Benjamin starts at a brand new preschool on Tuesday. Four days a week this time. I'm stoked. He's stoked. He's mostly stoked because he gets chocolate milk every day (and he'll tell you that). It's probably his favorite drink ever and when I noticed about three-quarters of the kids in his class also signed up for chocolate milk, I knew there was no chance I was getting away with signing him up for the white milk. He wouldn't drink it anyway. It's going to be great leverage for those rough mornings.
We went to preview day last week. After, the kids played at the park in front of his preschool. People slowly trickled out until there were about 4 kids left. I was nearby when a kid asked his mom to get on the other side of the see-saw. It was one of those newfangled ones that is on springs and didn't require leg work. Super chill. When she replied that she couldn't, I explained that I go on it frequently with my kids and it's so much nicer than most. She replied, "No, I just had a baby."
I rescinded my comment. Of course I wouldn't be getting on that thing either (and probably shouldn't have said anything). Through further conversation with the mom, I learned that she was a surrogate for a (stranger) family an hour away. She has two biological children and then carried another baby to term, all vaginally. She plans to have more kids of her own.
I found myself instantly uncomfortable. Jealous even. It was entirely directed at her innocence in birthing babies and understanding that there is an absolute living birth at the end. Maybe she doesn't entirely believe that, but I'm sure birthing a full term deceased baby wasn't in the forefront of her mind when she considered surrogacy. I told her about Andrew because I felt like leveling the playing field when she told me she birthed three babies. ME TOO. That, and I just talk about him because he's mine.
One thing we had in common: We both had breastmilk arrive a few days after birth. I asked her how that went. She told me it wasn't a big deal and just went away after a few days. She did mention that it felt weird because she breastfed her two boys, but was otherwise fine. That milk devastated me. In common, but NOT same-same.
I'm so grateful for surrogates and have friends who have used them to bring children into their families. I just never actually spent time talking with one. I didn't realize my emotions would be so involved and my grief would play any sort of role.
School is going to be an eye opener for the both of us, I presume. Kleenex ready.
Showing posts with label stillbirth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stillbirth. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Monday, January 26, 2015
Relief
At Claire's 1-year pediatrician appointment this week, my biggest stressors were making sure Benjamin didn't crawl on the dirty floor and preventing Claire from putting that bench paper roll stuff in her mouth (gag). Both of which were extremely challenging, by the way.
It was an enormous relief to visit a doctor and not worry about something related to pregnancy, childbirth or child rearing. I was (for once) confident and like the rest of moms out there (I suspect). I feel like I talk so much about this topic, but for the last 5 years of my life, I was completely centered on those very things. If I wasn't stressed about being pregnant, it was about getting pregnant or making sure I was producing enough breastmilk to provide enough calories and liquid for my baby's diet.
At the end of this (wonderfully) dull appointment, the doctor asked if Claire was born early--which I never inquired why, because she is perfectly average on the charts. I told him 36-weeks, and he commented that she was a week early. Funny. I thought he would've said 4 weeks. I told him the short of things (only specific to her pregnancy) and he kept probing for more. So I told him about Andrew being stillborn and having complicated pregnancies.
He opened up to me about his son being born with Down Syndrome and admitted that while his son is great now, that first year was hard for them as parents.
He stood up from his computer, looked me in the eyes and said something that hit me:
He stood up from his computer, looked me in the eyes and said something that hit me:
"I bet all of the joy in pregnancy was lost from then on for you guys, right?"
It's like he totally understood. No, we had very different journeys (and he fully admitted that having a son with special needs and a miscarriage was different than a stillbirth), but both caused us to fear pregnancy in a way that sucked the joy from the experience that was once magical. It was really calming to have him in there and talking with me in such a candid way, despite the two monkeys we had in our presence (see paragraph one). And, it was especially nice that the appointment was truly a "routine wellness checkup" as it was intended and no red flags or alarms were triggered.
I don't quite feel like we're in the clear or anything, but I do feel relieved that the pressure of being the pregnant one or breastfeeding one who is responsible for all the weight on my shoulders has somewhat passed. My body that has failed our children before is no longer entirely responsible for sustaining the lives of them anymore. It's a huge relief.
I really want to repeat Claire's first year. Aside from the discouraging first month stares when she was gaining slow (but well), she's been a fabulous baby. I can also say that now since she's been sleeping through the night completely for a month now, just to be clear. But really, can I have another year of her babyness? Soon she'll be walking and she's already talking a wee bit. Time is a thief. But time has also provided relief.
It's like he totally understood. No, we had very different journeys (and he fully admitted that having a son with special needs and a miscarriage was different than a stillbirth), but both caused us to fear pregnancy in a way that sucked the joy from the experience that was once magical. It was really calming to have him in there and talking with me in such a candid way, despite the two monkeys we had in our presence (see paragraph one). And, it was especially nice that the appointment was truly a "routine wellness checkup" as it was intended and no red flags or alarms were triggered.
I don't quite feel like we're in the clear or anything, but I do feel relieved that the pressure of being the pregnant one or breastfeeding one who is responsible for all the weight on my shoulders has somewhat passed. My body that has failed our children before is no longer entirely responsible for sustaining the lives of them anymore. It's a huge relief.
I really want to repeat Claire's first year. Aside from the discouraging first month stares when she was gaining slow (but well), she's been a fabulous baby. I can also say that now since she's been sleeping through the night completely for a month now, just to be clear. But really, can I have another year of her babyness? Soon she'll be walking and she's already talking a wee bit. Time is a thief. But time has also provided relief.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
(Even the Littlest) People Matter.
I feel like I need to talk about other things than potty training and my naughty toddler. As a quick update, the toddler is still naughty, but he's totally potty trained for day and naps and it really was fine and good after five days. We're now on day 13 of zero diapers and totally set. We're about to throw his butt in pull-ups for nights though because Mama needs to sleep and do less laundry, but anyway. We have two living children and that's all that really matters.
We'll be celebrating our daughter's first birthday exactly 10 days from today. In six days, about 40 people will cram into our home to witness her baptism and first birthday festivities. Four days later (on her actual birthday!), we will be flying to Whistler for skiing, spa indulgences and fun with our good friends and fellow babyloss family who are also parents to Jack, Grace & Piper. Jack's fourth birthday was on New Year's Day. Who would've thought we'd be renting a ski condo in Canada with friends who also have a dead son, four years later? If you asked me on December 4, 2010, I would've called you a lunatic. But we're so grateful to have such close friends who literally carried us through some tough days in those first months of loss and still have so much support to offer.
Just a few days before Christmas, Andrew's print arrived in the mail. We decided on a professional pencil sketch for his 4th birthday. Like so many of our babyloss friends, we wanted something to display in our homes that would show the true beauty of our children while still keeping them sacred and protected from gawking and ill responses. We first caught a glimpse when I was sent the initial sketch two days after his birthday. I was so happy to receive this during his birth month.
When it first arrived in my inbox, I was underwhelmed. It was stunning and drawn with such care, but it wasn't the boy I held in that hospital room-- nothing one dimensional could possibly contain all that he was in our arms that evening. There were tiny changes I requested she make (space between fingers as I remember & skinnier nostril cartilage). It was beautiful, but I found myself underwhelmed because it wasn't really him, as if what I expected was to have him back in our arms for the cost of a pencil sketch. We will never have more of him and never another portrait or photograph or experience with him. This was it.
After a day or so, I kept staring at his portrait and just fell in love with it. We received the professional copy just a week or so later and had it professionally framed. We picked up the framed piece two days before Christmas and it now has a place among our family photos. It is a cherished piece. We also ordered four copies that will be given to our families when they arrive this week.
Now four years after losing Andrew, we're still trying to find our place in this mess of babyloss. We want to contribute and help others. In many ways, we've already done that. My husband has recently signed up to help as a liaison for NILMDTS. My friend Brooke (who is basically a babyloss celebrity and contributing author to Three Minus One and I've had many meals with her and she slept in my house! Are you jealous?) blogged about a company called Sevenly recently. One of their recent campaigns supported Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. I bought up two shirts immediately and posted a picture of one of them on Instagram. They still have some available in four different prints, so check them out! They've raised over $19,000 in shirt sales for NILMDTS, donating $7 from each shirt to the organization.
We're just so passionate about supporting them and ones like it because it normalizes loss for everyone. It makes losing a child more bearable, less embarrassing and more accepted. It makes families like us feel like human beings with hearts and not looked at like charity cases and lepers. We gifted some local NILMDTS photographers gift cards during the holidays to encourage their efforts and thank them sincerely for all they have done for us and other families. I attempted and successfully managed to use my grant-writing skills to send $1k their way. We shop on Amazon Smile with with 0.5% of purchases going to the organization that is the sole reason we have images of our firstborn son and proof that he was real, ours, and is adored.
If we ever get the guts, we'll use a NILMDTS photographer to shoot family pictures. We're not ready. Four years and two kids after losing our firstborn child, we still haven't had another professional photo shoot. He's always missing. It still hurts and there's still a void.
I'm considering another volunteer opportunity (because I really do need more to gab about than potty trianing, amiright?), but that's just being discussed and nothing concrete yet. It will probably take a village and in an effort to keep Andrew's memory alive and well within me, it's something I'm seriously considering.
People are still losing babies. I can't do anything about that (and neither can they, sadly), but it's something that hits me hard and something no one should go at alone.
We'll be celebrating our daughter's first birthday exactly 10 days from today. In six days, about 40 people will cram into our home to witness her baptism and first birthday festivities. Four days later (on her actual birthday!), we will be flying to Whistler for skiing, spa indulgences and fun with our good friends and fellow babyloss family who are also parents to Jack, Grace & Piper. Jack's fourth birthday was on New Year's Day. Who would've thought we'd be renting a ski condo in Canada with friends who also have a dead son, four years later? If you asked me on December 4, 2010, I would've called you a lunatic. But we're so grateful to have such close friends who literally carried us through some tough days in those first months of loss and still have so much support to offer.
Just a few days before Christmas, Andrew's print arrived in the mail. We decided on a professional pencil sketch for his 4th birthday. Like so many of our babyloss friends, we wanted something to display in our homes that would show the true beauty of our children while still keeping them sacred and protected from gawking and ill responses. We first caught a glimpse when I was sent the initial sketch two days after his birthday. I was so happy to receive this during his birth month.
When it first arrived in my inbox, I was underwhelmed. It was stunning and drawn with such care, but it wasn't the boy I held in that hospital room-- nothing one dimensional could possibly contain all that he was in our arms that evening. There were tiny changes I requested she make (space between fingers as I remember & skinnier nostril cartilage). It was beautiful, but I found myself underwhelmed because it wasn't really him, as if what I expected was to have him back in our arms for the cost of a pencil sketch. We will never have more of him and never another portrait or photograph or experience with him. This was it.
 |
| This was shared on her facebook page, and now here. Andrew, spitting image of Claire. |
After a day or so, I kept staring at his portrait and just fell in love with it. We received the professional copy just a week or so later and had it professionally framed. We picked up the framed piece two days before Christmas and it now has a place among our family photos. It is a cherished piece. We also ordered four copies that will be given to our families when they arrive this week.
Now four years after losing Andrew, we're still trying to find our place in this mess of babyloss. We want to contribute and help others. In many ways, we've already done that. My husband has recently signed up to help as a liaison for NILMDTS. My friend Brooke (who is basically a babyloss celebrity and contributing author to Three Minus One and I've had many meals with her and she slept in my house! Are you jealous?) blogged about a company called Sevenly recently. One of their recent campaigns supported Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. I bought up two shirts immediately and posted a picture of one of them on Instagram. They still have some available in four different prints, so check them out! They've raised over $19,000 in shirt sales for NILMDTS, donating $7 from each shirt to the organization.
