Unimaginable

Each year as October rolls around I can feel the grief settling in. Not that it isn’t always present but it becomes extremely heavy. My mind becomes foggy. Fatigue sets in. 

I have learned over the last twelve years to embrace this time. To lean in to my grief season. I take off work the entire week of A’s birthday. To tap into the grief, I go through his photo album, re-read sympathy cards from 2011, watch movies about death and dying, read books about babyloss and grief. I want to get those big, stormy emotions flowing. I’m going to be lethargic and emotionally fragile this time of year no matter what (it’s like my psyche remembers even if I try to distract myself) so I might as well make it therapeutic. 

This year, with a two-year-old at home, I have packed up my grief kit and left the house. I cannot fall apart when my toddler is nearby constantly needing me and my maternal spidey sense is on alert. So I’m here at the public library, stifling my crying while I sit in a corner with soft instrumental music coming through my headphones and reading Brooke D. Taylor’s memoir, “Unimaginable.” 

Maybe you know Brooke and her story from her blog - by the brooke. Either way, it seems like every other page she hits me right in the heart. Her ability to verbalize the experience of stillbirth and the aftermath is such a gift for me. It affirms what I’ve been through, how I have felt (and still feel). It crystalizes my own experience in ways that deepen my comprehension of it.

I haven’t even finished the book yet (I likely will before grief week is over) but I absolutely recommend it. Thank you Brooke for being brave enough to publish your most vulnerable times and feelings.

Grief Doula

Doulas offer support services during labor and delivery and also postpartum when parents are physically and emotionally spent. As I lay in bed reading Dear Cheyenne and connecting with my own grief eight years out, I thought how nice it would be to have a grief doula. The doula would cook soul soothing food (for me, rich soups, pork in any variation and plenty of sweets), make tea/coffee, cover me with a heavy blanket when I sat down to read and journal. The doula would also be unfazed by the intense emotions pouring forth from across the spectrum; quietly moving breakable things out of the way when rage sets in and I physically lash out. Sitting with me while I howl in anguish and choke on my tears. Tucking me in for a nap after all the exhausting grief work.

I think this fantasy stems in part from the solitude of grief; how alone I sometimes feel with all the thoughts and feelings; with the weight of grief. Part of it, obviously, is inspired by how vulnerable I feel when I surrender to my grief. The idea of having someone take care of me when I’m feeling shattered instead of the status quo - me taking care of everyone else in my household.

Maybe there’s a business venture here…

Seven

My boy would be seven. S-e-v-e-n. A lanky, second-grader comfortable after two years at elementary school and able to provide support to his little sister just venturing into kindergarten.

Like all of these birthdays, seven seems to hold its own significance. Maybe not in the most direct of ways, like the firstbirthday or even the fifth birthday. But it's made me think about an event I attended at a local Native American community center many years ago (well before I ever had kids which feels like an eternity ago). The speaker presented on the significance of the number seven.

She explained that human embryos begin to develop genitalia at 7 weeks gestation. This is the first outward evidence of gender; differentiation and a step in identity.

At age 7 years, most children are shedding their baby teeth and assuming their adult teeth; another major transformation.

Seven years after that, at 14, another major life milestone - puberty. When adolescents' bodies mature and are now capable of reproduction.

Unfortunately, I cannot recall what she said about age 21, the last in her series of 7-year divisions. But I think it was something along the lines of becoming a full-fledged adult who contributes to the community.

Seven years, is also the state-mandated medical record retention policy in our state. When A died, we took advantage of all available opportunities to try and determine why our healthy full-term baby died suddenly. We signed off on lab tests and agreed to an autopsy and genetic testing. After we had all of those reports in hand, we visited two different perinatal specialists in our area to see if they could glean a cause of death. They each came to different hypotheses; one said it may have been some sort of pressure on the cord. The other said, it could have been an infection. We will never know for sure. One of them did note, that A’s heart was enlarged (per the autopsy report it weighed 17.3 grams, well above the high end of average at 14 grams)

In the months after A was born, I requested my prenatal and labor and delivery records along with all of his hospital records. Fresh in mourning and with an aching heart, I read through the autopsy report. It ripped me apart to read how much each of his organs weighed, trying to avoid thinking about some stranger in a lab coat dissecting my boy, cutting open his body and snipping loose each organ. But we wanted answers, for our sake, for A’s sake and for the prospect of future children.

