Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin, Mother and Child.
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night.
Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia,
Christ the Savior is born!
Christ the Savior is born.
Silent night, holy night.
Son of God love's pure light.
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth,
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth.
This has always been my favorite Christmas song and tonight it took on a completely new meaning. I hope my son sleeps in heavenly peace.
Merry Christmas
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Saturday, December 22, 2012
I Can't Imagine
"I can't imagine." To most it sounds like words that should be comforting, right? Wrong.
After many days and weeks of pondering, I no longer find "I can't imagine," an appropriate term. We can imagine, ANYTHING, if we try hard enough. That's what imagination is for. But...there are many things we don't want to imagine. And that is really okay. Who wants to imagine all the horrible things that happen to people, like their child dying.
So, instead of saying, "I can't imagine," maybe for a brief moment try. And then, if it hurts too much, just say, "I don't want to imagine."
After many days and weeks of pondering, I no longer find "I can't imagine," an appropriate term. We can imagine, ANYTHING, if we try hard enough. That's what imagination is for. But...there are many things we don't want to imagine. And that is really okay. Who wants to imagine all the horrible things that happen to people, like their child dying.
So, instead of saying, "I can't imagine," maybe for a brief moment try. And then, if it hurts too much, just say, "I don't want to imagine."
Thursday, December 13, 2012
To Alfy
Dear Alfy,
It's the Holiday Season. I have no idea what it would be like with you here, but I'm sure it would be quite different. I imagine all the ornaments on the Christmas tree would be moved up, well beyond your reach. I doubt the wreaths and garland would be hanging on the banister, so tempting for little hands. There would be TONS of presents under the Christmas tree, waiting to be torn open. I imagine you would probably have more fun with the paper and boxes than the toys themselves. This is how I imagined our Christmas would be early last spring.
It is quite different. The Christmas tree is up and decorated and the wreaths, garland and stockings are hung. Your stocking is in the process of being made, that's why you don't see it over the fireplace yet. There will be one here for you and one at your Grandma Mary Lynn's and Grandpa Big Al's house. Your Grandma also found a small Christmas tree that we're putting at your grave. Grandma Nancy found a small stocking for that tree, so I guess technically you have three stockings now. All of your grandparents, aunts and uncles are sending ornaments for the tree. Aunt Abbey and Uncle Travis sent you a Christmas gift too. I keep thinking I should wait until Christmas morning to put it out, but I may just spoil you and put it out early. If anyone deserves to be spoiled, it's you:)
I'm sure you see Dad and I all the time. I just want you to know that we are doing are best to become better parents, friends, children, people for you. Many days are still very hard and we still have lots of heartache and tears. But, I want, need you to know that I wouldn't trade a second of this life if it meant you weren't in it. I love you so very much and I am so grateful for the time I had with you.
Love you to Heaven and back,
Mom
It's the Holiday Season. I have no idea what it would be like with you here, but I'm sure it would be quite different. I imagine all the ornaments on the Christmas tree would be moved up, well beyond your reach. I doubt the wreaths and garland would be hanging on the banister, so tempting for little hands. There would be TONS of presents under the Christmas tree, waiting to be torn open. I imagine you would probably have more fun with the paper and boxes than the toys themselves. This is how I imagined our Christmas would be early last spring.
It is quite different. The Christmas tree is up and decorated and the wreaths, garland and stockings are hung. Your stocking is in the process of being made, that's why you don't see it over the fireplace yet. There will be one here for you and one at your Grandma Mary Lynn's and Grandpa Big Al's house. Your Grandma also found a small Christmas tree that we're putting at your grave. Grandma Nancy found a small stocking for that tree, so I guess technically you have three stockings now. All of your grandparents, aunts and uncles are sending ornaments for the tree. Aunt Abbey and Uncle Travis sent you a Christmas gift too. I keep thinking I should wait until Christmas morning to put it out, but I may just spoil you and put it out early. If anyone deserves to be spoiled, it's you:)
I'm sure you see Dad and I all the time. I just want you to know that we are doing are best to become better parents, friends, children, people for you. Many days are still very hard and we still have lots of heartache and tears. But, I want, need you to know that I wouldn't trade a second of this life if it meant you weren't in it. I love you so very much and I am so grateful for the time I had with you.
Love you to Heaven and back,
Mom
Thursday, December 6, 2012
St. Nicholas, Patron Saint of Children
Did you know that December 6 is the day of feast for St. Nicholas? St. Nicholas is said to be the patron Saint of children (among many other things). His life and deeds are where the story of Santa Claus originated. I have a dear friend at work, Christopher, who becomes St. Nicholas for another one of our friend's children each year. The story goes that children are to put their shoe on their doorstep on the eve of December 6. If the children have been good, St. Nicholas leaves sweets and gold coins in their shoes, if they have not been good, they might receive something like a branch. In many stories, St. Nicholas also rode a horse on his travels, so many children also leave apples or carrots for his horse.
Christopher, as I said, has been St. Nicholas for our friend's children for many years. They are getting older, as most children do and St. Nicholas will slowly start to lose his magic. Before leaving work today, Christopher handed me Alfy's St. Nicholas gifts. There was an apple and an oragne and some chocolate gold coins and even some Dots for Tony and Starbursts for me. He told me that when I had told him I was expecting, he was excited to have another child to carry on the tradition with. He consider us all part of his family. I consider him part mine. Our children are like nieces and nephews to him. What a wonderful friend to have.
I'm not sure that I can put into words all the feelings that welled up inside of me at that moment. It was a beautiful, painful, wonderous, sad, awe-inspiring moment filled with so much love and joy. I could feel it burning in my chest. I felt like the love and happiness was going to poor out of me at that moment, and it did, in tears. It was also strange to feel so incredibly joyous and so incredibly sad at the same time. That's not quite right...I feel joy and sadness together all the time, anytime Alfy is mentioned or thought of, which is pretty much all the time for me. I think it made such an impact because it was a friend who was willing to share such a personal moment with me. The moment was wonderful.
So, contrary to my post from the other day, today I was full of hope. My friend inspired me and reminded of the good in people. I am so grateful and honored to call him my friend.
I want to thank Christopher (aka St. Nicholas) for inspiring hope.
Also, we've already discussed next year, I will be retrieving some dried horse manure from my parent's house to leave on the sidewalk of our friend's house to add to the authenticity of St. Nicholas and his horse:) Good times, great fun!
Christopher, as I said, has been St. Nicholas for our friend's children for many years. They are getting older, as most children do and St. Nicholas will slowly start to lose his magic. Before leaving work today, Christopher handed me Alfy's St. Nicholas gifts. There was an apple and an oragne and some chocolate gold coins and even some Dots for Tony and Starbursts for me. He told me that when I had told him I was expecting, he was excited to have another child to carry on the tradition with. He consider us all part of his family. I consider him part mine. Our children are like nieces and nephews to him. What a wonderful friend to have.
I'm not sure that I can put into words all the feelings that welled up inside of me at that moment. It was a beautiful, painful, wonderous, sad, awe-inspiring moment filled with so much love and joy. I could feel it burning in my chest. I felt like the love and happiness was going to poor out of me at that moment, and it did, in tears. It was also strange to feel so incredibly joyous and so incredibly sad at the same time. That's not quite right...I feel joy and sadness together all the time, anytime Alfy is mentioned or thought of, which is pretty much all the time for me. I think it made such an impact because it was a friend who was willing to share such a personal moment with me. The moment was wonderful.
So, contrary to my post from the other day, today I was full of hope. My friend inspired me and reminded of the good in people. I am so grateful and honored to call him my friend.
I want to thank Christopher (aka St. Nicholas) for inspiring hope.
Also, we've already discussed next year, I will be retrieving some dried horse manure from my parent's house to leave on the sidewalk of our friend's house to add to the authenticity of St. Nicholas and his horse:) Good times, great fun!
Sunday, December 2, 2012
No Hope Today, Maybe Tomorrow
Today I am riddled with disappointment and sadness and hurt.
I met with a friend yesterday, a friend who had gone markedly absent from my life after I lost Alfy. Our relationship became complicated, she was pregnant. She stopped by the week after Alfy was born and she sent a couple of texts within the first month. Then it all stopped. No phone calls, no texts, no emails, no cards, no friend. Her baby shower was in August, maybe July, I don't remember now. I went. I didn't have the opportunity to talk to her at the shower. I never heard from after the shower, no phone calls, no texts, no emails, no cards, no friend. She had her son in September. I found out through Facebook. In our conversations yesterday she told me, "I forgot to call you while we were in the hospital. We just lost track of time." Her son had to spend the night in the NICU, I'm sure that added to the stress. But, I didn't forget to call her when I was in the hospital.
My conversation with her has brought up the bitterness and anger I still have. There were several, important people missing from life for the past (almost) 8 months. No one knew how to deal with me. I can handle that thought. The part I can't handle, they never seemed to try. I'll reference conversations with two separate "friends" at two separate times. A while back I posted a link to an e-book on Amazon called "When Your Friend's Baby Dies." I thought, maybe that would give someone an idea on how they might be able to help me, since most hadn't given much effort in quite some time. Anyways, in a conversation with friend #1, she told me that she had seen the book on my Facebook page and that she would have to read it (implying she hadn't). This was quite some time after I had posted the link. In a conversation with friend #2 yesterday, she also told me she had seen the link but hadn't read it.
Why the hell would I post that book if I didn't want people to read it?
I feel as though some of the very important people in my life have written me off as too much to deal with. And what's worse, they don't even acknowledge that until I do, for them. Was I this type of friend before? So scared of the hard stuff that I just hid away until I thought it was "safe" and "normal" again? I hope so much that I was not, but fear that I was.
As I look back, I am disappointed in so many people in my life, disappointed in their lack of effort in trying to provide some type of support. I get that it probably was/is hard to know what to do. I mean I don't know what to do many days. But, I try. I try, with all my might, to make it through each day. I know that some days will be easy (which is a relative term) and other days will be excruciatingly hard (like today). But, I try. That is where I am disappointed. They stopped trying, they made no effort. I know of one person who took it upon themself to actually look up how to provide support for someone who has lost a child through stillbirth. No one else has looked.
Is my friendship worth that little?
I try very hard to not let these thoughts overwhelm me. I hope they are not true. Hope is why I have taken the initiative to reach out. I hope that I can one day forgive. I hope that one day I can let go of my anger and disappointment. For now, I hope that I can not let the thoughts overwhelm me.
Today I lost that hope. It overwhelmed me like I don't even know how to explain. It overwhelmed me to the point it caused some tension and unpleasantries between me and Tony. I needed my "moment" of being overwhelmed. I tried to share it with him, but I fear it only caused him anger and frustration. We haven't addressed it.
I know there were lots of other people who were there to support me/us. I know there are people who did put in the effort. I know that and I do not forget that. I am more grateful for those people than they will ever know. Now, here is me feeling sorry for myself again, they weren't the ones I thought would be there and wanted to be there. Those people I do not know how to continue with.
But, I will try. I will hope.
(I will also be angry and bitter and all of the the other hard things, but tomorrow, I hope it doesn't overwhelm me.)
I met with a friend yesterday, a friend who had gone markedly absent from my life after I lost Alfy. Our relationship became complicated, she was pregnant. She stopped by the week after Alfy was born and she sent a couple of texts within the first month. Then it all stopped. No phone calls, no texts, no emails, no cards, no friend. Her baby shower was in August, maybe July, I don't remember now. I went. I didn't have the opportunity to talk to her at the shower. I never heard from after the shower, no phone calls, no texts, no emails, no cards, no friend. She had her son in September. I found out through Facebook. In our conversations yesterday she told me, "I forgot to call you while we were in the hospital. We just lost track of time." Her son had to spend the night in the NICU, I'm sure that added to the stress. But, I didn't forget to call her when I was in the hospital.
My conversation with her has brought up the bitterness and anger I still have. There were several, important people missing from life for the past (almost) 8 months. No one knew how to deal with me. I can handle that thought. The part I can't handle, they never seemed to try. I'll reference conversations with two separate "friends" at two separate times. A while back I posted a link to an e-book on Amazon called "When Your Friend's Baby Dies." I thought, maybe that would give someone an idea on how they might be able to help me, since most hadn't given much effort in quite some time. Anyways, in a conversation with friend #1, she told me that she had seen the book on my Facebook page and that she would have to read it (implying she hadn't). This was quite some time after I had posted the link. In a conversation with friend #2 yesterday, she also told me she had seen the link but hadn't read it.