We're just so passionate about supporting them and ones like it because it normalizes loss for everyone. It makes losing a child more bearable, less embarrassing and more accepted. It makes families like us feel like human beings with hearts and not looked at like charity cases and lepers. We gifted some local NILMDTS photographers gift cards during the holidays to encourage their efforts and thank them sincerely for all they have done for us and other families. I attempted and successfully managed to use my grant-writing skills to send $1k their way. We shop on Amazon Smile with with 0.5% of purchases going to the organization that is the sole reason we have images of our firstborn son and proof that he was real, ours, and is adored.
If we ever get the guts, we'll use a NILMDTS photographer to shoot family pictures. We're not ready. Four years and two kids after losing our firstborn child, we still haven't had another professional photo shoot. He's always missing. It still hurts and there's still a void.
I'm considering another volunteer opportunity (because I really do need more to gab about than potty trianing, amiright?), but that's just being discussed and nothing concrete yet. It will probably take a village and in an effort to keep Andrew's memory alive and well within me, it's something I'm seriously considering.
People are still losing babies. I can't do anything about that (and neither can they, sadly), but it's something that hits me hard and something no one should go at alone.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Andrew's 2013 Ornament
Tonight is the annual remembrance ceremony for babies gone too soon in our local area. Each year we go and hang Andrew's ornament for the year and they speak his name. It hangs on the tree that is then displayed at the hospital I delivered my boys and will deliver their little sister in the new year. I only wish his ornament would still be hung when I'm checked in for a hopefully happy and uneventful induction. The dates will be too far apart, so that won't happen. But what a lovely thought.
We weren't able to attend last year, though we did attend another ceremony in his honor. But this year, I'm happy we're back to the tradition of remembering our firstborn with hundreds (yep) of other families also missing their babies who passed on too soon. It's a very different remembrance ceremony. We'll see parents, siblings, grandparents, and all kinds of other supporters who either lost their own baby or love a family who did. It's really quite special... and totally heartbreaking. But if there is one single place I feel totally at home each year, it's in a room full of these other people. Especially during the holiday season.
This year, I couldn't decide what I wanted to do for Andrew's ornament. Many of my babyloss friends had an ornament exchange/secret Santa, but I was too late for the signup. Next year, I hope to be a part and use that special ornament as his 2014 addition. This year, I chose to get very brave and follow in the footsteps of one of my friends by creating an ornament of his things. I was originally going to add things in a clear bulb ornament that reminded me of him, but I really wanted something more. I was anxious about it, but I made the decision to spend naptime on his birthday last Thursday cutting the clothes he wore and a special outfit we bought that I just had sitting in the closet for the last three years waiting for him. It just never did feel right dressing Benjamin in that outfit. It was very much chosen with Andrew in mind and so special to us. Surprisingly, cutting the only clothes he ever wore was not as terrible as I imagined. I think it was because I wanted to make it so beautiful and worthy of displaying in his honor that I allowed myself to carry through. Also, my friend brought up a great point that while the pieces of clothing would remain whole and in a box, they would only be infrequently seen when I opened the box. This way, I can see pieces of him for an entire month displayed on our tree during the month of his birth.
We weren't able to attend last year, though we did attend another ceremony in his honor. But this year, I'm happy we're back to the tradition of remembering our firstborn with hundreds (yep) of other families also missing their babies who passed on too soon. It's a very different remembrance ceremony. We'll see parents, siblings, grandparents, and all kinds of other supporters who either lost their own baby or love a family who did. It's really quite special... and totally heartbreaking. But if there is one single place I feel totally at home each year, it's in a room full of these other people. Especially during the holiday season.
This year, I couldn't decide what I wanted to do for Andrew's ornament. Many of my babyloss friends had an ornament exchange/secret Santa, but I was too late for the signup. Next year, I hope to be a part and use that special ornament as his 2014 addition. This year, I chose to get very brave and follow in the footsteps of one of my friends by creating an ornament of his things. I was originally going to add things in a clear bulb ornament that reminded me of him, but I really wanted something more. I was anxious about it, but I made the decision to spend naptime on his birthday last Thursday cutting the clothes he wore and a special outfit we bought that I just had sitting in the closet for the last three years waiting for him. It just never did feel right dressing Benjamin in that outfit. It was very much chosen with Andrew in mind and so special to us. Surprisingly, cutting the only clothes he ever wore was not as terrible as I imagined. I think it was because I wanted to make it so beautiful and worthy of displaying in his honor that I allowed myself to carry through. Also, my friend brought up a great point that while the pieces of clothing would remain whole and in a box, they would only be infrequently seen when I opened the box. This way, I can see pieces of him for an entire month displayed on our tree during the month of his birth.
 |
| He wore everything in this photo except that beautiful sweater outfit we picked out just for him. Not to share with siblings or to hang in a closet for three years. The blue ribbon on the right came from one of my baby showers. All of the items on the left were worn or touched by him. Baptismal gown (with ribbons & angel cut off that I used in ornament to tie swatches of clothing in a roll, hat, hospital blanket, blue outfit that says "Thank Heaven for Little Boys"-- breaks my heart, pants and booties). I did not choose any of those outfits and assume that all but the blanket are specifically for babies who die. I'll never ask. I don't think it matters that I know. |
 |
| The card is in his box of things but thought I'd include his cute footprint. The pom from the hat above, swatch from his blanket with the ring they had him holding in many of our NILMDTS photos (symbolism?), the blue outfit with an airplane, a piece of the baptismal gown with an angel that was attached to it... all wrapped in either ribbon from my baby shower or the ribbon off the baptismal gown. |
 |
| I stuck the piece of the beautiful sweater outfit in the ornament before photographing. I couldn't get it out... so pretend it's in that last picture. :) |
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| I wrapped a piece of the blue ribbon around the top of the ornament and attached the little angel bead and "A" they had with the little gold ring from the hospital. I am assuming this was a gift from another babyloss mom or sweet citizen. |
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| Finally, I added an "a" from the letters I used to create a sign above his crib that spelled out his name. The capital letters were gone, but I used the lowercase "a" and attached it to the cardstock paper I also used in the frame above his crib along with smaller confetti-like pieces for the bottom of the ornament (not visible). |
I won't be bringing this ornament tonight, but the ornament we had made on Etsy last year that we could not bring to the ceremony. I just can't bring this one. I fear something happening to it and never receiving it back. The ornaments are returned at the ceremony the following year. However, this one is currently being displayed on our tree and will be forevermore.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
On The Night You Were Born...
...The moon smiled with such wonder
That the stars peeked in to see you
And the night wind whispered,
"Life will never be the same."
He was born at 9:04 p.m. Tonight, at 9:04, I was taking a hot shower. I wasn't laying in a hospital bed vomiting, shaking and welcoming my son into the world silently like I did three years ago. It was much more pleasant this evening. The smell of his candle (apparently discontinued, of course)--dubbed as such because it was given to me during my pregnancy with him and has a very babylike smell-- permeated the air.
Today wasn't nearly as kind. Before noon, I'd sobbed at least a handful of times. Ray and I chatted about how it's crazy that even three years later, it's horrible how raw your grief can still feel at times. It might be just a day, but it's the anniversary of the worst day of our lives.
Of course we still miss him. Of course we wonder what our lives would be like with an intelligent three-year-old roaming our house. Of course we wonder what he would be eating for lunch and what his favorite toy would be. But the sad truth and reality is that we never knew and will never know a single answer.
We went about our day and I took Benjamin to storytime between sobfests. Surprinsingly, I held it together at 2-3 year old storytime. We had a drive-thru lunch because that's all I could muster. Naptime arrived and I made Andrew's 2013 ornament out of pieces of clothing he had worn. I thought that would do me in, but really, I was okay with it. I was mostly composed because I wanted to make something worthy of displaying in his honor. I look forward to hanging his four ornaments on the tree this year. Christmas trees, while beautiful and innocent in nature, still mock me. Never will we have a tree in the same place we did on that cold December morning we arrived back home with empty arms and a bag of mementos. The tree has a whole new room and will never be purchased before his birthday.
In between cutting pieces of the only clothing he had ever worn, I read countless texts messages and emails from some incredibly thoughtful people who still remember he lived and existed. I was honored and completely humbled by people who remembered. It's really one day a year that I fully experience the impact my lifeless son had on so many people.
I took Benjamin to the playhouse down the street after naptime and we went to dinner at one of our favorite local, kid-friendly burger places that has toys and books for kids to play with. We know Andrew would've liked that place. Benjamin sure does. We arrived back home to the fanciest of Whole Foods cupcakes I purchased yesterday and Benjamin attempted to burn himself while I blew out the candles. My three-year-old would've been elated to do so himself, I'm sure.
A traditional evening of books, toys and all things Benjamin and off to bath and bed for Andrew's little brother. The fourth December 5th we've experienced without our firstborn son alive. And the numbers keep adding.
Because there has never been anyone like you... ever in the world.
For never before in story or rhyme
{not even once upon a time}
Has the world ever known a you, my friend,
And it never will... not ever again.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
How Unfortunate
I'm in a little bit of a mood today (partially due to poor sleep), so I figured it was a perfect day to write about my stillborn son. Because that also makes me angry and sad. Which is a mood. And not a positive one.
The husband and I were chatting with a couple we didn't know the other day. Benjamin was off playing in the church and they asked about children. We chimed in about our 19-month old son. And then they asked if that was our only child. I told them we had a son before and he died at birth due to a cord issue.
Her response (as she held her 6-week old newborn girl, their third daughter)...
"How unfortunate."
That response caught me so off-guard that I couldn't even respond. The proper response to the tragedy of a lost life is empathy/sympathy and sadness. Something along the lines of I'm sorry or that's horrible would've been appropriate.
It's unfortunate when you leave the milk out on the counter and it spoils. Or when you get a flat tire. Or when your favorite team loses a game.
When your firstborn son dies, it's a whole lot more than unfortunate.
It makes me angry that other parents don't even see the value of human life. You're holding a newborn baby. What if someone took her away? She died in her sleep? Contracted a terminal illness?
I'd have a whole lot more to say to you than how unfortunate that would be.
The husband and I were chatting with a couple we didn't know the other day. Benjamin was off playing in the church and they asked about children. We chimed in about our 19-month old son. And then they asked if that was our only child. I told them we had a son before and he died at birth due to a cord issue.
Her response (as she held her 6-week old newborn girl, their third daughter)...
"How unfortunate."
That response caught me so off-guard that I couldn't even respond. The proper response to the tragedy of a lost life is empathy/sympathy and sadness. Something along the lines of I'm sorry or that's horrible would've been appropriate.
It's unfortunate when you leave the milk out on the counter and it spoils. Or when you get a flat tire. Or when your favorite team loses a game.
When your firstborn son dies, it's a whole lot more than unfortunate.
It makes me angry that other parents don't even see the value of human life. You're holding a newborn baby. What if someone took her away? She died in her sleep? Contracted a terminal illness?
I'd have a whole lot more to say to you than how unfortunate that would be.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Mom Squads
It's no surprise to anyone that I've struggled with my identity ever since Andrew died.
