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 .. .. .. "
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
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.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The Brighter Side
Looking for the brighter side is not easy. I mean, even the bright side of the death of anyone we love - especially a child - is still in the shadows.
Possibly it's not really the brighter side that I look at; possibly it's just a way to comfort myself. I figure, though, we have to do what we have to do to survive.
~~
Starting long ago I had horrific dreams of losing a child. In these dreams the child was between 4 - 6 and the death was always awful. Drowning, accident ... I could never figure out exactly how the child, I just knew it was tragic and sudden.
After I had Logan I swore the dreams were about him. The child in my dreams looked like him, just a little darker hair. I worried often that I'd lose him suddenly, just like the dreams were foreshadowing. I just knew the dreams would come true.
Then Colton died ... and the dreams stopped.
I am sure to some this will sound so weird and so "out there". I wonder often, though, if that wasn't always Colton in my dreams. I wonder if I would have had him for a few short years then had him torn from my life. I wonder if my losing him in my womb was a merciful loss compared to what would have happened.
I honestly don't know which is better - or worse. I don't know if it's better to have never learned Colton's personality, never attached to him earthly ... I wonder if losing him in four years, six years, a year would be worse than losing him when I did. I wonder if God knew and just had mercy on us??
Does it frustrate me sometimes? Yes. I am frustrated that I won't know Colton. I won't know his personality, his laugh, his smile, his tears, his fears, his voice. I won't know his favorite toy, snacks, foods, noises, places, and people.
I am blessed (as stated before) that I also won't see him suffer, won't see him hurt, won't risk losing him later.
It doesn't make losing him any better. I don't know if it makes the pain any better. I have to believe, though, that God knows best. And I do believe those dreams didn't stop by chance.
And ... I do know I have to live in the brighter side. The dark side is just too scary.
Possibly it's not really the brighter side that I look at; possibly it's just a way to comfort myself. I figure, though, we have to do what we have to do to survive.
~~
Starting long ago I had horrific dreams of losing a child. In these dreams the child was between 4 - 6 and the death was always awful. Drowning, accident ... I could never figure out exactly how the child, I just knew it was tragic and sudden.
After I had Logan I swore the dreams were about him. The child in my dreams looked like him, just a little darker hair. I worried often that I'd lose him suddenly, just like the dreams were foreshadowing. I just knew the dreams would come true.
Then Colton died ... and the dreams stopped.
I am sure to some this will sound so weird and so "out there". I wonder often, though, if that wasn't always Colton in my dreams. I wonder if I would have had him for a few short years then had him torn from my life. I wonder if my losing him in my womb was a merciful loss compared to what would have happened.
I honestly don't know which is better - or worse. I don't know if it's better to have never learned Colton's personality, never attached to him earthly ... I wonder if losing him in four years, six years, a year would be worse than losing him when I did. I wonder if God knew and just had mercy on us??
Does it frustrate me sometimes? Yes. I am frustrated that I won't know Colton. I won't know his personality, his laugh, his smile, his tears, his fears, his voice. I won't know his favorite toy, snacks, foods, noises, places, and people.
I am blessed (as stated before) that I also won't see him suffer, won't see him hurt, won't risk losing him later.
It doesn't make losing him any better. I don't know if it makes the pain any better. I have to believe, though, that God knows best. And I do believe those dreams didn't stop by chance.
And ... I do know I have to live in the brighter side. The dark side is just too scary.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Anger
They - whoever the hell 'they' are - say that anger is a part of healing. Being angry at life, God, yourself, people around you, or nothing at all. This makes me often wonder how long this healing process will take, as I have not experienced anger yet. And I am afraid of when it arrives, if 'they' are right and it's on its way...
People often ask how I can not be angry. There are lots of reasons, the most significant to me is anger won't fix anything. Being angry will not bring Colton back. Being angry won't promote healing. Being angry won't do anything but cause me to self-destruct.