My recollection was that while reading through the autopsy report, there was a single instance where his heart was reported to have been of normal size. That there was one digit off, a typo. This morning, I scoured the house looking for A’s medical records. I needed to find that autopsy report and call the hospital to have it corrected. This week is seven years since treatment, which means they’ll destroy his medical records this week. I need the record to be accurate.

The records weren’t in his box – the one with all his memorabilia. They weren’t in my filing box. They weren’t in his binder that holds his photos. WHERE ARE THEY?! I began sobbing, hyperventilating, spinning into a panic. I had to find them. The hospital will destroy them any day now. This is my last chance to set the record straight.

Finally, in the farthest corner, in a bin I didn’t even remember we had, I found the records. I sat down and went through them again, agonizing over words like “the usual Y shaped incision was made.” I read through the entire autopsy report and didn’t find the discrepant heart size. I re-read the autopsy report. I again, only found the 17.3 gram reference. I picked up the thicker stack of records; my medical records and went through them page-by-page. No discrepancy. Had I misread it all those years ago? Am I misremembering now?

I went through A’s and my records several more times searching for a different measurement of his heart. Nothing.

I have resigned myself that I will not be reaching out to the hospital to right an incorrect report. But I don’t know if I’ll ever shake this nagging feeling that it was an error.

And what does it matter? So what if his heart was enlarged? His brain was also much above the high end of average weight. (Oh the thought of his skull being opened and someone removing his brain with two hands and placing it on a scale!!!!). It may not be an important clue in this medical mystery of why he died. Maybe more than anything, it’s just a manifestation of my need to parent my dead child and there being so few opportunities to do so.  

Grief Week

With seven years of grieving experience, I have come to know what to expect during my grief season and what I need. This week is A’s seventh birthday. I planned ahead by taking the entire week off of work so that I can fall apart and get in touch with all of the emotions I so often quell throughout the year. I also stocked my freezer with ice cream and my pantry with Oreos*.

This morning, E and I drop the girls off at their schools and he continued on to work. I returned home and set up (grief) shop. A thick blanket on the recliner, water bottle and coffee within arm’s reach, a box of tissues, A’s tiny urn. I settle in and delve into books that get me in touch with my grief and that validate my feelings and my experiences (like They Were Still Born and Bearing the Unbearable and Love You Forever – all of which were written by bereaved parents).

This week, for me, is an opportunity to inhabit my grief. I wade into the thick stew of emotions and, without judgment, embrace whicheverfeelings come. I give myself permission this week to fall apart; to abandon my usual responsibilities (ie regular showering, laundry and making meals for my family – we’ll subsist this week on pizza, frozen chicken tenders and mac-n-cheese) and to do whatever feels right in the moment. Could be sleeping. Could be exercising. Could be gardening. Could be journaling.

I will go through A’s pictures; all of the ultrasounds and also the photos of our one day together. I will watch the short video my husband took, unbeknownst to me at the time, while I cradled that long, limp boy and delicately caressed his perfect body while quietly uttering, “I don’t understand.” over and over again.

I will listen to songs that trigger tears. I will bawl, howl and sob. I will re-read the condolence cards we received seven autumns ago (only those with heartfelt, genuine notes). I will mound the used tissues up, wet with tears and snot, until they topple onto the floor.

I will honor my love for my boy by honoring my grief over his absence.

*I am in no way compensated for promoting Oreos. I doubt Oreos need any promotion.

Fives Year Out

Five years old feels like such a milestone. Kindergarten, big boy interests, growth spurts. And yet, there is so little to say because I’ve said it all before. I wonder who he’d be. I wonder what he’d look like. I want him here in the midst of our hectic, messy life. I want him here with his little sisters. I want very much to know him.

