope, that doesn't even have an exact time of birth!! Well of course not! Why would it!? Why would his time of birth or size matter ... he was dead. No benchmarks needed since he never really existed anyways, right?? @&*$##&(@
I finally find a book I made, a photo book through an online service. The only productive thing I've done in regards to Colton since his birth. Death. Whatever.
There it was, 4:24 a.m., 5lb7oz, 19 inches. Exactly what I thought, but exactly what I couldn't trust that I remembered.
I realized I probably remembered all along. I'm just so scared of forgetting him altogether. I am so afraid he'll be a distant memory, a memory you wonder if ever really happened or if it's something you saw in a movie and it became woven into your own memories.
My son, if born alive, would be six months old today. He'd probably be at least scooting, and smiling, and drooling, trying to break a tooth, and eating at the table with us. We'd be scheduling his half-year pictures and heading to the doctor for a check up. We'd be doing anything but visiting him at his graveside.
Time has been suspended. Six months. So surreal and so heartbreakingly, undeniably real.
It's been raining the past few days. For the first time in a long time I woke up at 4:24 a.m. And it was pouring outside. I know it's just mother nature, though I couldn't help trying to find comfort that maybe God, Colton, and all the other angels were crying with me.
Happy six-month birthday my sweet angel. Mommy loves and misses you more than even I can bear to acknowledge.
Last night I went into full panic mode. I couldn't remember the exact time Colton was born. I couldn't remember for sure how long he was. He weighed 5lb 7oz. I did remember that much, but the rest ... the rest just escaped me. Was it 4:24 or 4:44?? Was he 17 or 19 inches??
I was in full-on panic. I still haven't gone through the stack of "Colton Stuff" on my dresser, so I was frantically digging through piles of cards and discharge papers and baby clothes ... I couldn't find the papers with his stats on them.
Think, think .... The "fetal demise" certificate!! That must have it, right? Just like a birth certificate?? I run across the room and dig in the drawer and yank it out. Nope, that doesn't even have an exact time of birth!! Well of course not! Why would it!? Why would his time of birth or size matter ... he was dead. No benchmarks needed since he never really existed anyways, right?? @&*$##&(@
I finally find a book I made, a photo book through an online service. The only productive thing I've done in regards to Colton since his birth. Death. Whatever.
There it was, 4:24 a.m., 5lb7oz, 19 inches. Exactly what I thought, but exactly what I couldn't trust that I remembered.
I realized I probably remembered all along. I'm just so scared of forgetting him altogether. I am so afraid he'll be a distant memory, a memory you wonder if ever really happened or if it's something you saw in a movie and it became woven into your own memories.
My son, if born alive, would be six months old today. He'd probably be at least scooting, and smiling, and drooling, trying to break a tooth, and eating at the table with us. We'd be scheduling his half-year pictures and heading to the doctor for a check up. We'd be doing anything but visiting him at his graveside.
Time has been suspended. Six months. So surreal and so heartbreakingly, undeniably real.
It's been raining the past few days. For the first time in a long time I woke up at 4:24 a.m. And it was pouring outside. I know it's just mother nature, though I couldn't help trying to find comfort that maybe God, Colton, and all the other angels were crying with me.
Happy six-month birthday my sweet angel. Mommy loves and misses you more than even I can bear to acknowledge.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
No Escape
Normally when your mind is heavy with thought you can find some escape. Not with a loss like this. It follows you and haunts you. Things you see, hear, do ... the pain is all right there, waiting to boil back over the top.
Even in Mexico, cruising the ocean and enjoying a much needed vacation I could not escape the truth of the pain each day holds. It probably didn't help that the week was full of first anniversary dates. The first Mother's Day without one of my children, my baby. The first anniversary of the first day we saw our little bean and his beautiful heartbeat, which was also my birthday.
Then meeting so many new people and the general, harmless, benign "And how many children do you have" question. The one question that still thoroughly stumps me. There is no good answer to that question, is there?
Don't get me wrong, a vacation with B is just what we needed. We had a great time being alone and just ... being. We had a great time parasailing, sports fishing (and catching a big ol' marlin), and zip-lining through the jungle.
But B still had to hug me and comfort me on my birthday when I just wanted to see Colton's beautiful heartbeat again. When I answered 'two children' while fighting tears, and feeling as though I betrayed Colton.
You just can't escape the pain, the truth, of what will always be missing.
Even in Mexico, cruising the ocean and enjoying a much needed vacation I could not escape the truth of the pain each day holds. It probably didn't help that the week was full of first anniversary dates. The first Mother's Day without one of my children, my baby. The first anniversary of the first day we saw our little bean and his beautiful heartbeat, which was also my birthday.
Then meeting so many new people and the general, harmless, benign "And how many children do you have" question. The one question that still thoroughly stumps me. There is no good answer to that question, is there?
Don't get me wrong, a vacation with B is just what we needed. We had a great time being alone and just ... being. We had a great time parasailing, sports fishing (and catching a big ol' marlin), and zip-lining through the jungle.
But B still had to hug me and comfort me on my birthday when I just wanted to see Colton's beautiful heartbeat again. When I answered 'two children' while fighting tears, and feeling as though I betrayed Colton.
You just can't escape the pain, the truth, of what will always be missing.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Really God?
I will again say I am not mad at God. I just have to have faith he knows better than me and He chose this to happen for whatever reason.
I will confess, though, there are times when I look up and say, "REALLY God??!!".