Why the hell would I post that book if I didn't want people to read it?
I feel as though some of the very important people in my life have written me off as too much to deal with. And what's worse, they don't even acknowledge that until I do, for them. Was I this type of friend before? So scared of the hard stuff that I just hid away until I thought it was "safe" and "normal" again? I hope so much that I was not, but fear that I was.
As I look back, I am disappointed in so many people in my life, disappointed in their lack of effort in trying to provide some type of support. I get that it probably was/is hard to know what to do. I mean I don't know what to do many days. But, I try. I try, with all my might, to make it through each day. I know that some days will be easy (which is a relative term) and other days will be excruciatingly hard (like today). But, I try. That is where I am disappointed. They stopped trying, they made no effort. I know of one person who took it upon themself to actually look up how to provide support for someone who has lost a child through stillbirth. No one else has looked.
Is my friendship worth that little?
I try very hard to not let these thoughts overwhelm me. I hope they are not true. Hope is why I have taken the initiative to reach out. I hope that I can one day forgive. I hope that one day I can let go of my anger and disappointment. For now, I hope that I can not let the thoughts overwhelm me.
Today I lost that hope. It overwhelmed me like I don't even know how to explain. It overwhelmed me to the point it caused some tension and unpleasantries between me and Tony. I needed my "moment" of being overwhelmed. I tried to share it with him, but I fear it only caused him anger and frustration. We haven't addressed it.
I know there were lots of other people who were there to support me/us. I know there are people who did put in the effort. I know that and I do not forget that. I am more grateful for those people than they will ever know. Now, here is me feeling sorry for myself again, they weren't the ones I thought would be there and wanted to be there. Those people I do not know how to continue with.
But, I will try. I will hope.
(I will also be angry and bitter and all of the the other hard things, but tomorrow, I hope it doesn't overwhelm me.)
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Happy Anniversary?
Today (well technically yesterday as I write this) was our anniversary. Three years of wedded bliss as the saying goes. Today was anything but wedded bliss. Today was hard and full of tears and hurt and sadness and anger and a few forced smiles in between. Today was another reminder, another milestone that we are passing without our son. Did I mention that today hurt? I tried so hard not let it. I fought like hell today to be happy and joyful. I'm not sure why, I suppose because it is "tradition" to be happy and celebratory on such occasions. I lost the battle.
I ordered a steak from a restaurant we frequent, a ribeye to be exact, for a few moments I thought they had mistakenly given me a porkchop. That is exactly how I think of our anniversary today, it really is the ribeye but today was mistaken for a porkchop.
I guess there is always next year, that's why they call it an anniversary.
I ordered a steak from a restaurant we frequent, a ribeye to be exact, for a few moments I thought they had mistakenly given me a porkchop. That is exactly how I think of our anniversary today, it really is the ribeye but today was mistaken for a porkchop.
I guess there is always next year, that's why they call it an anniversary.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Lyrics to "Just Breathe"
"Just Breathe" by Pearl Jam
Yes, I understand that every life must end, aw-huh,..
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go, aw-huh,..
Oh I'm a lucky man, to count on both hands
the ones I love,..
Some folks just have one,
yeah, others, they've got none, huh-uh
Stay with me,..
Let's just breathe.
Practiced are my sins,
never gonna let me win, aw-huh,..
Under everything, just another human being, aw-huh,..
Yeah, I don't wanna hurt, there's so much in this world
to make me bleed.
Stay with me,..
You're all I see.
Did I say that I need you?
Did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool you see,..
No one knows this more than me.
As I come clean.
I wonder everyday
as I look upon your face, aw-huh,..
Everything you gave
And nothing you would take, aw-huh,..
Nothing you would take
Everything you gave...
Did I say that I need you?
Oh, did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn't I"m a fool you see,..
No one knows this more than me.
As I come clean, ah-ah...
Nothing you would take,..
Everything you gave.
Love you till I die,..
Meet you on the other side.
Yes, I understand that every life must end, aw-huh,..
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go, aw-huh,..
Oh I'm a lucky man, to count on both hands
the ones I love,..
Some folks just have one,
yeah, others, they've got none, huh-uh
Stay with me,..
Let's just breathe.
Practiced are my sins,
never gonna let me win, aw-huh,..
Under everything, just another human being, aw-huh,..
Yeah, I don't wanna hurt, there's so much in this world
to make me bleed.
Stay with me,..
You're all I see.
Did I say that I need you?
Did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool you see,..
No one knows this more than me.
As I come clean.
I wonder everyday
as I look upon your face, aw-huh,..
Everything you gave
And nothing you would take, aw-huh,..
Nothing you would take
Everything you gave...
Did I say that I need you?
Oh, did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn't I"m a fool you see,..
No one knows this more than me.
As I come clean, ah-ah...
Nothing you would take,..
Everything you gave.
Love you till I die,..
Meet you on the other side.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Tough Week
This week has been a tough week for me. A part of me wonders if it is because I am starting to reduce the dosage of my anti-depressant, but really, I think it's just been a hard week. There have been several milestones that have happened and it starts the grief process all over for me. But now I don't have the luxury of sitting at home and just being with it.
One week, one day, 12 hours and 4 minutes ago I officially had been without Alfy longer than he had been with us. It didn't really hit me that the milestone had passed until Tuesday. Tuesday, Oct. 23 was the one year anniversary of when I had quit smoking and Tony had quit chewing. Tuesday, Oct. 23 was the day that I found out I was pregnant with Alfy.
Then, to top it all off, my co-worker had her appointment yesterday in which she could find out the gender of her baby. She'll be 20 weeks along on Monday. Is it creepy that I know that? I suppose to some it might be. I can't help it though. I am acutely aware of how her pregnancy is progressing. Every Monday marks another week for her. Every fourth Friday she has her OB appointment and arrives at work about 10:30am. I dread the day when she will be farther along in her pregnancy than I ever was in mine. It's so unfair.
I'm not sure if I've spoken about this situation at work before. If I have, don't worry about reading further, but I need to vent again. This particular co-worker, we'll call her A, had really started becoming part of my support system, at work and even in general. One of her best friend's lost her husband unexpectedly, her friend was about 15 weeks pregnant when this happened. Well, with my new found expertise in grief I tried to provide as much support as I could to A. In that process, I really started opening up to her about my grief process, which I haven't really done with many people (not that many people have seemed to be all that interested). A few weeks after that, we working together at a Saturday program. After the program was done, A came into my office and told me she needed to tell me something. She was pregnant and would be 14 weeks along on Monday. She didn't want me to hear it from anyone else in the office.
What? You're pregnant? Really? At first, I didn't think it bothered me too much. I could see the distress on A's face so I just sat and listened as she told me the story of her pregnancy. It hadn't been an easy road for her and her husband. They had been trying to conceive for about 4 years. One month before they found out they were pregnant, they had been told that IVF or adoption were their only options for kids. Then, low and behold, a miracle baby happened. A miracle baby that would be due the following spring, the time of year they had always dreamed they would have a child. Shortly after telling me, I thought, "Well, if anyone deserves to be pregnant, it sounds like it's her and she won't take it for granted."
Unfortunately, I have not been able to keep that thought in the forefront of my mind. The more her stomach grows, the more my jealousy grows. The more her stomach grows, the more my guilt for my feelings grow. The more her stomach grows, the more I think, "Why? Why does she get her dream and I didn't?" The more her stomach grows, the more distant I become. The more her stomach grows, the more I hate the distance.
The sheer amount of emotions I can feel within a few seconds is unreal. Every time she walks past my office door, or stops in to say hi, really any time I see her I feel happy-positive-exicted-hopeful-sad-hurt-panic-anger-jealousy-guilt-crazy-brokenhearted. It's all I can do to keep from completely breaking down, over and over and over and over again every day.
I feel like someone has committed the ultimate act of betrayal against me. I'll be here for you and support you and really get you to open up. Then, when you're least expecting it, I'll tell you all about how I get the one thing you can't have and I knew about it the whole time I was being your friend. I know that sounds totally neurotic, but I can't help it. I have to consciously push that thought from head hundreds of times a day. It's that overwhelming irrationality grief thought taking over.
A has a new wardrobe, I presume maternity clothes. Mine are packed up, put away in a tub where I don't have to see them. There's a whole stack of them in the tub with the tags still on them. I never got to wear them. I still have a giftcard in my wallet to Motherhood Maternity. I never got to use it.
I heard another co-worker chatting with her yesterday as I was microwaving my lunch about picking colors for a room and how it could be hard if you didn't know the gender of your child or how it could put you in a corner and make it difficult for future children if you did find out. What would you do with boy stuff if you had a girl later? If only that were going to be my biggest concern if I am ever pregnant again.
I honestly don't know if I heard if A said she knew what the gender was. I put my lunch in the microwave and then I ran (not really, more like walked at my quickest, non-alarming pace) to the bathroom. I sat in a stall and I cried. I cried so hard I couldn't breathe. Then I put myself back together as best I could and went about my work as if nothing had happened. I didn't want to be "that girl" at work. Who are we kidding? I already am "that girl." Co-workers already avoid talking about A's pregnancy in front of me like they would avoid the plague (minus the one above but the conversation had already started and stopping it would have been even more awkward). But now I know how I react when someone does talk about her upcoming bundle of joy. I completely lose it.
It's a Catch 22, you're damned if you do, damned if you don't. Maybe I should just find a new job.
One week, one day, 12 hours and 4 minutes ago I officially had been without Alfy longer than he had been with us. It didn't really hit me that the milestone had passed until Tuesday. Tuesday, Oct. 23 was the one year anniversary of when I had quit smoking and Tony had quit chewing. Tuesday, Oct. 23 was the day that I found out I was pregnant with Alfy.
Then, to top it all off, my co-worker had her appointment yesterday in which she could find out the gender of her baby. She'll be 20 weeks along on Monday. Is it creepy that I know that? I suppose to some it might be. I can't help it though. I am acutely aware of how her pregnancy is progressing. Every Monday marks another week for her. Every fourth Friday she has her OB appointment and arrives at work about 10:30am. I dread the day when she will be farther along in her pregnancy than I ever was in mine. It's so unfair.
I'm not sure if I've spoken about this situation at work before. If I have, don't worry about reading further, but I need to vent again. This particular co-worker, we'll call her A, had really started becoming part of my support system, at work and even in general. One of her best friend's lost her husband unexpectedly, her friend was about 15 weeks pregnant when this happened. Well, with my new found expertise in grief I tried to provide as much support as I could to A. In that process, I really started opening up to her about my grief process, which I haven't really done with many people (not that many people have seemed to be all that interested). A few weeks after that, we working together at a Saturday program. After the program was done, A came into my office and told me she needed to tell me something. She was pregnant and would be 14 weeks along on Monday. She didn't want me to hear it from anyone else in the office.
What? You're pregnant? Really? At first, I didn't think it bothered me too much. I could see the distress on A's face so I just sat and listened as she told me the story of her pregnancy. It hadn't been an easy road for her and her husband. They had been trying to conceive for about 4 years. One month before they found out they were pregnant, they had been told that IVF or adoption were their only options for kids. Then, low and behold, a miracle baby happened. A miracle baby that would be due the following spring, the time of year they had always dreamed they would have a child. Shortly after telling me, I thought, "Well, if anyone deserves to be pregnant, it sounds like it's her and she won't take it for granted."
Unfortunately, I have not been able to keep that thought in the forefront of my mind. The more her stomach grows, the more my jealousy grows. The more her stomach grows, the more my guilt for my feelings grow. The more her stomach grows, the more I think, "Why? Why does she get her dream and I didn't?" The more her stomach grows, the more distant I become. The more her stomach grows, the more I hate the distance.
The sheer amount of emotions I can feel within a few seconds is unreal. Every time she walks past my office door, or stops in to say hi, really any time I see her I feel happy-positive-exicted-hopeful-sad-hurt-panic-anger-jealousy-guilt-crazy-brokenhearted. It's all I can do to keep from completely breaking down, over and over and over and over again every day.