I have plenty of reason to be angry, as people have pointed out. First, obviously, because Colton is dead. I never had the opportunity to hold him, feel his warmth, his soft breath, and calm quiet coos. Never heard him wail out in need and comfort him and care for him. I never got to experience him. I could be angry because he was my fifth pregnancy and nothing had gone wrong before. Because I delivered twice as a surrogate for other families - including triplets - and they are all fine and healthy and happy. Angry because it's just not fair.
I choose to see it from the other side. I am fortunate I never saw my son suffer. He never had to hurt, to feel disappointment, to go without, to want without fulfillment. I feel fortunate I didn't have him for a few days, months, or years then lose him. I didn't get to know his personality, experience his life, THEN have it pulled away from me. I feel fortunate I blessed other families with the beauty of a child (and children). I feel fortunate that now not only do I have sympathy but true empathy for their losses. I feel fortunate I can share Colton with others and hopefully, someday, be able to help others as my angel mom friends have helped me.
The other reason I chose not to live in anger is it will not honor my son. What a tragedy would it be if I crumbled into a shell of me? If Colton were to watch me and wonder where the mother went that loved him and cared for him so much for the short eight and a half months spent together? What tragedy would it be to not love his brothers and his father as he would have? If God forbid it ruined Brian and I, if the parents that shared the love for their son forgot to love all together?
I get up in the morning, dress myself, put on my makeup, do my hair, and start my day - even when I would love to lay in bed with Colton's blanket all day. I smile and laugh, I love and I live ... to honor my son. I want my son to be proud of my strength. To know that each day I live in honor of him, in spite of our loss, and in hope for our future.
I will not pretend for a second that it's easy. It would be a lie to say I don't cry or that I don't hurt like mad or that I don't want to stay in bed all day sometimes. The loss of a child was explained to me as an open wound that sometimes gets a light scab across it; and the lightest of motions can rip it wide open again. The loss of a child is the first time in life when I truly think of healing as "one step forward, two steps back". It's the most challenging test of our souls and our hearts.
It would be easy to be angry.
But as the saying goes, "Nothing in life worth having is easy".
People often ask how I can not be angry. There are lots of reasons, the most significant to me is anger won't fix anything. Being angry will not bring Colton back. Being angry won't promote healing. Being angry won't do anything but cause me to self-destruct.
I have plenty of reason to be angry, as people have pointed out. First, obviously, because Colton is dead. I never had the opportunity to hold him, feel his warmth, his soft breath, and calm quiet coos. Never heard him wail out in need and comfort him and care for him. I never got to experience him. I could be angry because he was my fifth pregnancy and nothing had gone wrong before. Because I delivered twice as a surrogate for other families - including triplets - and they are all fine and healthy and happy. Angry because it's just not fair.
I choose to see it from the other side. I am fortunate I never saw my son suffer. He never had to hurt, to feel disappointment, to go without, to want without fulfillment. I feel fortunate I didn't have him for a few days, months, or years then lose him. I didn't get to know his personality, experience his life, THEN have it pulled away from me. I feel fortunate I blessed other families with the beauty of a child (and children). I feel fortunate that now not only do I have sympathy but true empathy for their losses. I feel fortunate I can share Colton with others and hopefully, someday, be able to help others as my angel mom friends have helped me.
The other reason I chose not to live in anger is it will not honor my son. What a tragedy would it be if I crumbled into a shell of me? If Colton were to watch me and wonder where the mother went that loved him and cared for him so much for the short eight and a half months spent together? What tragedy would it be to not love his brothers and his father as he would have? If God forbid it ruined Brian and I, if the parents that shared the love for their son forgot to love all together?
I get up in the morning, dress myself, put on my makeup, do my hair, and start my day - even when I would love to lay in bed with Colton's blanket all day. I smile and laugh, I love and I live ... to honor my son. I want my son to be proud of my strength. To know that each day I live in honor of him, in spite of our loss, and in hope for our future.