Honestly, though, I don't think it's too different from when any other 'normal' person thinks the same thing. I think it when I see the teenage girl walking down the street, half-naked, belly out to Yonkers, with a cigarette hanging out her mouth. (No joke, happened less than a month after losing Colton). Or like yesterday with a group of three girls, maybe 19-20 year old one of which had a son about a year old ... Mom was obviously too busy to care what he was doing as he ran around the restaurant, threw things, and hit Brian in the head with Mom's phone (okay, that part was kind of funny). All the while, though, Mom and her girlfriends are dropping f-bombs like candy at a parade and talking about who's f'in who's boyfriend. *sigh* Then there are the advertisements "one in three families cannot afford diapers" ... could they not afford the FREE birth control either??!!
Sometimes I just get so frustrated. WHY GOD did they get to keep their baby? And why didn't I get to keep mine?? For once I was doing it right. I was in a great spot in my life. Financially, emotionally, physically ... Why, oh why, did you chose Colton?
Then I read the news story of the fat-ass that let the newborn starve to death. Or the babies dumped in alleys. Seriously, God, and you allowed that but took my son??
I know I sound angry, and I really am not. I guess I'm more incredulous to the whole situation. Trust this, my second conversation with God when I reach the pearly gates will be an exploration of this decision He made. (The first, of course, will be a request to see my son).
I honestly feel awful when I get so frustrated with these situations. I try hard not to be judgemental and (as I've dead-horse repeated) I'd never wish this loss on anyone. I sometimes still just do.not.get.it.
I know that it won't change anything. I know the thoughts are probably rooted in envy, which is ugly and evil. I also know that it truly isn't fair. To me, or to those babies stuck in shitty situations.
Colton wouldn't have suffered and starved to death. Colton wouldn't have gone without. Colton was already loved, protected, and cared for more than others babies who are alive.
Judging isn't right or fair ... neither is losing your child. But both obviously happen and we just continue on, doing the best we can.
I will confess, though, there are times when I look up and say, "REALLY God??!!".
Honestly, though, I don't think it's too different from when any other 'normal' person thinks the same thing. I think it when I see the teenage girl walking down the street, half-naked, belly out to Yonkers, with a cigarette hanging out her mouth. (No joke, happened less than a month after losing Colton). Or like yesterday with a group of three girls, maybe 19-20 year old one of which had a son about a year old ... Mom was obviously too busy to care what he was doing as he ran around the restaurant, threw things, and hit Brian in the head with Mom's phone (okay, that part was kind of funny). All the while, though, Mom and her girlfriends are dropping f-bombs like candy at a parade and talking about who's f'in who's boyfriend. *sigh* Then there are the advertisements "one in three families cannot afford diapers" ... could they not afford the FREE birth control either??!!
Sometimes I just get so frustrated. WHY GOD did they get to keep their baby? And why didn't I get to keep mine?? For once I was doing it right. I was in a great spot in my life. Financially, emotionally, physically ... Why, oh why, did you chose Colton?
Then I read the news story of the fat-ass that let the newborn starve to death. Or the babies dumped in alleys. Seriously, God, and you allowed that but took my son??
I know I sound angry, and I really am not. I guess I'm more incredulous to the whole situation. Trust this, my second conversation with God when I reach the pearly gates will be an exploration of this decision He made. (The first, of course, will be a request to see my son).
I honestly feel awful when I get so frustrated with these situations. I try hard not to be judgemental and (as I've dead-horse repeated) I'd never wish this loss on anyone. I sometimes still just do.not.get.it.
I know that it won't change anything. I know the thoughts are probably rooted in envy, which is ugly and evil. I also know that it truly isn't fair. To me, or to those babies stuck in shitty situations.
Colton wouldn't have suffered and starved to death. Colton wouldn't have gone without. Colton was already loved, protected, and cared for more than others babies who are alive.
Judging isn't right or fair ... neither is losing your child. But both obviously happen and we just continue on, doing the best we can.
Warning: Proceed with Caution
I find that I have to censor my mouth much more than I ever have in the past. For the simple fact that I don't like my thoughts and would hate to say them out loud. I am normally a pretty outspoken person who doesn't really care how others take what I say or agree or disagree. Some things, though, are better left unsaid.
~~
B plays on a softball team on Monday nights. All the women - wives, girlfriends, moms, etc - come out to support the team. There are currently three women with young children, all under a year old. Then there is the one woman with a belly about six months along.
Last night at the game she was whimsically looking at the littles' with so much hope and dreams and excitement about her own little that would soon be here. She was lost in her thoughts; a warm, sincere smile across her face, her cheeks rosy with love and adoration, the whole world in front of her...
And all I wanted to do was lean over and warn her not to count on it.
I wanted to warn her that may not happen for her. She may or may not get to chase a wobbling little around, keep them from eating the dirt, or pass them around for everyone to oooh and ahhhh. She may or may not get to experience the joy of introducing him to others, dressing him up so cute, or bring him to watch Daddy play ball.
Her baby could die too.
This is very indicative of why I keep my mouth shut. I remember with such fondness and bitterness the excitement, hopes, and dreams that pregnancy carried. I would imagine how he'd look and what clothes I'd dress him up in. I imagined taking him to daddy's games and taking him to my games. I imagined, imagined, imagined ... I just never imagined him dying.
I could not in good conscious rob her of her hopes. I could not burst her proverbial bubble. I wouldn't have wanted mine shattered. There is a chance it will burst all on its own, however there's also a good chance it won't and next season it will be her baby being oooh'd and ahhh'd over.