I feel like someone has committed the ultimate act of betrayal against me. I'll be here for you and support you and really get you to open up. Then, when you're least expecting it, I'll tell you all about how I get the one thing you can't have and I knew about it the whole time I was being your friend. I know that sounds totally neurotic, but I can't help it. I have to consciously push that thought from head hundreds of times a day. It's that overwhelming irrationality grief thought taking over.
A has a new wardrobe, I presume maternity clothes. Mine are packed up, put away in a tub where I don't have to see them. There's a whole stack of them in the tub with the tags still on them. I never got to wear them. I still have a giftcard in my wallet to Motherhood Maternity. I never got to use it.
I heard another co-worker chatting with her yesterday as I was microwaving my lunch about picking colors for a room and how it could be hard if you didn't know the gender of your child or how it could put you in a corner and make it difficult for future children if you did find out. What would you do with boy stuff if you had a girl later? If only that were going to be my biggest concern if I am ever pregnant again.
I honestly don't know if I heard if A said she knew what the gender was. I put my lunch in the microwave and then I ran (not really, more like walked at my quickest, non-alarming pace) to the bathroom. I sat in a stall and I cried. I cried so hard I couldn't breathe. Then I put myself back together as best I could and went about my work as if nothing had happened. I didn't want to be "that girl" at work. Who are we kidding? I already am "that girl." Co-workers already avoid talking about A's pregnancy in front of me like they would avoid the plague (minus the one above but the conversation had already started and stopping it would have been even more awkward). But now I know how I react when someone does talk about her upcoming bundle of joy. I completely lose it.
It's a Catch 22, you're damned if you do, damned if you don't. Maybe I should just find a new job.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Pregnancy Loss and Infant Awareness Day
As many blogs for BLMs have probably started today, today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. Did you know that there is a whole month? That's right, a whole month to recognize all the precious babies lost too soon. And it's October.
I know, I know, October is also Breast Cancer Awareness month. We are ALL aware of that. Pink everywhere. Pink ribbons, pink shirts, pink shoes, pink incoporated into every NFL team's uniform/field/apparel. Everyone knows someone who has been touched by breast cancer directly or indirectly. Everyone also probably knows someone who has been touched by pregnancy and infant loss too. But you don't see any ribbons or colors or special outfits for all of our babies, gone too soon. It makes me that much more sad and mad too.
In order to help educate others I've been doing this blog and I've been posting articles on my Facebook page that I hope convey the importance and meaning of my son and of other babies taken too soon. I don't know if anyone has learned anything or not, but I hope it at least opens their eyes to us in the Baby Loss world. Here is an article that I found shortly after losing Alfy. It is one I shared on my FB page today. It makes me miss my son, Alfy, so very much.
The heartbreak of infant loss = Milwaukee, Wisconsin Journal Sentinel
By 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 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 of 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.
Tonight was also Day 15, the Wave of Light, for the Capture Your Grief 2012 Project. Everyone who has lost a child was to light a candle at 7pm local time and let it burn for one hour. The idea being that there would be a constant wave of light around the world for our children. Last week we had agreed to eat dinner with some friends of ours. I had only seen them once or twice since we lost Alfy. We took our candle with us and asked if we could light it at their house. Of course they said yes. We lit the candle at 7pm sharp and then shared a moment of silence, in honor of Alfy. I am grateful they let us share our light with them. Here is Alfy's light. Ironically, we just received this candle and holder from Tony's mom yesterday as a thank you for watching their dog. It couldn't have come at a better time.
As time continues, I hope I am able to share more than just his light.
I know, I know, October is also Breast Cancer Awareness month. We are ALL aware of that. Pink everywhere. Pink ribbons, pink shirts, pink shoes, pink incoporated into every NFL team's uniform/field/apparel. Everyone knows someone who has been touched by breast cancer directly or indirectly. Everyone also probably knows someone who has been touched by pregnancy and infant loss too. But you don't see any ribbons or colors or special outfits for all of our babies, gone too soon. It makes me that much more sad and mad too.
In order to help educate others I've been doing this blog and I've been posting articles on my Facebook page that I hope convey the importance and meaning of my son and of other babies taken too soon. I don't know if anyone has learned anything or not, but I hope it at least opens their eyes to us in the Baby Loss world. Here is an article that I found shortly after losing Alfy. It is one I shared on my FB page today. It makes me miss my son, Alfy, so very much.
The heartbreak of infant loss = Milwaukee, Wisconsin Journal Sentinel
By 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 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 of 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.
Tonight was also Day 15, the Wave of Light, for the Capture Your Grief 2012 Project. Everyone who has lost a child was to light a candle at 7pm local time and let it burn for one hour. The idea being that there would be a constant wave of light around the world for our children. Last week we had agreed to eat dinner with some friends of ours. I had only seen them once or twice since we lost Alfy. We took our candle with us and asked if we could light it at their house. Of course they said yes. We lit the candle at 7pm sharp and then shared a moment of silence, in honor of Alfy. I am grateful they let us share our light with them. Here is Alfy's light. Ironically, we just received this candle and holder from Tony's mom yesterday as a thank you for watching their dog. It couldn't have come at a better time.
As time continues, I hope I am able to share more than just his light.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Six months
My sweet little Alfy was born six months ago today. There are moments it feels like it was just yesterday and other moments where it feels like a lifetime ago. So much has changed since that day in April.
A lot of my posts as of late have focused on my anger, my discomfort with others and my crazy thoughts. Unfortunately there is still a lot of that floating around in my soul. But, there are also many things that have brought a smile to my face, like my hubby. So, in honor of my precious little boy, I am going to share the afternoon (more like after 4pm) adventures I had with his dad today.
I've realized how much my husband and I are meant for each other. I'm sure that sounds cheesy, but it's true. There are so many little nuances about him that just make me giggle and smile, his love to "dance," his singing in the shower, the excitement he shows at some of the smallest things, his caring heart, his crazy attempt today to make biscuits that were star shaped. I would not be where I am right now without him. He is such a wonderful husband and father.
Today, we went to the cemetery to visit Alfy. I took a camera with me so I could get some pictures for the "Capture Your Grief 2012" project I've been participating in on Facebook (finally, something positive from Facebook!). We took pictures of Alfy's marker and his spot at the cemetery. We walked around to visit Alfy's neighbors. I was saddened to see that there is a girl close by who passed when she was only 13 years old, her name was Jenna. I wonder what her story is. I said a little prayer for her and all of his neighbors. I was surprised to see how many soldiers from the military were around him. It was comforting though, he is surrounded by so many brave individuals. Tony joined me in all of this and didn't think it strange or weird.
After our visit with Alfy we drove to the Russell Stover's candy store in town. They are the only place in the state of Nebraska that sells Blue Bell ice cream, of which Cookies N Cream is my favorite. It is the best ice cream ever!
On the way back to the interstate to head home, I remembered there was another picture I wanted to take for the project, a picture of the hospital and window of the room where I delivered Alfy. Tony drove around the parking lot with me for about 15 minutes as we tried to decide where our room was from the outside. The land mark that we used to decide which room was ours was the cemetery across the street. It's not the same cemetery that Alfy is buried in, but it's right next to it. The whole time I was in the hospital delivering Alfy, staring out the window I was staring at a cemetery. Isn't it ironic, don't you think? (cue the Alanis Morisette song)
Anyways, the point to the stories above is to demonstrate how Tony is with me, every step of the way. While our experiences are unique they are the same. We can share them with each other. We've reached a point where we feel comfortable sharing absolutely anything with each other, unafraid of how the other might react or what the other might think, because, at the end of the day, we'll still be there for each other. I wish I could say we were this way before Alfy, but I don't think we were, at least not on the level we are now. It's a good thing I have him, because who knows where I would have ended up without him. He is my rock, my partner and my best friend. He is the father of my child. I love him so very much.
Today, six months after saying goodbye to our son, I am so grateful to have Tony next to me.
I am sad and peaceful today. Alfy, I love you and I miss you.
A lot of my posts as of late have focused on my anger, my discomfort with others and my crazy thoughts. Unfortunately there is still a lot of that floating around in my soul. But, there are also many things that have brought a smile to my face, like my hubby. So, in honor of my precious little boy, I am going to share the afternoon (more like after 4pm) adventures I had with his dad today.
I've realized how much my husband and I are meant for each other. I'm sure that sounds cheesy, but it's true. There are so many little nuances about him that just make me giggle and smile, his love to "dance," his singing in the shower, the excitement he shows at some of the smallest things, his caring heart, his crazy attempt today to make biscuits that were star shaped. I would not be where I am right now without him. He is such a wonderful husband and father.
Today, we went to the cemetery to visit Alfy. I took a camera with me so I could get some pictures for the "Capture Your Grief 2012" project I've been participating in on Facebook (finally, something positive from Facebook!). We took pictures of Alfy's marker and his spot at the cemetery. We walked around to visit Alfy's neighbors. I was saddened to see that there is a girl close by who passed when she was only 13 years old, her name was Jenna. I wonder what her story is. I said a little prayer for her and all of his neighbors. I was surprised to see how many soldiers from the military were around him. It was comforting though, he is surrounded by so many brave individuals. Tony joined me in all of this and didn't think it strange or weird.
After our visit with Alfy we drove to the Russell Stover's candy store in town. They are the only place in the state of Nebraska that sells Blue Bell ice cream, of which Cookies N Cream is my favorite. It is the best ice cream ever!
On the way back to the interstate to head home, I remembered there was another picture I wanted to take for the project, a picture of the hospital and window of the room where I delivered Alfy. Tony drove around the parking lot with me for about 15 minutes as we tried to decide where our room was from the outside. The land mark that we used to decide which room was ours was the cemetery across the street. It's not the same cemetery that Alfy is buried in, but it's right next to it. The whole time I was in the hospital delivering Alfy, staring out the window I was staring at a cemetery. Isn't it ironic, don't you think? (cue the Alanis Morisette song)
Anyways, the point to the stories above is to demonstrate how Tony is with me, every step of the way. While our experiences are unique they are the same. We can share them with each other. We've reached a point where we feel comfortable sharing absolutely anything with each other, unafraid of how the other might react or what the other might think, because, at the end of the day, we'll still be there for each other. I wish I could say we were this way before Alfy, but I don't think we were, at least not on the level we are now. It's a good thing I have him, because who knows where I would have ended up without him. He is my rock, my partner and my best friend. He is the father of my child. I love him so very much.
Today, six months after saying goodbye to our son, I am so grateful to have Tony next to me.
I am sad and peaceful today. Alfy, I love you and I miss you.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Distored Thoughts
I'm not sure yet if I want to/should be sharing this here, but I'm going to anyways. Tony and I have started talked about trying to conceive again. And I must tell you, it's a terrifying thought for me, especially right now. Saturday will mark six months since Alfy was born and gone. Ironically, it will also mark the one year anniversary of when he was conceived. All this dawned on me yesterday, it made the day hard.
Tony and I have spent a lot of time the past couple of weekends with our nephew. He's about 8 1/2 months old right now and so cute I could just eat him up. My nephew's parents, my sister and new brother-in-law, got married two weekends ago and my cousin this past weekend, so there has been lots of family time. Seeing my nephew has created that want of another child for both Tony and me. But with that want comes great fear.
I don't know that I could go through a pregnancy that was on virtually the same timeline as my pregnancy with Alfy. I know Tony wants to have more children so badly, as do I, but I don't know if I can do it right now. On the flip side, there is a fear in me that if I wait too long, it won't happen and I will have missed out entirely. I doubt this to be the truth, but it's still there.