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A’s death has undoubtedly affected my parenting. In many ways, I am a much better parent because of A and because of his death. But there is also a level of fear that I don’t think non-babyloss parents feel. I fear that my living children will die or my husband. Because this terrible tragedy befell us with no warning sign, no explanation and not due to anything that we did, it often feels like bad things will continue to happen to us.

This paranoia was clear over the winter. Baby Sheep was still a smooshy infant and we had gotten her accustomed to sleeping in her crib in the room right beside ours. If she got cold during the night, she’d wake up, which sucked for everyone. But if I overbundled her, I was sure I’d kill her. (Overheating has been linked to an increased risk of SIDS). So there I was every bedtime stressing out, standing at the changer hemming and hawing over what to dress her in. I’d finally decide. Zip her into her sleepsack and put her to bed. Later on, while laying in bed myself, trying to fall asleep, my anxiety would rev up wondering if she’s quiet because she’s sleeping soundly or because she’s dead.

She did not die last winter and at 15-months of age now, I’m (a little) less concerned about SIDS. But every night for months I was sure the pajamas I chose were going to be her demise.

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A’s birthday falls on a Monday. E and I are both taking off of work but still sending the girls to preschool and the sitter respectively. We don’t have definite plans but I expect we will go through A’s photos, finger the soft tuft of his hair and cry…a lot. I’d like to spend some time outside. There is something soothing about being in the quiet of nature.

We’ll pick up the girls a little earlier than usual and head to the local toy store to pick out something 5-year-old A would like. Maybe we’ll do something fun like last year or maybe we’ll stop for a special treat at the ice cream parlor. And every year we do an act of kindness in A’s honor. Though we haven’t decided what that will be yet.

All of these things are good and I want to do them. But there is still part me that is angry and resentful. Makes me want to knock all of the toys off the shelf at the store; throw my ice cream cone against the wall and scream at the happy “complete” families walking down the street. Because photos, snippets of hair and “would be” fantasies are not enough. Nothing will ever be enough to right the wrong of his absence.

Four Year Ramblings

My sweet still baby would be fours year old. He’d be more than a month into pre-K by now and getting excited for his birthday and Halloween shortly after. I’d be bustling around to get all three kids ready for Halloween, decorate, stock up on candy and also plan my son’s fourth birthday party. I imagine he’d be more of a boy and not so much “toddler” anymore. I’d marvel at how fast the time goes and swoon over the memories of him as an infant. What was his first word? When did he take his first steps?

I do not feel like the mother of a four-year-old. And I certainly don’t feel like the mother of a boy. Our girls are not girly by any means, but they aren’t the energy balls so often prone to destruction that little boys tend to be.

E came home from the grocery store the night before A’s birthday with a pack of beer and two packages of Oreos. Let the emotional self-medicating commence. (I’m shoving fistfuls of Oreos in my mouth as I type this. It doesn’t make me feel any better but it’s kind of a distraction.)

I watch Dragon play with the four-year-old neighbor boy – born 5 months before A – and instantly my mind fantasizes about her interacting with her big brother. She watches the neighbor boy enthralled with his super squirt gun but she has learned not to grab or even ask for his things because he is not a good sharer. She waits until he drops the squirter to get another toy and then swoops in behind his back and starts fiddling with it. She’s trying to figure out how it works, but doesn’t want to ask because that would draw attention to the fact that she now possesses the coveted toy. She emulates whatever he does. You can see the adoration in her eyes as she watches the neighbor boy. On days when it’s just us at home, she’ll pick out a shirt to wear and tell me that the neighbor boy “likes this one.” Why is she seeking his approval? Must be that he’s older and she looks up to him. I can only imagine what kind of big brother A would be. I’d give anything to watch the three of our children play/argue/fight together like normal siblings.

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“What do you want to do for his birthday?” I ask E. He thinks briefly and says, “Something he’d want to do.” I suggest the zoo, museum, bounce house or indoor trampoline park. “All of them?” he responds. My brokenhearted husband, I know it hurts even when, most of the year, you don’t let on.