I knew that I was a wife, daughter, and friend above all things. His death didn't define who I was, though it sure changed how I felt about existing in the world. The world didn't see me as a mom. Hell, I didn't see myself as a mom all that much either. I definitely was/am, but it was pretty hard to confirm those facts when you are still only caring for yourself, even after buying all that baby crap and gestating for nearly 39 weeks. I wanted everyone in the grocery store or passing by me on the street to know. But they didn't.
We visit parks everyday. Some days, we even make it to 4 parks! Benjamin just thrives around other children. No joke, if I see kids at the park across the street, I make a b-line for it. I don't know how to explain it to other people because they often see him in public settings that provide gobs of stimulation, but this boy is a full-fledged tantrum-throwing toddler. He was having one continuous meltdown this morning until I opened that car door. He basically sprinted, jumped into his carseat and off we were to a (faraway) park.
He's a whole different child when being fully engaged. And to most parents, he's pretty freaking pleasant. They don't know home-bound Benjamin. I fear winter.
We usually see an independent mom or two with their kiddos at our local parks. There are about 7 parks we visit within walking distance from our house on a regular basis. He's even well known by other kids and their parents. Ray was riding his bike with Benjamin through the "big red park" the other day and passed a family. Ray heard them say, "Hey, there goes Benjamin!" The kid is a little bit famous in our 'burb.
I don't mind talking with the others parents at the park. We usually get on about preschools and various other activities their kids are involved in-- almost always with parents whose kids are quite a bit older than Benjamin. It's fine with him that the kids are older, because he seems to have little interest in kids his age. But the big kids who will talk to him and faun all over him? Baby crack. Where these parents of 1.5 year olds are, I have no idea. Benjamin has to be out and about.
Despite feeling like a different kind of parent always, I still manage to be honest about our story and engage with the other adults. It's when we're at parks with mommy groups that I can't handle. I find a corner bench to sit on and practice breathing exercises. I have no desire to engage, introduce myself, make new friends... or any of that. Maybe if the mommy group was for parents of just one kid, but they never are. They're always toting around their double strollers, toddlers and babies.
And it makes me uneasy. This happened yesterday and I hermit-crabbed my way into a hole and only approached the scene when Benjamin was getting himself into a predicament. My subdivision even has a mommy group. They advertise in the monthly bulletin (yes, it's pretty much perfect little suburbia) about the mommy group on facebook. Perfect excuse to avoid-- I don't do facebook.
There's a fine line between avoiding those groups because they're a grief trigger for me and knowing what's best for my son. Even before Andrew died, I never pictured myself involved in these mommy groups. They didn't seem like my style. I'm more rogue and less rule-driven, or at least that's how I've always viewed my outlook. Tantrums aside, little brother's growing up pretty well... mommy group attendee or not.
I knew that I was a wife, daughter, and friend above all things. His death didn't define who I was, though it sure changed how I felt about existing in the world. The world didn't see me as a mom. Hell, I didn't see myself as a mom all that much either. I definitely was/am, but it was pretty hard to confirm those facts when you are still only caring for yourself, even after buying all that baby crap and gestating for nearly 39 weeks. I wanted everyone in the grocery store or passing by me on the street to know. But they didn't.
We visit parks everyday. Some days, we even make it to 4 parks! Benjamin just thrives around other children. No joke, if I see kids at the park across the street, I make a b-line for it. I don't know how to explain it to other people because they often see him in public settings that provide gobs of stimulation, but this boy is a full-fledged tantrum-throwing toddler. He was having one continuous meltdown this morning until I opened that car door. He basically sprinted, jumped into his carseat and off we were to a (faraway) park.
He's a whole different child when being fully engaged. And to most parents, he's pretty freaking pleasant. They don't know home-bound Benjamin. I fear winter.
We usually see an independent mom or two with their kiddos at our local parks. There are about 7 parks we visit within walking distance from our house on a regular basis. He's even well known by other kids and their parents. Ray was riding his bike with Benjamin through the "big red park" the other day and passed a family. Ray heard them say, "Hey, there goes Benjamin!" The kid is a little bit famous in our 'burb.
I don't mind talking with the others parents at the park. We usually get on about preschools and various other activities their kids are involved in-- almost always with parents whose kids are quite a bit older than Benjamin. It's fine with him that the kids are older, because he seems to have little interest in kids his age. But the big kids who will talk to him and faun all over him? Baby crack. Where these parents of 1.5 year olds are, I have no idea. Benjamin has to be out and about.
Despite feeling like a different kind of parent always, I still manage to be honest about our story and engage with the other adults. It's when we're at parks with mommy groups that I can't handle. I find a corner bench to sit on and practice breathing exercises. I have no desire to engage, introduce myself, make new friends... or any of that. Maybe if the mommy group was for parents of just one kid, but they never are. They're always toting around their double strollers, toddlers and babies.
And it makes me uneasy. This happened yesterday and I hermit-crabbed my way into a hole and only approached the scene when Benjamin was getting himself into a predicament. My subdivision even has a mommy group. They advertise in the monthly bulletin (yes, it's pretty much perfect little suburbia) about the mommy group on facebook. Perfect excuse to avoid-- I don't do facebook.
There's a fine line between avoiding those groups because they're a grief trigger for me and knowing what's best for my son. Even before Andrew died, I never pictured myself involved in these mommy groups. They didn't seem like my style. I'm more rogue and less rule-driven, or at least that's how I've always viewed my outlook. Tantrums aside, little brother's growing up pretty well... mommy group attendee or not.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Right Where I Am: 2 years, 7 months, 24 days
I planned to write this a long time ago. But somehow I never got around to it and while my thoughts are constant, my writing is not.
We're closer to 3 years without Andrew than we are two. Or one. Though, my memories of the day I met my firstborn are still quite vivid in my mind. I'll admit, I have to look at his photos to perfectly remember his cute nose and beautiful lashes sometimes, but the memories of what it felt like to hold him for that short time are still so vivid. The rush of sadness and love is still so memorable.
We were at Costco yesterday and Benjamin managed to find a little girl and her two brothers. They were eating at the food court and the 4-year old boys got up to walk somewhere. The dad called their names to get their attention and it caused Ray and I to look at one another with our jaws dropped. The twins boys were Andrew and Benjamin. So that's what it's like to have siblings that are both alive and with the same names you carefully chose for your own children.
It still makes me infinitely sad that I cannot introduce my Andrew in person (or let him introduce himself!). And it makes me sad that Benjamin will never know his "big" brother, who ironically is and will always be much smaller than he. The sting of losing Andrew is still sharp and I'm still angry about it. My friend commented recently to me that although Benjamin never met his brother, the firstborn, he acts as a second-child. He's more cautious, curious, subdued and observant.
At this stage, I boldly proclaim that I birthed two beautiful boys when other moms at the park ask about how many children I've had. I'm far past the stage of caring about making others sad or disappointing them with news. I am proud to be a mother of two boys and will stop at nothing less than to honestly share our story. It helps me honor Andrew and it forces others to face the reality of loss and that it's perfectly normal to be transparent about sadness in our society.
It still opens up doors. I still meet other moms who lost children and go on to share about their losses when I open up about my own. My mentality stands that if my reality of loss is uncomfortable for them, we don't need to carry on as friends.
One of our new friends we met at storytime has been dealt a rough road of multiple miscarriages and complications related. We were at the zoo recently and she asked if I'd ever attended a grief group, because she recently attended one and found it helpful. I talked through all the reasons I never did, and then explained how blogging and our recent BLM meetup is daily therapy for me. That in the earliest days, I had support from all over the globe at my fingertips and not just on the last Tuesday of the month at 7 p.m. It made me wish she and all of the other loss moms out there had the same support I feel so lucky to have.
I am so grateful for the support. While I don't blog about grief daily based on lack of time (surely not lack of thoughts!), I'm still living and tearfully remembering all we've come through over these last 2 years, 7 months, and 24 bloody days.
Right Where I Am at 6 months
Right Where I Am at 1.5 years
We're closer to 3 years without Andrew than we are two. Or one. Though, my memories of the day I met my firstborn are still quite vivid in my mind. I'll admit, I have to look at his photos to perfectly remember his cute nose and beautiful lashes sometimes, but the memories of what it felt like to hold him for that short time are still so vivid. The rush of sadness and love is still so memorable.
We were at Costco yesterday and Benjamin managed to find a little girl and her two brothers. They were eating at the food court and the 4-year old boys got up to walk somewhere. The dad called their names to get their attention and it caused Ray and I to look at one another with our jaws dropped. The twins boys were Andrew and Benjamin. So that's what it's like to have siblings that are both alive and with the same names you carefully chose for your own children.
It still makes me infinitely sad that I cannot introduce my Andrew in person (or let him introduce himself!). And it makes me sad that Benjamin will never know his "big" brother, who ironically is and will always be much smaller than he. The sting of losing Andrew is still sharp and I'm still angry about it. My friend commented recently to me that although Benjamin never met his brother, the firstborn, he acts as a second-child. He's more cautious, curious, subdued and observant.
At this stage, I boldly proclaim that I birthed two beautiful boys when other moms at the park ask about how many children I've had. I'm far past the stage of caring about making others sad or disappointing them with news. I am proud to be a mother of two boys and will stop at nothing less than to honestly share our story. It helps me honor Andrew and it forces others to face the reality of loss and that it's perfectly normal to be transparent about sadness in our society.
It still opens up doors. I still meet other moms who lost children and go on to share about their losses when I open up about my own. My mentality stands that if my reality of loss is uncomfortable for them, we don't need to carry on as friends.
One of our new friends we met at storytime has been dealt a rough road of multiple miscarriages and complications related. We were at the zoo recently and she asked if I'd ever attended a grief group, because she recently attended one and found it helpful. I talked through all the reasons I never did, and then explained how blogging and our recent BLM meetup is daily therapy for me. That in the earliest days, I had support from all over the globe at my fingertips and not just on the last Tuesday of the month at 7 p.m. It made me wish she and all of the other loss moms out there had the same support I feel so lucky to have.
I am so grateful for the support. While I don't blog about grief daily based on lack of time (surely not lack of thoughts!), I'm still living and tearfully remembering all we've come through over these last 2 years, 7 months, and 24 bloody days.
Right Where I Am at 6 months
Right Where I Am at 1.5 years
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Chicago Rainbow Weekend 2013
This past weekend was monumental.
I had expectations for the weekend meeting of 13 of my friends (only 3 of which I'd met before) and their rainbow babies. Those expectations were shattered.
It was better than I could've ever imagined.
To an outsider, I assume the idea of 14 women (3 husbands) and 14 children, all who have the common bond of dead children would be royally depressing. A group you'd hope to avoid running into because our faces represent whole families of children who are missing for no acceptable reason. I'm sure we represent what every other person on the planet hopes they will never become-- a parent who has buried a child.
And I guess that's true. Before losing Andrew, I would probably have gone out of my way to avoid that sort of thing. On second thought, I would've ignored the thought of such a group meeting because I was invincible. Had it all together and knew it would never happen to me. Why would it? Life was good.
Our group represents a bunch of women, men and children that are intelligent, attractive (yes!), fun, interesting, unique, and bereaved. We're different in so many ways, but the people we've become over the last few years since losing our children is what bonds us.
I've spent the last 2.5 years (yes, Andrew's 1/2 birthday was just a week ago) pouring my emotions out to writing as a way of therapy. Others took to their keyboards and did the same. We supported one another with words and that meant we did not feel entirely alone. Like we were not on the island of grief alone. And that someone, somewhere was crying similar tears of sadness over losing out on the life of a child they fully envisioned would be coming home with them and staying for good.
