Monday, December 24, 2012
Songs for my baby
These songs remind me of you, sweet girl. I wish we could have had happier songs.
"Winter Song"
...this is one from your funeral.
...
"Winter Song"
...this is one from your funeral.
...
"This is my winter song
December never felt so long
Because you're not where you belong
Inside my arms."
I always imagine that this will be the song playing when I see you again in Heaven, baby girl.
...
"I have died every day waiting for you,
Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you
For a thousand years."
*I'll add to this list as more songs come to mind.
1
12/12/12 - Your first birthday has come and gone. "Oh, how weird," everyone said of this repetitive date, the last of its kind until the next century. Those comments are so trite to me. The repetitive nature of your first birthday is nothing weird, in fact, it's strangely fitting. It makes sense that the numbers repeat - my longing for you, for what might have been, has been the soundtrack of my mind, stuck on repeat all this long last year.
We tried to make the most of your birthday, though we missed you terribly. I held it together better than I suspected I would. I'm attributing that to the fact that we stayed busy doing things to honor your memory throughout most of the day. Your daddy had your memorial tattoo finished. I could not bring myself to go with him. I had planned to stay home and start to disassemble your nursery. That room has become such a black spot on the house. Despite my best efforts and intentions, I could not bring myself to do it. It just didn't seem right to start to tear it down on your birthday. I'm still trying to conjure the nerve to do it sometime over this holiday break. We'll see if I can muster the courage to do it. Something tells me that if I do get started, it will be a process, painful and slow, much like this past year has been without you.
While your dad was getting his tattoo finished, I mulled about the house, feeling sorry for myself, as usual. Maddy came over and I asked if she'd go with me to pick up a birthday cake for you and to get flowers to put on the stone at your tree. She did, and we were home within an hour. After she left, I added the finishing touches to the grief boxes we assembled for the hospital for the parents who will inevitably lose babies in the coming year. It felt good making those boxes, creating something in your memory.
Your daddy got home after dark, around 6 o'clock, and we loaded the boxes into the car, drove to the park where your tree stands, so tiny, so bare. We walked down the path to your tree in the dark, which is against the posted rules as the park closes at dusk, but I didn't care. I like that it was dark, and I would have answered anyone questioning our being there with a full explanation of what you mean to us and how this is all we can do for you. In fact, I want to continue the tradition of visiting your tree at nighttime each year. It was private and peaceful - just what we needed. We lit a candle for you and placed two purple roses at your stone beneath the tree. Your daddy said a beautiful prayer, we hugged, cried, and left to deliver the boxes to the hospital. That was Wednesday. The following Sunday we went back to the park for a walk and were happy to see the roses were still there. In fact, someone had rearranged them at the top of your stone. They looked lovely and my heart was happy to see someone had taken the time to rearrange them, and had the decency to leave them there for you.
After we left your tree, your daddy delivered the grief boxes to the hospital. I stayed in the car. I could not go up there, knowing there were living newborn babies and happy families who likely will never know the nightmare we live. Jealousy still consumes me, and while I know I should be happy that most families don't know this pain, it still makes me angry that we were the ones made to endure it. Erin, one of the nurses who attended me when we had you, called my cell phone as your daddy was delivering the boxes. She was thankful and gracious and it felt good to know our efforts were so well received. When your daddy came back to the car he was shaken. When he arrived on the maternity floor, there was a couple with a newborn baby who exited the opposite elevator at the same time he did. It turned out he knew the father of this baby and that he and his wife had also had a loss. It didn't make it easier for your dad to be there, but it softened the blow a bit. He is braver and stronger than I. I would have crumbled simply entering that elevator.
After that we had birthday cake at your Aunt Lisa's house and spent a little time there then we came home and went to bed. It was nice to honor you on your birthday, but it would have been nicer to have you here. To see you with your first birthday cake, all clumsily feeding yourself with sugary elation. So many things I'll never get with you, sweet girl. Such eternal heartache.
Today is Christmas Eve, only by technicality. There will be no Christmas for us this year. We have made absolutely no preparations and will be doing absolutely nothing special. It will be just another day. I had a silent hope that, even though we aren't celebrating Christmas this year, we might get a Christmas miracle. I started using an ovulation predictor in the past month or so and detected an LH surge on December 10th, which meant I was fertile for a span of two days, which serendipitously fell on your first birthday. How wonderful, I thought, for us to conceive on your first birthday. I held onto hope that I might be pregnant come Christmas; my next cycle was set to start on Christmas Day. What a story to tell our next child, of how he/she was conceived on the day of his/her sister's first birthday and how we happily found out on Christmas. I held onto hope, but in the depth of my being some voice kept whispering, "You're not pregnant." It was a chiding, know-it-all voice. I tried to ignore it and remain positive, but it continued to nag.
Today I woke up praying my period would not come. I showered and felt the faintest ache in my stomach. "It could be the embryo implanting," I tried to convince myself, as though I'd actually be able to feel something so infinitesimal occurring within me when I didn't even realize a year ago that you had died inside me. More dull aches as I dried and dressed. I went outside and had that familiar monthly feeling of needing to use the bathroom, then a moist sensation. "It's just moisture from the shower," I told myself. "You mustn't've dried off completely." Before I had gone outside I had turned on Pandora on the iHome. As I was rationalizing the cramps and moisture, while fully knowing what they meant, I heard a single note and knew exactly what song was playing - a song we played at your funeral, by one of my favorite artists, Imogen Heap, called "Wait it Out." Haunting and beautiful and so fitting at the time we lost you, and still. Then, that voice again: "I told you. You're not pregnant. You got your period and how appropriate that it came at just the moment this song started playing." I walked inside and to the bathroom to the soundtrack of that song where I found what that voice had been telling me all along.
I am not pregnant, and how completely stupid of me to think we'd have the opportunity to have any type of cute, sweet story about a serendipitous December conception to tell our future children. Those type of stories are reserved for other couples, not for us.
I am not pregnant, and how completely stupid of me to think we'd have the opportunity to have any type of cute, sweet story about a serendipitous December conception to tell our future children. Those type of stories are reserved for other couples, not for us.
So, we will continue to live in this hollow in-between until we make you a brother or sister. I miss you terribly, Norah. Every single moment of every day I think of you and I miss you. Forever is too long, sweet girl. I long for the day we can be together again.
All my love, forever and ever,
Mommy
Saturday, December 1, 2012
December
The blackness settles in.
The nightmares which haunt my soul,
They circle,
Threatening to swallow me whole.
Too much.
Too hard.
Too sad.
Let me go.
This place holds nothing more for me.
What I need can never be.
The blackness looms
My heart is laid open
Gutted.
Shuttered.
I sputter.
The effort to keep going,
Impossible.
This life - implausible.
Why me?
Where is the lesson?
What meaning lies in this?
December, so cruel.
I'm a carcass.
You've had your way with me.
Now leave me be.
This yearly curse,
Are you my destiny?
Eternal massacre.
What's next?
Why not take me?
But no, there'd be no fun in that.
You leave me to suffer.
Pummeling me flat.
The massacre of my heart
Never ending.
I hate you, December.
Just leave me be.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
I love this woman's blog, "Born Still but Still Born." Today I found the video she and her husband made which chronicles their pregnancy and the loss of their first born, Curtis. As I watched this video, I could not believe how similar our stories are. Nearly everything she describes is what happened to us. Aside from the manner in which we delivered our babies, the similarities between our stories is uncannily similar. Everything they experienced and felt was felt by us as well. I hope that some day we too can create something like this for our future children so they know their older sister, Norah. If you'd like a glimpse into what we experienced, watch the video Chantel and Craig created for their children in memory of Curtis. It is beautiful and candid.
In Memory of Curtis
In Memory of Curtis
A note on thanks and giving...
Hi, baby girl. It's been a long time since I've written you here. I often want to sit down and write, but it feels so overwhelming. Sometimes it's just easier to sit with my sadness, rather than put energy toward something. Today, though, I have the energy to write, so I will.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. This holiday season seems as though it will play out as I expected it would back on December 12, 2011 when we learned we lost you. Last Christmas we suffered through the motions with disastrous results. Daddy wanted to be present for the festivities, but festive they were not. I was in a haze, opening presents I loathed. Everything seemed like such junk, so meaningless, when the only thing I wanted, I could not have...you.
We discussed this holiday season and came to the agreement that we would not participate. While I'll be cooking a turkey tomorrow and your aunt and uncle will come for dinner, we will not be going anywhere. We will not be celebrating with daddy's family because, truth be told, it infuriates me to be around the kids that will be there. Why were they all allowed to thrive when you were snatched so cruelly from us? For me, it is best to remain in the safety of our home. This has proven to be the case in so many instances this year, sweetie. Sometimes it is just so traumatic for me to leave the house and be bombarded by the endless babies and little kids that seem to swarm wherever we go.
