A Childless Father

There is so much to say about the phenomenal man who loves me unconditionally and whom I proudly call the father of my child. As I sat down to write a post for Father’s Day, out poured pages and pages and tears and tears. Perhaps I’ve been avoiding writing about E because it strikes to the very center of my being. When I think of him and A together that brief day or imagine how they’d interact today, the emotion splits me completely in half.

I was very proud and so thrilled to give the man I love a child. I always knew he’d be a wonderful Dad. He has the perfect blend of responsibility, wit, patience and humor. As the pregnancy wore on, it became apparent just how badly he too wanted a baby.

E was attentive through weeks of childbirth class even doing further research on his own. He practiced swaddling dolls and looked forward to bouncing our baby into serenity on the exercise ball. In the heat of summer, with myself unable to assist, he spent days replacing windows in our apartment because they tested positive for lead.

He would talk to A, shine a flashlight through my skin, prod and play with his ever growing baby. When we found out A was breech, E would physically support me as I hung my enormous self halfway off the couch trying to flip him head down. He would tie a sling around my back to ease the aching. He carried my bicycle in and out of the house each day. I can on and on.

The support he gave during the pregnancy, his thoughtful preparations anticipating our child’s arrival and his dedicated interactions with A in utero further confirmed what a fantastic father he would be. But watching him instinctively wash, wrap and cuddle his newborn son solidified it. The tenderness with which he held and sang to him overflowed my heart with love. He advocated for his child and me during our ordeal at the hospital and ever since. 

He wrote a heartfelt note to A and left it in the bassinet with him when it was time to leave. He pushed the bassinet to the window so A could enjoy his first and only sunset. He practically carried me out of the hospital that night and he hasn’t set me down yet.

Although this isn’t the way I had pictured Father’s Day 2012, my darling E still deserves  recognition and honor for being an incredible parent and a devoted Daddy.

On The Day You Were Born

E has been quite sick the last few weeks. Thus most of my energy and focus has been devoted to taking care of him and his appointments. Grieving has taken a backseat. I feel out-of-touch with my grief, but I don’t necessarily miss it.

Since I don’t have many current Griefland insights to write about, I thought I’d share a little something that came to me the other day.

On the day you were born,

My life changed forever.

On the day you were born,

I communed with death.

On the day you were born,

I shed the skin of my known identity.

On the day you were born,

I have never been prouder.

On the day you were born,

The globe stopped spinning and time stood still.

On the day you were born,

You transformed him into a father.

On the day you were born,

The significance of your life rippled seismically outward, touching many.

On the day you were born,

My world turned upside down.

On the day you were born,

We recorded every memory and savored every second.

On the day you were born,

I faced the biggest challenge of my life.

On the day you were born,

I fell even more in love with you.

On the day you were born,

My heart burst wide open. May it never fully close.

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.

I Do Not Fear Death

I do not fear death.

I held death in my arms.

I kissed death’s sweet face.

I know death intimately,

I nurtured it in my womb.

I gave birth to death.

I carry it with me always.

Together

We are fortunate to live close to both of our jobs. When the weather is nice, I ride my bike to work. Last year, A and I rode all summer long. Autumn was mild so I rode my bike to and from work up until 36-weeks gestation (at that point it became too difficult to swing my leg up and over the bar on my bike; it’s a dude bike). A good friend suggested taking a photo of big ole pregnant me on my bicycle. E snapped one picture around that 36-week mark as I pulled up to our house. I love that photo.

I hadn’t thought much about this until Monday evening when I checked the forecast and decided to ride to work the following morning for the first time this year. Poor E. We were relaxing on the couch and I casually mentioned I would be biking to work in the morning and then let out a yelp and started bawling.

It hit me that the last time I was on my bike, A and I were together. I considered how much time we spent together on the bicycle. Going to and from work, to and from prenatal appointments, riding with E too to hear outdoor music or go to the market. Some people thought I was out of my mind for commuting this way while pregnant but I knew we were safe and it kind of gave me a sense of pride. I anticipated parenting my baby my own way, even in the face of criticism from others; this was just an early example of that.

I did ride my bike to and from work the rest of this past week and I did not have another meltdown about it. Biking each day was a special activity that A and I shared, communing with each other and it’s just another reminder of how sorely I miss his presence. I look forward to riding together again someday with my precious son.

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.