When you don't medal in the Pain Olympics

I didn't struggle to keep my babies alive. There weren't any complications to deal with. My babies weren't born alive. They didn't face their own struggles to stay alive. They just died. One day they were alive and kicking inside me and the next day they were dead. No warning. No choices to be made. I suppose it wasn't the worst it could be. It still wasn't easy.

Closed up shop

It seems like the only way for me to visit "those days" is to read something written by someone else. And so I don't...but I want to.

I selfishly closed up this blog because I can't stand the thought of anyone else joining my circle. Not out of any concern for them...but for me. Selfish. That makes me one of the people who can't or won't understand...can't or won't lend support. And that makes me ashamed.

Even more shameful, I don't want potential clients stumbling upon my blog and reading my truth. They are young and in love and starting out on a path where nothing bad will likely happen to them for a while. I don't want to scare them off of my photography. I need to hide. And that makes me sad.

I wish I could say that everything has made me a better person. But in a lot of ways, I'm a worse person. I am self-involved. Very self-involved. I'm less likely to give a crap. I'm less likely to be "present" or "involved." And that disgusts me. 

My friends live in my computer. We joke about it. But it's not a joke. I feel lonely. And that makes me bitter and angry. What is so wrong with me? The problem is, I already know the answer to that. 

I want to revisit "those days" when, where, and how I want to. I want to read and write and cry at my keyboard. I resent that doing so makes me feel guilty. I resent that I can't focus on myself without feeling shame. I resent that I have to shut the door and hide. I resent that everything seems to have more meaning than it should. 

I just want to truly feel happy again.

School starts

First and seventh grades. I love them so much...and yet there are these missing pieces.

I read this article this morning and it describes perfectly what I'm feeling.

• He’s been gone far too long to stay in the present.
• It hurts that an entire school day will happen today without anyone realizing someone was missing.
• I have two other children of my own. I get it. I really do. But I want to scream to these parents– YOU ARE SO LUCKY!!!!! YOU ARE SO BLESSED TO SEND YOUR CHILD OFF TO SCHOOL. YOU ARE SO BLESSED TO WATCH YOUR CHILD GROW ANOTHER YEAR OLDER!!!!

Put simply, my babies are still dead and I still miss them every day.

But I'm not allowed to say that anymore. My "loss" isn't as enormous as some. Yet it is more than "normal" people want to hear about. So there is nobody to talk to about how much this hurts.

Second and third grade classes will go on today without Alex and Travis. My husband will work at home with no four-year-old baby to interrupt his work. Their names won't be included in any attendance roll call. Nobody will mention their names today.

Here's to another school year.

Misfit

It is a strange place to be.

I was not infertile. I am not childless. I did not suffer "the worst" of it. I have more than one living child. I did not lose my firstborn. I did not lose all my children. I do not fit into any of the "standard" narratives within the babyloss community. I lost my second child...and my third...and my last.

I had a thought the other day. That if someone were to see my medical records, they would see that I had an abortion...probably more than one. I wonder what they would think.

I feel like I am not entitled to my feelings anymore. I feel that the friendly agreement we had once to avoid the Pain Olympics has faded away and left us with the same old "if you think that's bad" type of conversations that old women have...comparing aches and pains that will be with us until we die. It has caused me to retreat into myself...where I know there is no comparison...where no justification is necessary.

Because I can't explain what it was like...what it IS like...how it feels. I keep hoping I'll find happy. I keep hoping I'll be able to BE happy with what I do have...rather than pining for what I've lost or what might have been. But there is this gaping hole...right at the core of who I am...and I can not change that.

I remember once, years ago before children, having a conversation about what my greatest regret would be if I died today. I don't remember what it is I said. But today...today it is this...that I failed. That's it. As a woman...as a wife...as a mom. I failed.

None of this makes any sense.

It is a strange place to be.

