Birthday Shmirthday

I recently had a birthday. The number of my age doesn’t bother me all that much. My experience has been that special occasions, holidays and family gatherings all seem to magnify A’s absence. It makes those supposed-to-be-happy events god-awful.

After coming off Mother’s Day, I knew I did not want to make a big deal out of my birthday. Typically there is dinner with my Mom and family and another dinner with my Dad and family. Plus whatever E plans special for us. This year, I just wanted to ignore my birthday. I didn’t want any acknowledgement, just wanted to shut my eyes and wake up on the other side of it.

I called off all birthday get-togethers. E and I went out to a low-key dinner that was exactly what I needed without any of the fanfare. Then came the well wishes. I don’t mean to sound unappreciative that folks think of me on my birthday, but I hated every single message. The texts, emails, cards and voicemails from family and friends were infuriating.  (My friend and fellow babylost mommy had a similar experience.)

“Enjoy your special day today!”

“May this year be your happiest!”

“Hope you’re having a wonderful day!”

Are you effing kidding me?

Now I can understand this sort of superficial nonsense from Facebook acquaintances who may not know that A was stillborn in the fall, but to hear this crap from people in my life who are well aware of the hell I’m living is flabbergasting. I wanted to personally retort to each message.

“Enjoy your special day today!”

            Eff you. Today does not feel special. It feels horrible.

“May this year be your happiest!”

            Not unless you can resurrect my son!

“Hope you’re having a wonderful day!”

            How can I possibly have a wonderful day? Don’t you realize what a struggle it is to survive each day? Don’t you listen when I explain how intensely I miss my son and hate this life without him?

I am glad the birthday shenanigans are over. I am glad I can stop smiling through gritted teeth thanking people for their “kind” thoughts. I am glad I can go back to my daily routine of focusing on survival instead of focusing on A’s absence.

Mother's Day = Misery

It’s a dreary day in Griefland. All week the storm has been building, knowing that Sunday was coming.  The onslaught of radio and television ads fueling the fury. Yesterday the winds were at a fever pitch and only by staying busy did I hold off the torrent.

Due to the change in seasons my emotions are already frayed.  Add to that, the vision I had for this Mother’s Day with my 7-month-old and the expectations of others in my current life and KA-BLAMO.

Today I hid, unwilling to confront all the whole families out there. I spent the day alternating between crying and distracting myself. It was very reminiscent of the early days after A was born. It’s a tried and true method to surviving the day.

After days of brooding and feeling blue, I find myself again frustrated that my pre-stillbirth tactics no longer help ease the pain and discomfort. It does not matter how many hours I sleep, it does not matter how much ice cream I eat or drinks I have, it does not matter how long I soak in the tub. I still feel awful. Awful and helpless to remediate it. You’d think I’ve learned this lesson by now. But apparently my psyche is too stubborn to accept this lack of control over its own emotions and its own life.

So I’ll retreat to my current, post-stillbirth regime of breakdowns and avoidance.

God how splendid today was supposed to be.

Springtime

The passage of time is undeniable. Spring is in full bloom and the yard beckons. E and I spent hours outside this week mowing, weeding and pruning. But I never once stopped thinking of sweet baby A.

He should be here with us, experiencing his first spring. We’d plop him in the center of a blanket while we worked nearby only to turn around and realize he’d scootched over to the edge of the blanket and was quizzically shoving tiny fistfuls of grass into his mouth! Perhaps the pack-n-play is a better option or maybe Daddy will strap you into the carrier.

I’d slather on the sunscreen and put a brimmed hat on your downy head. Don’t pay any attention when Daddy says you look doofy.

“This is a lilac, A. Can you smell it? No, no don’t eat it! Smell it.”

Almost 7-months-old, I long for your pudgy sausage-link legs, your creases for wrists, your dimples for knuckles. Delighting in your ever-emerging personality.

I cannot do the simplest task without missing you intensely. Wondering if you’d still wake me during the night to nurse. What I wouldn’t give for a poor night’s sleep! I cannot step foot outside the house without wanting you to be on my hip or in your stroller.  All of the neighbor babies are out on their porches or strolling the sidewalks. That should be us Love. That should be us.

Beautiful, sunny Spring with your blooms and warmth, you’re making me feel miserable.

Away

The bereavement literature recommends taking a vacation after the loss of a baby, perhaps 3 or 4 months out. E and I have discussed taking a trip and agreed that it was a good idea. Except, and if you’re a bereaved parent you’ll understand, neither of us is very capable of making decisions these days.

Honestly, I hardly have the capacity to take care of my day-to-day living like showering, meals, dishes and bills, let alone deciding where to go on vacation and then planning all of the details. So for months we’ve talked about it and taken little action.

Then I was notified by work that I would need to travel out of state for a few days. It is very unusual that I would have to travel for my job, but this particular client lives in another state and cannot travel up to our office so I must go to her.

Perfect. The decision was made for us. I will go down for work and a few days later when my job obligations are finished, E will meet me there. We’ll spend another 4 days together.

The other gift of this trip is that the city where I must be is of moderate size and has never piqued our interest as a destination, so there’s no pressure. If we were going to a locale we’ve always dreamed of visiting, I’d feel the need to see the sites and have the full experience. But this normal/mundane city offers a few sites if we feel up to it and also access to nearby mountains if we feel like taking a drive. That’s the beauty of this particular trip and destination. We aren’t making any plans. We will simply awake each day and decide what to do based on our moods. Perhaps we will do nothing but stroll the neighborhood and sit at a park.

That may be what we’re doing this very second! If all goes well, you are reading this while I am resting out of town. (I wrote this post prior to departing and it is scheduled to post Sunday while I am away.)