So this morning we set out to have a special day for Big Brother’s birthday, doing things he’d like to do as a four-year-old. We went to the trampoline place and then out to a restaurant for lunch. A nice elderly couple complimented us on how cute Sheep is at 3-months old and joked with E that two daughters is really like having three wives. No mention of our absent son.

I wish had more time to spend with my son and with my grief this fourth year, but a 2 ½ year-old and a 3-month-old don’t allow for much alone time. In fact, I’ve hardly cried so far this month. I think it’s mainly because if I have a moment of time to myself, I try to lay down (not a whole lot of sleeping going on. Eh hem, I’m looking at you Baby Sheep.). Finally in the shower this week I began sobbing. Now I just need like 15 more showers this weekend to get all the emotions out.

Four years old and I wonder who he’d be. Four years old and I miss him like crazy.

A’s 3rd Birthday

I wrote this to A on his birthday last month. I am finally getting around to posting it here.

My Darling Son,

We are having exceptionally warm weather. That last time we had such unseasonably mild October weather was in 2011 as we were counting down the days to your arrival.  I remember wearing sandals up to the week before you were born - convenient because my swollen feet didn’t fit into my shoes. I remember walking over to the hospital in a light t-shirt and rain jacket. I remember feeling the wetness of Daddy’s raincoat when he collapsed on my chest sobbing during that final, conclusive ultrasound.

Each beautiful sunny, autumn day makes me ache for you. As your third birthday approaches I wonder what theme you’d have chosen for your party this year? Pirates? Dinosaurs? Outer space? And what about Halloween, my Love? What would you like to be this year? Whatever you choose, we’ll come up with a corresponding costume for your little sister; it’s probably the last year before she asserts her own opinion.

I often wonder what the sibling dynamic would be between you two. I wish that I could be witness to that evolving relationship. Daddy and I have decided to have another baby. If we are fortunate enough to bring a new baby home I know it will break my heart all over again watching your sister dote on that baby. I fantasize about a 15-month-old you meeting Dragon at the hospital for the first time, kissing her face sweetly, insisting on holding her by yourself!

It is undeniable that you, dear boy, have made me a better mother than I would have been. I have shed my pride. Inhibition, embarrassment and judgment do not influence my parenting as they once did. I have clear priorities that spending time together, with Dragon and with family, are far more important than any chore or job or mess. I am liberated from concern about what others think or feel about me or my choices. Now I can do what is best for us without hesitation. Just one of your many gifts.

I love you with all my being.

Love,

Mama

Familiar Territory

A’s birthday is nearly here. As in years past, I start to get weepy and emotional as soon as the weather changes and it begins to feel like fall. Then, October arrives and I withdraw into myself. 

Right now, things are very similar to the weeks right after A died. I am lethargic, unmotivated, grumpy and very fragile. I feel utterly drained. Today, I literally laid on the couch while Dragon brought toys and books over to me; climbing atop and over me. I just didn’t have the energy to play. Poor girl. What will she think of this annual unraveling?

We put her to bed and I crash onto the couch watching mindless television until we head to bed ourselves. (This was our tactic in the early weeks to distract our minds from the stinging reality.) But, as it always is, I cannot fall asleep. Instead, my brain plays flashbacks of A’s days over and over. I berate myself for not having kissed him more, for ever having laid him back in the isolette; why didn’t I hold him the entire fucking time?! 

I have learned from past years and so this year I took offof work the entire birthday week. I am incapacitated. I’m barely functioning and facing my son’s third birthday makes most other things completely insignificant. There is no way I’m able to focus on work. Plus, the breakdowns are coming more frequently. You know how it is, puttering along washing dishes or something and then you just can’t suppress it. The tears come, you collapse, body shuddering with sobs. Eventually, you pull yourself together, gather the pile of wet tissues and try to get on with the day.