This past weekend, my house in the suburbs of Chicago was home base for what we coined the BLM Get Together 2013. Or Rainbow Weekend. We were central-ish being in the Midwest. In total, 31 people filled my home over the course of a few days with every single one of us missing at least one beloved child. We each had our rainbow in tow-- the child born after the sadness of losing a child-- the light after our storms. Our storms are never over and our children never forgotten. In fact, they are remembered and recognized even more because we have their siblings to hold and love.
This weekend.
We laughed. We cried. We did both at the same time. We ate. We took photos. We picnicked. We stayed up late hours chatting. We smiled.
It felt therapeutic. This whole weekend was just what our souls needed. After 2.5 long years of feeling isolated and suffocating in my own skin, I felt a huge release this weekend.
Sure, it was mayhem. With that many children ranging from 7 months - 2 years, you can imagine what kind of crazy my house looked, felt and sounded like this weekend.
But honestly? We wanted it to be crazier. Instead of 14 children, there should have been 29 of them wreaking havoc on everything they could find. Sure, we wouldn't know one another and this whole meeting would be null and void. But tell our hearts that. They aren't rational.
Families from all over: Missouri, California, Washington, New Jersey, Alabama, Texas, Illinois, Canada, Minnesota, Tennessee (and many others were in our hearts and thoughts as they were unable to come).
These families and many others who could not attend this weekend were part of a large camaraderie we created through blogging. I know blogging gets a bad wrap as being self-indulgent drivel. However, without this bit of communication, I'm not quite sure where I would be today in my grief. It's still misery. It's still horrible to wake up every single morning knowing that I will never see my son again. Blogging has become a way to connect with others in a way I never imagined would be necessary in my life. That picture is important proof that these women and their beautiful rainbows have changed my life for the better.
Misery loves company. Maybe. Okay, yes it does.
But Lord. I'm just so happy I found these "miserable" people when I did and that I got to hug and cry with each one of them this weekend. I'm only sad it's over.
Other recaps from the weekend written by Brooke, Melissa, Tiffany, Natasha and Keleen.
I had expectations for the weekend meeting of 13 of my friends (only 3 of which I'd met before) and their rainbow babies. Those expectations were shattered.
It was better than I could've ever imagined.
To an outsider, I assume the idea of 14 women (3 husbands) and 14 children, all who have the common bond of dead children would be royally depressing. A group you'd hope to avoid running into because our faces represent whole families of children who are missing for no acceptable reason. I'm sure we represent what every other person on the planet hopes they will never become-- a parent who has buried a child.
And I guess that's true. Before losing Andrew, I would probably have gone out of my way to avoid that sort of thing. On second thought, I would've ignored the thought of such a group meeting because I was invincible. Had it all together and knew it would never happen to me. Why would it? Life was good.
Our group represents a bunch of women, men and children that are intelligent, attractive (yes!), fun, interesting, unique, and bereaved. We're different in so many ways, but the people we've become over the last few years since losing our children is what bonds us.
I've spent the last 2.5 years (yes, Andrew's 1/2 birthday was just a week ago) pouring my emotions out to writing as a way of therapy. Others took to their keyboards and did the same. We supported one another with words and that meant we did not feel entirely alone. Like we were not on the island of grief alone. And that someone, somewhere was crying similar tears of sadness over losing out on the life of a child they fully envisioned would be coming home with them and staying for good.
This past weekend, my house in the suburbs of Chicago was home base for what we coined the BLM Get Together 2013. Or Rainbow Weekend. We were central-ish being in the Midwest. In total, 31 people filled my home over the course of a few days with every single one of us missing at least one beloved child. We each had our rainbow in tow-- the child born after the sadness of losing a child-- the light after our storms. Our storms are never over and our children never forgotten. In fact, they are remembered and recognized even more because we have their siblings to hold and love.
This weekend.
We laughed. We cried. We did both at the same time. We ate. We took photos. We picnicked. We stayed up late hours chatting. We smiled.
It felt therapeutic. This whole weekend was just what our souls needed. After 2.5 long years of feeling isolated and suffocating in my own skin, I felt a huge release this weekend.
Sure, it was mayhem. With that many children ranging from 7 months - 2 years, you can imagine what kind of crazy my house looked, felt and sounded like this weekend.
But honestly? We wanted it to be crazier. Instead of 14 children, there should have been 29 of them wreaking havoc on everything they could find. Sure, we wouldn't know one another and this whole meeting would be null and void. But tell our hearts that. They aren't rational.
 |
| Our beautiful rainbow babies in hats knitted by a grandma missing her granddaughter, Elizabeth. Incredible and emotional for us all. Lots of Kleenex. |
 |
| Mamas and their rainbow babies |
These families and many others who could not attend this weekend were part of a large camaraderie we created through blogging. I know blogging gets a bad wrap as being self-indulgent drivel. However, without this bit of communication, I'm not quite sure where I would be today in my grief. It's still misery. It's still horrible to wake up every single morning knowing that I will never see my son again. Blogging has become a way to connect with others in a way I never imagined would be necessary in my life. That picture is important proof that these women and their beautiful rainbows have changed my life for the better.
Misery loves company. Maybe. Okay, yes it does.
But Lord. I'm just so happy I found these "miserable" people when I did and that I got to hug and cry with each one of them this weekend. I'm only sad it's over.
 |
| Candles lit and wish paper sent in honor of our babies and those who could not be present to light candles for their children. |
Friday, April 19, 2013
Worst One to Date
And I'm not talking about the weather. Well, that did have something to do with it.
I spent a week with my parents recently and Benjamin slept in a pack 'n' play. Without the Snuza or Angelcare monitor. Just a noise monitor when I was out of the room. We shared a room for sleeping which I don't necessarily recommend if you're a paranoid mom with a kid who rolls around approximately 3,498 times each night. But you know what? Those movements always let me know he's okay, so I am okay with losing sleep.
We came back home and resumed our Angelcare monitoring, as we've been doing since we transitioned him to the crib at 3.5 months. He'll be 14 months this week.
Just two nights ago, my husband mentioned (after a few repeated false alarms) that he might be okay with cutting off the movement monitor and just sticking with sound (of which we turn off anyway because we can hear him just fine in the next room over).
And then it was yesterday. The day of crazy flooding in my town. A town they featured on the news multiple times. My town is very small. It's a huge suburb, sure, but the town itself is not huge. Flooding all over the place and devastation everywhere. We were lucky, but still didn't escape losing sleep over what could have been much more disastrous. If we were not up at crazy hours mitigating the situation, we may have been in way more trouble.
In the midst of it all, I noticed the Angelcare monitor hangy ball (technical term... or pendulum if you want to get all bourgy on me) was gone. Disappeared. Well, so had part of the numbers indicating the temperature in his room. We have two monitors but this one seems to hate us. In that moment, my heart started beating rapidly, despite understanding that even though the display is malfunctioning that the monitor itself was still working.
It was 8:30 a.m. at this point and we were handling buckets and slamming things nonstop to prevent our basement from going under, yet our very light sleeping baby was still not awake from the racket. Worst storm in 16 years. A 24-hour period of nonstop thunderstorms brought down nearly 7 inches on our region and 8 inches is the record of monthly rainfall ever. We nearly got that in one day. To say this was insane is not sugar-coating. People were in boats and swimming in the park across the street, people. I think that Chicago hates us.
My wonderful husband told me that he'd go upstairs with me to check on him. I knew he told me that because we were both afraid that we'd come face-to-face with another tragedy. Seeing another one of our children slip through our fingers. I told him not to come with me because his feet were gross from trudging around outside in the sloshing mud.
I walked in and saw a baby sleeping on his belly, passed out. I can't use the term out cold nonchalantly anymore because omg, I know what it's like to have a child literally out cold. I've touched and held his cold skin. I looked at his face, shook him and saw that his eyes were open and looked glazed. While I never did see Andrew's eyes, I know that people often pass with their eyes open. Or at least that's how television portrays things.
No response. Limp. I shook him some more and then grabbed him. His head went limp and finally he looked at me lethargically and waved.
He waved. He does love to wave.
Then I knew he was alive, but you guys. After 12 hours of sleep, or even 2 hours, this kid usually pops right up from deep sleep and stands in his crib like he's in basic training or something at the sound or sight of any noise or light. Hence the blackout shades.
I know that the crazy storm and our insane lack of sleep contributed to my freakout, but this has to be my worst PTSD moment to date.
I think I'll keep the Angelcare monitor on him until he graduates high school.
I spent a week with my parents recently and Benjamin slept in a pack 'n' play. Without the Snuza or Angelcare monitor. Just a noise monitor when I was out of the room. We shared a room for sleeping which I don't necessarily recommend if you're a paranoid mom with a kid who rolls around approximately 3,498 times each night. But you know what? Those movements always let me know he's okay, so I am okay with losing sleep.
We came back home and resumed our Angelcare monitoring, as we've been doing since we transitioned him to the crib at 3.5 months. He'll be 14 months this week.
Just two nights ago, my husband mentioned (after a few repeated false alarms) that he might be okay with cutting off the movement monitor and just sticking with sound (of which we turn off anyway because we can hear him just fine in the next room over).
And then it was yesterday. The day of crazy flooding in my town. A town they featured on the news multiple times. My town is very small. It's a huge suburb, sure, but the town itself is not huge. Flooding all over the place and devastation everywhere. We were lucky, but still didn't escape losing sleep over what could have been much more disastrous. If we were not up at crazy hours mitigating the situation, we may have been in way more trouble.
In the midst of it all, I noticed the Angelcare monitor hangy ball (technical term... or pendulum if you want to get all bourgy on me) was gone. Disappeared. Well, so had part of the numbers indicating the temperature in his room. We have two monitors but this one seems to hate us. In that moment, my heart started beating rapidly, despite understanding that even though the display is malfunctioning that the monitor itself was still working.
It was 8:30 a.m. at this point and we were handling buckets and slamming things nonstop to prevent our basement from going under, yet our very light sleeping baby was still not awake from the racket. Worst storm in 16 years. A 24-hour period of nonstop thunderstorms brought down nearly 7 inches on our region and 8 inches is the record of monthly rainfall ever. We nearly got that in one day. To say this was insane is not sugar-coating. People were in boats and swimming in the park across the street, people. I think that Chicago hates us.
My wonderful husband told me that he'd go upstairs with me to check on him. I knew he told me that because we were both afraid that we'd come face-to-face with another tragedy. Seeing another one of our children slip through our fingers. I told him not to come with me because his feet were gross from trudging around outside in the sloshing mud.
I walked in and saw a baby sleeping on his belly, passed out. I can't use the term out cold nonchalantly anymore because omg, I know what it's like to have a child literally out cold. I've touched and held his cold skin. I looked at his face, shook him and saw that his eyes were open and looked glazed. While I never did see Andrew's eyes, I know that people often pass with their eyes open. Or at least that's how television portrays things.
No response. Limp. I shook him some more and then grabbed him. His head went limp and finally he looked at me lethargically and waved.
He waved. He does love to wave.
Then I knew he was alive, but you guys. After 12 hours of sleep, or even 2 hours, this kid usually pops right up from deep sleep and stands in his crib like he's in basic training or something at the sound or sight of any noise or light. Hence the blackout shades.
I know that the crazy storm and our insane lack of sleep contributed to my freakout, but this has to be my worst PTSD moment to date.
I think I'll keep the Angelcare monitor on him until he graduates high school.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Grief Lit.
I don't know about the rest of you babyloss friends out there, but when your baby died, did tons of literature, books & articles start flooding your way?