This mini-vacation gives me a break from my surroundings, but not from Griefland and its unpredictability. No guarantees that I will return rejuvenated, but I am looking forward to getting away. I am looking forward to the freedom from daily life and its demands that only vacation and offer.

Lost

"We lost the baby."

Those were my exact words. That's how I announced the news the very first time, on the phone with my parents from the hospital. That’s how I informed various friends.  In the beginning, the word “lost” was much easier to say than "died" or "dead." But in a more literal sense we really did lose A. I did everything in my control to “keep” him; nourished myself with healthy food, drank quarts of water, rested, went to every single prenatal appointment, avoided extreme heat, unpasteurized cheeses and loads of other risks.

For nearly 10 months my body, mind, hormones and emotions had all been anticipating the arrival of our baby. We made adjustments to our life, stocked the house, made arrangements. Every aspect of my life was devoted to preparing to bring A home. So when we didn't bring him home I felt lost.

Most obviously, my body expected a baby and my breasts filled to bursting-levels with milk; hormones coursed through me compelling me to nurture. I've read about bereaved parents sleeping with their baby's stuffed animal or blanket. Personally, I felt compelled to rock A’s fleece snowsuit (and did so often). Surely emotions play a role, but I'm convinced on a more atavisitc level our bodies and brains push us toward cuddling and coddling. In fact, it’s been documented that chimpanzees, baboons and other primates will carry their dead infants for days, up to months. I can relate to that bond. I can understand because every ounce of my being wanted to stay with my son. Walking away from A was counter to eons of evolution it went against nature herself. Weeks after A had died, the thought occurred to me, “We could have snuck him out in our duffle bag! Then at least we’d have had a little more time together.” Intellectually I knew his deteriorating body would upset me, but that thought of taking him home did not generate from the intellectual part of my brain. It was more biological, instinctual.

More bizarrely, there have been a few instances where I genuinely felt the urge to go look for A. I felt that I needed to find him. It wasn't logical. It wasn't even conscious. But the message was clear; he should be here with me. In the middle of breakdowns I would sometimes sob, "Where is he?"

After so much anticipation and preparation it's natural that I'd feel lost without my baby. And it continues, months later just not as intensely.

Although he is lost, I feel lost without him.

Note: I considered linking to an image or video of a mother chimp carrying her baby’s corpse. But it was too disturbing. If you’re interested in learning more about how primates mourn, a simple Google search ought to do it.

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Happy first Easter Sweet Boy! And Happy first Dyngus Day tomorrow My Little Poopka!

I wrote the above entry earlier in the week to post today. Then this morning, I started my day, not even out of bed yet, bawling. I have not stopped crying all day. Is it the Easter holiday? Is it the many family gatherings? Is it the 6-month anniversary approaching?

It does not matter which combination of triggers keeps my tear ducts working overtime. The fact is I am especially sad and I miss my son extra today. I have not had a day like this since early on. I don’t have much more to say about it, but wanted to share openly how melancholy I am right now.

Dichotomies Abound

An extra hour of daylight. The return of the songbirds. Buds on the trees. Unseasonably warm temperatures. Springtime is here with aplomb. At once I feel refreshed, upbeat and optimistic. Then I notice the families out walking, pushing their infant in a stroller. A toddler exploring at the park. A father and his 8-year-old son playing tennis. And all of a sudden the feeble mend on my heart rips open again. I long for A. I want to show him his world, the excitement of Spring. Share irreplaceable experiences and make memories together. I want to be that family at the park, doing nothing extraordinary, just enjoying the day, loving life, getting to know their baby. From reenergized and optimistic to sullen in milliseconds.

Experiencing such a polarity of emotions at the same time – hope, rejuvenation, despair, agony – is confusing, but becoming a defining characteristic of life in Griefland. Right from the very beginning of this god-forbidden journey I’ve been floored by powerful emotions from opposite ends of the spectrum. When A was born I was elated; so thrilled to finally meet our child who we’d been waiting so long for. I was very proud. Simultaneously I felt deep sadness, disbelief and anguish.

After attending support group for the first time, I was encouraged to hear that these families had survived such unthinkable tragedy and had gone on to live fulfilling lives, but in the same breath I was discouraged because their stories, their very existence, attest that this would be with me forever; this unimaginable reality was never going away. In the same vein, after hearing some bereaved mothers speak of the few hours they spent with their infants I felt jealous. I never got to see A alive aside from ultrasounds. Moments later that jealously was countered as I empathized with women who are unable to get pregnant and/or carry to term. On the tail of envy came gratitude, I am thankful for the time I had with A, for the remarkable experience of being pregnant and for the fact that E and I are able to conceive easily.

Four days after the due date is when we found out A had died (see earlier post for details of A's Story). We’ve spoken to various medical professionals - perinatologists, pathologist, midwives – and no one can tell us what happened. No one can explain why A died. The pregnancy was healthy. His autopsy was completely normal. I didn’t have any condition or infection. The cord and placenta were healthy and normal. Concurrently I am outraged and relieved. Outraged that A didn’t have to die. He didn’t have any anomaly or genetic defect that was incompatible with life. He was 100% perfectly healthy. So why the heck did he die? Relieved because I know E and I can produce healthy children.

All of these dichotomies are really trying. Typically, I am a black and white thinker. How can such disparate emotions exist at the same exact time? It’s difficult to get my head around. But I am trying to accept it. Accept the feelings as they come; don’t judge them, don’t over think it. Just accept and go with the flow. Another powerful lesson from A. (Although I’d prefer to stay ignorant if it meant he would be here with us).