I think of you incessantly. From the moment I wake up, to the moment I fall asleep, you fill my thoughts. I remember the first few months after you were born, how I'd wake up and realize what my life had become. Such a cloak of darkness and sadness would envelop me that I'd have difficulty even getting out of bed. When I finally did get up, I'd neglect to brush my teeth, comb my hair, or even change out of my wrinkled, stinking pajamas. I'd begrudgingly let out the dogs then I'd eat a little of whatever leftovers were in the fridge from the many, many gracious people who brought us meals. I'd climb the stairs to lie in bed the rest of the day, searching the Internet for some answers, some support, some glimmer of hope as to when we'd be able to try for another baby, but it would always lead to bitter tears of hear-wrentching sadness that this is what my life had become. I would forever be a mother whose baby is dead. How does a person get past that? How does a person find light and hope and happiness after losing their darling child in such a way? I still don't know. Maybe I never will.
As the weather turns colder and we near your one-year birthday, I have flashbacks of those first days, weeks, and months after losing you. I sit on the toilet and am instantly transported to the moment my water broke in that same spot, in that same position. I walk down the hall toward our bedroom and remember grasping the banister, my incision aching, my heart breaking. I walk outside and the crisp chill in the air reminds me of the day of your funeral. The first flurries this year sent me to tears, as I was transported back to the parking lot after your funeral. Your daddy escorted me to the car, my incision throbbing, my breasts hard and sore (the day of your funeral was the first day my milk let down), as the first flurries of the season fell sadly from the sky. A few weeks ago, one particularly difficult evening, your daddy was so worried as I sobbed and sobbed, having flashbacks from the hospital, where I begged him not to look at the ultrasound screen, "Don't look at it...don't look at it!" convincing myself that if we just didn't look, it wouldn't be true. Being hooked to the IV, having the epidural administered, violent shaking from the anesthesia, seeing you, so beautiful and still, for the very first time. Bathing you, dressing you, combing your hair, the sadness in everyone's faces, the complete helplessness of my sister, my friends, our family... Finally telling the nurses to take you...knowing the next time we'd see you would be at your funeral, and after that never, ever again.
How does a person move on from this? When does the blackness dissipate? How do I stop yearning for what should have been and start to accept it? Time marches on, and because I have no other choice, I am ushered forward with it, but I feel myself kicking and screaming the entire way. This journey of life is not one to which I look forward. It is such a long, long time before I will see you again, sweet girl. I know you are in Heaven being loved and adored by the Heavenly Father. I do not worry about your spirit, as I know you are in Heaven. I have heard it said that this time we spend on earth is fleeting, a microsecond in the vastness of space and time. I am in the throes of grief for you and fear I will always be, which causes the time I am forced to spend on this earth to be magnified so greatly. I remember how excruciatingly long the days were when we first returned home from the hospital. Daddy and I would sit on the couch all day long, barely talking, consumed by sadness, just holding each other...crying. We'd check the time and be so upset that only an hour or so had passed when it felt like four or five. It took so much energy to make it through a full day. I always thought of the line from Shakespeare's "Macbeth" about time creeping by at a petty pace. That was certainly how it felt for us in those first weeks without you.
We are trying to give you a brother or sister. It's proven to be more difficult than we imagined. In August we learned were pregnant and were excited for three short days, before I miscarried. I know that baby is being loved by the Father and that you are all together in Heaven. I can't wait to be with you all. Those few days were the first days of hope and light for us. It was the first time we didn't feel completely STUCK. The feeling of floundering and imprisonment that surrounds us is exhausting. We want so desperately to move forward, but each month that is something that is denied us. So many of my friends are pregnant or have new babies. It cuts so deeply each time I learn of each new pregnancy. Why them? Why not us? Haven't we suffered enough? What have we done to deserve this? What are we not doing that we should be doing? The seething jealousy I feel for all those people makes me hate myself. I hate not being able to be a good friend...not being able to be happy for the ones I love. I hate the thoughts that run through my mind each time I learn that another person has had a living baby. "Oh, it didn't die, " I think, while feeling hugely let down. What have I become?! How can a person be upset about the survival of her own friends' babies?! This is what this grief does to a person. It is so lonely, so isolating, that while I don't want anyone else to suffer as we have, the part of me that longs for companionship and a person who really understands just wants someone to be in the same boat as me. I am so sick of doing this alone. I am so sick of being so isolated. I just want someone with whom I can commiserate, with whom I can cry and bitch and moan... someone who understands it all and doesn't judge me for any of it...who doesn't long for the time when I feel better...who doesn't worry about me because they know everything I'm feeling and they know that it's all normal. Will it ever stop?
I can't even put into words how much we miss you, how much everyone does, but especially your daddy and me. Losing you has put a hole in my soul, Norah. It won't be filled until I'm with you again. I'll never be the same, but I don't want to be. I can't go back to the way I used to be because I am your mommy now. Everyone who has children says that they are forever changed. I am forever changed because of you. People expect that I'll get back to my old self some day, and that's frustrating. I'll never be who I used to be, because I was never a mom before you. It is just unfortunate that, for me, being a mom means heartache, not joy.
So, tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It seems as though your daddy and I have little for which to be thankful this year besides ourselves, your brother and sister, Shadow and Lady, and the few friends and family who have been understanding enough to struggle with us through this grief and to support us in whatever way we need. For them I am thankful. Most of all, though, I am thankful for you, Norah, because you have shown me what true love is. You have made me realize that I can be something I never thought I could be or wanted to be...a mother. You have shown me that my heart can love beyond measure...that I can care more about another little person than for myself. You will forever be my first born, my first love, and my last hope. Thank you, sweet girl, for showing me a side of myself I never knew could exist. Thank you for the privilege of being Norah's mommy. I hope I can make you proud and that you know how infinitely I will always love you.
Missing you always, my dear baby girl.
Love forever,
Mommy
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Another Month, Another Breakdown
It's May 1st. On April 1st I was feeling especially low. I just couldn't believe another month was starting without you, baby girl. Another month has passed and I'm still feeling the same. I didn't even realize it this morning when I hurriedly got out of bed and got ready for work, but now that I'm home and realizing the actual date, it's no surprise that I had a breakdown at work and had to come home...again.
Every morning at school, as you know, we watch the "WEMS Morning Announcements." They usually start the announcements with a tidbit from some random song. This morning the song they played was one I used to sing to you and one I had hoped we'd be able to dance around to and be silly with. To anyone else this song would seem funny and ridiculous - to most other people it is. But to me, it is one of our songs - one of our many songs - and this morning it was just too much for me to take. I thought I could take it, but halfway through the clip I jumped up from my chair, holding back my tears as best as possible, and dashed out of the room. Luckily, a colleague was in the hall and I asked her to watch my homeroom, as she doesn't have a homeroom to cover. Thank God for her. She's been there for me more times than I can count. I ran into the library, grabbed some paper towels, ran to the back room, shut the door, and just started bawling. I was shaking and crying so hard. I'm half angry at myself that such a seemingly insignificant thing could send me crashing so low so quickly. People at work must think I'm insane. Another colleague was outside the door and I know he could hear my sobs. When I composed myself and came out, he asked if he could do anything. Really? Can anyone do anything? No. I know he meant well by it, but sometimes when people ask me if there is anything they can do for me, it just makes me even more sad because there is nothing anyone can do. I am in this alone. It's a terribly isolating grief, losing a child the way we did. Not many people can understand it, and most people wish they could help, but no one really can. There's nothing anyone can do and it's so frustrating.
I went back to my room to let my colleague know what happened and she suggested that I go home. I gladly accepted that alternative to struggling through the day. I walked to the office, trying to avoid as many students as possible. I was no longer crying at this point, but didn't want anyone to see my bloodshot eyes and have any more cause to think I'm an emotional wreck. I went into my principal's office and asked for the secretary to find me a substitute; she was able to, fairly quickly - thank God. While I was in his office my principal sat down and talked to me for a while. He suggested taking a medical sabbatical for the remainder of the year, but I really don't think that's an option, as that will be four and a half more unpaid weeks. We're just not able to afford that. I'm working with my union president to get some unpaid days from now until the end of the year - probably just one day a week, as suggested by my therapist. I think that would make it easier for me to get through until the end of the year. I sincerely hope the administration is willing to extend this to me. I'll have to wait and see. As I sat in his office, my principal spoke to me as a friend, and expressed his concern about us wanting to try for another child this summer. He said he doesn't think I'm in the right frame of mind to jump into another pregnancy. Maybe I'm not. Sometimes I think I am, sometimes I wonder if it's the right thing, and sometimes I wonder how I can stand seeing all the babies and kids everywhere I go without the hope or prospect of soon being pregnant again. I just think that being pregnant again and having something to hope for will help us to move forward. I'll never replace you, Norah. I know that. But we were so excited for you. We were excited to be parents. We want that more than ever before and we got used to the idea of being a mom and dad. Your dad and I both say that we feel stagnant. It's a terrible thing, to be a parent and not have your child. It's a terrible thing to come home every day, thinking about how it should be, being stuck in the way it's always been. It's not supposed to happen, but it does, all too often. My principal voiced his concern about something happening in our next pregnancy that might cause me to become even more grief stricken. I know that's a possibility, but isn't it always? Won't I always have that fear now? It's not as though I can wait one, two, three, or more years and that fear will somehow go away. I'll never be able to go through another pregnancy with naivety, thinking that everything will go smoothly. That is a luxury that has been ripped from me now. It's not as though I'll ever really feel at ease with carrying a child. So, why would waiting longer make that any easier?