Not that there's anything wrong with that and honestly, I think it's so encouraging that those who care most about you send not only their condolences, but anything they can that they think might keep you treading water. Because that's all we were doing for a very, very long time after Andrew died. Treading water. Sending literature, cards, plants, or whatever means you're acknowledging our loss and sadness. That it's not being trivialized. As much as I felt suffocated by the full mailbox of sad cards and flower deliveries, I felt so thankful that Andrew was recognized at all to a sea of people who had never even seen his face (which is beautiful, by the way).
We sent the plants and flowers away with a friend who works at a nursing home. The people appreciated them there and were willing to see that they were cared for. We would've just let them shrivel up and die... which felt like such a strong metaphor for how we were feeling when our son really did die. We didn't need to watch other things die around us because we were in no shape to care for them. So they went.
But the literature.
I'd venture to say that I read one of the books in the entire pile. It's a children's book and I lost my mind reading it... but felt it was such a good description of grief. Other than that, I didn't even crack open the covers. I hid them away, embarrassed that I needed to own such titles. I didn't want anyone telling me how to grieve or giving me advice on something so crippling and unforgiving. I didn't want someone telling me it would be okay eventually or that I needed to move on and this was how to do it. I did read two books, but mostly just memoirs of those who had babies die before me. I craved that literature, as I wanted to know I wasn't alone. But a psychiatrist's point of view about how to handle the worst thing conceivable? I wanted nothing to do with those words.
All I wanted to do was talk with babyloss friends, cry, and try like hell to get pregnant again so I could mask some of that sadness in the form of a sibling. While having B is much more than that now, it definitely felt like the best salve I could have to ease the pain. And it has... but just like a salve, it only masks the pain a bit. It doesn't eliminate the pain.
Yesterday during B's nap, we were cleaning the utility room in our basement. I swear those pictures are on my list, but travel and a special birthday celebration are taking precedence. I cleaned through all my teaching supplies to consolidate and eliminate some of the stuff I know will be valueless in a few years when I finally head back to the classroom. We organized our camping and hiking supplies, and made room for our tools and other things that belong in basement utility rooms... like dust-collecting tennis rackets.
I came across Andrew's bag. It's a Trader Joe's bag that our friends brought to the hospital full of snacks and goodies the day after Andrew was born. I can't bring myself to use the re-usable bag, as it most definitely feels like Andrew's bag. Yet, it's such a cheap representation of his life and value. But I just don't know where to keep his things. The things he wore in the hospital. The only things he ever wore. The trinkets people sent us and keepsakes, his footprints, certificates of sad things... and the literature. The grief literature that just seemed to pile and pile when we opened our mailbox during the weeks and months after he died.
I only now might be able to crack open the covers of some of them, but I don't know if that's healthy. I'm an experienced griever now, and I do believe my words could very well be written on those pages. I fear the words will open wounds that are salved over and maybe even present more anger than I continue to harbor about losing our perfect firstborn.
Do these books remain on my shelves? What about Andrew's things? Where do those go? They were in the nursery until Benjamin was born, and then we moved them to the basement because we didn't know where else they should go. I moved them from the basement utility room to the basement bedroom closet yesterday because it seemed like a warmer environment for the only things Andrew ever touched. I don't know that I value them a ton, but it seems like I should or at least separate them from dusty tennis rackets and the hot water heater.
...
I received an email from another babyloss mother, Sarah, over at Land of Abe. She lost her daughter Genevieve in 2011 and wrote an article about how stillbirth and grief are currently represented in our society. It was published over at the New York Times parenting blog yesterday. There are some wonderful comments of those who have both lost and acknowledge. It's a lovely read that's raw and true to what most of us parents who live beyond our babies want-- for grief to be handled better in our society and for stillbirth and {insert how your child died here} to be researched so other families might be spared from the reality of such devastating losses. Head on over there and join the discussion, if you will.
Not that there's anything wrong with that and honestly, I think it's so encouraging that those who care most about you send not only their condolences, but anything they can that they think might keep you treading water. Because that's all we were doing for a very, very long time after Andrew died. Treading water. Sending literature, cards, plants, or whatever means you're acknowledging our loss and sadness. That it's not being trivialized. As much as I felt suffocated by the full mailbox of sad cards and flower deliveries, I felt so thankful that Andrew was recognized at all to a sea of people who had never even seen his face (which is beautiful, by the way).
We sent the plants and flowers away with a friend who works at a nursing home. The people appreciated them there and were willing to see that they were cared for. We would've just let them shrivel up and die... which felt like such a strong metaphor for how we were feeling when our son really did die. We didn't need to watch other things die around us because we were in no shape to care for them. So they went.
But the literature.
I'd venture to say that I read one of the books in the entire pile. It's a children's book and I lost my mind reading it... but felt it was such a good description of grief. Other than that, I didn't even crack open the covers. I hid them away, embarrassed that I needed to own such titles. I didn't want anyone telling me how to grieve or giving me advice on something so crippling and unforgiving. I didn't want someone telling me it would be okay eventually or that I needed to move on and this was how to do it. I did read two books, but mostly just memoirs of those who had babies die before me. I craved that literature, as I wanted to know I wasn't alone. But a psychiatrist's point of view about how to handle the worst thing conceivable? I wanted nothing to do with those words.
All I wanted to do was talk with babyloss friends, cry, and try like hell to get pregnant again so I could mask some of that sadness in the form of a sibling. While having B is much more than that now, it definitely felt like the best salve I could have to ease the pain. And it has... but just like a salve, it only masks the pain a bit. It doesn't eliminate the pain.
Yesterday during B's nap, we were cleaning the utility room in our basement. I swear those pictures are on my list, but travel and a special birthday celebration are taking precedence. I cleaned through all my teaching supplies to consolidate and eliminate some of the stuff I know will be valueless in a few years when I finally head back to the classroom. We organized our camping and hiking supplies, and made room for our tools and other things that belong in basement utility rooms... like dust-collecting tennis rackets.
I came across Andrew's bag. It's a Trader Joe's bag that our friends brought to the hospital full of snacks and goodies the day after Andrew was born. I can't bring myself to use the re-usable bag, as it most definitely feels like Andrew's bag. Yet, it's such a cheap representation of his life and value. But I just don't know where to keep his things. The things he wore in the hospital. The only things he ever wore. The trinkets people sent us and keepsakes, his footprints, certificates of sad things... and the literature. The grief literature that just seemed to pile and pile when we opened our mailbox during the weeks and months after he died.
I only now might be able to crack open the covers of some of them, but I don't know if that's healthy. I'm an experienced griever now, and I do believe my words could very well be written on those pages. I fear the words will open wounds that are salved over and maybe even present more anger than I continue to harbor about losing our perfect firstborn.
Do these books remain on my shelves? What about Andrew's things? Where do those go? They were in the nursery until Benjamin was born, and then we moved them to the basement because we didn't know where else they should go. I moved them from the basement utility room to the basement bedroom closet yesterday because it seemed like a warmer environment for the only things Andrew ever touched. I don't know that I value them a ton, but it seems like I should or at least separate them from dusty tennis rackets and the hot water heater.
...
I received an email from another babyloss mother, Sarah, over at Land of Abe. She lost her daughter Genevieve in 2011 and wrote an article about how stillbirth and grief are currently represented in our society. It was published over at the New York Times parenting blog yesterday. There are some wonderful comments of those who have both lost and acknowledge. It's a lovely read that's raw and true to what most of us parents who live beyond our babies want-- for grief to be handled better in our society and for stillbirth and {insert how your child died here} to be researched so other families might be spared from the reality of such devastating losses. Head on over there and join the discussion, if you will.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Jane's Event: Chicago
It's no surprise that blogging has been such an outlet for us. Despite myself being the only blogger in the family, my husband reads and is able to release some of his grief through the words I write. The comments I receive from you wonderful followers have helped us both through some very rough times. It's important to know others are grieving with us, listening, mourning, and loving us. This blog has also connected me to others who have lost their children and I have been able to support them with words and love. I receive emails frequently from some loss parents who just need to hash things out with someone who understands their grief journey.
Enter, Berkley. She lives in Chicago and contacted me through this blog for support nearly a year ago after losing her daughter on January 25, 2012. She wanted to share her daughter's life with me as she knew I'd understand her heartbreak and also celebrate her life. I wouldn't feel sorry for her, but empathize and encourage. I hope that I can do that for every babyloss friend who comes my way.
Berkley sent me an email about an event being held in Chicago on January 26, 2013 in memory of her daughter. On the website she created for her daughter, she states the mission of their fundraising event:
Established in loving memory of our baby daughter Jane, the Jane B. Wellstein Memorial Fund provides philanthropic support to hospitals and organizations that offer comfort, supportive care services, and other essential resources to parents and families who have experienced an infant loss.
Berkley wrote me an email describing their efforts to build Jane's Room to help other families who may find themselves enduring child loss.
From the day we came home from the hospital without our little girl, we knew that we wanted to give back, give to others that would have to unfortunately travel this same horrible road, and give to the hospital that provided us with so much care and strength at a seemingly impossible time.
Working with the hospital where I delivered Jane (Northwestern's Prentice), we had realized that it was necessary to have a waiting room designated for grieving families, as my husband and our families had to wait at certain times during my labor and delivery in the “normal” waiting room surrounded by celebrating and happy families. This grieving waiting room is called Jane's Room and will be dedicated on her first birthday, January 25. We are raising money to start more of these in the Chicago area hospitals as well as hopefully other hospitals throughout the country.
If you're a Chicagoan who might be interested in purchasing tickets to an event to benefit other loss families in the name of Jane, please find more information here. All are encouraged to attend-- you do not need to be a loss parent to participate and celebrate Jane's life and the wonderful efforts her parents are doing in her honor.
*The family did not ask me to blog... I'm doing it because I love to support loss families.
Enter, Berkley. She lives in Chicago and contacted me through this blog for support nearly a year ago after losing her daughter on January 25, 2012. She wanted to share her daughter's life with me as she knew I'd understand her heartbreak and also celebrate her life. I wouldn't feel sorry for her, but empathize and encourage. I hope that I can do that for every babyloss friend who comes my way.
Berkley sent me an email about an event being held in Chicago on January 26, 2013 in memory of her daughter. On the website she created for her daughter, she states the mission of their fundraising event:
Established in loving memory of our baby daughter Jane, the Jane B. Wellstein Memorial Fund provides philanthropic support to hospitals and organizations that offer comfort, supportive care services, and other essential resources to parents and families who have experienced an infant loss.
Berkley wrote me an email describing their efforts to build Jane's Room to help other families who may find themselves enduring child loss.
From the day we came home from the hospital without our little girl, we knew that we wanted to give back, give to others that would have to unfortunately travel this same horrible road, and give to the hospital that provided us with so much care and strength at a seemingly impossible time.
Working with the hospital where I delivered Jane (Northwestern's Prentice), we had realized that it was necessary to have a waiting room designated for grieving families, as my husband and our families had to wait at certain times during my labor and delivery in the “normal” waiting room surrounded by celebrating and happy families. This grieving waiting room is called Jane's Room and will be dedicated on her first birthday, January 25. We are raising money to start more of these in the Chicago area hospitals as well as hopefully other hospitals throughout the country.
If you're a Chicagoan who might be interested in purchasing tickets to an event to benefit other loss families in the name of Jane, please find more information here. All are encouraged to attend-- you do not need to be a loss parent to participate and celebrate Jane's life and the wonderful efforts her parents are doing in her honor.
*The family did not ask me to blog... I'm doing it because I love to support loss families.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Andrew's New Diggs
Yeah, that's totally morbid to write it like that. I'm aware.