Sometimes it's just too much

The run-up to April and May is beginning and I can feel the pressure starting to build. I'm having an un-explainable reaction to a friend's daughter telling her school class about her baby brother who died.

I remember when Sam told his preschool class about his brother, Alex, who died. And now we've added two more names to the death roll and I know I would never approve of his sharing all of that grief with anyone outside of our family. I'll never get a stamp of approval from another teacher...or anyone else, for that matter...because one dead baby is sad...three is just too much.

I know it's not a competition...and that's not what this is that I'm feeling. It's more of a sadness realizing (again) the judgment overshadows the sadness when you are talking about multiple losses. One dead baby is something to be sad about...something someone can handle "just right." Three dead babies are foolishness defined. She should have stopped at one...THEN I could have felt sorry for her/them.

Internet stalker

At first I couldn't read them...the blogs about the women who either (1) grieved more gracefully; or (2) were long past the initial grief. I didn't want to know that there was any other way...or that it was all survivable. I wanted to wallow, I suppose. And I did...for a pretty long time.

I distinctly remember the night I stopped crying. I remember the sheets and pillowcase. I remember sobbing until I fell asleep. And that was the last time I cried about "it." It was like a switch was flipped to the "OFF" position and that was all there was to the story.

A few years ago I took the pencil sketches of Alex and Travis off the dining room wall because we were having a Xmas party and I didn't want to answer the questions that would inevitably come from the guests. I recently thought about hanging them up on the wall again, but couldn't find them. On Father's Day I was looking for a photo of Steve and his dad to post on facebook when I found the sketches. They're back hanging where they belong on the dining room wall after an awkward conversation with my now-five-year-old son about the babies who died.

That evening, I watched recorded episodes of Army Wives...where Claudia Joy dies...and I sobbed until my face was puffy and I couldn't breathe from all the snot.

Yesterday I drove past the cemetery. I didn't go in...just like every day for the last I-don't-know-how-long. The familiar old guilt crept in. And then a friend asked a question about dead babies and medical lawsuits and the original guilt came crashing in and suddenly I couldn't breathe.

For a while now, I have been reading other blogs...blogs of people going through horrible things...and feeling ashamed. Life is hard and my battle has been no worse than others. So why do I need to write about it? To be honest, I have had my finger on the "delete this blog" button more than one time. It's embarrassing to go back now and read. I cringe at the memories of sitting at my keyboard crying as I typed raw and unfiltered thoughts. I could have been an inspiration. I could have created scholarship funds or devoted my time to worthwhile projects in the names of my dead children. I could have been "strong" and "graceful."

But I wasn't.

I'm still not.

We did it!

We survived the first go round of elementary school! (*HIGH FIVE*)

It was touch and go there more than a few times...but we managed to kick ass effectively parent an A/B student who tested for advanced placement in middle school. Sam refers to himself as our "test subject." No doubt this poor kid is going to need therapy at some point in his life.

Holy crap...middle school!

And before anyone rains on my little one-person parade and reminds me that my baby starts kindergarten in the fall, let me warn you that I WILL hurt you.

And yes, I'm well aware that I probably need therapy too.

Happy summer!

Socially unacceptable

Eight years later, I'm still the woman who wants to stand on the conference room table and stomp my feet and scream at people, "My babies are DEAD! Stop bickering about NONSENSE!"

Alex Gerard - 8

Travis Leo - 7

On this day, I think of him and I wonder who he might have been...

Dear Coach

I was at every practice…every game. Yes, his fathered worked at an office and wasn’t able to attend…but I was there and I saw it all. I watched as my son learned the fundamentals and started to love the artistry of the game. We were there to try our best. We were there to have fun. And then he was assigned to your team…where yelling and insults were the language of every day. Where the encouragement was always secondary to the overwhelming pressure you put on the shoulders of nine and ten year old boys. Yes, they ARE just boys…and this IS just a game.