I was tempted, though, to remind her to enjoy every single second of her pregnancy. That as much as she longs for the days of her baby being here to equally appreciate the days she has him all to herself. To enjoy each kick, each hiccup, each movement her baby makes. Make mental note and hold on tight to those precious memories of times just as important as once baby arrives.
I didn't, though. I didn't because I don't want to be the crazy lady, the ones who's a little odd and obsessive. That's the only reaction I'd expect and that would be okay. That means they've never endured a loss so large that it completely changes your perspective on the things that are so often taken for granted.
So I just look away. I absorb myself elsewhere so I don't drown in the memories of hope. And I pray. I pray that someday I can have that look in my eye again, that hope in my heart, that pure love and joy only pregnancy can bring.
I pray someday that can be me.
~~
B plays on a softball team on Monday nights. All the women - wives, girlfriends, moms, etc - come out to support the team. There are currently three women with young children, all under a year old. Then there is the one woman with a belly about six months along.
Last night at the game she was whimsically looking at the littles' with so much hope and dreams and excitement about her own little that would soon be here. She was lost in her thoughts; a warm, sincere smile across her face, her cheeks rosy with love and adoration, the whole world in front of her...
And all I wanted to do was lean over and warn her not to count on it.
I wanted to warn her that may not happen for her. She may or may not get to chase a wobbling little around, keep them from eating the dirt, or pass them around for everyone to oooh and ahhhh. She may or may not get to experience the joy of introducing him to others, dressing him up so cute, or bring him to watch Daddy play ball.
Her baby could die too.
This is very indicative of why I keep my mouth shut. I remember with such fondness and bitterness the excitement, hopes, and dreams that pregnancy carried. I would imagine how he'd look and what clothes I'd dress him up in. I imagined taking him to daddy's games and taking him to my games. I imagined, imagined, imagined ... I just never imagined him dying.
I could not in good conscious rob her of her hopes. I could not burst her proverbial bubble. I wouldn't have wanted mine shattered. There is a chance it will burst all on its own, however there's also a good chance it won't and next season it will be her baby being oooh'd and ahhh'd over.
I was tempted, though, to remind her to enjoy every single second of her pregnancy. That as much as she longs for the days of her baby being here to equally appreciate the days she has him all to herself. To enjoy each kick, each hiccup, each movement her baby makes. Make mental note and hold on tight to those precious memories of times just as important as once baby arrives.
I didn't, though. I didn't because I don't want to be the crazy lady, the ones who's a little odd and obsessive. That's the only reaction I'd expect and that would be okay. That means they've never endured a loss so large that it completely changes your perspective on the things that are so often taken for granted.
So I just look away. I absorb myself elsewhere so I don't drown in the memories of hope. And I pray. I pray that someday I can have that look in my eye again, that hope in my heart, that pure love and joy only pregnancy can bring.
I pray someday that can be me.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
And it begins.. .. ..
Today it hit me like a ton of bricks. I have been in a craptacular mood for a couple weeks. I have been irritable, sad, frustrated ... I haven't even liked being around myself. I couldn't figure out why. Sure there has been a lot going on in my life. But still ... I just felt ... Off.
Driving home, though, the realization of my mood disorder sunk in. The year of anniversaries has begun.
A few weeks ago we went to a company party for Brian. I just wanted to drink. And I did. Sucked, though, that there was like nil alcohol in the drinks. I didn't want to deal with anything. I didn't know what my funk was, just knew I was not feeling great.
I realized today that was one year from the date I found out we were expecting.
And so started the year of anniversaries.
The next one will be the day we first saw our little monkey. His cute little peanut shape, his little heart beating away. His perfect little heart, beating away.
That will also be my birthday. Last year I thought it would be amazing to see my baby for the first time on my birthday. Now it's just a horrible reminder of what we lost.
And then the six-month anniversary of the day I saw him on ultrasound with no heartbeat anymore. And two days later, the six-month anniversary of when his body left mine.
Tears just flowed down my cheeks. It all suddenly made sense.
I still don't know what the worst part has been. Finding out he was dead? Two days of labor, then the delivery? Burying him? Coming home without him?? Or is it going to be this first year, all the dates that were, that are, that should have been.. .. ..
It's been awhile since I've had to chant the chant, but here we go again ...
"One day at a time ... one day at a time ... one day at a time .. .. .. "
Driving home, though, the realization of my mood disorder sunk in. The year of anniversaries has begun.
A few weeks ago we went to a company party for Brian. I just wanted to drink. And I did. Sucked, though, that there was like nil alcohol in the drinks. I didn't want to deal with anything. I didn't know what my funk was, just knew I was not feeling great.
I realized today that was one year from the date I found out we were expecting.
And so started the year of anniversaries.
The next one will be the day we first saw our little monkey. His cute little peanut shape, his little heart beating away. His perfect little heart, beating away.
That will also be my birthday. Last year I thought it would be amazing to see my baby for the first time on my birthday. Now it's just a horrible reminder of what we lost.
And then the six-month anniversary of the day I saw him on ultrasound with no heartbeat anymore. And two days later, the six-month anniversary of when his body left mine.
Tears just flowed down my cheeks. It all suddenly made sense.
I still don't know what the worst part has been. Finding out he was dead? Two days of labor, then the delivery? Burying him? Coming home without him?? Or is it going to be this first year, all the dates that were, that are, that should have been.. .. ..
It's been awhile since I've had to chant the chant, but here we go again ...