My principal went on to say that you weren't meant to stay with us. He said it just wasn't meant to be. He's the second person this week who has said this to us. It's quite infuriating to hear those words. You WERE meant to be. You were conceived, you lived inside me for 38 weeks and 4 days. You WERE MEANT TO BE, because you WERE HERE. YOU EXISTED. I think people fail to realize this. It's not as though we tried to get pregnant and were unsuccessful. I could understand someone saying it wasn't meant to be, if it didn't happen. But you DID happen. YOU LIVED. You were here with me and what WASN'T supposed to happen, did. You WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO DIE. There is no reason why you did! No doctor or anyone can explain it, so I know what happened is not the way it was supposed to be. I will never know why you aren't here with us. People can say that in the greater Plan, you were only meant to be with us for the short time we had you. People can say that God knows what He is doing, and I believe that He does, but that does not help to convince me that what happened was the way things are "supposed" to be. God loves us and does not want us to suffer. He does not cause the pain and sorrow we endure in this life. It does not sit well with me to hear that God caused this, because God wouldn't do something so awful to us. He loves us and wants us to be happy. Something else causes terrible things to happen in this world, but it isn't God who does these things, and I believe He is sad with us and sad for us, but that he is pulling for us. As long as I'm on this Earth, I'll never understand the Why of what happened. Only God knows the why and I don't feel He is at peace with it, but I do feel He wants me to learn from it and grow with Him. I'm trying so hard to do that. I'm trying so hard to trust in Him and know that He will guide me through this. Some days it is easier than others to believe that He's always with me, guiding me. Some days I'm not able to cling to him in the lighting fast moments that cut deep into my soul. This morning was one of those moments. Just as quickly as that song began to play, I felt my soul being ripped open. It was too fast for me to grasp and hold on to God. I think he understands that, though. I'm trying to do that now, and I feel as though He's helping. But, to say that you weren't supposed be is so wrong. You WERE here and you existed and you will keep living in my heart. You will always be mine and I'll never believe that you weren't meant to be.
I love you so much, baby girl. Now and forever.
Love,
Mommy
Every morning at school, as you know, we watch the "WEMS Morning Announcements." They usually start the announcements with a tidbit from some random song. This morning the song they played was one I used to sing to you and one I had hoped we'd be able to dance around to and be silly with. To anyone else this song would seem funny and ridiculous - to most other people it is. But to me, it is one of our songs - one of our many songs - and this morning it was just too much for me to take. I thought I could take it, but halfway through the clip I jumped up from my chair, holding back my tears as best as possible, and dashed out of the room. Luckily, a colleague was in the hall and I asked her to watch my homeroom, as she doesn't have a homeroom to cover. Thank God for her. She's been there for me more times than I can count. I ran into the library, grabbed some paper towels, ran to the back room, shut the door, and just started bawling. I was shaking and crying so hard. I'm half angry at myself that such a seemingly insignificant thing could send me crashing so low so quickly. People at work must think I'm insane. Another colleague was outside the door and I know he could hear my sobs. When I composed myself and came out, he asked if he could do anything. Really? Can anyone do anything? No. I know he meant well by it, but sometimes when people ask me if there is anything they can do for me, it just makes me even more sad because there is nothing anyone can do. I am in this alone. It's a terribly isolating grief, losing a child the way we did. Not many people can understand it, and most people wish they could help, but no one really can. There's nothing anyone can do and it's so frustrating.
I went back to my room to let my colleague know what happened and she suggested that I go home. I gladly accepted that alternative to struggling through the day. I walked to the office, trying to avoid as many students as possible. I was no longer crying at this point, but didn't want anyone to see my bloodshot eyes and have any more cause to think I'm an emotional wreck. I went into my principal's office and asked for the secretary to find me a substitute; she was able to, fairly quickly - thank God. While I was in his office my principal sat down and talked to me for a while. He suggested taking a medical sabbatical for the remainder of the year, but I really don't think that's an option, as that will be four and a half more unpaid weeks. We're just not able to afford that. I'm working with my union president to get some unpaid days from now until the end of the year - probably just one day a week, as suggested by my therapist. I think that would make it easier for me to get through until the end of the year. I sincerely hope the administration is willing to extend this to me. I'll have to wait and see. As I sat in his office, my principal spoke to me as a friend, and expressed his concern about us wanting to try for another child this summer. He said he doesn't think I'm in the right frame of mind to jump into another pregnancy. Maybe I'm not. Sometimes I think I am, sometimes I wonder if it's the right thing, and sometimes I wonder how I can stand seeing all the babies and kids everywhere I go without the hope or prospect of soon being pregnant again. I just think that being pregnant again and having something to hope for will help us to move forward. I'll never replace you, Norah. I know that. But we were so excited for you. We were excited to be parents. We want that more than ever before and we got used to the idea of being a mom and dad. Your dad and I both say that we feel stagnant. It's a terrible thing, to be a parent and not have your child. It's a terrible thing to come home every day, thinking about how it should be, being stuck in the way it's always been. It's not supposed to happen, but it does, all too often. My principal voiced his concern about something happening in our next pregnancy that might cause me to become even more grief stricken. I know that's a possibility, but isn't it always? Won't I always have that fear now? It's not as though I can wait one, two, three, or more years and that fear will somehow go away. I'll never be able to go through another pregnancy with naivety, thinking that everything will go smoothly. That is a luxury that has been ripped from me now. It's not as though I'll ever really feel at ease with carrying a child. So, why would waiting longer make that any easier?
My principal went on to say that you weren't meant to stay with us. He said it just wasn't meant to be. He's the second person this week who has said this to us. It's quite infuriating to hear those words. You WERE meant to be. You were conceived, you lived inside me for 38 weeks and 4 days. You WERE MEANT TO BE, because you WERE HERE. YOU EXISTED. I think people fail to realize this. It's not as though we tried to get pregnant and were unsuccessful. I could understand someone saying it wasn't meant to be, if it didn't happen. But you DID happen. YOU LIVED. You were here with me and what WASN'T supposed to happen, did. You WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO DIE. There is no reason why you did! No doctor or anyone can explain it, so I know what happened is not the way it was supposed to be. I will never know why you aren't here with us. People can say that in the greater Plan, you were only meant to be with us for the short time we had you. People can say that God knows what He is doing, and I believe that He does, but that does not help to convince me that what happened was the way things are "supposed" to be. God loves us and does not want us to suffer. He does not cause the pain and sorrow we endure in this life. It does not sit well with me to hear that God caused this, because God wouldn't do something so awful to us. He loves us and wants us to be happy. Something else causes terrible things to happen in this world, but it isn't God who does these things, and I believe He is sad with us and sad for us, but that he is pulling for us. As long as I'm on this Earth, I'll never understand the Why of what happened. Only God knows the why and I don't feel He is at peace with it, but I do feel He wants me to learn from it and grow with Him. I'm trying so hard to do that. I'm trying so hard to trust in Him and know that He will guide me through this. Some days it is easier than others to believe that He's always with me, guiding me. Some days I'm not able to cling to him in the lighting fast moments that cut deep into my soul. This morning was one of those moments. Just as quickly as that song began to play, I felt my soul being ripped open. It was too fast for me to grasp and hold on to God. I think he understands that, though. I'm trying to do that now, and I feel as though He's helping. But, to say that you weren't supposed be is so wrong. You WERE here and you existed and you will keep living in my heart. You will always be mine and I'll never believe that you weren't meant to be.
I love you so much, baby girl. Now and forever.
Love,
Mommy
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Seasons change, yet it stays the same.