I also fear what kind of mother I might be to a living child. Already, my view of pregnancy and how to prepare for another child has become totally distorted. The thoughts that run through my head are nothing like what a "normal" woman preparing for another possible pregnancy might have and are nothing like what I had when I was pregnant with Alfy. I think about the cemetery and the fact that we purchased three plots side by side, one for Alfy, one for me and one for Tony. Is the plot next to Alfy still available? Should we consider buying it now to be prepared, just in case? Can we put a flat marker there like Alfy's or does it have to be a standing monument? I can't remember the rules at the cemetery, two standing monuments and one flat marker, but can you add in additional flat markers? it creates an almost panic like feeling in me that another lost child would not be able to have the same marker. I also think about if and when I might find out about another pregnancy, I will immediately go and buy a little girl preemie outfit and a little boy preemie outfit. I didn't have any outfits for Alfy when he was born. I wasn't prepared like I should have been. I think about our spare room with the crib still up that will need to come down, yes that''s right, down not up. But then that thought sends me into a whirlwind of panic and guilt that I didn't have the room put together for Alfy when he was born, but I don't think I could take down another room. I think about baby showers and the fact that I don't think I would want to have any, but how would we go about getting all the stuff needed to have a child? Honestly, I think I would purchase most of it after-the-fact, if we even got to that point. Otherwise, I suppose just the bare necessities will do.
These are the thoughts that run through my head when I think about trying to try to conceive another child.
Tony and I have spent a lot of time the past couple of weekends with our nephew. He's about 8 1/2 months old right now and so cute I could just eat him up. My nephew's parents, my sister and new brother-in-law, got married two weekends ago and my cousin this past weekend, so there has been lots of family time. Seeing my nephew has created that want of another child for both Tony and me. But with that want comes great fear.
I don't know that I could go through a pregnancy that was on virtually the same timeline as my pregnancy with Alfy. I know Tony wants to have more children so badly, as do I, but I don't know if I can do it right now. On the flip side, there is a fear in me that if I wait too long, it won't happen and I will have missed out entirely. I doubt this to be the truth, but it's still there.
I also fear what kind of mother I might be to a living child. Already, my view of pregnancy and how to prepare for another child has become totally distorted. The thoughts that run through my head are nothing like what a "normal" woman preparing for another possible pregnancy might have and are nothing like what I had when I was pregnant with Alfy. I think about the cemetery and the fact that we purchased three plots side by side, one for Alfy, one for me and one for Tony. Is the plot next to Alfy still available? Should we consider buying it now to be prepared, just in case? Can we put a flat marker there like Alfy's or does it have to be a standing monument? I can't remember the rules at the cemetery, two standing monuments and one flat marker, but can you add in additional flat markers? it creates an almost panic like feeling in me that another lost child would not be able to have the same marker. I also think about if and when I might find out about another pregnancy, I will immediately go and buy a little girl preemie outfit and a little boy preemie outfit. I didn't have any outfits for Alfy when he was born. I wasn't prepared like I should have been. I think about our spare room with the crib still up that will need to come down, yes that''s right, down not up. But then that thought sends me into a whirlwind of panic and guilt that I didn't have the room put together for Alfy when he was born, but I don't think I could take down another room. I think about baby showers and the fact that I don't think I would want to have any, but how would we go about getting all the stuff needed to have a child? Honestly, I think I would purchase most of it after-the-fact, if we even got to that point. Otherwise, I suppose just the bare necessities will do.
These are the thoughts that run through my head when I think about trying to try to conceive another child.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Muddling Thru Life
It's been a few days since I have written on here. I've had a lot going on this past week and no time to really process it. My sister got married this past weekend and I had to focus to make it through the weekend. It was actually a pretty good weekend. My sister was beautiful. We go to see lots of friends and family and do lots of dancing. I gave my maid-of-honor speech. It was on the fly, but not too bad. I even had one person comment that I was like a professional speaker, pretty good considering that I have a huge fear of public speaking. It was a weekend of focusing on each and every moment so I wouldn't get overwhelmed by the collective whole. I made it through.
On the flip side, there were all kinds of other things going on in my head. Things I have had to shelve for a few days so I could concentrate on my sister and her wedding.
Last Thursday, I received an email from a complete stranger who had read my last post, "Who's in Your Bucket?" I have to admit, at first, I thought, "Is this a joke?" As I kept reading though, it touched me deeply. It brought me to tears, I had to close my door at work and just cry for a little while. I haven't responded to the email yet, but I intend to. I want that person to know what her words meant to me. She has volunteered to get in my bucket and she doesn't even know me. I have friends who won't even talk to me about my bucket (or even talk to me), let alone offer to hop in.
Today I received two more emails. One I believe was a comment and the other one was from a woman who lives in the same city. She is interested in starting a Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope support group here as we don't have one yet. I think I would like to be a part of that. I don't have an email address for the other one but I would like to try to find out how to respond to her as well.
I'm honestly in awe of these women. I don't know that I would have the courage to reach out to a complete stranger. I'm also in awe that anyone has actually read my blog. I don't consider myself all that "deep" or even a very good writer, so I am surprised that anyone has taken the time to read through this. To those who have, thank you. Thank you for taking time to learn more about my son Alfy and me.
It's strange to think that I have been more moved and felt more cared for by strangers than I have by those I considered my closest friends. It's new territory for me. I have no idea how to navigate these new waters.
Both of my "friends" who have avoided my bucket have done things in the past week that I think is their way of reaching out. One sent a text and the other one left me a voicemail I haven't listened to yet (got it while I've been writing). I'm just not sure where they fit right now. They weren't there when I needed them most, they had given up because I was "too hard" or "too complicated" for their happy lives. That is how they have made me feel, whether they meant to or not, and it sucks.
I really don't know how to respond to them. This might seem repetitive but I just don't know what to say or do or even think. There is large part of me that just wants to say "F--- you. Where were you when it was hard?" Another part of me misses them. It feels like a never-ending internal struggle, old vs. new, before vs. after, then vs. now and I don't know how to create balance.
So, I am extremely grateful for the emails I've been receiving. Someone is listening. Someone thinks I'm not too hard or too complicated. Someone is not afraid of me.
On another note, a colleague of mine told me of her pregnancy the Saturday before last. Let's see, she is at 15 weeks this week. I am very grateful that she had the courage to tell me in person, but it hurts. I had been reaching out to her for support and learning about her pregnancy felt like some kind of betrayal. I don't know where to go with this either. She is pregnant, but she has been more brave and supportive of me than most people I know and I don't want to lose that. It's so incredibly valuable and hard to find. But I can barely think of her being pregnant without crying.
There's been a few other things as well that I'm not ready to discuss here, soon, but not today.
So, it's been one of those kind of weeks. As Hannah puts it, I've been navigating my way through a mine field and I'm on the losing end.
Will it ever stop being so hard?
Oh and I've lost track of my pregnancy count, but I think it's somewhere over 40.
On the flip side, there were all kinds of other things going on in my head. Things I have had to shelve for a few days so I could concentrate on my sister and her wedding.
Last Thursday, I received an email from a complete stranger who had read my last post, "Who's in Your Bucket?" I have to admit, at first, I thought, "Is this a joke?" As I kept reading though, it touched me deeply. It brought me to tears, I had to close my door at work and just cry for a little while. I haven't responded to the email yet, but I intend to. I want that person to know what her words meant to me. She has volunteered to get in my bucket and she doesn't even know me. I have friends who won't even talk to me about my bucket (or even talk to me), let alone offer to hop in.
Today I received two more emails. One I believe was a comment and the other one was from a woman who lives in the same city. She is interested in starting a Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope support group here as we don't have one yet. I think I would like to be a part of that. I don't have an email address for the other one but I would like to try to find out how to respond to her as well.
I'm honestly in awe of these women. I don't know that I would have the courage to reach out to a complete stranger. I'm also in awe that anyone has actually read my blog. I don't consider myself all that "deep" or even a very good writer, so I am surprised that anyone has taken the time to read through this. To those who have, thank you. Thank you for taking time to learn more about my son Alfy and me.
It's strange to think that I have been more moved and felt more cared for by strangers than I have by those I considered my closest friends. It's new territory for me. I have no idea how to navigate these new waters.
Both of my "friends" who have avoided my bucket have done things in the past week that I think is their way of reaching out. One sent a text and the other one left me a voicemail I haven't listened to yet (got it while I've been writing). I'm just not sure where they fit right now. They weren't there when I needed them most, they had given up because I was "too hard" or "too complicated" for their happy lives. That is how they have made me feel, whether they meant to or not, and it sucks.
I really don't know how to respond to them. This might seem repetitive but I just don't know what to say or do or even think. There is large part of me that just wants to say "F--- you. Where were you when it was hard?" Another part of me misses them. It feels like a never-ending internal struggle, old vs. new, before vs. after, then vs. now and I don't know how to create balance.
So, I am extremely grateful for the emails I've been receiving. Someone is listening. Someone thinks I'm not too hard or too complicated. Someone is not afraid of me.
On another note, a colleague of mine told me of her pregnancy the Saturday before last. Let's see, she is at 15 weeks this week. I am very grateful that she had the courage to tell me in person, but it hurts. I had been reaching out to her for support and learning about her pregnancy felt like some kind of betrayal. I don't know where to go with this either. She is pregnant, but she has been more brave and supportive of me than most people I know and I don't want to lose that. It's so incredibly valuable and hard to find. But I can barely think of her being pregnant without crying.
There's been a few other things as well that I'm not ready to discuss here, soon, but not today.
So, it's been one of those kind of weeks. As Hannah puts it, I've been navigating my way through a mine field and I'm on the losing end.
Will it ever stop being so hard?
Oh and I've lost track of my pregnancy count, but I think it's somewhere over 40.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Who Gets In Your Bucket?
I feel the need to write tonight, but I'm not sure what. I should really be working on my maid-of-honor speech for my little sister's wedding, but just can't focus. Hannah read a wonderful article with me today, "Who Gets In Your Bucket?" by Doug Manning. If you're grieving or know someone who is read it. (I typed it below because I find typing to be strangely therapeutic) I don't think she could have picked a better day to give me the article.
I am once again at a point where my bucket is full and overflowing. There are other times it has been full and overflowing, but it was slowly receding, I would say mostly from evaporation. This week, some people came along and dumped in a few more cups. I didn't have room for them, but they're in there now - the "safe" person who announced her pregnancy and the "lost friend" who had a healthy little boy today.
Really, I think I would like to move to an island, away from everyone I know here, restricted access. No, that would probably be to much of a hassle for me and I hate fish, but it would be nice if only for a short while.
Who Gets In Your Bucket?
by Doug Manning
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
The best way I know to picture how we receive help from others in grief, is to imagine you are holding a bucket. The size and color doesn't matter. The bucket represents the feelings bottled up inside of you when you are in pain. If you have suffered a loss, hold the bucket and think through how you feel right now.
What is in your bucket?
Fear. Will I survive? What will happen to me now? Who will care for me? Who will be with me when I need someone near? Most likely your bucket is almost full just from the fear. But there is also:
Pain. It is amazing how much physical pain there is in grief. Your chest hurts, and you can't breathe. Sometimes the pain is so intense your body refuses to even move. There is enough pain to fill the bucket all by itself.
Sorrow. There is devastating sadness; overwhelming sorrow. A gaping hole has been bitten out of your heart and it bleeds inside your very soul. You cry buckets of tears and then cry some more.
Loneliness. There is no lonely like that felt when you are in a room full of people and totally alone at the same time. Loneliness alone can filly any bucket ever made.
I could go on, but that's enough to get the idea across, and hopefully get you started thinking through your own list. What is in your bucket?
Now pictures someone like me approaching you and your bucket. I also have a bucket. My buckets is full of explanations. I am armed and ready to explain why your loved one had to die, how they are now better off and how you should feel.
I am also well equipped with new ways to look at your loss. In politics they call that "spin doctoring," but most human beings seem to know this skill by instinct. I have almost a bucketful of comforting words and encouraging sayings. I can also quote vast amounts of scriptures. I seem to favor the ones that tell you not to grieve.
So we face each other armed with full buckets. The problem is, I don't want to get into your bucket. Yours is scary. If I get in there, you might start crying and I may not be able to make you stop. You might ask me something I could not answer. There is too much intimacy in your bucket. I want to stand at a safe distance and pour what is in my bucket into yours, I want the things in my bucket to wash over your pain like some magic salve to take away your pain and dry your tears. I have this vision of my words being like cool water to a dry tongue. Soothing and curing as it flows.