I will not pretend for a second that it's easy. It would be a lie to say I don't cry or that I don't hurt like mad or that I don't want to stay in bed all day sometimes. The loss of a child was explained to me as an open wound that sometimes gets a light scab across it; and the lightest of motions can rip it wide open again. The loss of a child is the first time in life when I truly think of healing as "one step forward, two steps back". It's the most challenging test of our souls and our hearts.
It would be easy to be angry.
But as the saying goes, "Nothing in life worth having is easy".
Rock-A-Bye and Goodnight
When Brian and I were metamorphosing a plain white room with miscellaneous "toss it here" things into a three-colored jungle adventure for Colton we never realized how much more it represented.
Brian and I worked for close to a month on the room. We dedicated a little time here and there and worked when we could. We painted the room first, three different colors coming together for our little monkey. The bottom color brown, like the jungle floor; the middle strip cream, to be lined with monkey and vine decals; and the top a fun green like the canopy of the jungle. Above his changing table (well, his dresser with a changing pad -- saving space!) was a decal "Colton" with a monkey hanging from the end. Above his beautiful crib a decal "No More Monkeys Jumping On The Bed". (Do we see the irony?)
We changed all the light sockets to black to match his crib and furniture. We received a beautiful black and tan rocker/glider from my friend and set it up in the corner. All the clothes were washed and folded, drawer tags indicating "0-3, 3-6, 6-9, 9-12" hung from the handles of the drawers to distinguish where to find what. Diapers were stacked, lotions organized, and nursing pads on stand-by.
His beautiful crib, bought by Nana and Poppa, was set up and beyond perfect for his room. The bedding from Great-Granny & Poppa placed with care. His monkey lovies in each corner of his bed. His heartbeat monkey from our 3D ultrasound laying in wait for him.
I had just assembled his play pen, which would be used in the living room for his naps and to change him. It was the perfect match to his room and had a bassinet, changing table, and diaper/wipes holder. All fully stocked, sitting in the middle of his room, ready to go.
It was perfect.
Then he was gone.
Even now I am writing this with tears in my eyes and a bleeding, aching heart. The room that was built with such love, excitement, and anticipation was now a room of torture and doom. A stabbing reminder of how close we were and how empty we are. The crib that should hold our peaceful resting baby; the changing table where we would dress and coo with our little boy; the rocker where I'd nurse my son and spend the most intimate quiet moments with him. Now just a cruel reminder of what we lost.
I had to go into that room the day I found out Colton was gone. I had to pick blankets and clothing for the hospital. For the pictures we would take to memorialize him. The only thing we would have after that day. I picked the outfit he was supposed to come home in. The onsie said "Handsome Like Daddy". The blanket I chose was the brown monkey blankie from Aunt Christy and Austin, his future-girlfriend-to-be. The little legs and arms of the monkey hung off the blanket. (There are spots that are almost worn flat from me mindlessly rubbing on them as I was lost in an empty continuum of space.) I was in a daze that whole time; completely numb. I closed the door behind me.
I had to go into that room a few days later. This time it was to pick the items to bury with my son. I catch my breath even typing this. I felt dead that day. My son was no longer in my body, yet he also wasn't in his crib where he belonged. My mind wandered to where he was and I almost threw up, nausea overcoming me. I felt like a horrible mom leaving him behind in a cold dark room. I knew he was gone, rationally. Rationality doesn't come into play in situations like this though.
Brian went in with me and I vaguely remember thinking "just get this done". We decided to bury him in the same clothes. I chose to pick a different blanket, though. The other was mine, would always be mine, and I would not part with it. I chose one that grandma had bought for him. A playful white blanket with green under-lining and monkeys and other animals all over it. Something beautiful, fun, soft, and comforting. I grabbed his monkey lovies from his crib. And I grabbed a binky from Aunt Christy with his name "COLTON" across the front. I walked out and closed the door.