"One day at a time ... one day at a time ... one day at a time .. .. .. "
Catch 22
In the 'afterdeath' - the moving through life after pregnancy loss - there are many times when you're faced with the anxiety of the day ahead.
This often happens when you know you're going to see a person (or people) that you haven't seen since before the loss of the baby. For me, when I know this is coming, I am full of anxiety all day. At least all day, if not multiple days. There is this deep embedded fear of "what do I say when they ask about the baby?". I often freeze in the moment. There is the fear, first, of their reaction. Then there is the fear of the rush of emotions in acknowledging my son is dead. Then there is the fear of having to stifle the rush of emotions because, quite frankly, there won't be an opportunity to talk anymore about it once it sinks it. ((See previous post about the effectiveness of killing a conversation)).
Then there's the Catch 22 ... when they don't end up asking at all. Of course, the immediate (and probable) assumption is they already know. the rumor has gone around, someone was gracious enough to warn them, however it may be, they must already know.
But what if they don't already know. Do they just not care? Did they forget (how could they, I was 8.5 months!!??) that I was pregnant at all? Have they already forgotten about Colton like everyone else seems too?
Did he ever really exist at all?
Sometimes I don't know if he did to anyone else. It's so easy for others to pretend he didn't.
Such a Catch 22 ... hurts if they ask, hurts more if they don't.
This often happens when you know you're going to see a person (or people) that you haven't seen since before the loss of the baby. For me, when I know this is coming, I am full of anxiety all day. At least all day, if not multiple days. There is this deep embedded fear of "what do I say when they ask about the baby?". I often freeze in the moment. There is the fear, first, of their reaction. Then there is the fear of the rush of emotions in acknowledging my son is dead. Then there is the fear of having to stifle the rush of emotions because, quite frankly, there won't be an opportunity to talk anymore about it once it sinks it. ((See previous post about the effectiveness of killing a conversation)).
Then there's the Catch 22 ... when they don't end up asking at all. Of course, the immediate (and probable) assumption is they already know. the rumor has gone around, someone was gracious enough to warn them, however it may be, they must already know.
But what if they don't already know. Do they just not care? Did they forget (how could they, I was 8.5 months!!??) that I was pregnant at all? Have they already forgotten about Colton like everyone else seems too?
Did he ever really exist at all?
Sometimes I don't know if he did to anyone else. It's so easy for others to pretend he didn't.
Such a Catch 22 ... hurts if they ask, hurts more if they don't.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
My Loss v. Your Loss
Loss is never the same, no matter how similar it may seem. One thing that drives me absolutely batshit crazy is someone telling me they know how I feel. No, really, you don't. And I will not ever pretend I know how someone else feels.
I appreciate that often we can relate our pain to others, however we'll never know exactly how someone else feels. I feel a closeness with other mothers who have lost their child - or children - however they don't know my pain and I don't know theirs. We can say "Hey, I felt that way too" and there will be similarities. There will never be the same pain, though, because we are different people, with different children, different circumstances, and different loss.
I have a lot of mixed feelings on "level of loss" and which is "worse" than another. I ran into an old friend the other day who lost her sixteen year old daughter in a vehicle accident seven years ago. I asked how she was doing and she said "It still just sucks". Sounded pretty accurate to me, and what I expect it to feel like for the rest of my life. Sitting there talking to her I also felt like I could never understand her pain, and she could never understand mine.
Which one of us is more fortunate in such an unfortunate scenario?? Is she more fortunate because at least she had sixteen years with her daughter? She was able to watch her grow, play sports with her, laugh and cry, love and live with her child. I was robbed of all of that. Or am I fortunate that I can't miss those things that I never knew with Colton, and therefore she is entitled to more pain than me? I just don't know. I don't know which is worse or better, but either way, it just sucks.
I do get very angry and bitter when someone with a miscarriage tells me they understand how I feel or makes a huge deal of a miscarriage. I will say, I have never experienced a miscarriage and am certain it is sad and disappointing. However, it does NOT compare to a stillbirth.
A few months back a girl was going on and on about how she knew how I felt and when she lost her baby it just killed her inside. She just gushed about how devastating it was. I finally said, "I am so sorry you ever had to bury a baby too. It's the worst thing ever to hold your baby's empty body, plan a funeral, and bury your child." She immediately shut up.
You cannot compare a miscarriage to a stillbirth. You just can't. Is it still sad? Absolutely. There is a whole new level of loss, though, when you know your child's gender, your baby has a name, a nursery is ready, and all you're waiting for is baby to come home. A miscarriage frequently happens by nature ending a life that wouldn't make it ... my son was PERFECT. He was healthy and ready for this world. Had he been born alive he had the capacity to live. But then he died, for no damn good reason. I have no problem with the grief and sadness over a miscarriage. I DO have a problem with the association and relation of that to a stillbirth or infant loss. Apples and oranges people.
I have felt guilty for feeling this way and finally talked to a friend of mine about it. She has lost two babies; one during labor and one at 18 weeks. She told me that I was absolutely right, there is no comparison. Her son was on his way. He was alive in every aspect and then he was dead. He was a perfect little handsome boy, and had he been born alive he would have been wonderful and thrived. But there was an accident, something went awry, and suddenly - on what should have been the most wonderful happiest birthday - he was gone. Her second child lost was born at 18 weeks was a fully formed baby. Without a name, unprepared for this world, and a loss. A loss that couldn't have been prevented. A baby that couldn't have lived if born. A miscarriage, not a stillbirth. In her own words, there was no comparison.