Spring is here, officially, yet I am still in the same space. Nothing has changed. I am still lost. I am still alone in a sea of strangers who were once my comrades. I am no longer like them and never will be again. A wall of sorrow, loss, and despair now separates us. These now-foreigners smile, say, "How are you?" and other niceties. They ask, yet do not wish to know. If I were to reply truthfully, if I told them I die inside every day I live, they'd not know what to say or do. They'd surely think plenty of me, but (hopefully) those thoughts would not be shared. If I relate my deepest feelings of despair, I am an interloper. I am told to get some rest, go home, reflect - as though any of these would ever change my reality. People do not know what to do with me. I am now a source of anxiety for them. If they stay too long in my presence, if they learn too much about what it is to endure my reality, they may also become swallowed by the blackness. So, they tell me to go, as though this will help. Nothing will help me. I will forever be a shadow-mother - my baby will remain dead. My reality will never deviate from this. I may have other children, I may go on exotic trips, I may complete my career and grow to be old, but I will always be the one about whom they whisper, "Her baby died. We don't know what to do with her." And it is true that they do not. And I cannot fault them for this. They do not know the oppression of grief and sorrow as I have known it. They should not know; no one should know; but I do. I know. And it is because I know that I no longer belong with the others. I am no longer one of them. I am a shadow-mother. I will always be this, in Winter, in Spring, in Summer, in Fall. In seemingly lighthearted moments my heart will remain black as pitch. My smiling eyes will cloak the river of tears that rages daily through my soul. My laughter will stifle the screams which curdle the blood in my veins. I want to escape myself. I want to escape this constant torment of a reality. Tragically, this is not possible. This is my "life" now - an immutable death. So, today while the others celebrate the permutation of the season, I lament the brackish absolute my life has assumed. I am a shadow-mother. They are the others - our seasons forever in discord.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Ache
Ache.
.
Like sour stomach.
That moment the coaster car plummets from the summit.
.
Ache.
Sometimes looming on the edge,
Others raw...frighteningly near.
Smothering.
But always...always...
Aching.
.
Droplets seeping from me,
Squeezing against Will to answer the
ACHE.
.
Break
My inside, my soul, my all, my essence...
Beyond repair.
Forever shattered
shards flattened
Nothing matters
Scattered...
Hopes, Dreams, Happiness, Love, Innocence, Life
Reduced
to
endless
hapless
sadness
.
.
and
.
.
.
ACHE.
.
Like sour stomach.
That moment the coaster car plummets from the summit.
.
Ache.
Sometimes looming on the edge,
Others raw...frighteningly near.
Smothering.
But always...always...
Aching.
.
Droplets seeping from me,
Squeezing against Will to answer the
ACHE.
.
Break
My inside, my soul, my all, my essence...
Beyond repair.
Forever shattered
shards flattened
Nothing matters
Scattered...
Hopes, Dreams, Happiness, Love, Innocence, Life
Reduced
to
endless
hapless
sadness
.
.
and
.
.
.
ACHE.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Shoes...
A few days ago I was looking for some poems when I was missing you, sweet girl. Well, I'm ALWAYS missing you, but you know what I mean... Anyway, I found this poem and I liked it. It's not an accurate metaphor at all, really. The pain of the emptiness in my heart can never be compared to the pain of an ill-fitting pair of shoes. I'd RELISH some ill-fitting shoes in place of losing you. I'd give anything in the world for the shittiest shoes if it meant I could still have you here with us. Regardless, for some reason I like the poem. It's simple and you don't need to think in order to make the connection, and I guess that's one of the things I like about it. My head is always filled with "missing you" thoughts, so it was nice to read this, feel validated,and not need to think.
Here is the poem:
THESE SHOES
I wear a pair of shoes.
They are ugly shoes.
Uncomfortable shoes.
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so badly that I do not think I can take another step.
Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes.
They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others' eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.
They never talk about my shoes.
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
There are many pairs in this world.
Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt.
NO WOMAN deserves to wear these shoes.
They have made me who I am.
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.
Another reason I like the poem is because it's versatile; it applies to any one who has lost a child, in any way. It could also be used for fathers who have lost a child, which I like. For myself, though, I'd change the second to last line. Instead of having it read, "They have made me who I am," I'd change it to, "They will make me who I am." We're still in the throes of of losing Norah. It's still all so new. We're not even two months out from losing our sweet baby girl and I have no idea what this will do to me. I have no idea who I'll be a year from now. Will I harden, soften, care less, care more? I don't know. Sometimes that's scary. Sometimes it's hopeful. I try to be as hopeful as possible. I do not give up easily. The other day I was talking to Kevin and told him I don't understand why I refuse to give up. When my dad died, it ruined me for a long time. (It also ruined my credit score...didn't open my mail or pay bills for months, but that's all repaired now.) What will losing Norah do to me...to us? I told him that I have every reason in the world to give up. To wallow in my despair, to give in to depression. Hell, I'd have every reason to apply for disability, citing major depression due to the loss of my father to suicide and my daughter to stillbirth. But I don't. I don't give up. Is it pride? Is it hope? Is it tenacity? Is it just me being stubborn and willful? I don't know. But, I know I'd have every reason to just give up and no one would judge me for it. They'd understand, given what I've been through, and support it. But I don't.
When my dad died I was watching the movie Cast Away a lot. I don't know, I always found that movie very poignant and moving. (Being a poor, first-year teacher at the time without cable also prompted the repeated viewing of the few DVD's in my collection....) In Castaway, when Chuck is back in civilization and "real life" he recalls his time on the island. He recalls how the thought of Kelly was the only thing that kept him alive. He wanted to die, but the idea of giving up the slim chance of reuniting with her kept him going. When he returned to civilization and realized that Kelly had moved on and he really was alone then, had lost her forever, he still did not give up hope. She was the only shred of hope left in his life, but in the wake of losing her he resolved to keep going and he said this: "I've got to keep breathing because tomorrow the sun will rise and you never know what the tide may bring." During the darkest time of my life, as it was when I lost my dad, this resonated within me. I resolved to do what Chuck did. I needed to keep breathing. This was the most basic of things that I could actually handle doing at that time. I just needed to exist and get through that time because, just like Chuck, I knew that at some point the darkness in my life would give way to lighter, better times - the sun would rise. I didn't know what those better times would bring, but I just knew that there is an ebb and a flow in life. You cannot have joy without sorrow. You love and live more fully, knowing what darkness and pain are. The darkness is what shapes us, give us character, strength, and resolve. I've been immersed in that darkness now, twice. After my dad died the darkness prevailed for a while but then light entered again. His name is Kevin. Such a pure, sweet love he has for me. I thought I knew love before. I thought I had experienced my one, true love of a lifetime, but that love quickly ran out as my depression waned on. That love did not withstand the loss of my father and got swallowed up in the darkness after my he died. I thought that I would make do with wonderful friends and family for the rest of my days, but not find such a love again. How wrong I was. The Sun rose in my life and brought Kevin to me. Then it brought out sweet, sweet Norah. We were so excited for her. We loved her so much. We still do. We always will. The darkness that once consumed my life was gone. There were storm clouds in the vast horizon, a reminder of what I lost, but beyond that sliver of darkness was a light like I had never known. I was convinced that I had paid my dues and that this next chapter of my life - the marriage chapter...the Norah chapter - would be sun-filled and shining. I guess I got too much sun too quickly. The scales tipped too far in my favor...too much ying, not enough yang. For whatever reason, I am here again, in the blackness. This time, though, it's not nearly as scary. I miss my dear, sweet girl so much. I always do. I always will. But I know this darkness. I know it will eventually give way to rays of light. It must. It is the natural order of things. And after this dark time we will be joyful again. I know the sun will rise. I don't know what the tide will bring, but I know it will be something wonderful. I never knew that Kevin and Norah would wash up on the shores of my life, but they did and they are beautiful miracles that I treasure with all my being. The next wave of my life will be just as sweet...and maybe sweeter in ways I can't yet fathom. That is the nature of life. You endure the bad to get the good, and those who endure the worst reap the best in the end. So, that is why I must keep breathing. I want to know what the tide will bring and I want to share with those around me what the darkness has taught me, so they have Hope to keep breathing too.
Here is the poem:
THESE SHOES
I wear a pair of shoes.
They are ugly shoes.
Uncomfortable shoes.
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so badly that I do not think I can take another step.
Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes.
They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others' eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.
They never talk about my shoes.
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
There are many pairs in this world.
Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt.
NO WOMAN deserves to wear these shoes.
They have made me who I am.
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.
Another reason I like the poem is because it's versatile; it applies to any one who has lost a child, in any way. It could also be used for fathers who have lost a child, which I like. For myself, though, I'd change the second to last line. Instead of having it read, "They have made me who I am," I'd change it to, "They will make me who I am." We're still in the throes of of losing Norah. It's still all so new. We're not even two months out from losing our sweet baby girl and I have no idea what this will do to me. I have no idea who I'll be a year from now. Will I harden, soften, care less, care more? I don't know. Sometimes that's scary. Sometimes it's hopeful. I try to be as hopeful as possible. I do not give up easily. The other day I was talking to Kevin and told him I don't understand why I refuse to give up. When my dad died, it ruined me for a long time. (It also ruined my credit score...didn't open my mail or pay bills for months, but that's all repaired now.) What will losing Norah do to me...to us? I told him that I have every reason in the world to give up. To wallow in my despair, to give in to depression. Hell, I'd have every reason to apply for disability, citing major depression due to the loss of my father to suicide and my daughter to stillbirth. But I don't. I don't give up. Is it pride? Is it hope? Is it tenacity? Is it just me being stubborn and willful? I don't know. But, I know I'd have every reason to just give up and no one would judge me for it. They'd understand, given what I've been through, and support it. But I don't.
