The Should-Be Mom

Mornings are rough. That's what my friend Liz told me when she lost her baby just weeks before we lost Andrew. The same has rang true for us. I think it's the reality I have to face when I wake up that I don't have my son. The day will carry on as though he were never grown and never born and I hate that. I also hate that I can do whatever I want on any given morning because he isn't here. I don't want that freedom ever again.

Saturday mornings particularly prove to be the worst. Even though Ray is home with me and we usually sleep in, I still struggle with the reality that we should be waking up and having amazing family time. I know that what I want is probably a dream: baby sound asleep after a long and restful night, waking up and making waffles, going for a jog or walking in downtown Naperville with our stroller and grabbing coffees, smoothies, or whatever else sounds good. But since all I'll ever have with Andrew are dreams, I think I deserve whatever I want to think up-- even if they aren't reality (talking about the whole baby sound asleep part). I should be a mom to that little munchkin. Not a mom to a dead baby... a mom to a real, live, smiling baby who needs us. We should be excited about Saturday family days and looking forward to all the fun things we can do this summer like hiking and short driving trips.

It's also hard to think about never having Andrew again. For some reason our brains work in strange ways. Though I plan to become pregnant again with baby #2 (I hope) sometime this year, I still can't wrap my head around the fact that baby #2 won't be Andrew. I can't fathom, for some reason, that it's not just a long wait again for us to meet up with him and finally get to know him. It's weird to think that I will give birth once again to a baby that is possibly a baby girl and not a baby boy! Baby #2 will end up being a baby totally different and never our Andrew. We'd love them just the same, but it won't be him. Since we dreamt for nearly 19 weeks about our baby boy (since we found out the gender at 20 weeks gestation), we had such visions. Our dreams didn't start there, but they became reality when we placed a name to his baby body. Ray even admits that he has little flash-forwards of "I can't wait to ____ with Andrew when he comes." We know he has come and gone. We know. But for some reason our brains aren't willing to release that reality just yet. All it does is make us sad that we won't be able to do all of those wonderful things with him, so I sure wish our brains would kick in to reality soon.

This should-be mom and should-be dad still have hope in the future of our Wilson family, just missing our baby boy, that's all.

The Great Diversion

Scene: Standing in the hallway during a transition time. Students and teachers are all around. A girl I worked with in reading groups for awhile in October came up to greet me.

girl: "Remember me?"

me: {Obviously. A little loud, but super sweet. How could I forget?} Yes.

girl: "Did you have Andy yet? Because I really want to see a picture of him."

me: {Oh crap. Here we go. And right in front of another teacher who clearly knows the story. Looks around for a diversion. Oh great, got one.} Yeah, um, I noticed you're wearing a Polish dance t-shirt. I didn't know you were taking Polish dance lessons! {second graders are easy to distract-- thinks of shiny objects or talking about anything relating to themselves}

girl: Oh yes. Yada Yada Yada.

me: {Phew. Dodged a bullet there.}
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Story #2, same day. Today.

Scene: Walking a student to Bus #4 and a line full of kids following.

girl: Hey, I remember you! Did you have the baby?

me: {Here we go again. Bummer. She's not wearing a Polish dance t-shirt} Yep. {diverts eyes}

boy: Are you still working in the library?

me: {Oh thank goodness for this kid. What the heck is he talking about? I don't care.} Um, yeah, maybe.

The Crooked Line

I went back to the school district I spent most of my pregnancy at today. As soon as I walked in the door to the elementary school, I felt comfortable. I also felt sad because I was back when I should really be at home caring for my son. I felt relieved to be getting it over with-- this whole starting over process. Breaking the seal of silence is so hard to do. In a way, not returning was still an envelope unopened and an experience I knew would be coming with potential tears and uncomfortable silence and encounters. Immediately, the secretary welcomed me back and told me it was nice to see me there again.

I avoided certain hallways and headed straight for the library where I would be working for the afternoon. The first person to walk up was a woman who shared with me that 32 years ago, she also experienced stillbirth when her first daughter was born. She went on to have 3 more children. This is all too common. She told me that she's glad I came back and that the school is just full of loving people who care for one another-- and if I needed to talk, she would be available for me.

More people came by to hug me and offer condolences... some people I've never spoken to, but obviously knew who I was-- hard to miss that enormously pregnant woman there practically everyday. Then, a man came up. I'd talked with him a number of times before and this time was quite special. He walked up and put his hand on my shoulder and let me know he was thinking about me and offers his condolences. Then he asked if I had a son or daughter. Then he asked his name. Andrew. He knew it now and I was able to say it without crying. It was really special that he considered my son a real person enough to ask his name.

My job started when I read to a few first grade classes this book:

It's not the book I would've chosen, but it was chosen for me to read aloud. I was fine. It's funny how grief works. I wasn't bothered by this book... at least not right now. My grief goes in and out and is never linear. I consider it a crooked line but it's probably a series of circles, zig-zags, dots, etc. Some days I'm sad, some angry, some guilt ridden (I know... his death was not my fault but try and tell a woman who lost her child that!), some happy, some at peace (okay, not so many of those). Unfortunately, they don't go in order and I never know what will trigger the negative emotions and what won't. I'm sure those adults that walked by during the reading of Angelina's Baby Sister were probably shocked I could keep it together saying the word baby that many times without losing it. Or maybe I'm just overthinking it and ultra concerned and conscious of what others are thinking about me and how I'm handling this.