Also as in the early days, I’m avoiding going out in public. It is so incredibly uncomfortable and downright frightening. It isn’t just that I’m extra fragile right now and could have a meltdown at any moment. But it is more clear this time of year that I do not belong; that I am very broken. I do not know how to navigate social situations anymore and attempting to do so is very taxing to my already low energy stores. If it weren’t for Dragon, I’d stay in the house the entire week. Well, there is an exception. This year I planned ahead and scheduled some self-care by way of a massage. Though it gave me anxiety to go out in public and put my vulnerable self up on the table, it was totally worth it. Like all the chocolate I’ve been eating, it didn’t relieve my pain and sorrow, but I did feel more grounded afterward and definitely more relaxed.

New this year was the stay-super-busy-so-you-don’t-have-time-to-think strategy. It started subconsciously but I quickly realized what was going on. I packed my days full of chores, projects and the like. Much more so than the usual crazy multitasking that goes on around here. At the end of a ridiculously busy (and productive) day, I was beat and fell into bed only to get on the hamster wheel again in the morning. If there wasn’t any down time then my mind couldn’t register the anguish within, couldn’t notice that it was nearly October, couldn’t redirect my attention to the heartwrenching reality that we live in. This technique, of course, is only effective temporarily because inevitably all of those things do creep in. And, as noted above, eventually the grief becomes crippling and despite those lingering to-do lists, I am, essentially, in a catatonic state.

E, per usual, has stepped up as I have fallen apart. He picks up the slack around the house and tends to Dragon. He is extra supportive and always asks what I need. I find that I avoid making eye contact with him; the second I do, I devolve into tears; because he is my rock, because he is hurting just as badly as I am, because we are in this together and it is so fucking intense.

In the coming days I am trying to set aside time to let the tears flow and the rage run. I will sit down and go through A’s album again and again. I will go through his box of stuff. I will read the sympathy cards I saved from three years ago. I will cradle, kiss and talk to his miniature urn. I will carefully remove his hair from the envelope that houses it and roll the downy softness between my fingers; sniffing it in hopes of catching a whiff of my baby boy, before meticulously putting it away. I will read his little sister the book, Someone Came Before You which chokes me up every time and we only read on special occasions and holidays. I will curl up on the ground and bawl and howl. I will write to A. I will do all of these things because this is how I know to grieve and although the day-to-day functioning is easier than it was three years ago, the pain, agony and longing are as intense as they ever were.

Two Years' Raw

A’s second birthday was last week. The pain and rage were as raw and intense as they were two years ago. The agony was so overwhelming that the thought of killing myself crossed my mind (as it did those wretched first weeks). Not as a serious plan, but because there is no other way to escape such oppressive anguish. Be assured I am not going to harm myself, I couldn’t cause E or Dragon any more heartache.

Last year, I sent out birth-announcement-style cards for his first birthday asking our family and friends to perform acts of kindness in his honor. That, coupled with it being his first birthday, elicited much response. This year I did not send anything nor planned a get together of any sorts. We received a handful of texts and calls plus a few cards in the mail. A mere fraction of last year’s showing. It was pitiful.

I have never felt so alone in my grief.

If A was alive to celebrate his second birthday I am certain he would have been inundated with cards, calls, messages and gifts. I know many of our loved ones were thinking of him on his birthday so why the silence?

With his birthday came a heavy depression. I am apathetic towards work and daily responsibilities. It is a chore to drag myself out of bed each morning, yet I toss and turn trying to fall asleep at night. I’m moody and short-tempered. I’m emotional and distracted. I am utterly overwhelmed by the life obligations facing me. I want to hide beneath the bed covers for days. How I wish the world would give me permission to grieve like two years ago; afford me another bereavement period. Weeks of moping around the house ignoring phone calls, bills and responsibilities. No reason to leave the safety of my home.

But life doesn’t stop. And neither does this adventurous 9½-month-old dragon who crawls, clambers, climbs and explores every waking second. So I must tend to my living child. I must fulfill my scheduled work hours. I must keep up the house and feed the family. Because of my depression and grief, I cannot engage in life. However, I cannot fully commit to grieving and depression either, which leaves me in an uncomfortable, unresolved purgatory state.