For those not so savvy, here's Urban Dictionary's explanation of the word, in case you really hated my choice of a title:
See? Totally fitting.
I wrote a post earlier this month about visiting the funeral home and how our emotions affected the B-man. Here's the full story, for what it's worth.
The day after I delivered Andrew, our nurse came in with a paper of funeral homes we needed to call. Burial or cremation? Funeral or memorial service or not? Such questions we didn't anticipate ever having to answer and yet we were bombarded with decisions. When in a state of shock, you don't make decisions or think clearly through the tough stuff very well. And how were we to know what to do? You never anticipate having to choose where your child's final resting place will be.
Thanks to the nurses, we have professional pictures of Andrew. We would've never known about NILMDTS and yet, they were there for us in time of need. Our nurse on December 6 told us she would handle calling around to make arrangements for us because it was not something we were in a state of mind to be doing. Bless her.
We were discharged on December 7th and went over to select an urn for Andrew. The funeral home is about 2.5 miles from our home and I remember being a complete sobbing mess still swollen from being nearly 39 weeks pregnant just two days prior. I sat in a chair in a room where the walls felt they were suffocating me. We were shown some booklets and steered to select a keepsake urn for our son. I remember vaguely being told that because he was a boy and because he was a baby, that people often choose blue and this small heart urn. At the time, I didn't care much or have any clue how we could even do such a thing as pick out an urn for our son that we thought just 48 hours before, would be coming home with us in a carseat. We went with the blue urn and they told us they'd be picking up our son from the hospital.
He was cremated at a facility somewhere in Chicagoland and I guess the urn was sent to the crematorium for it to be filled.
Days later, we received a phonecall to come pick up our son from the local funeral home where we placed the order for that small, blue heart-shaped urn. We were told on the phone to come anytime. I don't remember when we picked him up, but I know it wasn't right away. We were a mess of emotions and had no real urgency, after all, he was gone.
When we arrived, they told us we could go into a room where his ashes were placed-- the room where they hold funerals. On a table would be his urn. The heart urn was wrapped in a velour black bag with a little Brother P-Touch label on the back of the urn that read, "Baby Wilson" on it. Not even his name. The box next to the heart urn also had his name, date of cremation and location of cremation, all in typewriter font. We were told his remains did not fully fit. Until just weeks ago, I had no idea how much did not fit, because I was too afraid to open that box. It turns out only half of his remains fit into that little urn and the other half were in the box. Sealed with a twist-tie.
I remember sobbing as we drove home. I was holding a heavy urn with my son's ashes, and they couldn't even put all of him inside the container. Insult to injury-- perhaps an understatement of that long-used phrase. I was surprised at how heavy that urn was-- but I know much of it was the urn itself and not my son at all. At the time, it felt like I was holding his full weight, 7lbs. 6oz.
He lived on our bookshelf in the formal living room for two years. His additional ashes were inside a basket underneath and it bothered us that he wasn't ever whole. I was frustrated that we did not receive a phonecall telling us that we should select another urn. Or that they didn't just leave his ashes in one container for us to decide later. What good is an urn with only part of our son? Our intention was never to spread his ashes. I also felt incredibly sad to obviously be an anomaly. Clearly they didn't deal much with dead babies, or they would have this all figured out by now. Lucky us. The anomaly.
For his 2nd birthday, we knew things needed to be made right. I wrote it on the whiteboard in our laundry room and we finally made the trek back to the funeral home the Saturday before Andrew's 2nd birthday. I called ahead of time to schedule an appointment and gave them all of our information. We were told we could come in later that afternoon. I received a phonecall a bit after making the arrangement to tell me they had lost our file.
Lost our file.
You read those words correctly. I can't make this stuff up. {I know my husband is considerably more understanding in this regard, but I'm not and I write this blog, so I'll be carrying on now.}
We arrived at the funeral home and sat down in that very same room, this time with Benjamin in our arms. I sat in the opposite chair I did before, but within those same 4 walls. The funeral home director plops a book down in front of us with urns to choose from. I was instructed to bring all of Andrew's ashes with us, so I brought the two containers. Despite explaining the situation on the phone since he lost our file (dead infant, too small of an urn, cremated, 2010, name, date, etc.), he didn't seem to connect the dots.
Once he saw the containers, he said he understood and started flipping through to show us our options. He sighed here and there, telling us they don't really have a size that would work for Andrew's ashes, at least not in the catalog. There are full-sized options and keepsakes-- primarily used to hold a small portion (about 2-4 cubic inches-- Andrew is about 7.5-- it's nearly a 1:1 ratio. Try Googling that for a good time) and for the rest to be spread or buried.
The he tells us that he'll jump on Google to look at some more for us.
Jump on Google.
No, sir. We know just how to jump on Google to search for urns ourselves. We were hoping to avoid that whole process, hence the middleman.
We decide on an urn he checked online to see that they had the middle, rare size that would still be far too big for Andrew's ashes. I was sobbing at this point and ready to leave. Benjamin wanted to crawl around and I was not having any of that.
We hurriedly ordered and walked out and I sobbed while holding Benjamin in the parking lot. We left Andrew inside. He wouldn't be with us on December 5th.
Before we got in the car, Ray headed back in because he just couldn't leave Andrew's ashes there on his birthday. He went in to retrieve him and we sat in the car, sobbing some more. We were no more than 2 blocks away before he asked me if I wanted to cancel the order. I hated the urn we chose, again, and really didn't think this was a good solution. But Ray knew that without me saying a word.
He called and canceled everything, stating that we weren't pleased with our options and that we would be handling things on our own from now on. We arrived home and Benjamin wouldn't sleep. He was feeling our grief.
Once he was down to sleep, we researched urns online. Nothing like having a website called "urn shopp.er" show up in your dropdown menu when typing websites in daily. Note to self: delete history. We found one that was perfect. As perfect as one can be anyway. LuciaUrns is an Etsy shop started by a potter in Massachusetts. People loved her pots so much, that they often asked her if she made urns for their loved ones-- as the current options on the market are not personal, warm and artist-made. Dealing with a rare size issue, it was fitting that she created urns that would meet the needs of any size, including babies.
We selected the smallest size, suitable for 10 cubic inches. Ordered, shipped and to our home the day after his birthday. I spent the rest of that day during naps figuring out what we would do about his ashes. I knew we'd pour them ourselves, but I was scared. I don't know of what, but I guess the idea of staring down the ashes of your deceased child doesn't exactly warm your heart. I opened his old urn, the heart, with a flathead screwdriver and there was residue. I didn't take the bag out of the urn because it was jam-packed in there and looked quite difficult to handle. But the ashes? They were more coarse than I imagined.
Once Ray came home, he took the additional container, the old urn, and the new urn into the laundry room and performed the switch. With some tears, our firstborn had a final place in our home where he would be whole again. The bag from the old urn with its very own twist-tie (like on your garbage) along with the urn itself, the screws, the "baby wilson" label, and the additional box were placed in the garbage along with dirty diapers and food scraps.
Just another example of the heartbreak of baby loss. The paradox of life and death.
While this post is terribly dark and sad, I do want to update that we are so pleased with the new urn, its beauty, and the daintiness of it. We're thrilled Andrew has a perfectly chosen piece of art as his very own. As sad as it is to have such a thing, we are pleased and feel more at peace with things ever since that package arrived on our doorstep. {I waited to post this on a day that there were no birthdays, to my knowledge. It needed to be in Andrew's birth month.}
We're finally done with that forsaken funeral home.
For those not so savvy, here's Urban Dictionary's explanation of the word, in case you really hated my choice of a title:
| 1. | diggs | |
home;place of residence;place of business
"my bro just moved into new diggs across town."
| ||
I wrote a post earlier this month about visiting the funeral home and how our emotions affected the B-man. Here's the full story, for what it's worth.
The day after I delivered Andrew, our nurse came in with a paper of funeral homes we needed to call. Burial or cremation? Funeral or memorial service or not? Such questions we didn't anticipate ever having to answer and yet we were bombarded with decisions. When in a state of shock, you don't make decisions or think clearly through the tough stuff very well. And how were we to know what to do? You never anticipate having to choose where your child's final resting place will be.
Thanks to the nurses, we have professional pictures of Andrew. We would've never known about NILMDTS and yet, they were there for us in time of need. Our nurse on December 6 told us she would handle calling around to make arrangements for us because it was not something we were in a state of mind to be doing. Bless her.
We were discharged on December 7th and went over to select an urn for Andrew. The funeral home is about 2.5 miles from our home and I remember being a complete sobbing mess still swollen from being nearly 39 weeks pregnant just two days prior. I sat in a chair in a room where the walls felt they were suffocating me. We were shown some booklets and steered to select a keepsake urn for our son. I remember vaguely being told that because he was a boy and because he was a baby, that people often choose blue and this small heart urn. At the time, I didn't care much or have any clue how we could even do such a thing as pick out an urn for our son that we thought just 48 hours before, would be coming home with us in a carseat. We went with the blue urn and they told us they'd be picking up our son from the hospital.
He was cremated at a facility somewhere in Chicagoland and I guess the urn was sent to the crematorium for it to be filled.
Days later, we received a phonecall to come pick up our son from the local funeral home where we placed the order for that small, blue heart-shaped urn. We were told on the phone to come anytime. I don't remember when we picked him up, but I know it wasn't right away. We were a mess of emotions and had no real urgency, after all, he was gone.
When we arrived, they told us we could go into a room where his ashes were placed-- the room where they hold funerals. On a table would be his urn. The heart urn was wrapped in a velour black bag with a little Brother P-Touch label on the back of the urn that read, "Baby Wilson" on it. Not even his name. The box next to the heart urn also had his name, date of cremation and location of cremation, all in typewriter font. We were told his remains did not fully fit. Until just weeks ago, I had no idea how much did not fit, because I was too afraid to open that box. It turns out only half of his remains fit into that little urn and the other half were in the box. Sealed with a twist-tie.
I remember sobbing as we drove home. I was holding a heavy urn with my son's ashes, and they couldn't even put all of him inside the container. Insult to injury-- perhaps an understatement of that long-used phrase. I was surprised at how heavy that urn was-- but I know much of it was the urn itself and not my son at all. At the time, it felt like I was holding his full weight, 7lbs. 6oz.
He lived on our bookshelf in the formal living room for two years. His additional ashes were inside a basket underneath and it bothered us that he wasn't ever whole. I was frustrated that we did not receive a phonecall telling us that we should select another urn. Or that they didn't just leave his ashes in one container for us to decide later. What good is an urn with only part of our son? Our intention was never to spread his ashes. I also felt incredibly sad to obviously be an anomaly. Clearly they didn't deal much with dead babies, or they would have this all figured out by now. Lucky us. The anomaly.
For his 2nd birthday, we knew things needed to be made right. I wrote it on the whiteboard in our laundry room and we finally made the trek back to the funeral home the Saturday before Andrew's 2nd birthday. I called ahead of time to schedule an appointment and gave them all of our information. We were told we could come in later that afternoon. I received a phonecall a bit after making the arrangement to tell me they had lost our file.
Lost our file.
You read those words correctly. I can't make this stuff up. {I know my husband is considerably more understanding in this regard, but I'm not and I write this blog, so I'll be carrying on now.}
We arrived at the funeral home and sat down in that very same room, this time with Benjamin in our arms. I sat in the opposite chair I did before, but within those same 4 walls. The funeral home director plops a book down in front of us with urns to choose from. I was instructed to bring all of Andrew's ashes with us, so I brought the two containers. Despite explaining the situation on the phone since he lost our file (dead infant, too small of an urn, cremated, 2010, name, date, etc.), he didn't seem to connect the dots.
