What a "dead baby" really feels like.

I don't blog much any more for a multitude of reasons.  Mostly, because it's used against me far too often.  People don't understand, respect, or honor loss and grief very well and - quite frankly - I was tired of being berated or having my loss used against me.

I have to think people either shy from, deflect, or use things they are afraid of. Unfortunately, baby loss is one of those things.

Yesterday there was a heated debate amongst members of a board.  Someone jumped the "do not cross" line, and flew right over the edge of crazy.  While their comment wasn't directed at me, it resonated through my soul.

"You deserve dead babies".  (condensed to remove names and a lot of profanity)

You deserve dead babies.

First, I don't know what makes a normal, sane, decent person type or say or even think those words.  I am quite sure this person isn't any of the above.  "Dead babies" isn't something I would wish on my very worst enemy.  It's a cruel punishment worse than - quite frankly - anything I could imagine. 

The flood of emotions that hit me when I read it drowned me.  A swinging wrecking ball collided with my gut and knocked me flat on my ass.  My breath left my body.

In my mind all I could see was Colton.

The moment, specifically, when I delivered him.  When Dr. C held him up.  His perfect, beautiful body.  His silent, quiet, still body.  My "dead baby".

I will tell you, no one deserves a dead baby.  No one deserves to have their life ripped into two.  The time before and the time after.  When your life was blissfully unaware of what true, deeply devastating loss feels like.  A time after when no matter how full your life and heart are, there's always a gap, a missing piece.

I do not cry for Colton often anymore.  I don't miss him with the intense fervor that flooded me in years past.  Not a day goes by that I don't think about him. I love him and he's there in my soul with every beat of my heart. However, there is a peace I've made with his loss and his short time with me.

Triggers come and sometimes they are little tremors.  Sometimes full on seismic activity level 9.0 with destruction felt miles wide.

"Dead babies" is a seismic trigger.  When you've had a dead baby you know that pain.  Those callous words take you right back to the epicenter of loss. That numbness, that fear, that empty, powerless, horrible despair.  That moment you'd do ANYTHING ... you'd do anything ...

No one deserves a dead baby.  No one deserves that pain.  No one deserves that loss.  No one. 

Rising from the Rubble

February seems to be about the time I start to emerge out from under my protective armor. I don't even realize I abandon my grief (and blog) from about October until February.

It's like emerging from a tornado shelter.  I feel like, for those months, I pack up all my emotions about Colton and I tuck them into this shelter.  I lock them away, safe, until the passing of the storm.

October starts this wave with Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness.  Just a month before Colton was stillborn I had an intense and {now} surreal conversation with a friend regarding loss.  She posted on her Facebook about her daughter, Emma, and how she would always love her. I messaged her to ask if she had lost her daughter.  She told me about her first daughter and how, at 38 weeks, she lost her.  Emma was stillborn with no reason for her death.  I responded "I just cannot imagine" while rubbing my tummy.  And so marks the beginning of my season of grief. Not even a month later I was living that hell.

November of course is riddled with anniversary dates.  The date I accepted and confirmed Colton was gone {November 16}.  Backtracking to the last day I felt him {November 11}.  Remembering every event of the days in between.  Remember the days of induction. And then his stillbirth {November 18}.  His funeral {November 24}.  Thanksgiving {November 25}.

Blur...

Christmas {December 25}.  Colton's due date {December 26}.

Blur...

By January I start gauging the wreckage from the passing storm.  I start to peek my head out and I start to assess the damage.  When I deem it safe to emerge, I pull myself out and reenter the world left.

Each year it's been a little easier.  I don't have to shackle everything down so tight.  I can leave some things exposed to the elements.  I have built a stronger foundation to ground me.  This past year was easier with the distraction of Colton's brother and little sister.  Their love and laughter definitely help remind me there is light through the clouds; a rainbow in the storm.

So, once again, I rise from the rubble and march on.  A little stronger, a little braver, and ready to battle on.  

I miss him.

I miss him.

Not in that "man this sucks" way.