But your bucket is full. There is no room for anything that is in my bucket. Your needs are calling so loudly there is no way you could hear anything I say. Your pain is far too intense to be cooled by any verbal salve, no matter how profound. The only way I can help you is to get into your bucket, to try to feel your pain, to accept your feelings as they are and make every effort to understand. I cannot really know how you feel. I cannot actually understand your pain or how your mind is working under the stress, but I can stand with you through the journey. I can allow you to feel what you feel and learn to be comfortable doing so. That is called, "Getting into your bucket."
Anyone want to join me in my bucket?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
I am once again at a point where my bucket is full and overflowing. There are other times it has been full and overflowing, but it was slowly receding, I would say mostly from evaporation. This week, some people came along and dumped in a few more cups. I didn't have room for them, but they're in there now - the "safe" person who announced her pregnancy and the "lost friend" who had a healthy little boy today.
Really, I think I would like to move to an island, away from everyone I know here, restricted access. No, that would probably be to much of a hassle for me and I hate fish, but it would be nice if only for a short while.
Who Gets In Your Bucket?
by Doug Manning
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
The best way I know to picture how we receive help from others in grief, is to imagine you are holding a bucket. The size and color doesn't matter. The bucket represents the feelings bottled up inside of you when you are in pain. If you have suffered a loss, hold the bucket and think through how you feel right now.
What is in your bucket?
Fear. Will I survive? What will happen to me now? Who will care for me? Who will be with me when I need someone near? Most likely your bucket is almost full just from the fear. But there is also:
Pain. It is amazing how much physical pain there is in grief. Your chest hurts, and you can't breathe. Sometimes the pain is so intense your body refuses to even move. There is enough pain to fill the bucket all by itself.
Sorrow. There is devastating sadness; overwhelming sorrow. A gaping hole has been bitten out of your heart and it bleeds inside your very soul. You cry buckets of tears and then cry some more.
Loneliness. There is no lonely like that felt when you are in a room full of people and totally alone at the same time. Loneliness alone can filly any bucket ever made.
I could go on, but that's enough to get the idea across, and hopefully get you started thinking through your own list. What is in your bucket?
Now pictures someone like me approaching you and your bucket. I also have a bucket. My buckets is full of explanations. I am armed and ready to explain why your loved one had to die, how they are now better off and how you should feel.
I am also well equipped with new ways to look at your loss. In politics they call that "spin doctoring," but most human beings seem to know this skill by instinct. I have almost a bucketful of comforting words and encouraging sayings. I can also quote vast amounts of scriptures. I seem to favor the ones that tell you not to grieve.
So we face each other armed with full buckets. The problem is, I don't want to get into your bucket. Yours is scary. If I get in there, you might start crying and I may not be able to make you stop. You might ask me something I could not answer. There is too much intimacy in your bucket. I want to stand at a safe distance and pour what is in my bucket into yours, I want the things in my bucket to wash over your pain like some magic salve to take away your pain and dry your tears. I have this vision of my words being like cool water to a dry tongue. Soothing and curing as it flows.
But your bucket is full. There is no room for anything that is in my bucket. Your needs are calling so loudly there is no way you could hear anything I say. Your pain is far too intense to be cooled by any verbal salve, no matter how profound. The only way I can help you is to get into your bucket, to try to feel your pain, to accept your feelings as they are and make every effort to understand. I cannot really know how you feel. I cannot actually understand your pain or how your mind is working under the stress, but I can stand with you through the journey. I can allow you to feel what you feel and learn to be comfortable doing so. That is called, "Getting into your bucket."
Anyone want to join me in my bucket?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Who You Gonna Call?
Sigh...I'm not sure where to begin tonight. I need to get some things out of me, but they are hard and angry and complicated and I don't want to sound like someone just spewing nonsense, but I suppose I sound like that most of the time already.
I've been really struggling lately with the feeling of loneliness and just plain old being forgotten. I don't know how many times I've heard from people that I haven't seen in a while, "I know this is a difficult time and I just wanted to give you your space." What a crock. I think it is really code for "I'm too lazy to put any real emotional effort in to our friendship/relationship."
I understood some space in the beginning. We were headed into uncharted territory and I did need some space. I wasn't yet comfortable with the emotions I was feeling let alone comfortable enough to share them with someone else. My confidence and self-esteem had been shattered like a broken mirror. I no longer recognized who I was. But that's been changing. I have surprised myself with what I've been able to do lately.
And with the new found confidence (albeit small amount) comes the anger, if you didn't get that already...It has slowly seeped into my every pore. There are times I feel like it will just come oozing out like the pink slime on Ghostbusters II. If that really happened, there would be quite the pink slime river under our house. My in-laws had a punching bag in their garage. It now lives in my garage. I bought some training gloves on Friday so I could start using the bag when I feel the anger is about to explode out of me.
I've also been hearing about how others think it's so hard to know what to do. Really? You think trying to figure out what to do with me and Tony is hard? Seriously? Try delivering your first child, knowing that he or she isn't going to cry, isn't going to feed, isn't going to grow, isn't going to be coddled and passed around and ooooed and awwwwed over, isn't going to give you their first smile, isn't going to celebrate a first birthday making a mess of a cake, isn't going to laugh, isn't going to learn to crawl, isn't going to learn to walk, isn't going to call you mommy, isn't going to give you a hug, isn't going to give you a kiss, isn't going to say those three little words, "I love you." Try letting the nurse take your child out of your arms, for the last time. Try knowing you will never physically see your child again. Try burying your child. Try that and then tell me that knowing what to do with me is hard
I was thinking of all the people that have recently made me angry and a quote from the stoner movie Half Baked came to mind, "F#ck you, f#ck you, f#ck you, you're cool and f#ck you, I'm out." That pretty much replays over and over and over again in my head these days.
I'm out.
I've been really struggling lately with the feeling of loneliness and just plain old being forgotten. I don't know how many times I've heard from people that I haven't seen in a while, "I know this is a difficult time and I just wanted to give you your space." What a crock. I think it is really code for "I'm too lazy to put any real emotional effort in to our friendship/relationship."
I understood some space in the beginning. We were headed into uncharted territory and I did need some space. I wasn't yet comfortable with the emotions I was feeling let alone comfortable enough to share them with someone else. My confidence and self-esteem had been shattered like a broken mirror. I no longer recognized who I was. But that's been changing. I have surprised myself with what I've been able to do lately.
And with the new found confidence (albeit small amount) comes the anger, if you didn't get that already...It has slowly seeped into my every pore. There are times I feel like it will just come oozing out like the pink slime on Ghostbusters II. If that really happened, there would be quite the pink slime river under our house. My in-laws had a punching bag in their garage. It now lives in my garage. I bought some training gloves on Friday so I could start using the bag when I feel the anger is about to explode out of me.
I've also been hearing about how others think it's so hard to know what to do. Really? You think trying to figure out what to do with me and Tony is hard? Seriously? Try delivering your first child, knowing that he or she isn't going to cry, isn't going to feed, isn't going to grow, isn't going to be coddled and passed around and ooooed and awwwwed over, isn't going to give you their first smile, isn't going to celebrate a first birthday making a mess of a cake, isn't going to laugh, isn't going to learn to crawl, isn't going to learn to walk, isn't going to call you mommy, isn't going to give you a hug, isn't going to give you a kiss, isn't going to say those three little words, "I love you." Try letting the nurse take your child out of your arms, for the last time. Try knowing you will never physically see your child again. Try burying your child. Try that and then tell me that knowing what to do with me is hard
I was thinking of all the people that have recently made me angry and a quote from the stoner movie Half Baked came to mind, "F#ck you, f#ck you, f#ck you, you're cool and f#ck you, I'm out." That pretty much replays over and over and over again in my head these days.
I'm out.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Tears
In the past month or two, I have been putting myself "out there" for the world to see more and more. I've been returning to activities that I had completely shut out of my life, like family dinners, work, social functions with a few friends, you get the idea. I've noticed a common theme in those situations that I have been mulling over for a while.
Inevitably someone asks, "How are you doing, like how are you really doing?" Or, maybe it's a variation of that like, "It's good to see you" followed by a hug that lasts longer than it once would have. These moments usually bring me to tears, which then invokes the response, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry." I always say, "It's okay, I don't mind." I don't think people realize I really mean that.
I have come to the conclusion that tearing up or crying at times like those are the best way I know how to share Alfy with others. He isn't here for them to hold, hug or play with. I can't give them that, but I can give them my tears. They are all I have left to physically share with others. It's not easy sharing tears. Tears make people uncomfortable.
Tears are interpreted as signs of sadness and hurt, but there is so much more to them than that. We fail to recognize the beauty behind them that accompanies our grief. Those tears are not just about the sad moments that occurred, at least not for me. Those tears include the moments that made me smile, like the first time I felt him kick and actually knew that it was a kick because I could feel it on the outside of my belly or the first time Tony and I heard his heartbeat and saw his "heart flap" on the ultrasound.
So, the next time you bring tears to my eyes, please don't be sorry. Just know that I'm taking an opportunity at that moment to share my son with you.
Inevitably someone asks, "How are you doing, like how are you really doing?" Or, maybe it's a variation of that like, "It's good to see you" followed by a hug that lasts longer than it once would have. These moments usually bring me to tears, which then invokes the response, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry." I always say, "It's okay, I don't mind." I don't think people realize I really mean that.
I have come to the conclusion that tearing up or crying at times like those are the best way I know how to share Alfy with others. He isn't here for them to hold, hug or play with. I can't give them that, but I can give them my tears. They are all I have left to physically share with others. It's not easy sharing tears. Tears make people uncomfortable.
Tears are interpreted as signs of sadness and hurt, but there is so much more to them than that. We fail to recognize the beauty behind them that accompanies our grief. Those tears are not just about the sad moments that occurred, at least not for me. Those tears include the moments that made me smile, like the first time I felt him kick and actually knew that it was a kick because I could feel it on the outside of my belly or the first time Tony and I heard his heartbeat and saw his "heart flap" on the ultrasound.
So, the next time you bring tears to my eyes, please don't be sorry. Just know that I'm taking an opportunity at that moment to share my son with you.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
No More
Today, a friend and colleague of mine, came in to work about noon. I could tell she had a bad morning, she looked good but there was just something. Our friend, and boss, filled me in briefly on what was happening. My friend, Mandi, her best friend unexpectedly lost her husband last night due to complications from a kidney failure they didn't even know existed until this past weekend. Mandi's friend has a 2 year old daughter and is 15 weeks pregnant. I do not know this family but my heart breaks for them and for my friend Mandi. I don't understand why such bad things happen to good people.
I think our hallway at work is cursed. I didn't tell Amy or Mandi that today, but I think it is. Amy lost her mom, Carrie, in February to cancer. I lost my son, Alfy, in April for unknown reasons. Mandi lost her friend early this morning. They always say bad things, including death, comes in three's, I hope it is done with us for a while. We have had to deal with more death than most people our age. Please let it be done for a while.
Tonight I will say a prayer for my friend Mandi, her friend that has suddenly lost so much and the friend she lost today.
I think our hallway at work is cursed. I didn't tell Amy or Mandi that today, but I think it is. Amy lost her mom, Carrie, in February to cancer. I lost my son, Alfy, in April for unknown reasons. Mandi lost her friend early this morning. They always say bad things, including death, comes in three's, I hope it is done with us for a while. We have had to deal with more death than most people our age. Please let it be done for a while.
Tonight I will say a prayer for my friend Mandi, her friend that has suddenly lost so much and the friend she lost today.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
I Don't Want To Go
My boss, also my friend, told us at work yesterday, or maybe Tuesday, that she wanted a list of conferences that we think we might like to go to for work by 10am today. I knew my answer almost immediately, but didn't discuss it with her until this morning. In my field and at my school, we are very fortunate to be given a travel stipend for conferences and professional memberships, so normally this is something I would jump on. In fact, I had been in Tampa, FL the week before Alfy was born attending a national conference for work. Along with the professional development side, I love that I can see and catch up with friends I have made over the years at other schools I have worked at.
I don't know which, if any, conferences I will go to this year. At times, we are asked to go by our director to represent our areas and I will try to do so if asked. But if I was given the choice today, I would choose none. The reasons I don't want to go are all over the board, but some of them surprised me.