I have reiterated before, and will again, that I understand that people try hard to console, comfort, and relate in an attempt to help and everyone is just doing the best they know how. Overall the gesture is appreciated. Sometimes, though, an appreciation for the fact that no matter how much you want to help, telling someone that has lost someone they love will never console them would go a long way. It's sometimes hard to smile and graciously say thank you when just the assumption that they know how you feel makes the pain that much heavier.
No one will ever know anothers' pain. That's a good thing. I would never want anyone to know how I feel ... I hate that there are so many angel moms that can even relate with me.
I don't know their pain, they don't know mine. Their loss is no greater, neither is mine. The sad truth is we are all truly alone in our struggles and pains and comparing and contrasting is just a smoke-screen to make us feel less alone and a little better. Prior to having my loss I would say to others "I can only imagine how you must feel". Now that I have experienced it I say "I could never imagine how you feel".
I wish that no one else could truly come close to understanding, and wish people didn't think they do when they don't.
More accurately, appreciate that you can still feel. The emptiness is a demon all its own.
I appreciate that often we can relate our pain to others, however we'll never know exactly how someone else feels. I feel a closeness with other mothers who have lost their child - or children - however they don't know my pain and I don't know theirs. We can say "Hey, I felt that way too" and there will be similarities. There will never be the same pain, though, because we are different people, with different children, different circumstances, and different loss.
I have a lot of mixed feelings on "level of loss" and which is "worse" than another. I ran into an old friend the other day who lost her sixteen year old daughter in a vehicle accident seven years ago. I asked how she was doing and she said "It still just sucks". Sounded pretty accurate to me, and what I expect it to feel like for the rest of my life. Sitting there talking to her I also felt like I could never understand her pain, and she could never understand mine.
Which one of us is more fortunate in such an unfortunate scenario?? Is she more fortunate because at least she had sixteen years with her daughter? She was able to watch her grow, play sports with her, laugh and cry, love and live with her child. I was robbed of all of that. Or am I fortunate that I can't miss those things that I never knew with Colton, and therefore she is entitled to more pain than me? I just don't know. I don't know which is worse or better, but either way, it just sucks.
I do get very angry and bitter when someone with a miscarriage tells me they understand how I feel or makes a huge deal of a miscarriage. I will say, I have never experienced a miscarriage and am certain it is sad and disappointing. However, it does NOT compare to a stillbirth.
A few months back a girl was going on and on about how she knew how I felt and when she lost her baby it just killed her inside. She just gushed about how devastating it was. I finally said, "I am so sorry you ever had to bury a baby too. It's the worst thing ever to hold your baby's empty body, plan a funeral, and bury your child." She immediately shut up.
You cannot compare a miscarriage to a stillbirth. You just can't. Is it still sad? Absolutely. There is a whole new level of loss, though, when you know your child's gender, your baby has a name, a nursery is ready, and all you're waiting for is baby to come home. A miscarriage frequently happens by nature ending a life that wouldn't make it ... my son was PERFECT. He was healthy and ready for this world. Had he been born alive he had the capacity to live. But then he died, for no damn good reason. I have no problem with the grief and sadness over a miscarriage. I DO have a problem with the association and relation of that to a stillbirth or infant loss. Apples and oranges people.
I have felt guilty for feeling this way and finally talked to a friend of mine about it. She has lost two babies; one during labor and one at 18 weeks. She told me that I was absolutely right, there is no comparison. Her son was on his way. He was alive in every aspect and then he was dead. He was a perfect little handsome boy, and had he been born alive he would have been wonderful and thrived. But there was an accident, something went awry, and suddenly - on what should have been the most wonderful happiest birthday - he was gone. Her second child lost was born at 18 weeks was a fully formed baby. Without a name, unprepared for this world, and a loss. A loss that couldn't have been prevented. A baby that couldn't have lived if born. A miscarriage, not a stillbirth. In her own words, there was no comparison.
I have reiterated before, and will again, that I understand that people try hard to console, comfort, and relate in an attempt to help and everyone is just doing the best they know how. Overall the gesture is appreciated. Sometimes, though, an appreciation for the fact that no matter how much you want to help, telling someone that has lost someone they love will never console them would go a long way. It's sometimes hard to smile and graciously say thank you when just the assumption that they know how you feel makes the pain that much heavier.
No one will ever know anothers' pain. That's a good thing. I would never want anyone to know how I feel ... I hate that there are so many angel moms that can even relate with me.
I don't know their pain, they don't know mine. Their loss is no greater, neither is mine. The sad truth is we are all truly alone in our struggles and pains and comparing and contrasting is just a smoke-screen to make us feel less alone and a little better. Prior to having my loss I would say to others "I can only imagine how you must feel". Now that I have experienced it I say "I could never imagine how you feel".
I wish that no one else could truly come close to understanding, and wish people didn't think they do when they don't.
More accurately, appreciate that you can still feel. The emptiness is a demon all its own.
Monday, April 18, 2011
The Twisted Ways We Cope
Even saying "we" in the title expresses the twisted way I think. I guess I think if I way "we" I don't feel so bad for it being "me". I honestly don't talk too much to other mothers that have lost their babies and how they cope. I guess sometimes I don't because I know that even though all of us have pain resulting from a like loss, all of our pain is different and therefore so is our coping. Also, sometimes I think my feelings are just twisted enough to not share for fear people will think I'm crazy or mean.