Once he saw the containers, he said he understood and started flipping through to show us our options. He sighed here and there, telling us they don't really have a size that would work for Andrew's ashes, at least not in the catalog. There are full-sized options and keepsakes-- primarily used to hold a small portion (about 2-4 cubic inches-- Andrew is about 7.5-- it's nearly a 1:1 ratio. Try Googling that for a good time) and for the rest to be spread or buried.
The he tells us that he'll jump on Google to look at some more for us.
Jump on Google.
No, sir. We know just how to jump on Google to search for urns ourselves. We were hoping to avoid that whole process, hence the middleman.
We decide on an urn he checked online to see that they had the middle, rare size that would still be far too big for Andrew's ashes. I was sobbing at this point and ready to leave. Benjamin wanted to crawl around and I was not having any of that.
We hurriedly ordered and walked out and I sobbed while holding Benjamin in the parking lot. We left Andrew inside. He wouldn't be with us on December 5th.
Before we got in the car, Ray headed back in because he just couldn't leave Andrew's ashes there on his birthday. He went in to retrieve him and we sat in the car, sobbing some more. We were no more than 2 blocks away before he asked me if I wanted to cancel the order. I hated the urn we chose, again, and really didn't think this was a good solution. But Ray knew that without me saying a word.
He called and canceled everything, stating that we weren't pleased with our options and that we would be handling things on our own from now on. We arrived home and Benjamin wouldn't sleep. He was feeling our grief.
Once he was down to sleep, we researched urns online. Nothing like having a website called "urn shopp.er" show up in your dropdown menu when typing websites in daily. Note to self: delete history. We found one that was perfect. As perfect as one can be anyway. LuciaUrns is an Etsy shop started by a potter in Massachusetts. People loved her pots so much, that they often asked her if she made urns for their loved ones-- as the current options on the market are not personal, warm and artist-made. Dealing with a rare size issue, it was fitting that she created urns that would meet the needs of any size, including babies.
Once Ray came home, he took the additional container, the old urn, and the new urn into the laundry room and performed the switch. With some tears, our firstborn had a final place in our home where he would be whole again. The bag from the old urn with its very own twist-tie (like on your garbage) along with the urn itself, the screws, the "baby wilson" label, and the additional box were placed in the garbage along with dirty diapers and food scraps.
Just another example of the heartbreak of baby loss. The paradox of life and death.
While this post is terribly dark and sad, I do want to update that we are so pleased with the new urn, its beauty, and the daintiness of it. We're thrilled Andrew has a perfectly chosen piece of art as his very own. As sad as it is to have such a thing, we are pleased and feel more at peace with things ever since that package arrived on our doorstep. {I waited to post this on a day that there were no birthdays, to my knowledge. It needed to be in Andrew's birth month.}
We're finally done with that forsaken funeral home.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
For the Love of Andrew, I Blog
A friend asked me yesterday how I could blog about my life the way I do. She was mostly surprised that I had the courage to be so bold. I answered that question quickly and easily, but then continued to add how blogging about the intimacy of losing a child continues to shape our lives as they are now. Here are some of the reasons I gave her, and some I have been thinking about since our conversation yesterday:
- Today is Andrew's 2nd birthday. Because of blogging, I've received an unprecedented amount of support from the babyloss community, friends, family, and complete strangers. We're honored that you care about us enough to celebrate our son. Thank you for the emails, comments, cards, text messages and overall love you've shared in speaking his name.
- It has introduced me to a huge community of babyloss families out there that can empathize. Misery might love company, sure, but I also think it's important to be able to connect on an emotional level to those who understand the trauma and sadness child loss has brought us.
- Because therapy is expensive. Okay, it has nothing to do with cost, but it does have to do with comfort level and how I know myself best. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, and I can't think of a greater need for some type of therapy than losing a child.
- Someone has to. Really, someone has to talk about stillbirth and babies dying. I wish that person was not me, but because our family was struck by this, it's only logical that I turn the topic away from being taboo. Our culture should be much more accepting. I actually think it's my responsibility to speak out. If I choose to be ashamed or hide my grief, others will treat it as shameful, too. Andrew is not shameful. He is all love to me. As his mother, I sort of set the stage for how I want others to handle his death. What I don't want is for him to be forgotten or his life trivialized. On that same note, not all of us grieve the same. I understand that completely, but this is how I've chosen to grieve; out loud.
- What's life really about anyway? If we're not vulnerable, how should we be? I feel it's fine in some situations to be reserved and I practice that {i.e. business}, but in my friendships and family relationships (note: my readership), I feel it's best to be more transparent. I feel less awkward that way.
- Helping others. I receive emails multiple times a week from others who have recently lost a child, are pregnant with a subsequent child (incredibly traumatic), or are seeking advice about supporting a friend who just lost their baby. I feel honored that my experience can help others. Don't get me wrong-- I hate that I understand their grief. But I do, and I want to help. For those who have no connection to loss themselves but still read, maybe it will help prepare them if they ever encounter loss in their own life or in the lives of people they know. This stretches beyond child loss and into just being caring and kindhearted individuals. When someone endures tragedy that affects them deeply, it's only logical to care for them. Avoiding them just trivializes their sadness.
- Selfishly, it forces readers to think about my son. I can't post pictures of him doing the ultra cute things I know he'd be doing if he were here today. I had those pictures planned out well through elementary school on this blog. And yet, I'm void of pictures to share. He'd be eating cake today, naturally, and I'd be sharing pictures. He's not, and instead, I write about him because it's my way of attempting to scrounge for every little nugget of parenting I should've/wish I could've experienced with him here.
Today has been pretty somber for me. I'm sad. I hate this. I've been feeling pretty melancholy all day. Two. Wishing you were here, Andrew. I always will.
Monday, November 26, 2012
9 Months & 9 Days
When I found out I was pregnant with Benjamin, I immediately calculated a few things:
- When my due date would be
- Exactly how many days I was pregnant
- When I'd have my first ultrasound with a (likely) heartbeat
- How old he would potentially be come Andrew's 2nd birthday
The answer to the last one was 9 months. With this boy.
It seemed like ages away. And yet, here we are. My heart wanted desperately to assume that when Andrew's second birthday came around, I'd have a super mature and old boy that would be close in age so I would mend a fraction of my heart that longed for a boy of that age. But who am I kidding. Calculating the 4 months it took to get pregnant after Andrew and then the miscarriage and then gestating Benjamin until he was barely ripe, it still wouldn't make them close. Even if I birthed Benjamin the day after Andrew was born wouldn't make up for the emptiness my heart will always feel. All I wanted when I sat on that hospital bed as the nurses told me the news that shattered my life was to be pregnant again and press full speed ahead.
What I really wanted was a do-over. With Andrew, of course. I wanted to rewind a few days to have some epiphany or realization that I needed to be induced and monitored before something fatal happened. Yet, I had no idea and that perfect little story we were writing about being happily married and traveling the world and buying a house and having our first baby and being overall perfect? Who knew we were writing a tragedy.
We have Andrew's brother to be thankful for and that should go without saying. We're thankful for him and frankly, we need him. My heart cannot handle the thought of the title of this post reading "9 Days" without more to the story. And yet, some of my fellow loss mothers still long for the siblings they wish they were mothering by now. At the very least.
But these next 9 days? Those are Andrew's. Birthday dinner will be had and special dessert will be eaten, all to remember the life of a boy that forever changed ours. The weather at this time of year feels like it's drowning me. The winter air and first snows all remind me of what those fateful end-of-days looked like just two years ago. Seven-hundred some days is a whole lot of days.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Day 2012
That's today.
Carly wrote a post not long ago about making a prayer flag for our babies we miss.
While I'm not crafty in the least, I knew this was something I wanted to do for Andrew, mostly because I never get to do anything for him. I schlepped B along to Joann's to find some felt and some embroidery floss to make a flag that would then be sent to Australia to be hung in a ceremony for our babies today.
Loving and truly missing not only my own firstborn, but all the babies of so many of us families that will never be fully complete without them.
Carly wrote a post not long ago about making a prayer flag for our babies we miss.
While I'm not crafty in the least, I knew this was something I wanted to do for Andrew, mostly because I never get to do anything for him. I schlepped B along to Joann's to find some felt and some embroidery floss to make a flag that would then be sent to Australia to be hung in a ceremony for our babies today.
Here's what I made for Andrew.
And off it went.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
My Sentiments Exactly.
This article has been floating around the BLM circle. I am not re-posting for BLMs to read, but for those who haven't experienced this unbearable loss to read. I'll live this reality for the rest of my life. To say it's changed me as a person is an understatement. So honest, and unfortunately, so real.
Milwaukee Journal, October 6, 2011, Laura Schubert
Did you know that October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month? I'll bet not. Despite the infant mortality crisis that's been at the forefront of Milwaukee's public health news for months, the only people who have more than a cursory comprehension of what it means to lose a baby are those who've lived it.
Infant loss is nature's cruelest practical joke. It's investing all of the required time and effort into pregnancy, only to be robbed of the result. It's cradling a body that grew within your own and trying to reconcile the cold, lifeless form in your arms with your memory of the baby who turned double flips in your womb.
It's worrying that you'll forget what your child looked like and snapping an album's worth of photos that no one will ever ask to see. It's sobbing so hard you can't breathe and wondering if it's possible to cry yourself to death.
Infant loss is handing off a Moses basket to the nurse who's drawn the unfortunate duty of delivering your pride and joy to the morgue and walking out of a hospital with empty arms.
It's boxing up brand new baby clothes and buying a 24-inch casket. It's sifting through sympathy cards, willing your foolish body to stop lactating, clutching your baby's blanket to your chest in hopes of soothing the piercing ache in your heart.
It's resisting the urge to smack the clueless individuals who compare your situation to the death of their dog or who tell you you'll have another baby, as if children are somehow replaceable.
Infant loss is explaining to your 7-year-old that sometimes babies die and being stumped into silence when she asks you why. It's watching other families live out your happy ending and fighting a fresh round of grief with every milestone you miss.
It's being shut out of play groups for perpetuity. It's skipping social events with expectant and newly minted mothers because, as a walking worst-case scenario, you don't want to put a damper on the party.
It's listening to other women gripe about motherhood and realizing that you no longer relate to their petty parental complaints because, frankly, when you've buried a baby, a sleepless night with a vomiting toddler sounds something like a gift.
Infant loss is pruning from your life the friends and relatives who ignore or minimize your loss. It's recognizing that, while they may not mean to be hurtful, the fact that they don't know any better doesn't make their utter lack of empathy one whit easier to bear.
My baby girl would have been 5 years old this month. I don't know what she'd look like, what her favorite food would be. I've never had the privilege of tucking her into bed, taking her to the zoo or kissing her boo-boos. I will never watch her graduate or walk down the aisle.
Infant loss is more than an empty cradle. It's a life sentence.
Milwaukee Journal, October 6, 2011, Laura Schubert
Did you know that October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month? I'll bet not. Despite the infant mortality crisis that's been at the forefront of Milwaukee's public health news for months, the only people who have more than a cursory comprehension of what it means to lose a baby are those who've lived it.
Infant loss is nature's cruelest practical joke. It's investing all of the required time and effort into pregnancy, only to be robbed of the result. It's cradling a body that grew within your own and trying to reconcile the cold, lifeless form in your arms with your memory of the baby who turned double flips in your womb.