I miss him in the "oh my god, my heart shatters, my body aches, I am broken" way.

~~~

So begins my season of grief.  There isn't a single day since Colton died that I don't miss him.  He's always that little thought in the back of my mind.

As anyone who has lost someone they love knows, though, we have specific seasons of grief.  And so starts mine.

October really "kicks off" the season (for lack of a better term).  October brings Halloween, the first of many fun, happy, child and family focused holidays.  It is a day that I'll take my kids out and we'll laugh and joke and play.  And there will be a gap.  A missing puzzle piece.  There will be a soldier, Captain America, Hulk, Frankenstein ... missing from my group.  I will wonder what Colton would have chosen to be.  I will look at the hundreds of four-year-olds and think with yearning "that should be Colton".  I will think of his preschool party. Preschool.  He should be going now, into a classroom, preparing to start kindergarten next year.

After this passes then will start my loss period of grief.  A few weeks from now will mark the time of his shower.  The memories of my dear friends and their extensive effort to throw me the best party ever.  We celebrated him with so much joy and anticipation, not knowing just a few weeks later we would be crying and grieving. For some reason that's one of the hardest anniversaries.  I think I always still wonder how I didn't know. How I could have been so oblivious to what was going to come.

After this passes comes "the week".  The week that, in retrospect, I walked around denying to myself my son was gone.  I can tell you what I did every single day during that period.  Things that were said.  Moments of denial.  I can't tell you much of my life before or after, but those days are so clear. 

Then, of course, comes the day of the conversation.  The day I spoke the words I had been denying. 

"I don't remember". 

I told Brian I was going to the doctor the next day because things felt off and I didn't feel  Colton move.  And he asked "When did you last feel him".  I didn't remember.  Though, I guess I did.  Wednesday afternoon.  Yes, it was Monday by now, but it was last Wednesday afternoon. 

And then Tuesday. The monitor. Silence.  The ultrasound. Screaming. 

And Wednesday.

And Thursday. And silence.

I want this season to be over.  I want October, November, and December to just go by and be done. I want to get past all the painful days and sleepless nights.  I want these anniversaries, his "birth"day, his burial day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and his due date to just be behind me.  I want a reprieve from the pain, if just for another nine months until it starts all over again.

But isn't that the point? It will start all over again.  I will start my season of grief again next year. And the year after. And ever year until I leave this world and leave a season with someone else. 

I miss him.  I miss him so freaking much.  And I always will.

Bubby

Delaney has a delightful little voice and quite an impressive vocabulary for 15 months old.  Her favorite words are "cracker", "hi", "bye", "cookie", and "no".  And "bubby", for her favorite person in the world, her brother Logan.  Though they are 9 years apart they are inseparable.  Their love brings a smile to my soul and a giggle to my heart. 

Every morning Delaney wakes up asking for Bubby.  This morning I went to her crib and she kept saying Bubby, so I put her down to run off to the living room for morning snuggles.  But she stopped by my bed and pointed on top of the shelf and said "Bubby". 

My heart stopped for a second.  She was pointing directly to our Colton bear from Molly Bears (http://www.mollybears.com/).  I hadn't shared the bear with her yet, as she's too young to understand what it represents.  This beautiful bear was made to weigh exactly the same as Colton, 5lb 7oz.  He's beautiful and perfect and really brought me peace to receive and hold. 

I asked her "Do you want to see Bubby?" and she responded with a quick shake of her head, pointed to the bear again, and said Bubby.

I handed her the bear (which almost toppled her over at a quarter of her own weight!) and she hugged the bear so tight and said, in her sweetest little voice, "Hi".  She gave the bear a kiss, sat on the floor with it, and hugged it again. 

Somehow, I know she knows what that bear represents.  Somehow, I know her Bubby Colton is never far from her.

I hope to get a picture of them together soon and will share then.  Today, though, I just soaked up the love, the peace, and the joy from Delaney cuddling her "Bubby". 

Courage

The last few years have been a scary, roller coaster journey of dissecting the past, breaking down walls, building up character, and learning to be the most amazing ME I can be.

I have made mistakes, poor choices, and downright horrible decisions in my life.  I was in an endless wash cycle ... soil, soak, wash, rinse, dry, repeat.

When I got pregnant with Colton I thought my life was headed the right way. I had myself convinced the errs of the past were behind me, that life was good, and that *I* was healing.  I thought I was with the "right one" and that everything would be wonderful and bliss forever.

I was obviously still thinking like a child.

When Colton died, everything died.  And, while I regret a lot that happened, I am forever grateful for it as well.  I reverted to my "old" ways (were they really "old" or just buried) and I self-destructed.

And it was the best thing that could have happened to me.

Of course, not losing Colton. I would do anything to have my little boy back.  I miss him with every ounce of my soul and heart.  It took losing him, though, and losing myself, to be able to rebuild.