After that the door stayed closed for a while. I couldn't even look at it without crumbling inside. Without a shocking pang generating from my heart and radiating through every nerve in my body. I threatened everyone in the family that great bodily harm would become them if they opened that door. I could not imagine what that would due to me and I didn't want to find out.
I had a few friends visit who wanted to see ther room. I either let them go on their own or I steadied myself for it. In other words, I voided myself of all feeling and emotion. I stared into that deep abyss so very far away where nothing could touch me. I didn't breath again or return until that door was closed again.
That lasted for months.
Not too long ago Brian gently mentioned that the sun was beginning to shine more and it would be nice to open all the doors in the house and let the light shine in. I knew what he meant. And I finally conceded.
I braced myself when I came in that next day. I knew the room would probably be open, and it was. I just glanced that direction and kept going. That happened for a few weeks.
One day after work, while home alone (I wanted to be alone), I went in to his room. I grabbed the heartbeat monkey from his crib and I sat in the rocker. I just sat for a minute, then I squeezed the little box. Swish, swish, swish, swish ... I listened a few times. It was my sons heartbeat, beautiful and strong. A few tears trailed down my face; surprisingly I didn't lose control. I didn't crumble to a sobbing mess, as I'd feared. I didn't die, which I really began to believe a broken heart could do. I gently sat the monkey back in the chair and left his room. And left the door open.
His room is frequently open now. I do not go in there, though. I walk by, but don't glance in. The room doesn't hurt like it did before. But I'm definitely not okay with it either.
The nursery isn't just a room. Every hope and dream we had for Colton began there. Every ounce of love we mixed with that paint and covered the room in; every labor of love to assemble, arrange, and prepare for his arrival. His nursery was the anticipation of a life with our son, the joy of another person to add to our family, an expression of our love.
When we lost him the room became a bitter reminder of all that should have been and all that was lost. We hope to someday try again and I don't know what I'll do with the room. At first I thought I'd leave everything exactly like it was and just bring the baby home (God willing). Then I thought I didn't want anything monkey in that room and would get all new bedding and clothing. Now I'm in the middle. Keep some, leave some, and decide when the time comes what to do. Either the baby will have a new theme or he/she will inherit some things from big brother.
Either way, whatever we do, we will refill it with love and hopes and dreams. Hopefully someday it will be filled with the joys of life again, not the reminders of loss.
Until then, though, I walk by, don't look too long, and pray for a day it doesn't hurt so bad.
Brian and I worked for close to a month on the room. We dedicated a little time here and there and worked when we could. We painted the room first, three different colors coming together for our little monkey. The bottom color brown, like the jungle floor; the middle strip cream, to be lined with monkey and vine decals; and the top a fun green like the canopy of the jungle. Above his changing table (well, his dresser with a changing pad -- saving space!) was a decal "Colton" with a monkey hanging from the end. Above his beautiful crib a decal "No More Monkeys Jumping On The Bed". (Do we see the irony?)
We changed all the light sockets to black to match his crib and furniture. We received a beautiful black and tan rocker/glider from my friend and set it up in the corner. All the clothes were washed and folded, drawer tags indicating "0-3, 3-6, 6-9, 9-12" hung from the handles of the drawers to distinguish where to find what. Diapers were stacked, lotions organized, and nursing pads on stand-by.
His beautiful crib, bought by Nana and Poppa, was set up and beyond perfect for his room. The bedding from Great-Granny & Poppa placed with care. His monkey lovies in each corner of his bed. His heartbeat monkey from our 3D ultrasound laying in wait for him.
I had just assembled his play pen, which would be used in the living room for his naps and to change him. It was the perfect match to his room and had a bassinet, changing table, and diaper/wipes holder. All fully stocked, sitting in the middle of his room, ready to go.
It was perfect.
Then he was gone.
Even now I am writing this with tears in my eyes and a bleeding, aching heart. The room that was built with such love, excitement, and anticipation was now a room of torture and doom. A stabbing reminder of how close we were and how empty we are. The crib that should hold our peaceful resting baby; the changing table where we would dress and coo with our little boy; the rocker where I'd nurse my son and spend the most intimate quiet moments with him. Now just a cruel reminder of what we lost.