It's worrying that you'll forget what your child looked like and snapping an album's worth of photos that no one will ever ask to see. It's sobbing so hard you can't breathe and wondering if it's possible to cry yourself to death.
Infant loss is handing off a Moses basket to the nurse who's drawn the unfortunate duty of delivering your pride and joy to the morgue and walking out of a hospital with empty arms.
It's boxing up brand new baby clothes and buying a 24-inch casket. It's sifting through sympathy cards, willing your foolish body to stop lactating, clutching your baby's blanket to your chest in hopes of soothing the piercing ache in your heart.
It's resisting the urge to smack the clueless individuals who compare your situation to the death of their dog or who tell you you'll have another baby, as if children are somehow replaceable.
Infant loss is explaining to your 7-year-old that sometimes babies die and being stumped into silence when she asks you why. It's watching other families live out your happy ending and fighting a fresh round of grief with every milestone you miss.
It's being shut out of play groups for perpetuity. It's skipping social events with expectant and newly minted mothers because, as a walking worst-case scenario, you don't want to put a damper on the party.
It's listening to other women gripe about motherhood and realizing that you no longer relate to their petty parental complaints because, frankly, when you've buried a baby, a sleepless night with a vomiting toddler sounds something like a gift.
Infant loss is pruning from your life the friends and relatives who ignore or minimize your loss. It's recognizing that, while they may not mean to be hurtful, the fact that they don't know any better doesn't make their utter lack of empathy one whit easier to bear.
My baby girl would have been 5 years old this month. I don't know what she'd look like, what her favorite food would be. I've never had the privilege of tucking her into bed, taking her to the zoo or kissing her boo-boos. I will never watch her graduate or walk down the aisle.
Infant loss is more than an empty cradle. It's a life sentence.
Monday, September 19, 2011
The Well is Dry
Confession: I don't cry when I read extremely sad stories about baby loss.
I haven't cried for a really long time. Part of me is totally jaded by the reality that babies die and are still dying. I recently came up on a few newbie blogs to the baby loss world. It totally made my stomach churn as I felt the anxiety of earlier days. I read blogs from fellow moms about their struggles or explaining the story etched in their memory of when they lost their babies and yet, I don't shed a tear. For this reason, I've stopped reading Faces of Loss posts because I can no longer handle the sadness properly. I feel like I should be crying. When did babies dying become acceptable to me in such a way that I don't show physical emotion? It's not that I don't welcome these women into my arms with my entire heart, but because I felt it was causing me to become numb and void of sorrow. I felt sorrowful while reading their sad stories, but I was easily able to click away, because to me, that reality is normal. It's everyday. It's something I also live with.
I cry when talking about Andrew and especially when talking about him with people who haven't been down this road. But when talking with friends who are also mourning the loss of their babies, I don't cry. I am free to use sarcasm and dark humor and ask them dark questions about specific details pertaining to the deaths of their children. In some universe, we almost pretend like they're alive by talking about them. We keep their memories alive this way and it doesn't feel sad or upsetting to us.
I think back to January when I returned to work and two women approached me with their stories of stillbirth. They told me their detailed stories and shed no tears. They weren't even really interested in hugging me. They weren't uncomfortable and they weren't afraid to ask questions.
I've never been much of a crier in general. Baby loss definitely changed that. In some ways, though, my well has run dry. At least for this leg of the journey. Maybe this is part of the process of grief-- that I'm not sure. Emotion still fills my blood and soul, but the tears aren't fighting to escape nearly as easily.
I haven't cried for a really long time. Part of me is totally jaded by the reality that babies die and are still dying. I recently came up on a few newbie blogs to the baby loss world. It totally made my stomach churn as I felt the anxiety of earlier days. I read blogs from fellow moms about their struggles or explaining the story etched in their memory of when they lost their babies and yet, I don't shed a tear. For this reason, I've stopped reading Faces of Loss posts because I can no longer handle the sadness properly. I feel like I should be crying. When did babies dying become acceptable to me in such a way that I don't show physical emotion? It's not that I don't welcome these women into my arms with my entire heart, but because I felt it was causing me to become numb and void of sorrow. I felt sorrowful while reading their sad stories, but I was easily able to click away, because to me, that reality is normal. It's everyday. It's something I also live with.
I cry when talking about Andrew and especially when talking about him with people who haven't been down this road. But when talking with friends who are also mourning the loss of their babies, I don't cry. I am free to use sarcasm and dark humor and ask them dark questions about specific details pertaining to the deaths of their children. In some universe, we almost pretend like they're alive by talking about them. We keep their memories alive this way and it doesn't feel sad or upsetting to us.
I think back to January when I returned to work and two women approached me with their stories of stillbirth. They told me their detailed stories and shed no tears. They weren't even really interested in hugging me. They weren't uncomfortable and they weren't afraid to ask questions.
I've never been much of a crier in general. Baby loss definitely changed that. In some ways, though, my well has run dry. At least for this leg of the journey. Maybe this is part of the process of grief-- that I'm not sure. Emotion still fills my blood and soul, but the tears aren't fighting to escape nearly as easily.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Childbirth Was Easier Than This
I just finished watching Bachelor Pad. Yes, I know. It's trashy television and I might have lost brain cells. Whatevs. Y'all, I need this getaway from my real life sometimes. In the last episode, one of the competitors was talking about how scared she was to walk against a vertical wall while suspended on cables. Her quote was, "This is the scariest thing I've ever done. Childbirth was easier than this."
And then the BLM in me busts out.
Childbirth is not hard. Relative to other life experiences like losing a child and actually having to physically birth your child within hours of finding out they would never, ever be going home with you and instead is currently turning progressively more purple inside of you-- now that's hard. I remember my own mother and my MIL telling me that you forget the pain of childbirth because of how rich in love the experience is. Bringing a child into the world erases all the pain you endure. I'd like to say I understand that reality. I don't. Pain is, in many ways, mental. My dad always told me this as a child when he'd dare me to pinch him as hard as possible (or maybe I was daring myself and he didn't really want it? Hah) and that it didn't hurt because he didn't allow it to hurt. He was near bleeding at times when I'd dig my little, grimy nails into his palm so I'd somehow end victorious in causing him pain. {What a jerk! Bah.} Some of my fellow BLM friends birthed their still babies without medication. I did not choose that route, although I was just a couple hours from pushing and already 4cm dilated when I received medication. I felt the pain. It wasn't pretty, but I'd handle that pain without a thought if. Some of my friends commented on how they wanted to feel the physical pain, as they were already in the most emotional turmoil they'd ever experienced. What does it matter, anyway?
What it all boils down to is that emotional pain outweighs physical pain. I'm sure some of my readers will disagree with this sentiment, but I can say that for me, contractions were practically painless when compared to the emotional heartbreak and endless duration of this earth-shattering reality.
Childbirth is difficult. Roofing a house, difficult. Trying to find that single sock lost on laundry day, difficult.
But birthing a child who isn't alive is impossible. It's not just difficult. I hope to God it doesn't strip away the magic of childbirth for any of our future children, but it will probably be a difficult second go around from what I can imagine right this moment.
Renel posted today about this green sign and how we're achieving the impossible. Not in a summit Mt. Everest kind of way, but a get out of bed each day and choose life kind of way.
And then the BLM in me busts out.
Childbirth is not hard. Relative to other life experiences like losing a child and actually having to physically birth your child within hours of finding out they would never, ever be going home with you and instead is currently turning progressively more purple inside of you-- now that's hard. I remember my own mother and my MIL telling me that you forget the pain of childbirth because of how rich in love the experience is. Bringing a child into the world erases all the pain you endure. I'd like to say I understand that reality. I don't. Pain is, in many ways, mental. My dad always told me this as a child when he'd dare me to pinch him as hard as possible (or maybe I was daring myself and he didn't really want it? Hah) and that it didn't hurt because he didn't allow it to hurt. He was near bleeding at times when I'd dig my little, grimy nails into his palm so I'd somehow end victorious in causing him pain. {What a jerk! Bah.} Some of my fellow BLM friends birthed their still babies without medication. I did not choose that route, although I was just a couple hours from pushing and already 4cm dilated when I received medication. I felt the pain. It wasn't pretty, but I'd handle that pain without a thought if. Some of my friends commented on how they wanted to feel the physical pain, as they were already in the most emotional turmoil they'd ever experienced. What does it matter, anyway?
What it all boils down to is that emotional pain outweighs physical pain. I'm sure some of my readers will disagree with this sentiment, but I can say that for me, contractions were practically painless when compared to the emotional heartbreak and endless duration of this earth-shattering reality.
Childbirth is difficult. Roofing a house, difficult. Trying to find that single sock lost on laundry day, difficult.
But birthing a child who isn't alive is impossible. It's not just difficult. I hope to God it doesn't strip away the magic of childbirth for any of our future children, but it will probably be a difficult second go around from what I can imagine right this moment.
Renel posted today about this green sign and how we're achieving the impossible. Not in a summit Mt. Everest kind of way, but a get out of bed each day and choose life kind of way.
We can't do this. But we have no choice but to do it anyway. Difficult doesn't even begin to explain it.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Never Forgotten
I took a (stealth) trip to Los Angeles to visit my parents this week. On my Virgin America flight, I watched a Tom Brokaw {I <3 him} special on the 9/11 tragedy. It's not out of the ordinary for this time of year considering tomorrow being the 10th anniversary of such devastation.
Although I lived on the opposite coast, I will never, ever forget where I was that day when I found out. I remember something before leaving the house for class about the World Trade Center and planes, but little did I know the devastation this meant or the act of hatred that caused such attacks. It just seemed impossible. I was in college and walking to my morning class when I found out that they were canceled and we were to go home. I spent hours in the student parking lot that day just trying to connect with my mom on the phone and discuss the enormous loss that had occurred that morning.
Last night, as I sat on that airplane back home to Chicago, I was just crying as I watched these stories again. And in the wake of losing my own son to devastation and abrupt loss, I felt a tinge of understanding for those families who lost loved ones that day. Never would I have expected to ever understand even a portion of their sadness and now, 10 years later, I do. When I attempt to go to that place of self-pity and why me, I think of them. Why them? Why thousands of people? Why did their families have to suffer such enormous loss and destruction for no reason? Sometimes there just aren't answers. Sometimes bad things happen and life just sucks. Explanations wouldn't matter in cases of death, anyway, because the damage is irreparable.
We just simply have to remember. At the very least, they deserve the honor.
Although I lived on the opposite coast, I will never, ever forget where I was that day when I found out. I remember something before leaving the house for class about the World Trade Center and planes, but little did I know the devastation this meant or the act of hatred that caused such attacks. It just seemed impossible. I was in college and walking to my morning class when I found out that they were canceled and we were to go home. I spent hours in the student parking lot that day just trying to connect with my mom on the phone and discuss the enormous loss that had occurred that morning.
Last night, as I sat on that airplane back home to Chicago, I was just crying as I watched these stories again. And in the wake of losing my own son to devastation and abrupt loss, I felt a tinge of understanding for those families who lost loved ones that day. Never would I have expected to ever understand even a portion of their sadness and now, 10 years later, I do. When I attempt to go to that place of self-pity and why me, I think of them. Why them? Why thousands of people? Why did their families have to suffer such enormous loss and destruction for no reason? Sometimes there just aren't answers. Sometimes bad things happen and life just sucks. Explanations wouldn't matter in cases of death, anyway, because the damage is irreparable.
We just simply have to remember. At the very least, they deserve the honor.
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