Case in point:
Yesterday I was working a public outreach event. I will spare you the boring details. The thing we need to explore is there were more pregnant women there than in all the maternity wards in the three local counties combined. Seriously, I'd almost bet money on it. And for each belly bump there was probably an equal amount of strollers being pushed; little babies, not so little, brand new, and a set of twins to boot.
Needless to say, I was a wee bit overwhelmed. Okay, a lot-a-bit overwhelmed. My chest was tight, eyes welted with tears, hands shaking ... I was spiraling fast. I needed to find a way to calm myself and not be so disturbed (and jealous) by the baby bumps.
((Insert twisted thought pattern: Warning, this may be disturbing!))
I started imagining which one would lose their baby and making up stories in my head about when and how it would happen. Statistically AT LEAST one of the people in that sea of pregnancy would lose their child. No doubt about it. So every time I saw another baby bump I thought, "It could be her next. She could go in next week and there will be no heartbeat too. Or she'll go into labor and have a cord accident. So, really, there area lot of bellies, but not that many babies."
I, again, disclaim that I consciously KNOW that this was not okay thinking. It's mean, twisted, wicked, and ... well, comforting.
I would NEVER, ever, in my entire life, wish the loss of a child on anyone. There are people I don't care for; there are people I think would make crappy parents; there are people who probably shouldn't have children - I would never wish a loss on them though.
So it was disturbing and upsetting to me that I was even thinking this way. It also bothered me that I received such comfort from the thought. I no longer felt bitter and jealous, but empathetic and sad for whoever it was in this sea of pregnancy that, like me, would know the loss of a child. I wondered who it would be, which child this was for them, how they would cope. I wondered if they'd bury their child near Colton; if he wasn't going to be the only child in his part of the cemetery anymore.
I don't know why the thought even crossed my mind. I don't know why I had such comfort with it, mixed with such guilt.
I do know that I will take any comfort however I can get it, though.
Case in point:
Yesterday I was working a public outreach event. I will spare you the boring details. The thing we need to explore is there were more pregnant women there than in all the maternity wards in the three local counties combined. Seriously, I'd almost bet money on it. And for each belly bump there was probably an equal amount of strollers being pushed; little babies, not so little, brand new, and a set of twins to boot.
Needless to say, I was a wee bit overwhelmed. Okay, a lot-a-bit overwhelmed. My chest was tight, eyes welted with tears, hands shaking ... I was spiraling fast. I needed to find a way to calm myself and not be so disturbed (and jealous) by the baby bumps.
((Insert twisted thought pattern: Warning, this may be disturbing!))
I started imagining which one would lose their baby and making up stories in my head about when and how it would happen. Statistically AT LEAST one of the people in that sea of pregnancy would lose their child. No doubt about it. So every time I saw another baby bump I thought, "It could be her next. She could go in next week and there will be no heartbeat too. Or she'll go into labor and have a cord accident. So, really, there area lot of bellies, but not that many babies."
I, again, disclaim that I consciously KNOW that this was not okay thinking. It's mean, twisted, wicked, and ... well, comforting.
I would NEVER, ever, in my entire life, wish the loss of a child on anyone. There are people I don't care for; there are people I think would make crappy parents; there are people who probably shouldn't have children - I would never wish a loss on them though.
So it was disturbing and upsetting to me that I was even thinking this way. It also bothered me that I received such comfort from the thought. I no longer felt bitter and jealous, but empathetic and sad for whoever it was in this sea of pregnancy that, like me, would know the loss of a child. I wondered who it would be, which child this was for them, how they would cope. I wondered if they'd bury their child near Colton; if he wasn't going to be the only child in his part of the cemetery anymore.
I don't know why the thought even crossed my mind. I don't know why I had such comfort with it, mixed with such guilt.
I do know that I will take any comfort however I can get it, though.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
And Sometimes I Just Cry
Sometimes you can't do anything more than cry. I suppose that's a normal part of grief, though it's one of the least pleasant. In the beginning all I did was cry. I sometimes think that tears ran down my face constantly for days. I know that's probably not true, but with the fuzzy memories of those first weeks it very well could be ... and if not, it at least felt like it.
I would burst into tears spontaneously at times. Every time my milk dropped I cried. Seeing his room, closed and empty, I cried. Waking up through the night, thinking I heard him crying for me... I would just sob into my pillow.
A few days after coming home we went out to do some Christmas shopping. I was comfortably numb and going through the motions. Until the girl walked by me with her newborn laying on her shoulder. Sleeping, peacefully, beautiful, and alive. I just started bawling. Brian had to hold me up, I could barely stand. Tears just gushed from my eyes, my heart in my gut, my insides violently convulsing and hurling me towards complete meltdown. We couldn't get out of the store quick enough. I went home and cried some more.
Sometimes I still lay down with the blanket from the hospital. It still has the smell of hospital, of the fluids they soaked him in to keep him moist at least long enough to say goodbye, the randomness of smell only a hospital has. You know, the smells that normally make us gag and wish we could take a breath of fresh air. For me, though, this is the only smell of my moments with my son and I breath them in ever so deep and for a second can feel him with me again. And I cry, ever so softly, for the emptiness within that blanket. And I dread the day I can no longer smell him in there.
The other night at a baseball game the big screen had a "welcome to your first ball game" message ... the announcer welcomed a beautiful five-month old little boy to his first game. And I cried and cried, silently wiping my tears. Brian wrapped his arm around me and caressed my head. "I know", he whispered into my ear. My five-month old son should have been there too.
