We are those people

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We were the people normal people didn't want to talk to for fear our bad luck would rub off on them.

Now we are those people even we didn't want to talk to for fear their bad luck would rub off on us.

An interesting twist to the story of us.
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Was it the lunchmeat I ate?
Was it God's way of punishing me?
Was it another undetected infection?
Was it that I stopped taking prenatals?
Was it that I didn't sleep on my left side?
Was it the cup of coffe I drank each morning?
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They say lightening doesn't strike twice...and maybe they're right.
Maybe Sam was my lightening strike and it's not going to happen again.
Maybe THIS is what is "normal" for me.
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Was it that I just couldn't love him like he needed?
Was it because I was sick the day after conceiving him?
Was it because I twisted funny in my chair on Thursday afternoon?
Was it because I couldn't let go of the anger over his brother's death?
Was it because I joked that we were "ahead of the game because he was alive?"
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Why was I so stupid? Why didn't I just wait to talk to Sam about the Beast? One more week and I could have spared him the heartache...the confusion...the sadness. One more week and Travis could have tiptoed in and out of our family without unnecessarily disrupting Sam's world.

But nooooo...I had to be cute and take him to the ultrasound. We had to call the baby "the Beast" and talk about names. I had to encourage Sam to talk about sharing his toys...about dressing the Beast in red...about playing together...only to disappoint him again. I am an IDIOT. I am the worst kind of mother.

I don't learn...and therefore doom my innocent kid to live through painful repeats of my mistakes.
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msfitzita writes today about how we are more than our sorrow...how we have something other than our tragedy to offer the world...how we are not just "...pitiful, hopeless, helpless thing. Broken, damaged and useless."

She's right, of course. But I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't a point where a person loses that...where a mother does become defined only by her tragedy.

I know mothers who are defined solely by their children. They have no hopes or dreams or aspirations other than to be good mothers to their children...to have their children grow up to be good people.

And if that is so, then it must be so that there COULD be women who are defined by their dead children...by the tragedy of losing those children. It doesn't seem so unbelievable that such people exist.

And if they exist, the question becomes...how did they come into existence? Were they just not strong enough? Was the tragedy that much stronger than their strength...their will to remain amidst the living? Did they resolve to fight...and lost anyhow? Or did they just resign themselves to the way things are...and not even attempt to fight the battle?

I ask these things because I need to prepare. I could imagine how easy it would be to give in...when I had one dead son. Now that there are two of my flesh and blood sharing a plot in the cemetery, I hear it calling me. Insanity. Desperation. Abandon. I no longer have to imagine it. I can hear it...feel it...taste it...all around me. Is it worth the effort to fight it? I look at Sam and obviously answer yes.

But I wonder if I'm fighting a losing battle. Will I be defeated anyway...no matter how valiantly I fight? And what am I really fighting for? What is left of me, outside of this hell, that is worthy of saving? Tell me the joy will return. I will believe you because I've been there too. But I know that the return of my joy can so easily be followed by a sucker punch to the gut.

You think you're happy now? I'm not through with you. And I'm not talking about job satisfaction...or whether you like your house or your car. No...I'm going to toy with the lives of those you love. What are you gonna do about it? NOTHING!

Maybe that is what drives some women so mad that they seek solace in the pain. For within the pain there is comfort in the expectation. There are no surprises. You know not to plan for the happiness, but to accept the welcome familiarity of the sadness.
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He didn't leave...he was lurking...and I fear that he lurks for me as well.
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Now that we have become the people we didn't want to talk to we know the judgments. Somehow defective. Somehow cursed. Sad. So sad. What happened to them was just so sad. What were they thinking?
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