I had to go into that room the day I found out Colton was gone. I had to pick blankets and clothing for the hospital. For the pictures we would take to memorialize him. The only thing we would have after that day. I picked the outfit he was supposed to come home in. The onsie said "Handsome Like Daddy". The blanket I chose was the brown monkey blankie from Aunt Christy and Austin, his future-girlfriend-to-be. The little legs and arms of the monkey hung off the blanket. (There are spots that are almost worn flat from me mindlessly rubbing on them as I was lost in an empty continuum of space.) I was in a daze that whole time; completely numb. I closed the door behind me.
I had to go into that room a few days later. This time it was to pick the items to bury with my son. I catch my breath even typing this. I felt dead that day. My son was no longer in my body, yet he also wasn't in his crib where he belonged. My mind wandered to where he was and I almost threw up, nausea overcoming me. I felt like a horrible mom leaving him behind in a cold dark room. I knew he was gone, rationally. Rationality doesn't come into play in situations like this though.
Brian went in with me and I vaguely remember thinking "just get this done". We decided to bury him in the same clothes. I chose to pick a different blanket, though. The other was mine, would always be mine, and I would not part with it. I chose one that grandma had bought for him. A playful white blanket with green under-lining and monkeys and other animals all over it. Something beautiful, fun, soft, and comforting. I grabbed his monkey lovies from his crib. And I grabbed a binky from Aunt Christy with his name "COLTON" across the front. I walked out and closed the door.
After that the door stayed closed for a while. I couldn't even look at it without crumbling inside. Without a shocking pang generating from my heart and radiating through every nerve in my body. I threatened everyone in the family that great bodily harm would become them if they opened that door. I could not imagine what that would due to me and I didn't want to find out.
I had a few friends visit who wanted to see ther room. I either let them go on their own or I steadied myself for it. In other words, I voided myself of all feeling and emotion. I stared into that deep abyss so very far away where nothing could touch me. I didn't breath again or return until that door was closed again.
That lasted for months.
Not too long ago Brian gently mentioned that the sun was beginning to shine more and it would be nice to open all the doors in the house and let the light shine in. I knew what he meant. And I finally conceded.
I braced myself when I came in that next day. I knew the room would probably be open, and it was. I just glanced that direction and kept going. That happened for a few weeks.
One day after work, while home alone (I wanted to be alone), I went in to his room. I grabbed the heartbeat monkey from his crib and I sat in the rocker. I just sat for a minute, then I squeezed the little box. Swish, swish, swish, swish ... I listened a few times. It was my sons heartbeat, beautiful and strong. A few tears trailed down my face; surprisingly I didn't lose control. I didn't crumble to a sobbing mess, as I'd feared. I didn't die, which I really began to believe a broken heart could do. I gently sat the monkey back in the chair and left his room. And left the door open.
His room is frequently open now. I do not go in there, though. I walk by, but don't glance in. The room doesn't hurt like it did before. But I'm definitely not okay with it either.
The nursery isn't just a room. Every hope and dream we had for Colton began there. Every ounce of love we mixed with that paint and covered the room in; every labor of love to assemble, arrange, and prepare for his arrival. His nursery was the anticipation of a life with our son, the joy of another person to add to our family, an expression of our love.
When we lost him the room became a bitter reminder of all that should have been and all that was lost. We hope to someday try again and I don't know what I'll do with the room. At first I thought I'd leave everything exactly like it was and just bring the baby home (God willing). Then I thought I didn't want anything monkey in that room and would get all new bedding and clothing. Now I'm in the middle. Keep some, leave some, and decide when the time comes what to do. Either the baby will have a new theme or he/she will inherit some things from big brother.
Either way, whatever we do, we will refill it with love and hopes and dreams. Hopefully someday it will be filled with the joys of life again, not the reminders of loss.