Yesterday I passed a church holding a funeral. So many people around, so much sadness. And I cried, remembering the day our friends and family joined us and cried for Colton.
My oldest son wanted to see pictures last night of Colton and of the funeral. The first one started the tears and I held back the sobs that were fighting to break through. His tiny little box, not even large enough to be considered a coffin.... Jo saying "That was as big as it was?". Yes ... with room left inside. Tragic they even make boxes so small.
I don't cry on a regular basis anymore, but I cry regularly. I cry when I see a baby, a pregnant woman, a cemetery, a funeral ... I cry when my breasts still drop milk and each month when my cycle starts, another month with an empty womb. I still cry sometimes when I go near his room. And sometimes I just cry because he's gone, no other reason necessary. I don't cry every time I see these things or these things happen. Sometimes its a sole teardrop streaming down my cheek; sometimes its a rushing waterfall with no possible end in sight.
Someday I am sure the physical tears will stop. Controlling those tears, the ones people can see, is getting easier. The tears that constantly soak my heart and drop through my veins ... those are the tears I'm not sure I will ever be free from.
And sometimes that makes me cry.. .. ..
I would burst into tears spontaneously at times. Every time my milk dropped I cried. Seeing his room, closed and empty, I cried. Waking up through the night, thinking I heard him crying for me... I would just sob into my pillow.
A few days after coming home we went out to do some Christmas shopping. I was comfortably numb and going through the motions. Until the girl walked by me with her newborn laying on her shoulder. Sleeping, peacefully, beautiful, and alive. I just started bawling. Brian had to hold me up, I could barely stand. Tears just gushed from my eyes, my heart in my gut, my insides violently convulsing and hurling me towards complete meltdown. We couldn't get out of the store quick enough. I went home and cried some more.
Sometimes I still lay down with the blanket from the hospital. It still has the smell of hospital, of the fluids they soaked him in to keep him moist at least long enough to say goodbye, the randomness of smell only a hospital has. You know, the smells that normally make us gag and wish we could take a breath of fresh air. For me, though, this is the only smell of my moments with my son and I breath them in ever so deep and for a second can feel him with me again. And I cry, ever so softly, for the emptiness within that blanket. And I dread the day I can no longer smell him in there.
The other night at a baseball game the big screen had a "welcome to your first ball game" message ... the announcer welcomed a beautiful five-month old little boy to his first game. And I cried and cried, silently wiping my tears. Brian wrapped his arm around me and caressed my head. "I know", he whispered into my ear. My five-month old son should have been there too.
Yesterday I passed a church holding a funeral. So many people around, so much sadness. And I cried, remembering the day our friends and family joined us and cried for Colton.
My oldest son wanted to see pictures last night of Colton and of the funeral. The first one started the tears and I held back the sobs that were fighting to break through. His tiny little box, not even large enough to be considered a coffin.... Jo saying "That was as big as it was?". Yes ... with room left inside. Tragic they even make boxes so small.
I don't cry on a regular basis anymore, but I cry regularly. I cry when I see a baby, a pregnant woman, a cemetery, a funeral ... I cry when my breasts still drop milk and each month when my cycle starts, another month with an empty womb. I still cry sometimes when I go near his room. And sometimes I just cry because he's gone, no other reason necessary. I don't cry every time I see these things or these things happen. Sometimes its a sole teardrop streaming down my cheek; sometimes its a rushing waterfall with no possible end in sight.
Someday I am sure the physical tears will stop. Controlling those tears, the ones people can see, is getting easier. The tears that constantly soak my heart and drop through my veins ... those are the tears I'm not sure I will ever be free from.
And sometimes that makes me cry.. .. ..
Monday, April 11, 2011
House of Cards
I have talked to other mothers of angel babies about the healing process and many different descriptions are used. As mentioned before, it's referred to as a thin scab that often breaks open. Sometimes the old phrase "one step forward, two steps back" is used. For me and my healing, the best analogy is a house of cards.
When I first started to heal I held together the smallest shreds of sanity. Like the four cards to begin a house of cards, I had four small things to build on ... Brian, Logan, Jonah, and Colton. Brian, my partner, my love, and my rock. My boys, Logan and Jonah, my blessings God gave me. And Colton, the little angel, and my desire to honor him. I firmly believe that those four cards are the things that give the whole house of cards strength and foundation. And when the house of cards topples, those four cards are the beginning points to rebuild again.
Slowly the house of cards grows. You can add a cards, carefully and slowly, to build the tallest of mansions. In healing you add a little here and there. A good day may add a few cards. A bad day may leave you too shaky to even attempt to go near the house of cards.
The thing about the house of cards, though, is that it's fragile and unstable. And one large blow sends it falling to rubble. Each building block there, each piece available, yet in shambles and scatters.
I work on my house of cards every day. I try to grow and heal and progress. Normally I do really well and my house was growing taller and taller. Then it all fell down.
The other day I went into the doctor to follow up on test results. I was already anxious ... we were testing my thyroid and I was worried that this, too, would be 'bad'. Before I even had a chance to worry too much about that I was brought to a pile of cards by one small interaction.
This adorable little girl, about a year old, was running around the waiting room. She was grabbing magazines and gibbering like she was reading the cover. She'd laugh then run off somewhere else. I was watching her, soaking in her exploration, wonder, and innocence. Then she ran up to me, smiled at me, and gibbered something unrecognizable and burst into laughter. I giggled too, at her spirit and joy.