It really wasn't until I was pregnant with my rainbow that I started rising from the depths of my emotional and spiritual grave.  Priorities changed.  Thoughts changed.  Morals changed.  I changed.

I have learned to value myself.  I have learned I am the only one I can rely on.  I have broken past patterns and become the person I really am meant to be.

The journey has been filled in tears, struggle, and heartache.  I am challenged daily and set up to fail. And with every obstacle, with every punch, with every trigger that in the past would have broken me I draw strength. I will not be broken again. I will not repeat past behaviors.  I will prevail above who I was, what I've done, and - most importantly - what I've lost.  I will have the courage to continue to grow and become who I was always meant to be.

When Colton died, so did I.  Somehow, though, that was exactly what I needed. And I can't help but think that he's happy, and he's proud, of all his momma has accomplished.  I do it for him, I do it for me, I do it for Delaney.  I can't change or fix the past, but with courage I can be the me I was always intended to be.

Burying Your Child

There is no time in life when burying your child is okay.  When it doesn't hurt you to the core and bring you to your knees.  There is no loss that can compare to that of your child.  Whether they never took a breath - like Colton - or lived a long life, if you outlive your child and are forced to say goodbye it is devastating.

Last week I attended the funeral of a former coworker, and friend.  He was funny, kind, generous, and sweet. He had the goofiest laugh and a smile that spread from ear to ear.  He was a smartass (probably why we got along so well).  He would also take the shirt off his back for someone else. Matter of fact, I remember one time him giving me his jacket because I was cold.  It was nipple snappage cold that morning.  Yet he suffered and shivered to make sure I didn't.  He was a hard worker and worked as hard at living life.  He was a good, good soul.

The big, fat, nasty, sonofabitch Cancer attacked him and he was powerless to fight.  One day he was doing well and kicking ass back, and within weeks he was gone. 

His dad worked with us too.  He was definitely an apple that didn't roll far from his fathers tree.  When I heard of his passing my heart ached for his father and for his mother I had yet to meet.

When I walked up to his funeral I was greeted by my Tio. I have seen him many times, but at that moment I remembered attending the funeral of his daughter, who had passed in her 20s.  And as he hugged me I looked across to Colton's resting place. 

In that moment I looked around and wondered who else? Who else amongst us has felt this tremendous loss, this crippling pain?  How many more were mourning the loss of this friend as well as the pain of his parents and reliving their own loss as well. 

I held it together well.  Until his mom let out her first loud weep.  My heart shattered for her. I knew that wail. It escaped me at that same cemetery so many years ago as I buried my own son.  I knew the pain she was feeling and I knew that she would never, ever be the same.

The service was beautiful.  It still paled in comparison to his life.  His life is a light that will always glow in those that knew him. 

His mom and I hugged and she agreed that we wish we didn't ever meet this way.  That we wish we weren't part of that club ... The child loss club.  The age doesn't matter.  The time we had - or didn't have - doesn't matter. 

We should never, ever lose our babies.

Colton has friends who understand, and so do I.

Last night I had a great collaborative chat with a new found partner and friend.  She and I may have a lot in common, but we haven't chatted much to know for sure.  Yet we are excitedly working together on a project that means a lot to both of us and is the reason we met.  We both have angels watching over us.  And we both have beautiful little girls blessing us. We are mothers who have lost and who love both in heaven and on earth.

After our chat last night I was asked who I was talking to and Logan was excited and chill when he said "Oh so her daughter (editing out name) is with Colton. Cool, he has friends!".

The comfort I got from that little proclamation was immense.  Yes, Colton has friends.  Ones that knew the same short existence that he did.  Ones that are full of only love, as that's all they ever experienced.  And, more importantly, my ten year old gets it. And acknowledges his brother and his angel friends.  And that is a gift to me and to every angel mom.  Just hearing our children's names and knowing they are valued, too.

I have been blessed to discover - and hopefully help develop - a whole network of other mommy's just like me.  Moms who have had to say goodbye long before a goodbye was due.  Most of who never got to say hello first. 

And these women are all virtually strangers.  You start to recognize names and build connections, but, honestly, they are people I've never met and may never meet in person.

Yet, we are bonded.  We chat like old friends. We discuss raw, intense, difficult emotions and thoughts that no one else understands. We love each other unconditionally, without malice or judgment.  We share without fear of scolding, a cold shoulder, or being ignored.  We are united in our grief, and in our hope. 

It's been a while since I felt like I belonged somewhere and that I had a true purpose in the world outside of my children and work.  Even amongst friends I often feel alienated and out of touch. I don't think it's their fault and I don't think it's mine. It just ... is. 

I'm not the same person I was four years ago.  I am not the same person I was even just a year ago.  Grief changes us, renewed hope changes us.  And being amongst others who gets us ... well, it changes us too.