Until then, though, I walk by, don't look too long, and pray for a day it doesn't hurt so bad.
We're All Just Doing the Best We Know How
This is sort of a spin-off of my last post, as I worry it came across as harsh or unappreciative. Every gesture of sympathy or compassion is appreciated. So I just wanted to explain how I deal with the less-than-desirable responses, the "I'm sorry"'s, and the run-aways. I simply acknowledge::
We are all just doing the best we know how.
I know that people don't know the right thing to say. I don't expect someone to have the 'magic words' - there are no magic words to make it better. It will never be better. I know that each person reacts the best they know how. And, for most, it's with shock and dread.
The good thing about that reaction is that they've never experienced this situation before. For that, I am extremely grateful. I would NEVER wish this type of loss or pain on anybody. So it's GOOD they haven't experienced this and can empathize; it's good they don't have the words because this is uncharted territory. And I sincerely hope they never know the right words or can learn over time-and-again experience of comforting others that go through this or, worse yet, experiencing it themselves. I hope they never encounter this situation again. Because that would mean another baby hasn't died.
I will be very honest and frank when I say sometimes I don't even know what to say. I cannot find the words to formulate my feelings, my needs, my pain. So, how am I to expect someone else to know what to say? Someone who has no experience in this territory? Someone who is in the initial shock of the news and hasn't had the time to absorb the full impact? "I'm sorry" is probably all they can muster. And that's okay. Because we are all doing the best we know how.
There are no right or wrong responses. Even the people who say "well at least you can try again" ... it stings, no doubt. Trying again carries so much with it. The fear of "what if it happens again". The internal battle of wanting to love the child but being afraid of losing another one. The hopelessness of knowing you can't do anything but pray it doesn't happen again because it wasn't preventable. And, most importantly, there is no comfort in being able to try again because it will never negate the fact that Colton is dead. It won't bring healing and peace to that loss. It's two totally separate situations and one will not change the other. Really, trying again is almost just a new form of torture and pain, not an easy end-all to this pain.
Again, though, I remind myself they're just doing the best they know how. Trying to comfort me or find the 'bright side' ... they don't see the doom in trying again. And for that I will be grateful. Grateful that they try to help me heal. Grateful they take the time to even say they are sorry and acknowledge something horrible happened.
No one can fix what's happened, no one can change the pain I feel, no one can bring Colton back. The fact that there is an effort, though, is appreciated beyond measure. It's much worse to hear nothing at all and feel like no one cares or everyone has forgotten than to receive jumbled words of hopeful comfort.
We are all just doing the best we know how.. .. ..
We are all just doing the best we know how.
I know that people don't know the right thing to say. I don't expect someone to have the 'magic words' - there are no magic words to make it better. It will never be better. I know that each person reacts the best they know how. And, for most, it's with shock and dread.
The good thing about that reaction is that they've never experienced this situation before. For that, I am extremely grateful. I would NEVER wish this type of loss or pain on anybody. So it's GOOD they haven't experienced this and can empathize; it's good they don't have the words because this is uncharted territory. And I sincerely hope they never know the right words or can learn over time-and-again experience of comforting others that go through this or, worse yet, experiencing it themselves. I hope they never encounter this situation again. Because that would mean another baby hasn't died.
I will be very honest and frank when I say sometimes I don't even know what to say. I cannot find the words to formulate my feelings, my needs, my pain. So, how am I to expect someone else to know what to say? Someone who has no experience in this territory? Someone who is in the initial shock of the news and hasn't had the time to absorb the full impact? "I'm sorry" is probably all they can muster. And that's okay. Because we are all doing the best we know how.
There are no right or wrong responses. Even the people who say "well at least you can try again" ... it stings, no doubt. Trying again carries so much with it. The fear of "what if it happens again". The internal battle of wanting to love the child but being afraid of losing another one. The hopelessness of knowing you can't do anything but pray it doesn't happen again because it wasn't preventable. And, most importantly, there is no comfort in being able to try again because it will never negate the fact that Colton is dead. It won't bring healing and peace to that loss. It's two totally separate situations and one will not change the other. Really, trying again is almost just a new form of torture and pain, not an easy end-all to this pain.