When my dad died I was watching the movie Cast Away a lot. I don't know, I always found that movie very poignant and moving. (Being a poor, first-year teacher at the time without cable also prompted the repeated viewing of the few DVD's in my collection....) In Castaway, when Chuck is back in civilization and "real life" he recalls his time on the island. He recalls how the thought of Kelly was the only thing that kept him alive. He wanted to die, but the idea of giving up the slim chance of reuniting with her kept him going. When he returned to civilization and realized that Kelly had moved on and he really was alone then, had lost her forever, he still did not give up hope. She was the only shred of hope left in his life, but in the wake of losing her he resolved to keep going and he said this: "I've got to keep breathing because tomorrow the sun will rise and you never know what the tide may bring." During the darkest time of my life, as it was when I lost my dad, this resonated within me. I resolved to do what Chuck did. I needed to keep breathing. This was the most basic of things that I could actually handle doing at that time. I just needed to exist and get through that time because, just like Chuck, I knew that at some point the darkness in my life would give way to lighter, better times - the sun would rise. I didn't know what those better times would bring, but I just knew that there is an ebb and a flow in life. You cannot have joy without sorrow. You love and live more fully, knowing what darkness and pain are. The darkness is what shapes us, give us character, strength, and resolve. I've been immersed in that darkness now, twice. After my dad died the darkness prevailed for a while but then light entered again. His name is Kevin. Such a pure, sweet love he has for me. I thought I knew love before. I thought I had experienced my one, true love of a lifetime, but that love quickly ran out as my depression waned on. That love did not withstand the loss of my father and got swallowed up in the darkness after my he died. I thought that I would make do with wonderful friends and family for the rest of my days, but not find such a love again. How wrong I was. The Sun rose in my life and brought Kevin to me. Then it brought out sweet, sweet Norah. We were so excited for her. We loved her so much. We still do. We always will. The darkness that once consumed my life was gone. There were storm clouds in the vast horizon, a reminder of what I lost, but beyond that sliver of darkness was a light like I had never known. I was convinced that I had paid my dues and that this next chapter of my life - the marriage chapter...the Norah chapter - would be sun-filled and shining. I guess I got too much sun too quickly. The scales tipped too far in my favor...too much ying, not enough yang. For whatever reason, I am here again, in the blackness. This time, though, it's not nearly as scary. I miss my dear, sweet girl so much. I always do. I always will. But I know this darkness. I know it will eventually give way to rays of light. It must. It is the natural order of things. And after this dark time we will be joyful again. I know the sun will rise. I don't know what the tide will bring, but I know it will be something wonderful. I never knew that Kevin and Norah would wash up on the shores of my life, but they did and they are beautiful miracles that I treasure with all my being. The next wave of my life will be just as sweet...and maybe sweeter in ways I can't yet fathom. That is the nature of life. You endure the bad to get the good, and those who endure the worst reap the best in the end. So, that is why I must keep breathing. I want to know what the tide will bring and I want to share with those around me what the darkness has taught me, so they have Hope to keep breathing too.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Lazy Sunday
My heart hurt a lot for you today, baby girl. Daddy and I went to church this morning and there were crying babies during the service...again. I don't know why this always seems to happen to us, but it is so frustrating. I actually look forward to going and just as I start to feel like I'm getting something out of the sermon, it never fails, a baby starts to whimper or cry. Dad and I flinch, visibly. I can see his body tense as I'm sure he can see mine do the same. We grasp for each other's hand and cling to one other as that lurching feeling in our stomachs passes. We both know what the other is thinking..."Why?!? Why does this keep happening...Why do we have to endure this reminder that we don't have our child...Why do these parents insist on allowing a baby to cry through the church service...Why, why, why???
It sucked, but it wasn't nearly as bad as our first Sunday there. That was brutal. The sermon was about Abraham offering his son to God as a sacrifice and there was a ton of mention of babies and children in the sermon, peppered with mysogynistic "humor." The preacher that day was a guest and our friends assured us the regular guy was much better. As if the woman-hating diatribe wasn't enough, we also had to endure intermitent crying from a baby about three rows behind us. I also remember someone behind us had a very mucousy cough and kept hacking, which was skeeving me out. As soon as the sermon ended, I looked at your dad and said, "I've got to go....now." He agreed and we high-tailed it out of there. I just did NOT understand why God gave us THAT to deal with on our FIRST Sunday back to church in YEARS!! I refused to give up, though. I thought maybe he was testing us. I don't know if God does that. A lot of people say that he would never test us to make us prove our love to him, but I don't know. Whatever was going on, I refused to give up. I needed SOMETHING to get me through losing you and the only thing that kept entering my head as a source of hope was God. Jesus and God. So, we went the following Sunday and it was AWESOME. It was just what I needed. I emailed the pastor and gave a prayer request for you, Kevin, and me. He responded and sent our prayer request out. Several people responded and said they would pray for us, one of whom was a daddy who had lost a baby in much the same way we lost you. I was so glad your daddy would have someone to talk to who really understands.
I still miss you so much, sweet baby girl. I always do. I always will. But, I'm glad I didn't give up. I'm glad I decided to go back to church and to keep praying. It does help. I always ask God to tell you I love you and I miss you and I always ask him to keep you safe. I know that's stilly; you're in Heaven, the safest, most wonderful place in existence. But, I'm your mommy and that's what mommy's do. I couldn't keep you safe when you were here with me, so I at least want to make sure you are safe in Heaven. I am so glad that you are there if you can't be with me. I'd much rather have you here, but knowing you are with Jesus, God, your grandpa, and great grandma and ALL your other relatives and friends in Heaven sometimes gives me peace. I will not lie, it doesn't always make me feel better. Sometimes I am so angry that the thought of you safe ANYWHERE where I cannot be just fuels my anger and sadness. But, for now...for today...it helps a little.
I miss you with all my being, sweet girl. Not a moment passes that I don't think of you and long for you. You were the most beautiful, darling girl I have ever laid my eyes on. I will never ever stop loving you and missing you, my sweet girl. Mommy loves you more than all the stars in the sky and all the fishes in the sea. I can't wait until I see you again, my darling angel.
Love forever and ever,
Mommy
It sucked, but it wasn't nearly as bad as our first Sunday there. That was brutal. The sermon was about Abraham offering his son to God as a sacrifice and there was a ton of mention of babies and children in the sermon, peppered with mysogynistic "humor." The preacher that day was a guest and our friends assured us the regular guy was much better. As if the woman-hating diatribe wasn't enough, we also had to endure intermitent crying from a baby about three rows behind us. I also remember someone behind us had a very mucousy cough and kept hacking, which was skeeving me out. As soon as the sermon ended, I looked at your dad and said, "I've got to go....now." He agreed and we high-tailed it out of there. I just did NOT understand why God gave us THAT to deal with on our FIRST Sunday back to church in YEARS!! I refused to give up, though. I thought maybe he was testing us. I don't know if God does that. A lot of people say that he would never test us to make us prove our love to him, but I don't know. Whatever was going on, I refused to give up. I needed SOMETHING to get me through losing you and the only thing that kept entering my head as a source of hope was God. Jesus and God. So, we went the following Sunday and it was AWESOME. It was just what I needed. I emailed the pastor and gave a prayer request for you, Kevin, and me. He responded and sent our prayer request out. Several people responded and said they would pray for us, one of whom was a daddy who had lost a baby in much the same way we lost you. I was so glad your daddy would have someone to talk to who really understands.
I still miss you so much, sweet baby girl. I always do. I always will. But, I'm glad I didn't give up. I'm glad I decided to go back to church and to keep praying. It does help. I always ask God to tell you I love you and I miss you and I always ask him to keep you safe. I know that's stilly; you're in Heaven, the safest, most wonderful place in existence. But, I'm your mommy and that's what mommy's do. I couldn't keep you safe when you were here with me, so I at least want to make sure you are safe in Heaven. I am so glad that you are there if you can't be with me. I'd much rather have you here, but knowing you are with Jesus, God, your grandpa, and great grandma and ALL your other relatives and friends in Heaven sometimes gives me peace. I will not lie, it doesn't always make me feel better. Sometimes I am so angry that the thought of you safe ANYWHERE where I cannot be just fuels my anger and sadness. But, for now...for today...it helps a little.
I miss you with all my being, sweet girl. Not a moment passes that I don't think of you and long for you. You were the most beautiful, darling girl I have ever laid my eyes on. I will never ever stop loving you and missing you, my sweet girl. Mommy loves you more than all the stars in the sky and all the fishes in the sea. I can't wait until I see you again, my darling angel.