Then the house fell down.
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Every ounce of strength and healing I'd accomplished was laying like rubble in my gut. This beautiful little girl represented everything I would never have with my son. I would never see him walk. I'd never watch him learn and explore and discover. I'd never chase him around and tell him no, and be worn out from his endless energy. I'd never have anything with him. He was gone.
I don't want to say that I forget that he's gone, I'll never forget. I suppose, though, it just isn't a conscious thought most of the time. So when it hits, the feeling of a mack truck plowing me down to roadkill overcomes me. I couldn't see straight. I couldn't swallow. I couldn't breath.
I held it together ever so precariously until I was taken back to an exam room. Even more than my fear of losing it in the middle of the waiting room was the fear of scaring this beautiful little girl and disturbing her father. See, the pain is disabling. However, unlike other disabilities, no one can see this pain. If you see someone with a broken leg, it makes sense when they limp. If you see someone using a walking cane, you can see they are blind and accommodate them. A broken heart, though ... well, others can't see that. So when you break into tears in the middle of a room for no apparent reason, people just think you're crazy.
I cried a lot in the exam room. My doctor came in after I had calmed and talked with me for a bit. Of course my labs came back off, as I worried, and I have to be tested in three months again. I will say, I am already tired of living in three month increments. Luckily the bad news of the thyroid test was nothing compared to the heartbreak the beautiful little girl brought.
And, really, three months to wait for the repeat PAP and three months to wait for the repeat thyroid test seems insignificant now.
It will take at least that long to rebuild my house of cards. I have clung to my Brian this week. Logan is sitting here cuddling on the couch with me. Jonah is here to visit for the week (praise God for putting what we need where we need when we need ). And Colton will always be strong in my heart and an inspiration. The foundation is there and gives me hope.
And so I will build, looking each day for a card to put into place.
Healing is just a house of cards, though ... fragile and unstable. Easily blown over and difficult to trust. Also beautiful, inspiring, and worth the effort if for nothing else than to say you made it.
When I first started to heal I held together the smallest shreds of sanity. Like the four cards to begin a house of cards, I had four small things to build on ... Brian, Logan, Jonah, and Colton. Brian, my partner, my love, and my rock. My boys, Logan and Jonah, my blessings God gave me. And Colton, the little angel, and my desire to honor him. I firmly believe that those four cards are the things that give the whole house of cards strength and foundation. And when the house of cards topples, those four cards are the beginning points to rebuild again.
Slowly the house of cards grows. You can add a cards, carefully and slowly, to build the tallest of mansions. In healing you add a little here and there. A good day may add a few cards. A bad day may leave you too shaky to even attempt to go near the house of cards.
The thing about the house of cards, though, is that it's fragile and unstable. And one large blow sends it falling to rubble. Each building block there, each piece available, yet in shambles and scatters.
I work on my house of cards every day. I try to grow and heal and progress. Normally I do really well and my house was growing taller and taller. Then it all fell down.
The other day I went into the doctor to follow up on test results. I was already anxious ... we were testing my thyroid and I was worried that this, too, would be 'bad'. Before I even had a chance to worry too much about that I was brought to a pile of cards by one small interaction.
This adorable little girl, about a year old, was running around the waiting room. She was grabbing magazines and gibbering like she was reading the cover. She'd laugh then run off somewhere else. I was watching her, soaking in her exploration, wonder, and innocence. Then she ran up to me, smiled at me, and gibbered something unrecognizable and burst into laughter. I giggled too, at her spirit and joy.
Then the house fell down.
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Every ounce of strength and healing I'd accomplished was laying like rubble in my gut. This beautiful little girl represented everything I would never have with my son. I would never see him walk. I'd never watch him learn and explore and discover. I'd never chase him around and tell him no, and be worn out from his endless energy. I'd never have anything with him. He was gone.
I don't want to say that I forget that he's gone, I'll never forget. I suppose, though, it just isn't a conscious thought most of the time. So when it hits, the feeling of a mack truck plowing me down to roadkill overcomes me. I couldn't see straight. I couldn't swallow. I couldn't breath.
I held it together ever so precariously until I was taken back to an exam room. Even more than my fear of losing it in the middle of the waiting room was the fear of scaring this beautiful little girl and disturbing her father. See, the pain is disabling. However, unlike other disabilities, no one can see this pain. If you see someone with a broken leg, it makes sense when they limp. If you see someone using a walking cane, you can see they are blind and accommodate them. A broken heart, though ... well, others can't see that. So when you break into tears in the middle of a room for no apparent reason, people just think you're crazy.
I cried a lot in the exam room. My doctor came in after I had calmed and talked with me for a bit. Of course my labs came back off, as I worried, and I have to be tested in three months again. I will say, I am already tired of living in three month increments. Luckily the bad news of the thyroid test was nothing compared to the heartbreak the beautiful little girl brought.
And, really, three months to wait for the repeat PAP and three months to wait for the repeat thyroid test seems insignificant now.
It will take at least that long to rebuild my house of cards. I have clung to my Brian this week. Logan is sitting here cuddling on the couch with me. Jonah is here to visit for the week (praise God for putting what we need where we need when we need ). And Colton will always be strong in my heart and an inspiration. The foundation is there and gives me hope.
And so I will build, looking each day for a card to put into place.
Healing is just a house of cards, though ... fragile and unstable. Easily blown over and difficult to trust. Also beautiful, inspiring, and worth the effort if for nothing else than to say you made it.
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