Again, though, I remind myself they're just doing the best they know how. Trying to comfort me or find the 'bright side' ... they don't see the doom in trying again. And for that I will be grateful. Grateful that they try to help me heal. Grateful they take the time to even say they are sorry and acknowledge something horrible happened.
No one can fix what's happened, no one can change the pain I feel, no one can bring Colton back. The fact that there is an effort, though, is appreciated beyond measure. It's much worse to hear nothing at all and feel like no one cares or everyone has forgotten than to receive jumbled words of hopeful comfort.
We are all just doing the best we know how.. .. ..
Friday, April 1, 2011
Conversation Killer
The easiest way to end a conversation now is to bring up the dead baby. It's most easily done with someone that I haven't seen in, oh say four months or more, and the first words out of their mouth is "So good to see you -- How is the baby??!!"
Hmpf. I will say now, if anyone knows an easy way to say "the baby is dead" please let me know. I have not perfected the words that will not turn the asker into a beat red, embarrassed, tongue-tied, running, lost-for-words mess.
I honestly feel way worse for the asker and how they must be feeling. It has got to be much worse than they think I feel having to explain. I have had lots of practice. They are crashing head first into it for the first time. And it's gotta be brutal on their end. Like serious concussion.
What's a real kicker is how quick you get an "Oh I'm so sorry" and that's it. End of conversation. See ya. And running off in the opposite direction!!
So here's what you need to know if you find yourself in this situation.
Don't run. Don't stumble over your words. Try not to say you're sorry; it's not your fault. Rather, ASK. Ask about the baby. Ask what happened, what he was like, if they plan to try again. Ask how they are feeling, how they felt then.
Please know that by asking you are not bringing up pain. The pain is always there. What you will give is LIFE. By asking you will give a surge of energy and life ... my child's energy and life. Being able to talk about him, to share him, means everything to me. Though he was with me only eight months, and all in my womb, he was alive. He was beautiful. He had curly dark hair like his dads and a beautiful little face that looked just like his brothers. He had a beautiful little nose, and the cutest little ears. His fingers were long piano fingers, graceful and beautiful. His feet were long and strong and would have kicked the soccer ball from one end of the field to the other. He was wonderful in every way.
Allow him to be shared. It's the best comfort you can give.
Hmpf. I will say now, if anyone knows an easy way to say "the baby is dead" please let me know. I have not perfected the words that will not turn the asker into a beat red, embarrassed, tongue-tied, running, lost-for-words mess.
I honestly feel way worse for the asker and how they must be feeling. It has got to be much worse than they think I feel having to explain. I have had lots of practice. They are crashing head first into it for the first time. And it's gotta be brutal on their end. Like serious concussion.
What's a real kicker is how quick you get an "Oh I'm so sorry" and that's it. End of conversation. See ya. And running off in the opposite direction!!
So here's what you need to know if you find yourself in this situation.
Don't run. Don't stumble over your words. Try not to say you're sorry; it's not your fault. Rather, ASK. Ask about the baby. Ask what happened, what he was like, if they plan to try again. Ask how they are feeling, how they felt then.
Please know that by asking you are not bringing up pain. The pain is always there. What you will give is LIFE. By asking you will give a surge of energy and life ... my child's energy and life. Being able to talk about him, to share him, means everything to me. Though he was with me only eight months, and all in my womb, he was alive. He was beautiful. He had curly dark hair like his dads and a beautiful little face that looked just like his brothers. He had a beautiful little nose, and the cutest little ears. His fingers were long piano fingers, graceful and beautiful. His feet were long and strong and would have kicked the soccer ball from one end of the field to the other. He was wonderful in every way.
Allow him to be shared. It's the best comfort you can give.
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