Love forever and ever,
Mommy
Friday, January 13, 2012
You Were With Me
Hi, sweet girl. I think you were with me last night, Norah. I prayed before I went to sleep. Instead of asking God for things, I thanked him for the good still left in my life. I thanked him for your daddy, our marriage, my friends, my family, our house, our jobs, and you. Then I asked him to please make sure you were safe and happy and I asked him to watch over you. I asked him to tell you how much we love you and miss you and then I started to drift to sleep, but as I was drifting, I felt the gentlest touch on my left cheek. It was such a gentle stroke that it barely touched my skin. It actually tickled a little bit, the way it tickles when I ask your daddy to gently stroke my face or my back if I'm having trouble sleeping. It was soothing and wonderful and warm. When it happened I was halfway between sleep and lucidity but when it registered in my mind what I had felt, I jolted awake. Immediately I thought of you and a poem I had read and posted earlier in the day. This is that poem:
What Makes A Mother?
I thought of you and closed my eyes
And prayed to God today.
I asked, "What makes a Mother?"
And I know I heard him say,
"A Mother has a baby,
This we know is true."
"But, God, can you be a mother
When your baby's not with you?"
"Yes, you can," he replied
With resolution in his voice.
"I give many women babies;
When they leave it is not their choice.
Some I send for a lifetime
And others for the day
And some I send to feel your womb,
But there's no need to stay."
"I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS, God.
I want my baby here!"
He took a breath
and cleared his throat
And then I saw a tear.
"I wish I could show you
What your child is doing Here.
If you could see your child smile
With other children and say,
'We go to earth to learn our lessons
of love and life and fear,
but MY mommy loved me so much
I got to come straight here!
I feel so lucky to have a mom who
had SO much love for me.
I learned my lessons very quickly;
My mommy set me free.
I miss my mommy oh-so much,
But I visit her each day.
When she goes to sleep
On her pillow is where I lay.
I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek
And whisper in her ear,
"Mommy, please don't be sad today
I'm your baby and I am here."
"So, you see my dear, sweet one,
Your child is okay
Your baby is here in My home
And this is where she'll stay.
She'll wait for you with Me
Until your lessons there are through,
And on the day that you come home
she'll be at the gates waiting for you."
So now you see
What makes a Mother.
It's the feeling in your heart.
It's the love you had so much of
Right from the very start.
~Author Unknown
I found that poem while browsing online yesterday. I must have read that poem at least ten times over that day and each time I felt particularly moved by the following lines:
But I visit her each day.
When she goes to sleep
On her pillow is where I lay.
I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek
And whisper in her ear,
"Mommy, please don't be sad today
I'm your baby and I am here."
It happened one more time before I fell asleep. I felt something touch my hair, right above my forehead. Honestly, it could have been my fingers twitching as I fell asleep, because my arm was curved up around my head and my fingers were in the position for such a thing to happen, but I like to think it was you, sweetie, stroking my hair and kissing my cheek and saying goodnight to me. There was actually one more thing that happened before I drifted off to sleep for good. I saw something in my mind's eye. As I lay there with my eyes closed, very close to complete sleep, I saw the vision of two faces floating quickly by what appeared to be a powder blue, beautiful sky. I really only saw this for a fraction of a second. It happened so unbelievably fast and I was only able to focus on the faces, but it seemed to me as if they were floating and moving forward, from left to right at a fairly quick pace. It also looked like the faces' bodies were shrouded in a beautiful fabric and I swear, I saw something very soft and almost feather, which I'm attributing to being a wing. I truly believe that what I saw was Norah and either my guardian angel or Norah's guardian angel, saying goodnight to me. It didn't immediately make me sad. I had a feeling of warmth and gratitude in my entire being and I'm fairly certain the first words that came to my mind were "thank you." I was thanking God, the angel and Norah, for visiting me and letting me know my sweet girl was with me, loved me, and was safe. Then the next feeling to flood my heart was the familiar sorrow I've been feeling since we lost Norah. However, I quickly thought to myself, "No. Don't dwell on the negative. Be happy you felt her and saw her. Rejoice in this and don't give in to those dark feelings and then she might visit you again." All of this happened in what couldn't have been more than four of five seconds, but it is still very vividly in my memory this morning. I've never had an experience as profound as this, and I knew I had to write about it while it is fresh in my mind so time doesn't taint the memory.
Lately I've been praying more than I've ever prayed in my life. I've been openly speaking to close friends about God and I've recently been turned on to the existence of guardian angels. I read quite a bit about guardian angels just a few days ago and I tried praying to my guardian angel the other night. I think it was two nights ago, or maybe it was three. After knowing this and reading about my experience last night, some people might attribute what happened to me as a mere episode of suggestion. They might say that my mind created this experience because God, the angels, the poem, and Norah were heavily on my mind. Maybe that's what it was, but I don't think so. I think it's that sort of thinking that blocks people from God and celestial occurrences. Maybe it WAS my fingers that brushed my cheek and my hair, but whose to say it wasn't Norah or God who made them move to give me a sign that my baby was near me and is always near me? I don't think anyone has the authority to say whether that was what happened or not. So, I choose to believe that I was visited by my dear, sweet Norah last night. As I type this, her teddy bear is sitting right in front of my on the desk - the teddy bear that holds her ashes. So, her body is quite literally with me - right in front of me - at this moment, but I know that in every moment her soul is with me too. She's watching over her momma and she wants me to be happy. Some day I will grant her that wish. Some day I will be happy again. But for now, I want her to know that she was so loved - IS so loved - that my longing for her outweighs any type of happiness I could experience without her. Gradually, with the passage of time, the scales of longing and happiness will even out, then maybe even tip in my favor, but until then I will continue to miss my girl and pray and hope that she can visit me again like she did last night. I will forever treasure my visit from my beautiful, sweet daughter, Norah Violet. Mommy loves you, baby girl. <3
What Makes A Mother?
I thought of you and closed my eyes
And prayed to God today.
I asked, "What makes a Mother?"
And I know I heard him say,
"A Mother has a baby,
This we know is true."
"But, God, can you be a mother
When your baby's not with you?"
"Yes, you can," he replied
With resolution in his voice.
"I give many women babies;
When they leave it is not their choice.
Some I send for a lifetime
And others for the day
And some I send to feel your womb,
But there's no need to stay."
"I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS, God.
I want my baby here!"
He took a breath
and cleared his throat
And then I saw a tear.
"I wish I could show you
What your child is doing Here.
If you could see your child smile
With other children and say,
'We go to earth to learn our lessons
of love and life and fear,
but MY mommy loved me so much
I got to come straight here!
I feel so lucky to have a mom who
had SO much love for me.
I learned my lessons very quickly;
My mommy set me free.
I miss my mommy oh-so much,
But I visit her each day.
When she goes to sleep
On her pillow is where I lay.
I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek
And whisper in her ear,
"Mommy, please don't be sad today
I'm your baby and I am here."
"So, you see my dear, sweet one,
Your child is okay
Your baby is here in My home
And this is where she'll stay.
She'll wait for you with Me
Until your lessons there are through,
And on the day that you come home
she'll be at the gates waiting for you."
So now you see
What makes a Mother.
It's the feeling in your heart.
It's the love you had so much of
Right from the very start.
~Author Unknown
I found that poem while browsing online yesterday. I must have read that poem at least ten times over that day and each time I felt particularly moved by the following lines:
But I visit her each day.
When she goes to sleep
On her pillow is where I lay.
I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek
And whisper in her ear,
"Mommy, please don't be sad today
I'm your baby and I am here."
It happened one more time before I fell asleep. I felt something touch my hair, right above my forehead. Honestly, it could have been my fingers twitching as I fell asleep, because my arm was curved up around my head and my fingers were in the position for such a thing to happen, but I like to think it was you, sweetie, stroking my hair and kissing my cheek and saying goodnight to me. There was actually one more thing that happened before I drifted off to sleep for good. I saw something in my mind's eye. As I lay there with my eyes closed, very close to complete sleep, I saw the vision of two faces floating quickly by what appeared to be a powder blue, beautiful sky. I really only saw this for a fraction of a second. It happened so unbelievably fast and I was only able to focus on the faces, but it seemed to me as if they were floating and moving forward, from left to right at a fairly quick pace. It also looked like the faces' bodies were shrouded in a beautiful fabric and I swear, I saw something very soft and almost feather, which I'm attributing to being a wing. I truly believe that what I saw was Norah and either my guardian angel or Norah's guardian angel, saying goodnight to me. It didn't immediately make me sad. I had a feeling of warmth and gratitude in my entire being and I'm fairly certain the first words that came to my mind were "thank you." I was thanking God, the angel and Norah, for visiting me and letting me know my sweet girl was with me, loved me, and was safe. Then the next feeling to flood my heart was the familiar sorrow I've been feeling since we lost Norah. However, I quickly thought to myself, "No. Don't dwell on the negative. Be happy you felt her and saw her. Rejoice in this and don't give in to those dark feelings and then she might visit you again." All of this happened in what couldn't have been more than four of five seconds, but it is still very vividly in my memory this morning. I've never had an experience as profound as this, and I knew I had to write about it while it is fresh in my mind so time doesn't taint the memory.