I don't want to go to any conferences because I don't want to see all the people who last saw me pregnant. I'm guessing there are many that are not aware that we lost Alfy. I know some are, I've heard from those I was closest too. I think the majority would just assume I successfully had a child though. Today, I know that I couldn't handle "Congratulations" over and over again and the questions that follow and me explaining that our precious Alfy is no longer with us, that he was stillborn at 28 weeks. I had that experience once this week and it was hard. Today, I can not handle doing that over and over again in a matter of a few days.
I don't want to go to conferences because I irrationally relate my travel to Tampa to the loss of Alfy. I mentioned in another post, grief is not rational. I think this is the perfect example of one of those moments. I did have concerns about Alfy's movements before I left for Tampa, but I called the doctor's office, I did what they said and it eased my concerns. And, had I actually gone in to the doctor, they most likely would have found the heartbeat and sent me home. That is how one would rationally think about travel.
Had I not traveled, I would have made sure I went to the doctor that week. The flights, the salty restaurant food, the hours spent on my feet, the swelling from all of it, the lack of sleep, somehow they all contributed to the loss of Alfy. That is the irrational side of what I think about travel. So, no, I don't want to travel or do anything right now that I, even if irrationally, think may have contributed to losing Alfy.
I don't want to go to conferences because there is a part of me that hopes that I will have that reason I crave so much. Maybe, just maybe, there might be another life in the making. And, even if it seems totally irrational to most, I will not put that new life in jeopardy by traveling.
I don't want to go to conferences because I can barely wrap my mind around the hopefulness of why I don't want to go. I'm scared of the hope, of the future and therefore, in a long drawn out way, of conferences. Last time I allowed myself to hope and envision my future, it was all pulled out from underneath me in one quick swoop. If I don't hope like I did, then if it all gets pulled out again, maybe it won't hurt as much. There it is again, the irrational side of my grief breaking through.
Okay, the last paragraph makes me angry. Angry at my loss, angry that I even think about not hoping as much. Why shouldn't I hope like everyone else? Because, I know better than most the pain caused by the hope being torn apart. It's not fair that I can't give that same hope to the possibility of another new life.
I don't know which, if any, conferences I will go to this year. At times, we are asked to go by our director to represent our areas and I will try to do so if asked. But if I was given the choice today, I would choose none. The reasons I don't want to go are all over the board, but some of them surprised me.
I don't want to go to any conferences because I don't want to see all the people who last saw me pregnant. I'm guessing there are many that are not aware that we lost Alfy. I know some are, I've heard from those I was closest too. I think the majority would just assume I successfully had a child though. Today, I know that I couldn't handle "Congratulations" over and over again and the questions that follow and me explaining that our precious Alfy is no longer with us, that he was stillborn at 28 weeks. I had that experience once this week and it was hard. Today, I can not handle doing that over and over again in a matter of a few days.
I don't want to go to conferences because I irrationally relate my travel to Tampa to the loss of Alfy. I mentioned in another post, grief is not rational. I think this is the perfect example of one of those moments. I did have concerns about Alfy's movements before I left for Tampa, but I called the doctor's office, I did what they said and it eased my concerns. And, had I actually gone in to the doctor, they most likely would have found the heartbeat and sent me home. That is how one would rationally think about travel.
Had I not traveled, I would have made sure I went to the doctor that week. The flights, the salty restaurant food, the hours spent on my feet, the swelling from all of it, the lack of sleep, somehow they all contributed to the loss of Alfy. That is the irrational side of what I think about travel. So, no, I don't want to travel or do anything right now that I, even if irrationally, think may have contributed to losing Alfy.
I don't want to go to conferences because there is a part of me that hopes that I will have that reason I crave so much. Maybe, just maybe, there might be another life in the making. And, even if it seems totally irrational to most, I will not put that new life in jeopardy by traveling.
I don't want to go to conferences because I can barely wrap my mind around the hopefulness of why I don't want to go. I'm scared of the hope, of the future and therefore, in a long drawn out way, of conferences. Last time I allowed myself to hope and envision my future, it was all pulled out from underneath me in one quick swoop. If I don't hope like I did, then if it all gets pulled out again, maybe it won't hurt as much. There it is again, the irrational side of my grief breaking through.
Okay, the last paragraph makes me angry. Angry at my loss, angry that I even think about not hoping as much. Why shouldn't I hope like everyone else? Because, I know better than most the pain caused by the hope being torn apart. It's not fair that I can't give that same hope to the possibility of another new life.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Road Rage
Today I have discovered that in addition to "Trainwrecks" I am now having fits of what I would compare to "Road Rage." The sadness is still very close to the surface, but now anger lies close. Sometimes it can be all consuming, irrational and dangerous, just like road rage. It is directed toward those who probably don't deserve it, to those that don't realize that they are somehow hindering someone else's path to where they are trying to go. And once the fury sets in, look out. Now, I haven't actually taken my fury out on anyone or yelled at anyone or said mean and nasty things to anyone, but the thoughts run through my head. Why in the world do I have to work so damn hard at a time when I am so vulnerable? Why can't people stop being afraid of me, of Tony? Why in the hell should I have to be the one to reach out to others? Why does life have to been so flippin' hard? Why me? Why us? It's not fair. It sucks. It's horrible. It's awful. It makes me so angry sometimes I just want to scream and punch something. I hope Tony's parents still have the punching bag in their garage, what a pleasant surprise that would be.
Today I am unable to find any peace in my loss, only sadness and anger, mostly anger.
Today I am unable to find any peace in my loss, only sadness and anger, mostly anger.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Friend Void
Today I went to a baby shower. I can't believe it, but I did. My dear friend Linz will be having a baby boy in about a month. I had received her invitation a few weeks ago. Her sister-in-laws threw the shower for her. I emailed one of them, Julie, and told her I wasn't sure if I would be able to make it. She was so gracious in her response to me. I imagine she is a wonderful sister-in-law to have. I sent an email to Linz too. I explained that I wasn't sure if I was going to be there for her or not. As I call them now, it was going to be a game-day decision. That's how I make most big decisions these days. Anyways, Linz responded to my email. It was very touching. I think it helped me to make the decision to attend. I love my friend very much and I wanted her to know that I support her.
I hadn't spoken with Linz since April 12. She brought me a basket full of things we used to love in college and some books, one of them being my favorite. Linz came over and sat with me for the afternoon. I think it was probably close to four hours. She texted me once since then, asking if Tony and I wanted to go to a baseball game back in May. I turned down the offer. I wasn't ready to face any part of the outside world at that point. I saw her a couple of Sundays ago at the Weezer concert. Tony picked out Linz's husband in the crowd. We watched him head back to his seat and I saw her. We didn't go up to them. It was not a time or place I could handle. I think I cried during every other song at the concert.
My friend has grown so much since I've seen her last. Or should I say her little boy has grown so much? The emotions I feel when I see her are almost more than I can bare. I am happy for her and I think it's wonderful she is going to be a mom. She's going to be quite good at it. But it hurts too. I didn't get to be that big or have a baby shower. At times I am ashamed of it, but I will admit that I am jealous of her.
The loss of Alfy has created a void in my life, really a few of them. I am without my son. I will never again hold him, hug him or kiss him. I will never hear his laugh, see him smile, watch him grow or even see his beautiful brown eyes. That is the first and most evident void. But there is another one that you don't hear about. But, I guess who would I hear it from? It is a lonely void. Most of my good friends (and tons of acquaintances and people I knew from some part of my life or another) have had successful pregnancies, even the ones who seemed like circumstances weren't in their favor. It creates a distance that I have not been able to close, with any of them.
I have been trying to slowly work on it. I think that is why I went to the shower today. It's hard and frustrating and exhausting. I read somewhere, or maybe was told, about a hard time Baby Loss Moms (and couples) reach around three months. The cards and flowers stop coming, the phone calls or texts of support stop coming. I am experiencing that now. It's been four months and five days. I have been there for a while, but I am just now starting to face it, trying to fight through it.
I find myself constantly asking the questions, Why should I have to reach out to others? Why does it seem our friends give up so easily? Why does it seem they forget that we still need support? Why does it seem like we are forgotten? Why have they left me floundering? Rationally I know none of those questions are true. But grief is anything but rational. I know that my friends are trying to respect me, my space, my feelings. I need them to push a little harder right now. But how do you tell them that? I respect that they think it will be "hard and scary" for them, but I don't believe they have any idea what "hard and scary" really is.
Sometimes I wish one of them would just show up, unannounced, not give me the opportunity to say no, say "I want to hear it all, right now. I want to cry with you. I want to know what your days are like. I want to recognize that you are a mom. I want to help you honor your son, Alfy. And there's now way out until we do that." But, I don't think that will happen unless I do it. I struggle with the thought that many of my friends may not want to hear my story because they are pregnant or have babies close to Alfy's age. I guess I just need a little push.
By the way, the baby count for 2012 is up to 32. Stupid Facebook.
I hadn't spoken with Linz since April 12. She brought me a basket full of things we used to love in college and some books, one of them being my favorite. Linz came over and sat with me for the afternoon. I think it was probably close to four hours. She texted me once since then, asking if Tony and I wanted to go to a baseball game back in May. I turned down the offer. I wasn't ready to face any part of the outside world at that point. I saw her a couple of Sundays ago at the Weezer concert. Tony picked out Linz's husband in the crowd. We watched him head back to his seat and I saw her. We didn't go up to them. It was not a time or place I could handle. I think I cried during every other song at the concert.
My friend has grown so much since I've seen her last. Or should I say her little boy has grown so much? The emotions I feel when I see her are almost more than I can bare. I am happy for her and I think it's wonderful she is going to be a mom. She's going to be quite good at it. But it hurts too. I didn't get to be that big or have a baby shower. At times I am ashamed of it, but I will admit that I am jealous of her.
The loss of Alfy has created a void in my life, really a few of them. I am without my son. I will never again hold him, hug him or kiss him. I will never hear his laugh, see him smile, watch him grow or even see his beautiful brown eyes. That is the first and most evident void. But there is another one that you don't hear about. But, I guess who would I hear it from? It is a lonely void. Most of my good friends (and tons of acquaintances and people I knew from some part of my life or another) have had successful pregnancies, even the ones who seemed like circumstances weren't in their favor. It creates a distance that I have not been able to close, with any of them.
I have been trying to slowly work on it. I think that is why I went to the shower today. It's hard and frustrating and exhausting. I read somewhere, or maybe was told, about a hard time Baby Loss Moms (and couples) reach around three months. The cards and flowers stop coming, the phone calls or texts of support stop coming. I am experiencing that now. It's been four months and five days. I have been there for a while, but I am just now starting to face it, trying to fight through it.
I find myself constantly asking the questions, Why should I have to reach out to others? Why does it seem our friends give up so easily? Why does it seem they forget that we still need support? Why does it seem like we are forgotten? Why have they left me floundering? Rationally I know none of those questions are true. But grief is anything but rational. I know that my friends are trying to respect me, my space, my feelings. I need them to push a little harder right now. But how do you tell them that? I respect that they think it will be "hard and scary" for them, but I don't believe they have any idea what "hard and scary" really is.
Sometimes I wish one of them would just show up, unannounced, not give me the opportunity to say no, say "I want to hear it all, right now. I want to cry with you. I want to know what your days are like. I want to recognize that you are a mom. I want to help you honor your son, Alfy. And there's now way out until we do that." But, I don't think that will happen unless I do it. I struggle with the thought that many of my friends may not want to hear my story because they are pregnant or have babies close to Alfy's age. I guess I just need a little push.
By the way, the baby count for 2012 is up to 32. Stupid Facebook.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Think Before You Speak
I have a hard weekend coming up. My sister's bachelorette party and wedding shower are next weekend. I'm the maid of honor. I haven't planned either of those events. She has some great friends that are putting them together for her. At this point, I'm not even sure that I'm going to go to the bachelorette party. My family lives a good 6 hours away, so once I am there, I am there.
I had a conversation with someone yesterday who has traditionally been a huge part of my life. The conversation started out good enough, but took a turn for the worse when we started talking about this weekend. Apparently one of my sister's friends is pregnant. I know she had been trying for a while. I have no idea how far along she is. I didn't ask. Anyways, she has to give herself shots in her stomach and take aspirin every day. I took aspirin every day when I was pregnant with Alfy. If I have a future pregnancy, shots will be part of my daily routine. A blood clot may have been the cause for Alfy's death, but we don't really know that for sure. Truth be told, we really do not have any idea what caused our son to die. We have theories, but no solid answer.
