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.

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 ...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.