I was so happy the kids didn't ask me where my son was-- especially the little girl I spent about 7 days straight with in October as her one-on-one aide. Thank goodness. It seems like they've all forgotten about who I was and my pregnancy. For once, I'm relieved.

Later on, as I was stocking books on the shelves, that same man approached me again and said, "You know, he's in heaven now. That's why I asked his name because it makes me happy to know that Andrew is there."

Yep, he's in heaven. But on days like today (sad), I just kind of wish he were here to comfort me.

Who Am I?

Ever since I became a baby loss mama (new jargon I've learned on the web. Acronym = BLM), my emotions have run wild. It really started once we conceived Andrew. I cry at the silliest things. Commercials, sitcoms, sad stories, you name it. Well maybe not happy stories. I'm not a happy crier-- at least not yet. I've learned recently enough that life's circumstances change you and who you are as a personal and emotional being. It sounds obvious to many, but that wasn't always me-- because I'd never felt this broken before.

I was watching the first episode of American Idol just now (a few days late). They always try to grip you. Those emotional stories that tug at your heartstrings. That last story definitely got me. Just a little moisture in my eyes welled up thinking about a hope for that family of twins who had been down on their luck for so long.

Everyone experiences heartache. It's not all the same kind or at the same time, but we all have our battles and crosses to bear.

It got me thinking about our situation and how though I am physically and emotionally changed forever, it does not define me. I am reminded of this when I go somewhere no one knows me. I stop in at the grocery store or sub at a school where no one recognizes me. To them, I'm a somewhat young, relatively composed person just living life. I'm buying bread, fruit and normal things. I'm teaching a lesson because their teacher is out for some reason. To them, they don't see the scars unless I break down randomly crying ...which has happened a few times. They don't know I just lost someone so incredibly dear to my heart-- part of my heart actually. In a way, I want them to know that my son died and in some ways I wish no one ever knew so that I wouldn't have to deal with the discomfort and awkwardness we will forever face.

But this doesn't define me. I am still a wife to the most loving husband I could've ever married, a sister, a daughter to my supportive parents (and in-laws), a teacher to many, a friend to so many amazingly supportive friends (even those I apologetically have not called back... I will soon friends. I'm getting there), a home owner, a sort-of runner, a blogger, an independent woman... and the list can go on.

I will not let sadness define forever. I know hope is out there for us and that our son is not in pain. Selfishly, we are the ones in pain. He never knew to be sad, to hurt. He never scraped his knee, felt rejection, pain, suffering. This world is full of that. Though we're selfishly mourning the life we anticipated with him, we know he's not coming back. But I refuse to live my life like he is forgotten. He is not forgotten. He will never be forgotten. He was our firstborn. The fact that I had Andrew does not define who I still am, but it does define how I will continue my life.

Having him has given me more compassion for others and their struggles. I've always had a hard shell coating and struggled with this. Of all the sadness I am experiencing, Andrew is teaching me the ability to be compassionate. I've always been an advocate for children, but I have an even stronger desire now that I have become a BLM.

Thanks, Andrew. Though I miss you terribly, you're teaching me so much about love.

Welcome, Little One

This was the title of a card I read while standing in line at our Safeway grocery store today. I couldn't help but see those light pastel blues and greens as the woman purchased the card, carefree and without concern. I cringed at the site of it since it pains me that the world continues to live on, that women are still having babies everyday in our neighborhood that are healthy and happy. They get to bring their little bundles of joy home to live with them. Of course I want that for Andrew. I wanted that for Andrew. Never will I take for granted that most amazing gift if we are blessed to have a living child.

I then started thinking-- was that baby even born yet? The baby was (or will be) probably born at Edward, where I had Andrew 6.5 weeks ago. Is she purchasing this card to congratulate someone she knows who just gave birth recently? Or, was she buying this card prematurely as I would often do in order to be prepared for what IS coming. Ha. IS. Such an easy word to mutter, but it does not always bring truth to light. It's true for most people, but for myself and many of the women I've been connected through recently via the web (who have sadly experienced similar losses), it's not our reality.

The day we saw those two pink lines and realized we were pregnant, the ultrasounds, the feeling of the baby moving within our bodies, we also thought we were bringing home baby. I stand now reporting that pregnancy doesn't necessarily mean you'll get to be a practicing mother. It doesn't necessarily mean that you will welcome home that beautiful gift.

Because for some of us, that is something we will never get to experience with our firstborn children.

Never did we mutter those words, "Welcome, little one" in our house aside from bringing our son home in a small box from the funeral home. Even something so small as a card in a grocery store can send my mind wandering into a dark place. While I want so much for whoever the recipient of that card is (who will likely read and throw it away so nonchalantly) to take that precious gift home, their child, I want them also so badly to recognize how grateful they should be in the simple act of walking through that front door.

I should also take solace in knowing (though my selfishness chooses not to most of the time) that Andrew did walk through the glorious front doors of heaven. He just got there a lot sooner than his Mom and Dad. That should never happen.

May that family understand the real gift they have in welcoming their child home.