So, back to my venting. My sister's friend has to do the shots daily routine. The person I was speaking with told me that they didn't tell my sister's friend about the possible reason why Alfy died, they didn't want to scare the poor thing to death. I didn't know what to say to that, how to respond, so I didn't. I just sat there and the conversation eventually moved on to other things.
Talk about a hit below the belt. It wasn't intentional but it still hurt. When I'm hit like that, I don't respond right away. I still haven't figured out how to. It takes me so long to process things now that I really can't respond right away. I just know it hurts and I shut down and it starts to work its way through. It's almost like another loss in and of it's own. I go through all of the stages, denial-anger-bargaining-depression-acceptance, only in the matter of a few days or weeks.
So, why not say something to my sister's friend? Doesn't she deserve to know what can happen? Everything can be fine and your child can still be stillborn. I wish someone would have told me that it could happen. I still wouldn't have expected it, but at least I would have acknowledged it. Is her comfort and well being more important than mine? That's what the comment felt like. It's like someone telling you, "I'm okay with you and what you are, but we don't want you to tell anyone else or bring it up with anyone else." Really, to me that says you are ashamed of me, that you aren't ready to deal with the reality of what it is that I have gone through and who I am. I know that was not the intent, but that is what came across.
Now I am the mother of a child who died, known in the blog world as a Baby Loss Mom (BLM). Yes, my son, Alfy, died. It can happen, your child can die. It's not fair and it shouldn't happen, but it does.
Until people start to accept that, I would really like to just ignore the rest of the world. I would only like to be around those I know I can trust to think through their words before they come out of their mouth. I'm sure many people think I am being overly sensitive, but to hell with them. I get to be sensitive to those comments. I just wish I was better about speaking up about it. Unfortunately, I won't become better at speaking up if I'm not around them. And it's just not possible right now to not be around people who don't think about their words. I guess there are always going to be those people. I just hope some of those people change.
I know I'm not perfect and I'm sure I've said some incredibly hurtful comments without realizing it. But, I'm acutely aware of my words now. I suppose that is why it takes me so long to respond.
For everyone else, It's okay to take time to think about your words. It's okay for there to be silence. Sometimes silence beats the alternative.
I had a conversation with someone yesterday who has traditionally been a huge part of my life. The conversation started out good enough, but took a turn for the worse when we started talking about this weekend. Apparently one of my sister's friends is pregnant. I know she had been trying for a while. I have no idea how far along she is. I didn't ask. Anyways, she has to give herself shots in her stomach and take aspirin every day. I took aspirin every day when I was pregnant with Alfy. If I have a future pregnancy, shots will be part of my daily routine. A blood clot may have been the cause for Alfy's death, but we don't really know that for sure. Truth be told, we really do not have any idea what caused our son to die. We have theories, but no solid answer.
So, back to my venting. My sister's friend has to do the shots daily routine. The person I was speaking with told me that they didn't tell my sister's friend about the possible reason why Alfy died, they didn't want to scare the poor thing to death. I didn't know what to say to that, how to respond, so I didn't. I just sat there and the conversation eventually moved on to other things.
Talk about a hit below the belt. It wasn't intentional but it still hurt. When I'm hit like that, I don't respond right away. I still haven't figured out how to. It takes me so long to process things now that I really can't respond right away. I just know it hurts and I shut down and it starts to work its way through. It's almost like another loss in and of it's own. I go through all of the stages, denial-anger-bargaining-depression-acceptance, only in the matter of a few days or weeks.
So, why not say something to my sister's friend? Doesn't she deserve to know what can happen? Everything can be fine and your child can still be stillborn. I wish someone would have told me that it could happen. I still wouldn't have expected it, but at least I would have acknowledged it. Is her comfort and well being more important than mine? That's what the comment felt like. It's like someone telling you, "I'm okay with you and what you are, but we don't want you to tell anyone else or bring it up with anyone else." Really, to me that says you are ashamed of me, that you aren't ready to deal with the reality of what it is that I have gone through and who I am. I know that was not the intent, but that is what came across.
Now I am the mother of a child who died, known in the blog world as a Baby Loss Mom (BLM). Yes, my son, Alfy, died. It can happen, your child can die. It's not fair and it shouldn't happen, but it does.
Until people start to accept that, I would really like to just ignore the rest of the world. I would only like to be around those I know I can trust to think through their words before they come out of their mouth. I'm sure many people think I am being overly sensitive, but to hell with them. I get to be sensitive to those comments. I just wish I was better about speaking up about it. Unfortunately, I won't become better at speaking up if I'm not around them. And it's just not possible right now to not be around people who don't think about their words. I guess there are always going to be those people. I just hope some of those people change.
I know I'm not perfect and I'm sure I've said some incredibly hurtful comments without realizing it. But, I'm acutely aware of my words now. I suppose that is why it takes me so long to respond.
For everyone else, It's okay to take time to think about your words. It's okay for there to be silence. Sometimes silence beats the alternative.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Church is Hard
I took a stumble today. Actually, I'm not sure that stumble is the appropriate term. I don't think it honors my emotions as it should. My grief and hurt are still very close to my surface, sometimes I forget how closer. It usually occurs in places where it might seem strange to others, like today as others were preparing for Communion at church.
Tony is Catholic and I grew up going to a Presbyterian church, when we did go. Since having Alfy, Tony and I have been searching for our church home. We have done quite a bit of church hopping, as we call it. We have tried Presbyterian, Lutheran, Methodist and several Catholic churches. So far, I have found myself looking forward to the Homely's each week at the Catholic church. We have been to several in our area, and across town, to see if we can find one that feels right to us.
Today we went to St. Robert's. I was encouraged when we got there. The ushers were especially welcoming and friendly. We chose a spot in the back as we usually do. We haven't been able to sit through a full mass, so we always try to provide ourselves with an escape route if we need it.
I went this morning with full hopes that we would make it through the entire mass. We hadn't been to church three weekends in a row and I was looking forward to the message I might hear. The Deacon, or Priest, not sure which one was speaking, talked about how so many people are angry at God these days. I am one of those people. How could He let my son die? Why would He take him from me? I don't know where else to direct my anger, so for now it goes towards God. He said that God will serve as our shepherd and will lead us through, or that's how I heard it. I could use some shepherding right now.
So, as I said earlier, my tears started to fall before Communion. Earlier in the mass I saw a friend of Tony's. He was carrying a carseat. He and his wife had a little boy 2 or 3 weeks before I had Alfy. As everyone was getting up for Communion, I saw their family. They were about 10 rows or so up from us. I saw their newest addition. I've never met him or seen him for that matter (maybe on FB but I've blocked their updates). At the moment, my anger and grief rose towards the surface and the tears started to come. I was able to control them while I drove home. Tony gave me a hug and that was it, the tears started flowing and I made no effort to stop them. I confessed my anger at God.
These days are hard. Other Baby Loss Moms state that it gets easier. I wonder when that happens.
Tony is Catholic and I grew up going to a Presbyterian church, when we did go. Since having Alfy, Tony and I have been searching for our church home. We have done quite a bit of church hopping, as we call it. We have tried Presbyterian, Lutheran, Methodist and several Catholic churches. So far, I have found myself looking forward to the Homely's each week at the Catholic church. We have been to several in our area, and across town, to see if we can find one that feels right to us.
Today we went to St. Robert's. I was encouraged when we got there. The ushers were especially welcoming and friendly. We chose a spot in the back as we usually do. We haven't been able to sit through a full mass, so we always try to provide ourselves with an escape route if we need it.
I went this morning with full hopes that we would make it through the entire mass. We hadn't been to church three weekends in a row and I was looking forward to the message I might hear. The Deacon, or Priest, not sure which one was speaking, talked about how so many people are angry at God these days. I am one of those people. How could He let my son die? Why would He take him from me? I don't know where else to direct my anger, so for now it goes towards God. He said that God will serve as our shepherd and will lead us through, or that's how I heard it. I could use some shepherding right now.
So, as I said earlier, my tears started to fall before Communion. Earlier in the mass I saw a friend of Tony's. He was carrying a carseat. He and his wife had a little boy 2 or 3 weeks before I had Alfy. As everyone was getting up for Communion, I saw their family. They were about 10 rows or so up from us. I saw their newest addition. I've never met him or seen him for that matter (maybe on FB but I've blocked their updates). At the moment, my anger and grief rose towards the surface and the tears started to come. I was able to control them while I drove home. Tony gave me a hug and that was it, the tears started flowing and I made no effort to stop them. I confessed my anger at God.
These days are hard. Other Baby Loss Moms state that it gets easier. I wonder when that happens.
Unloading the Wreckage of My Trainwrecks
I have been coming out of a numbness this past week. I'm not sure if the numbness I felt after I had Alfy ever really left. I don't remember much of April or May or even part of June for that matter. I think the stress of being back at work threw me back into a state of being numb again. This past week is the first week I actually felt "present" at work. At times it was good to feel a part of something again and feel as if I was helping someone. At other times, it was almost more than I could bare. "Was" as if it has ended, describing it the present tense would be more appropriate.
I have woken up in other aspects of my life too. I had what I now coin as a "trainwreck" this past Tuesday. I was on Facebook (which is a trainwreck in an of itself) and saw a comment on a picture that a dear friend, one of my best friends Linz, only had 8 weeks left in her pregnancy. When I told her I was pregnant way back in December, she told me that her and her husband were starting to try as well. At the end of January, Tony and I went to dinner with her and her husband and she announced she was pregnant. How exciting, we were going to be pregnant together! Anyways, it struck me that she was now farther along than I had been when Alfy was born. She was at 32 weeks, I had Alfy at 28 weeks. Well, that got me to thinking about baby showers. It was about that time for showers to start. I began to wonder if a baby shower had happened for Linz. I know her sister-in-law had talked about holding one (at one point I had offered to help if needed). So I got online and looked to see if Linz had a Target registry. Yep, there it was. There had not been much bought when I looked so I assumed the shower hadn't happened but was going to soon. From there, I began to think about all of the babies I know of that have been/will be born in 2012 (23 at last count, 24 including Alfy). Tony and I have many good friends and family that have had or will be having babies this year. I wondered if there I was something I could do for the friends closest to us and for some reason the "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep" prayer popped into my head. Well, that led to another search on the internet. The first webpage that pulled up was the page for Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep photography page. I looked at some of their portraits. They were beautiful. We did not have portraits done of Alfy. At that moment, and still, I wished so badly that we had decided to do the portraits. What a wonderful addition that would have been to the picture wall in our living room. What a wonderful way to honor our son. But, alas, we did not have them done. When the nurses asked me if wanted them, it seemed so strange at the time, I don't know why. I wish it hadn't though and I wish I had those pictures. All of this occurred in the span of about 30 minutes at my computer at work. I was a wreck by this point, tears starting to fall. I was frozen. The office was nearly empty at that point, no one to turn to, no safe place I could think of to go. Our summer camp supervisors are constantly in and out of the office during the day. I had to drive on a field trip in approximately 45 minutes. If the tears went into a free-fall, I'm not sure that I could have stopped them without help, so they came intermittently.
That was my trainwreck, a barrage of uncontrollable thoughts, that you don't see until the last minute, but you're already traveling so fast toward them you can't find the brakes. And in the end, you know they are going to cause more damage than what you know what do with at the moment, but there is nothing you can do to stop it.
I know there will be more trainwrecks, I've had some smaller ones since then. They are the worst part of coming back to life, losing the numbness. The emotions are so strong that I feel almost physically sick with grief.
I received the invitation to Linz's baby shower on Thursday. It was blue and grey. I assume that she is having a boy. She found out at 20 weeks, but that was right after Alfy was born still. I haven't been able to ask her. There was a part of me hoping she was having a girl so I wouldn't have to think of another friend taking home her little boy. It hurts so much to think about that, I'm truly envious. It brings up so many emotions that I'm not comfortable with. I'm not sure yet if I will go to the shower. I don't know if I have the strength.