Lately I've been praying more than I've ever prayed in my life. I've been openly speaking to close friends about God and I've recently been turned on to the existence of guardian angels. I read quite a bit about guardian angels just a few days ago and I tried praying to my guardian angel the other night. I think it was two nights ago, or maybe it was three. After knowing this and reading about my experience last night, some people might attribute what happened to me as a mere episode of suggestion. They might say that my mind created this experience because God, the angels, the poem, and Norah were heavily on my mind. Maybe that's what it was, but I don't think so. I think it's that sort of thinking that blocks people from God and celestial occurrences. Maybe it WAS my fingers that brushed my cheek and my hair, but whose to say it wasn't Norah or God who made them move to give me a sign that my baby was near me and is always near me? I don't think anyone has the authority to say whether that was what happened or not. So, I choose to believe that I was visited by my dear, sweet Norah last night. As I type this, her teddy bear is sitting right in front of my on the desk - the teddy bear that holds her ashes. So, her body is quite literally with me - right in front of me - at this moment, but I know that in every moment her soul is with me too. She's watching over her momma and she wants me to be happy. Some day I will grant her that wish. Some day I will be happy again. But for now, I want her to know that she was so loved - IS so loved - that my longing for her outweighs any type of happiness I could experience without her. Gradually, with the passage of time, the scales of longing and happiness will even out, then maybe even tip in my favor, but until then I will continue to miss my girl and pray and hope that she can visit me again like she did last night. I will forever treasure my visit from my beautiful, sweet daughter, Norah Violet. Mommy loves you, baby girl. <3
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Today and Lately and Every Day... SUCKS
Today was a hard day. We have bad days and not-so-bad days. I call them "not-so-bad" days because I don't know that any day will ever again be truly classifiable as good. Some days are bad, some are bearable, some are not-so-bad. Today, in particular was hard. It's strange to me that my husband and I seem to be swinging on the same emotional pendulum. I say strange, but I am very thankful for this. This means that when I am having a particularly hard day, he most likely is too. This is helpful because we haven't yet felt bad about "bringing down" the other. We've also had not-so-bad days together too. This is helpful because we don't feel guilty for smiling or laughing at something while the other is feeling low. K, my husband, is my rock. His very presence has a calming effect on me. I know with him by my side I will never ever be alone in this. He has told me that I am his rock and that he feels just the same about me. We are incredibly fortunate to have each other and to be so in sync with our grief. I have read about couples who drifted apart in the wake of such a tragedy. But K and I, we are different. We talk to each other, we support each other, and we love each other...always. Period. End of story.
So, today was a hard day. K left for work, as usual, at 7 AM. I was still in bed, trying to fall back to sleep after he kissed me goodbye and told me to call or email him at work should I need him for anything at all throughout the day. This was our morning routine now that I was home recovering and not back to work. About thirty minutes later my phone rang and it was K. I immediately panicked. At thirty minutes into his commute he definitely would not have made it to work yet. Immediately I thought he had been in an accident. Frantic, I answered the phone, asking him if he was ok, was he in an accident? He said he had not been in an accident but that he was very upset and missing Norah badly. He wasn't sure that he would be able to go in to work. He had already been back to work for four days the week before and he had made it through the previous day (a Monday), but I didn't care if he had only been back to work for five days. If he didn't feel good enough to go in there, I wanted him home. We decided it was best for him to just come home so we could cope with his feelings together and that he could try to get some work done from home if he felt a little better later in the day. I was so glad when he walked in the bedroom door and we were able to hold each other. He didn't really say much, but I knew holding me was what he needed and I was happy to give it to him. Unfortunately we couldn't stay entwined the whole day; I had a doctor appointment for an issue unrelated to my pregnancy and needed to leave a few hours later for that. This is where my day starts to take a downward turn...
Everything seemed fine as I waited to be seen by the doctor. I felt alright as I sat in the waiting room and filled out the necessary paperwork. As I was taken back to the exam room nothing seemed amiss. I was glad I had taken the initiative to make this appointment after several years of dealing with a cyst in my hand. I was glad to finally be getting it taken care of. As I sat in the chair of the exam room waiting for the doctor I was thinking of Norah, of course, about Kevin and if he was ok at home, and I was feeling that background sadness that I always feel, but overall I felt pretty ok, considering it had only been a month since we lost Norah. Then I heard the exam room door open, I looked toward the door, and I saw a huge pregnant belly enter the room. I swear, that's all I saw. I couldn't look up to see the face that belonged to this burgeoning belly, I could only gape, in horror, at what was coming steadily closer to me. I began to panic. I looked at the walls, the ceiling, the now-closed door...anywhere but at that belly. As the woman began to speak, she explained that she was a physician's assistant and that she would be doing my initial evaluation before the doctor saw me. I didn't hear anything after that because I began to sob. Luckily there was a box of tissues within reach and I thrust my hand in and grabbed a handful. The PA looked at me and asked if I was in pain from my hand. I started to explain to her that I had carried my baby full term but she had been still born and that we had lost her only a month ago. I told her that her condition was upsetting me. I was apologizing but for crying, but while I was apologizing I felt as though I didn't need to apologize for this. This was normal behavior and par for the course for anyone in my situation. She should have been sensitive to that too, being what looked to be at least seven months pregnant. However, she powered through my evaluation and I was left to sit there, inches from that taught belly inside a shirt so snug I could see its protruding belly button through it. I was in shock and horrified that this woman wouldn't have immediately left the room and found another PA to attend to me. Thankfully her initial evaluation wasn't too long and she left the room. I breathed a sigh of relief; now I would see the doctor and I could get the hell out of there. However, the ordeal wasn't finished yet. She accompanied the doctor BACK into the room and stayed after he left to answer any questions I had about the surgery the doctor had scheduled for me the next week. I couldn't even think about anything clearly enough to ask any meaningful questions. Truly, I just wanted to get out of there. I couldn't believe that God had once again slapped me so hard in the face like this. In the past week I had been dealing with situations involving pregnancy and babies in high volume. And all this at a time when I had been praying more than I had ever prayed in me LIFE. I truly did not understand why God was doing this to me when all I had been doing was begging him and my guardian angels to guide K and I safely through this terrible ordeal.
Lately, these are the issues I had been dealing with...
1 - I wanted to get a thank you card for people at work who had been helpful to us and for the funeral home who handled Norah's funeral at no cost to us (an absolute blessing). I searched for the thank you cards and, cruelly ironically enough, they were located DIRECTLY next to the "Congratulations on Your New Baby Girl" cards. I shit you not. To the immediate right of the thank you cards was a huge section of pink cards meant to mark the arrival of a brand new baby girl, which we OTHER people should have been buying and sending to US, but instead the only cards we were getting were sympathy cards and I was standing NEXT to the cards we SHOULD have been receiving to buy a THANK YOU CARD for people who were helping us deal with our daughter's passing. What a cruel fucking joke.
2 -The Friday after the Thank You card incident there was a large white envelope in the mail. I opened it and inside there was a thick guide on "Your Baby's First Year" as well as other congratulatory items. I began sobbing and promptly called the insurance company to request that we receive no more mail of that nature.
3 - That Sunday we actually tried going to church for the first time in years. The sermon was based on a passage in the Bible where God tells Abraham to offer up his son to Him as a sacrifice. The sermon talked a lot about babies and children and several rows behind us there was a small baby who fussed the entire time. K and I didn't make it through the whole service and had to leave early. Nice one, God. Thanks.
4 - The next day there was a mailer from Gerber in the mail. I have no idea why Gerber would be sending us anything. I had never signed up for Gerber or ANY other formula companies. I had planned to breastfeed exclusively. By the way, did I mention my milk isn't even completely dried up yet?
5 - There are increasingly more and more pregnant women and babies on TV. We only get thirteen channels. One day this past week three of those channels were blocked out and four of them were broadcasting shows with pregnant women or babies in them. What are the freaking odds?! You do the math.
So, if all this isn't horrible enough, to add insult to injury when I got home from my doctor appointment I had a voicemail. It was from a jewelry consultant I had booked a jewelry party with early on in my pregnancy. She had called because her "notes said I had had a baby and she wanted to congratulated me and see when I'd be ready to book another jewelry party." I texted her back with this. "Our daughter was stillborn. We are having a difficult time dealing with her loss. I will not be participating in any more jewelry events."
