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.

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.

Magic

A few months after A’s death my cousin and his wife announced they were expecting their third child. My other cousins, who live out-of-state, had given birth to a son 2 months after A’s death (see this Post) this is another set of cousins and they live locally. Of course I was happy for them and they were extremely sensitive in announcing it and whenever they were around us. Still, I was dreading watching her pregnancy progress and the inevitable birth of their baby. I can't avoid it as easily as I can the out-of-town family.

Last week, these local cousins lost their baby. I believe she was around 4 months along. E and I both cried when we heard the news.

I feel like I should know the magic words to say. Because I am a bereaved mother, I should know what do and say to bring comfort to my cousins.

The truth of the matter is no one can ease the pain of losing a child. It’s so awful to watch loved ones experience something this awful. I feel extra helpless, if that makes any sense.

Luckily for me (and my own need to do something) she has been receptive to my emails and has even asked me about local support groups. At least I can offer her resources and literature. But it still doesn’t feel like enough. Shouldn’t I have the magic alchemy? The right equation or potion or spell? Shouldn’t I know exactly how to respond every step of the way?

I wish no one ever had to lose a baby ever again.

When to Try Again

E and I always agreed that we wanted more than one child, even if the final number is still up in the air (it is one thing to fantasize about how many kids you want and another thing altogether once you’re living in the reality of child rearing). That day in the hospital when we found out A had died, I already knew I wanted to try again. But I also want to allow both E and I enough time to grieve and heal a bit. What is enough time? I don’t know. Nobody knows. No one can tell me because it’s different for each person.

I promised E we’d wait at least 6 months before even discussing it so we could focus our energies and emotions on grieving and honoring A’s life and memory. April marks 6 months and it’s taken all of my self-control not to speak to E about having another baby until now. I am beyond ready to get pregnant again.

I’ve been dedicated to getting my body, mind and spirit into the best possible shape in order to fairly provide baby #2 with the best beginning and the best Mom I can be. For 6 months I’ve been taking prenatal vitamins, a folic acid supplement and a calcium supplement to replenish my stores. After gaining 60 pounds with A, I spend considerable time contemplating what I eat and exercising consistently in order to get as close to my pre-pregnancy weight as possible before conceiving again. I don’t want any additional complications from issues that arise with being overweight and pregnant. Although the hours of reading, researching and questioning doctors have not provided a conclusive answer about why A died, it has provided a sense of peace that I’ve done my due diligence; that I’ve tried my darnedest to determine what happened and can now move toward acceptance that we will never know for sure. I take the grief work very seriously, believing that if I pay it forward now, I will be better off in the future. Journaling, counseling, support groups, honesty with my feelings, whatever I can do to move the process along and heal.

Like I said, I am very ready to start trying to conceive. But I know a subsequent pregnancy will be remarkably challenging in many, many ways and I will need E’s support more than ever. Thus the importance that he also feel ready. I planted the seed (sorry for the pun) a couple weeks ago explaining to E that I was more than ready and asked him to think about if he was ready.

We haven’t spoken of it since. It’s very hard for me not to bring it up again. It dominates my thoughts. I’m sure I could convince him into trying to get pregnant right now, but I absolutely do not want to influence his decision of when to start trying. I genuinely need him to feel ready of his own accord.

This of course does not stop my brain from calculating birth months if we got pregnant in April, May, June, etc. Or from fastforwarding to how we’ll plan for the birth (most likely an induction), or baby names, or how long to wait before announcing, or how our family and friends will react, and on and on and on. I just can’t share these thoughts with him. I bite my tongue so as not to pressure him.

No amount of subsequent living children will make me miss A any less. But a living, breathing baby in our arms and in our home will help to fulfill some of the loss we’re dealing with (more about that in this post). To my fellow bereaved blogo-mamas who are trying to conceive (Tash, Kate) or currently blessed with new hope (Aoife, Mama Bear, Renel,) and those who’ve lived through subsequent pregnancies (Jess, Mary Beth, Janis), I hope to join your ranks soon.