I've also been thinking about my friend, Stacey. She had twin boys exactly 4 weeks before Alfy was born. They were both born healthy and went home a few days after being born to join their soon-to-be 3 year old brother. Stacey sent Tony a text this week asking if she could call him. She texted me about day to day stuff for a few weeks after Alfy was born. I sent her an email and told her I wasn't sure how to be with her at that time. I was angry and the situation that I had been placed in, she got two little boys to bring home to another one she already had. I had to bury my little boy. I suppose there is still some anger. It's never been at her or her boys, they are family to us. I'm just angry with the situation. It's not fair. Stacey told Tony she knows she was trying very hard to reach me, but she wanted to try too hard rather than not try at all. I am grateful for that.
She posted a pictures of one of her twins on Facebook today. That led me to look at all of the pictures of the twins. I haven't seen them since they were three weeks old, on April 1, 5 days before Alfy was born. I found myself feeling extremely guilty. I haven't looked through our pictures of Alfy the nurses took.
I mentioned earlier that I knew of 23 babies being born this year. If it wasn't for that stupid Facebook, there is a good chance I wouldn't know about at least 5 of them for a while, even a few ever. But no, everyone has to plaster their pages with info on their newborns or how their pregnancy is going. I think I have it all blocked and another pops out of the wood works. I can also think of 5 babies that were born between October and December of 2011, a total of 28 babies between October 2011 and October 2012, 28 other healthy, pregnant women. Seriously?
Facebook seems to be the underlying theme of all of my trainwrecks so far. Maybe I should delete my account. I've sworn it off for a while, the longest that has lasted has been two weeks. About that time I start feeling strong again, thinking I can handle whatever the Newsfeed throws at me. Never fails to knock me on my ass. I have never been one to post much on Facebook and I'm fairly certain I will not turn into that person. It's incredible the damage one sentence or picture can cause. It brings joy for 99% of the people viewing it, but there is that 1%, me, that it hurts. I hope I always remember that as time passes and my grief leaves the surface of my existence. I hope I always remember the mom or dad out there that may have lost their child.
Whew, that was a lot to unload. I have a lot more but think I am done for the evening. Thanks for not trying to explain, justify or reason all of these feelings. Thanks for just listening.
I have woken up in other aspects of my life too. I had what I now coin as a "trainwreck" this past Tuesday. I was on Facebook (which is a trainwreck in an of itself) and saw a comment on a picture that a dear friend, one of my best friends Linz, only had 8 weeks left in her pregnancy. When I told her I was pregnant way back in December, she told me that her and her husband were starting to try as well. At the end of January, Tony and I went to dinner with her and her husband and she announced she was pregnant. How exciting, we were going to be pregnant together! Anyways, it struck me that she was now farther along than I had been when Alfy was born. She was at 32 weeks, I had Alfy at 28 weeks. Well, that got me to thinking about baby showers. It was about that time for showers to start. I began to wonder if a baby shower had happened for Linz. I know her sister-in-law had talked about holding one (at one point I had offered to help if needed). So I got online and looked to see if Linz had a Target registry. Yep, there it was. There had not been much bought when I looked so I assumed the shower hadn't happened but was going to soon. From there, I began to think about all of the babies I know of that have been/will be born in 2012 (23 at last count, 24 including Alfy). Tony and I have many good friends and family that have had or will be having babies this year. I wondered if there I was something I could do for the friends closest to us and for some reason the "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep" prayer popped into my head. Well, that led to another search on the internet. The first webpage that pulled up was the page for Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep photography page. I looked at some of their portraits. They were beautiful. We did not have portraits done of Alfy. At that moment, and still, I wished so badly that we had decided to do the portraits. What a wonderful addition that would have been to the picture wall in our living room. What a wonderful way to honor our son. But, alas, we did not have them done. When the nurses asked me if wanted them, it seemed so strange at the time, I don't know why. I wish it hadn't though and I wish I had those pictures. All of this occurred in the span of about 30 minutes at my computer at work. I was a wreck by this point, tears starting to fall. I was frozen. The office was nearly empty at that point, no one to turn to, no safe place I could think of to go. Our summer camp supervisors are constantly in and out of the office during the day. I had to drive on a field trip in approximately 45 minutes. If the tears went into a free-fall, I'm not sure that I could have stopped them without help, so they came intermittently.
That was my trainwreck, a barrage of uncontrollable thoughts, that you don't see until the last minute, but you're already traveling so fast toward them you can't find the brakes. And in the end, you know they are going to cause more damage than what you know what do with at the moment, but there is nothing you can do to stop it.
I know there will be more trainwrecks, I've had some smaller ones since then. They are the worst part of coming back to life, losing the numbness. The emotions are so strong that I feel almost physically sick with grief.
I received the invitation to Linz's baby shower on Thursday. It was blue and grey. I assume that she is having a boy. She found out at 20 weeks, but that was right after Alfy was born still. I haven't been able to ask her. There was a part of me hoping she was having a girl so I wouldn't have to think of another friend taking home her little boy. It hurts so much to think about that, I'm truly envious. It brings up so many emotions that I'm not comfortable with. I'm not sure yet if I will go to the shower. I don't know if I have the strength.
I've also been thinking about my friend, Stacey. She had twin boys exactly 4 weeks before Alfy was born. They were both born healthy and went home a few days after being born to join their soon-to-be 3 year old brother. Stacey sent Tony a text this week asking if she could call him. She texted me about day to day stuff for a few weeks after Alfy was born. I sent her an email and told her I wasn't sure how to be with her at that time. I was angry and the situation that I had been placed in, she got two little boys to bring home to another one she already had. I had to bury my little boy. I suppose there is still some anger. It's never been at her or her boys, they are family to us. I'm just angry with the situation. It's not fair. Stacey told Tony she knows she was trying very hard to reach me, but she wanted to try too hard rather than not try at all. I am grateful for that.
She posted a pictures of one of her twins on Facebook today. That led me to look at all of the pictures of the twins. I haven't seen them since they were three weeks old, on April 1, 5 days before Alfy was born. I found myself feeling extremely guilty. I haven't looked through our pictures of Alfy the nurses took.
I mentioned earlier that I knew of 23 babies being born this year. If it wasn't for that stupid Facebook, there is a good chance I wouldn't know about at least 5 of them for a while, even a few ever. But no, everyone has to plaster their pages with info on their newborns or how their pregnancy is going. I think I have it all blocked and another pops out of the wood works. I can also think of 5 babies that were born between October and December of 2011, a total of 28 babies between October 2011 and October 2012, 28 other healthy, pregnant women. Seriously?
Facebook seems to be the underlying theme of all of my trainwrecks so far. Maybe I should delete my account. I've sworn it off for a while, the longest that has lasted has been two weeks. About that time I start feeling strong again, thinking I can handle whatever the Newsfeed throws at me. Never fails to knock me on my ass. I have never been one to post much on Facebook and I'm fairly certain I will not turn into that person. It's incredible the damage one sentence or picture can cause. It brings joy for 99% of the people viewing it, but there is that 1%, me, that it hurts. I hope I always remember that as time passes and my grief leaves the surface of my existence. I hope I always remember the mom or dad out there that may have lost their child.
Whew, that was a lot to unload. I have a lot more but think I am done for the evening. Thanks for not trying to explain, justify or reason all of these feelings. Thanks for just listening.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
A Prayer
My husband sent me this prayer today. I think it is both challenging and beautiful.
Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.
We are too pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.
Disturb us, Lord, when
with the abundance of things we possess
We have lost our thirst
For the waters of life;
Having fallen in love with life,
We have ceased to dream of eternity
And in our efforts to build a new earth,
We have allowed our vision
Of the new Heaven to dim.
with the abundance of things we possess
We have lost our thirst
For the waters of life;
Having fallen in love with life,
We have ceased to dream of eternity
And in our efforts to build a new earth,
We have allowed our vision
Of the new Heaven to dim.
Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wilder seas
Where storms will show Your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.
We ask you to push back
The horizons of our hopes;
And to push back the future
In strength, courage, hope, and love.
This we ask in the name of our Captain,
Who is Jesus Christ.
by Sir Francis Drake
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
My Four-Legged Family Members
It's almost the 4th of July. Fireworks are going off like crazy in our neighborhood. Our dog is sitting underneath my legs. She is so scared of them. I wish I could do more to comfort her. Tonight we will not be going on our nightly walk. The walks are a nice habit Tony and I have formed. They aren't long, but they get us off the couch, away from the TV and they are great for Desda (our dog). Tonight I am missing our walk. I doubt we'll make it tomorrow evening either, maybe I'll take her in the morning instead.
Our cat, Piper, on the other hand, is not phased by the symphony of booms outside. She has given Desda several looks of disdain. I'm sure she is wondering why Desda is acting like such a wuss and doing her kitty best to prove her superiority.
I'm writing pet stories cause I don't have any kid stories at this point. I had planned to have my own child to be telling new mom stories about right by now, sleepless nights, diapers, crying, spit-up, smiles, all the stuff new moms talk about. Truth be told, I probably wouldn't even be on here if Alfy was here. So for now, I will probably occasionally tell stories about my pets. I consider them part of my family and love them dearly. They have never judged me or questioned my thoughts. They bring a smile to my face when I least expect it.
Last night Tony and I were talking about our living room. His parents have offered to give us one of their recliners, which we would love, but currently can't fit it in any rooms. Tony came up with an idea, we move our love seat to the basement room, the futon in the basement up to the spare room and take the crib down. It makes me sad to think about that, Tony too. I cried during the whole conversation. When we finished, Desda jumped up on the couch, sat next to me and licked the tears off my face. Normally, I don't allow any dog to lick my face, but she was just so concerned and wanted nothing more than to cheer me up a little. She succeeded.
Piper has been chattier than ever and works her magic in the mornings. I think she misses the days of when I was home with her. She chats at me every morning while I'm brushing my teeth, before my shower, getting ready for work. As soon as the water comes on though she's out the door. When I'm finished, she's right back in the bathroom. Our door doesn't shut all the way without some force and Piper pushes it open when she hears me turn the shower off. I can hear it every morning and for just a moment my heart stops because I'm paranoid someone has broken into our house and is going to get me in the shower (I've watched too many horror movies). But she always announces her arrival and peaks her head around the shower curtain to make sure I'm still in there. The shower is an emotional place for me sometimes so I enjoy the company when I'm done.
I love my pets.
 |
| Desda - Relaxing on the couch with her pillow |
Our cat, Piper, on the other hand, is not phased by the symphony of booms outside. She has given Desda several looks of disdain. I'm sure she is wondering why Desda is acting like such a wuss and doing her kitty best to prove her superiority.
 |
| Piper - Removing a tag for me |
I'm writing pet stories cause I don't have any kid stories at this point. I had planned to have my own child to be telling new mom stories about right by now, sleepless nights, diapers, crying, spit-up, smiles, all the stuff new moms talk about. Truth be told, I probably wouldn't even be on here if Alfy was here. So for now, I will probably occasionally tell stories about my pets. I consider them part of my family and love them dearly. They have never judged me or questioned my thoughts. They bring a smile to my face when I least expect it.
Last night Tony and I were talking about our living room. His parents have offered to give us one of their recliners, which we would love, but currently can't fit it in any rooms. Tony came up with an idea, we move our love seat to the basement room, the futon in the basement up to the spare room and take the crib down. It makes me sad to think about that, Tony too. I cried during the whole conversation. When we finished, Desda jumped up on the couch, sat next to me and licked the tears off my face. Normally, I don't allow any dog to lick my face, but she was just so concerned and wanted nothing more than to cheer me up a little. She succeeded.
Piper has been chattier than ever and works her magic in the mornings. I think she misses the days of when I was home with her. She chats at me every morning while I'm brushing my teeth, before my shower, getting ready for work. As soon as the water comes on though she's out the door. When I'm finished, she's right back in the bathroom. Our door doesn't shut all the way without some force and Piper pushes it open when she hears me turn the shower off. I can hear it every morning and for just a moment my heart stops because I'm paranoid someone has broken into our house and is going to get me in the shower (I've watched too many horror movies). But she always announces her arrival and peaks her head around the shower curtain to make sure I'm still in there. The shower is an emotional place for me sometimes so I enjoy the company when I'm done.
I love my pets.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)