I am just SICK AND TIRED of this stuff happening to us. I am not going to sit idly by anymore and just let it happen. You can kick me when I'm down, but I'll only accept so much. After that point, I'm fighting back. So, that's where I'm at right now with all of this. Thoroughly sick of it all and ready to crawl into a hole and not come out for a long time.
So, today was a hard day. K left for work, as usual, at 7 AM. I was still in bed, trying to fall back to sleep after he kissed me goodbye and told me to call or email him at work should I need him for anything at all throughout the day. This was our morning routine now that I was home recovering and not back to work. About thirty minutes later my phone rang and it was K. I immediately panicked. At thirty minutes into his commute he definitely would not have made it to work yet. Immediately I thought he had been in an accident. Frantic, I answered the phone, asking him if he was ok, was he in an accident? He said he had not been in an accident but that he was very upset and missing Norah badly. He wasn't sure that he would be able to go in to work. He had already been back to work for four days the week before and he had made it through the previous day (a Monday), but I didn't care if he had only been back to work for five days. If he didn't feel good enough to go in there, I wanted him home. We decided it was best for him to just come home so we could cope with his feelings together and that he could try to get some work done from home if he felt a little better later in the day. I was so glad when he walked in the bedroom door and we were able to hold each other. He didn't really say much, but I knew holding me was what he needed and I was happy to give it to him. Unfortunately we couldn't stay entwined the whole day; I had a doctor appointment for an issue unrelated to my pregnancy and needed to leave a few hours later for that. This is where my day starts to take a downward turn...
Everything seemed fine as I waited to be seen by the doctor. I felt alright as I sat in the waiting room and filled out the necessary paperwork. As I was taken back to the exam room nothing seemed amiss. I was glad I had taken the initiative to make this appointment after several years of dealing with a cyst in my hand. I was glad to finally be getting it taken care of. As I sat in the chair of the exam room waiting for the doctor I was thinking of Norah, of course, about Kevin and if he was ok at home, and I was feeling that background sadness that I always feel, but overall I felt pretty ok, considering it had only been a month since we lost Norah. Then I heard the exam room door open, I looked toward the door, and I saw a huge pregnant belly enter the room. I swear, that's all I saw. I couldn't look up to see the face that belonged to this burgeoning belly, I could only gape, in horror, at what was coming steadily closer to me. I began to panic. I looked at the walls, the ceiling, the now-closed door...anywhere but at that belly. As the woman began to speak, she explained that she was a physician's assistant and that she would be doing my initial evaluation before the doctor saw me. I didn't hear anything after that because I began to sob. Luckily there was a box of tissues within reach and I thrust my hand in and grabbed a handful. The PA looked at me and asked if I was in pain from my hand. I started to explain to her that I had carried my baby full term but she had been still born and that we had lost her only a month ago. I told her that her condition was upsetting me. I was apologizing but for crying, but while I was apologizing I felt as though I didn't need to apologize for this. This was normal behavior and par for the course for anyone in my situation. She should have been sensitive to that too, being what looked to be at least seven months pregnant. However, she powered through my evaluation and I was left to sit there, inches from that taught belly inside a shirt so snug I could see its protruding belly button through it. I was in shock and horrified that this woman wouldn't have immediately left the room and found another PA to attend to me. Thankfully her initial evaluation wasn't too long and she left the room. I breathed a sigh of relief; now I would see the doctor and I could get the hell out of there. However, the ordeal wasn't finished yet. She accompanied the doctor BACK into the room and stayed after he left to answer any questions I had about the surgery the doctor had scheduled for me the next week. I couldn't even think about anything clearly enough to ask any meaningful questions. Truly, I just wanted to get out of there. I couldn't believe that God had once again slapped me so hard in the face like this. In the past week I had been dealing with situations involving pregnancy and babies in high volume. And all this at a time when I had been praying more than I had ever prayed in me LIFE. I truly did not understand why God was doing this to me when all I had been doing was begging him and my guardian angels to guide K and I safely through this terrible ordeal.
Lately, these are the issues I had been dealing with...
1 - I wanted to get a thank you card for people at work who had been helpful to us and for the funeral home who handled Norah's funeral at no cost to us (an absolute blessing). I searched for the thank you cards and, cruelly ironically enough, they were located DIRECTLY next to the "Congratulations on Your New Baby Girl" cards. I shit you not. To the immediate right of the thank you cards was a huge section of pink cards meant to mark the arrival of a brand new baby girl, which we OTHER people should have been buying and sending to US, but instead the only cards we were getting were sympathy cards and I was standing NEXT to the cards we SHOULD have been receiving to buy a THANK YOU CARD for people who were helping us deal with our daughter's passing. What a cruel fucking joke.
2 -The Friday after the Thank You card incident there was a large white envelope in the mail. I opened it and inside there was a thick guide on "Your Baby's First Year" as well as other congratulatory items. I began sobbing and promptly called the insurance company to request that we receive no more mail of that nature.
3 - That Sunday we actually tried going to church for the first time in years. The sermon was based on a passage in the Bible where God tells Abraham to offer up his son to Him as a sacrifice. The sermon talked a lot about babies and children and several rows behind us there was a small baby who fussed the entire time. K and I didn't make it through the whole service and had to leave early. Nice one, God. Thanks.
4 - The next day there was a mailer from Gerber in the mail. I have no idea why Gerber would be sending us anything. I had never signed up for Gerber or ANY other formula companies. I had planned to breastfeed exclusively. By the way, did I mention my milk isn't even completely dried up yet?
5 - There are increasingly more and more pregnant women and babies on TV. We only get thirteen channels. One day this past week three of those channels were blocked out and four of them were broadcasting shows with pregnant women or babies in them. What are the freaking odds?! You do the math.
So, if all this isn't horrible enough, to add insult to injury when I got home from my doctor appointment I had a voicemail. It was from a jewelry consultant I had booked a jewelry party with early on in my pregnancy. She had called because her "notes said I had had a baby and she wanted to congratulated me and see when I'd be ready to book another jewelry party." I texted her back with this. "Our daughter was stillborn. We are having a difficult time dealing with her loss. I will not be participating in any more jewelry events."
I am just SICK AND TIRED of this stuff happening to us. I am not going to sit idly by anymore and just let it happen. You can kick me when I'm down, but I'll only accept so much. After that point, I'm fighting back. So, that's where I'm at right now with all of this. Thoroughly sick of it all and ready to crawl into a hole and not come out for a long time.
The Longest Month
Hi, sweet baby girl. I miss you so much. It's been a whole month since we first held you in our arms. It feels like it's been the longest month. Time just seems to stand still without you. I remember when you were in my belly and I was frantically trying to get everything just perfect for when we would bring you home; there just didn't seem like enough time to get it all done, but I did (all except for the meals I wanted to make and freeze so daddy and would have something to eat while we were busy taking care of you). Then I went into labor earlier than we had planned and none of that mattered anymore. I wish I had taken more time in those last few weeks to just sit with you and feel you in my tummy. I wish I had played more music for you, talked to you more. If I had known those were to be our last few days together I would have done so much more for you - paid so much more attention to you. This month has seemed so long without you, sweetheart. All the days that daddy and I have spent just sitting around with nothing to do but miss you have seemed so long. I can remember being sure that hours had passed but when I looked at the clock it was really three hours earlier than I had thought it was. It really seemed so cruel to me, how slowly the days would take to end. Not only did we not have you home with us, but the days crept by so slowly, as if to mock us as we sat listless on the couch, just waiting to get tired enough to drag ourselves back upstairs to bed and repeat the whole cycle over again. Our days aren't quite so dismal now, but we are always missing you. We keep each other strong and support one another, which makes things bearable now, but there is always sadness in the background. I can't imagine how many times I say your name in my head throughout each day. You are constantly on my mind. I think of how absolutely beautiful you were, how natural it felt to hold you, how I proud I was to be your mommy, how absolutely amazing it was to hold you as you, daddy and I slept together that first night in the hospital bed. We all fit together in that tiny bed - our perfect family. I never want to forget the time we had with you, baby girl. I am so afraid that as time goes on that I'll forget what it felt like to hold you. I'm so glad we have so many pictures of you that we can look at when we miss you. Did you know that every night daddy and I look at your pictures, kiss you and tell you how much we love you as we say goodnight to you? I'm sure you do. I'm sure you're always with us. I can't wait until we can be with you again in Heaven, sweetie. I hope your grandpa and great grandma are taking good care of you and keeping you company. I miss both of them very much too. Will you tell them hello for your momma? I can't wait to see all of you again in Heaven some day. I'm trying to be extra good so I can see you some day, sweetheart. Mommy loves you so so very much. I think of you ALL the time and wish so badly that we could be together. I will write you again soon, angel.
I love you more than all the stars in the sky and all the fish in the sea.
I love you more than all the stars in the sky and all the fish in the sea.
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