Birthday Recap

A’s first birthday was last week. Here are some reflections of A’s birthday and the last week of anniversaries. I ended up calling in to work the day before A’s birthday. This was the date last year that we found out he had died.  After being induced that night, A was born late the next morning. Again the flashbacks tormented me and I cried much of the day but it was actually therapeutic. I was relieved to have extra time and space to rock his snowsuit and urn; to sit in the nursery; to face all of the brutal reminders that I actively ignore each day in order to function. I was relieved to be able to fall apart again, even for a short while.

On his actual birthday we laid low and stayed in. E worked but came home for an early lunch. We were together when the clock struck A’s birth time. I spent more time journaling, crying, reading books to A (and Dragon) and rocking in the nursery sobbing. E did not have anything particular that he wanted or needed to do to commemorate the day. In all honesty, I think he was just focused on surviving it himself.

We had previously sent out memorial cards (made from a customizable birth announcement). On the front was his name, three photos and A’s birth stats. On the backside was a brief message from E and I asking that folks join us in remembering our son and to honor his life by performing an act of kindness in A’s name – even an anonymous one. We feel that this spreads the positive impact of his brief life and ensures his spirit lives on. I got much good feedback from our family and friends about the card and the sentiment. Our OB provider even asked if they could hang the card on the wall with all the other (living) birth announcements. I tearfully consented.

For our own act of kindness we are donating a bunch of household goods to a local immigrant assistance organization. I would still like to plant a tree for A. Something that turns brilliantly vibrant this time of year. The hurdle is deciding where to plant it. I don’t want to put in our yard because we will likely outgrow this house in the next few years and I want to be able to visit A’s tree for the rest of my life and have it accessible to his siblings and others for many years. Perhaps one of the local parks or historical sites. One friend even suggested that when we do plant the tree, E and I each write A a letter and bury them with the roots time-capsule-style. I like that.

Additionally, I have started to organize a little memorial for the house. Ever since we brought A’s ashes home he typically hangs out in the bassinet in our bedroom. Obviously we will have to put baby Dragon in the bassinet (assuming all goes well). Besides I have some lovely mementos that I’ve been meaning to display. I’m thinking either the mantle or perhaps a shelf in our room where I can hang the glass locket with his hair, a charm with his name, a photo or two of our sweet boy and of course, his urn.

A few days after A’s actual birthday I noticed a definite shift emotionally. Not that I wasn’t excited about this new pregnancy before, but it feels more tangible now, the excitement more palpable. I am all of a sudden inspired to start taking care of things in anticipation of baby Dragon’s arrival. Mixed in is the motivation to take care of this A memorial project.

It’s almost as if my anguish, dread and resistance leading up to his birthday was all-consuming and now that it is over, space and emotional resources have opened up. I don’t know but it is a nice surprise. A little brightness after a very dark previous month.

The evening of A’s birthday, E and I were on the couch watching the tube and decided it was time to hit the hay. He clicked off the TV and we embraced. He whispered, “We made it through the day.” I half-smiled and replied, “We made it through the year.” It’s still crazy to think it’s been a whole year.

I am still struggling to get back on my feet and Halloween is going to be another major setback. In all fairness, the lead up to A’s birthday was intensely emotional for weeks prior to the actual event. Given the weeks of building to the apex, I imagine it will take a little while to recover. I am trying to be patient with that. I am also holding onto how therapeutic it felt to grieve heavily again. I plan to continue to make time to sit with him, sit with my feelings and face my reality.

A’s First Birthday

I am still stumbling after A’s first birthday earlier this week. Once I get my footing back, I’ll have more to say. In the mean time, here is the letter I wrote to my sweet boy on his birthday. It’s disjointed because it was written spontaneously as the sentiments came to me.

     Happy first birthday My Love. You’d be such a big boy by now. Daddy and I would shake our heads in disbelief while we marveled at how much you’ve grown and how each day we love you more than the last.

     I think we would have a low-key day. I’d bake you a mini-cake. After dinner we’d set that cake on your highchair tray. You’d eye it with curiosity a bit unsure of what it is or what to do with it. Tentatively you’d poke at it with your chubby index finger and eventually dive right in pressing fistfuls to your face. Cake and icing is smeared everywhere. You’re an absolute mess! And Daddy captured it all on video. (Definitely a bath night!)

     Daddy would wait until you were in your crib, down for the night, then he’d pull me close, kiss my forehead and we’d recount your birth story while we expressed our awe and gratitude at your existence and our little family of three.

     A, today the sun I shining brightly, the fall foliage is peaking and it is going to be unseasonably warm. It is an absolutely beautiful, perfect day to be born.

     Twelve months is a sliver of a lifetime but in this past year we would have learned so much about you (and ourselves).

     I want to know what your laugh sounds like.

     I want to know what your favorite foods are.

     I want to know where your tickle spots are.

     I want to know if you like to swim and splash in the water.

     I want to know your personality.

     I want to know your preferred sleep position.

     I want to know if you’d still be nursing (even just at bedtime).

     I want to know what silly face, or voice, or behavior of Daddy’s slays you every time.

     I honestly think I miss you even more now but I know too, that as time has passed my love has also grown. I mean it when I say Daddy and I love you more than words can express.

An Anniversary

This past week was the anniversary of our due date with A. As you know, I’ve had an increasingly difficult time as his first birthday approaches, but I hadn’t expected the due date anniversary to be so harrowing.

I went to work like normal but immediately I found myself fighting back tears. All morning my mind kept revisiting that day last year – how coworkers who had bet on my delivering that day in the Baby Pool ribbed me during the day, how after work E accompanied me to our regularly scheduled weekly appointment, how everything checked out perfectly, how we sat just the two (three) of us while doing the non-stress test, how E was intrigued by the monitor and printout, how the paper in the printer ran out but the office didn’t have any more of the special paper in stock, how the midwife looked at the abbreviated printout and explained the graph and how it depicted the desired number of fetal heart accelerations and recoveries, how we discussed with her our desire to wait until labor started naturally emphasizing our faith in my body and the baby to know when the time was right, how I was a little disappointed I didn’t have the energy to go out for dinner that night – I wanted to have a due-date date.

How on that very day exactly one year ago we heard our son’s heart beating for the very last time.

Blinking back tears I tried to focus on my computer screen and work assignments. It was futile. My brain (and whole being) was too dialed-in to my child and my maternal responsibility. Like a repeating movie reel it played the events of the due date and the following day then the next when we finally went out for what we believed was our final nice meal out for a long time, then the following morning when we sat through a long Happiest Baby on the Block class where I felt him moving around inside me, how I was starving and thus cranky by the time the class ended, how we drove to the store to pick up special swaddling blankets, how the next morning I didn’t feel his usual pre-dawn activity but shrugged it off and got busy with final baby preparations, how we took a belly picture which I emailed to family and friends along with photos of the finished nursery, hours later I remarked to E that I hadn’t felt the baby as much as usual and then all that happened next…

By noon my chest was tight, my head hurt and I couldn’t focus on work at all. I tried releasing some tears first in the bathroom stall and then in a back abandoned office, but it wasn’t enough to ease the tension. I toyed with the idea of leaving and going home because that’s all I wanted; I just wanted the security and privacy of my home to cry at will.

Ironically, or perhaps not, I am feeling very similar to how I did last fall shortly after A was born. That familiar atmosphere where I don’t want to leave the house, I don’t want to cook, I don’t want to do anything but distract myself enough to get through the day until I can go back to bed and tick off another day on the calendar. Last year at this time I had the world’s permission as a newly bereaved mother to shutter myself in. I had 6-weeks of maternity leave to hibernate. Now I do not have that luxury but it is exactly what I am craving.

A’s actual birthday is in a few days and I have been bracing for that. But the due date really caught me off guard. You’d think after 12 full months of living in Griefland I would learn to expect the unexpected.