He knew he was never going to be a superstar, but he still tried SO hard. He spent the days managing his asthma so he wouldn't have an attack at practice and be seen as “weak” (your words). He practiced with his dad whenever he could find the free time. He never once complained that you played him the minimum number of innings required by Little League rules. He never once complained that your kid got more playing time. And until the very end, he never complained about your constant criticism of his dugout behavior as he sat there...inning after inning after inning. He only ever expressed self-doubt over his inability to meet your standards…and confusion over your anger that he wasn't “getting it.” During every lap you made him run, he talked to himself, using words like "stupid" and "idiot" and "sucky." He pondered how he could teach himself, even consulting YouTube for pointers…because you surely weren't going to put in the time on a kid “like him” (he's not stupid, he fully understood your attitude toward him).

On that final play, when he failed to heed your screams to “slide SLIDE SLIIIIIDE!” he ran through the tag and smiled at his own shortcomings. Your response was to scream, “What do YOU have to smile about?” That’s right…his mere smile irritated you. More than that, his ability to find humor in his screw-ups made you angry and we were all treated to your very loud diatribe about how YOU felt unappreciated and YOU felt disrespected.

Guess what, coach? It isn't about you. But you clearly think it is...since you never called, or asked to meet, or even spoke to my son again. You didn't care that he quit. Based on your lack of interest in discussing his feelings, I almost think that was your goal all along...to make him quit. You're relieved he's off your team...maybe even happy. That might make you a good coach to some...but we think you're a lousy coach and we're not going to remain silent about it any longer.

My son had one more year before baseball would get competitive. He had one more year to play ball with his friends before his inabilities would no longer be tolerated on the field. I trusted you to use this time to teach my child to have fun, be healthy, and learn new things. Instead, you ruined baseball for him. He quit because he was no longer having any fun. He doesn't want to play. He doesn't even want to watch. You did that. Are you proud?

I suppose I should thank you for teaching him one very valuable lesson though. MOST PEOPLE ARE ONLY CONCERNED ABOUT THEMSELVES…EVEN PEOPLE WHO ARE CHARGED WITH CARING FOR OTHERS. Yep…he learned that one well…from you.

Good job, coach.

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My post was inspired by this post making the rounds on Facebook. While my son's experience wasn't part of Dynamite Cal Ripken Youth Baseball, I strenuously object to that program using its public platform to attempt to demonize parents who care about how their children are being treated by "volunteer coaches" (as if the volunteer status somehow makes them above reproach). I was wrong for not speaking up sooner for my son...and I certainly won't apologize for speaking up now.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow

Yesterday marks three years since my last baby silently left my body.

Today marks the day my five-year-old very loudly registered for kindergarten.

I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

3

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had.

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than you should remember and be sad.

~ Christina Rossetti

Grown up choices

So I'm still here. Still have three dead babies and two living boys (who are TEN and FIVE now!). And I'm feeling like maybe I want to write again. Aren't you thrilled?  I have all these things I need therapy for want to say...and my husband and my facebook friends are tired of hearing them. I'm not sure when/where the mood to write might take me. I've never been good at putting any sort of structure to this thing. So...yeah...anyway...
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Sam has always chosen his own clothes to wear to school...as long as the clothes are clean and neat.

During that first year of school when we were adjusting to the new roles life had imposed upon us, and trying to navigate the insanity of elementary school rules, I remember the kindergarten teacher saying, "Samuel is making some poor choices in who to imitate in class." Aside from the obvious I-really-don't-want-my-kid-IMITATING-anyone thought that ran through my head, in that moment there opened up an entire world of letting go. My kid was going to make choices...on...his...own.

In the first grade there was the book fair. Where I gave him $20 and he bought pencils and a bookmark...but no actual books. We talked about choices then. But the truth of the matter is that the rule became, "you can choose from the BOOKS." There was still some limitation...some structure imposed by me.

A week ago, Sam was feeling that horrible fifth-grade pressure to get all the homework done the other night and I said, "Life's about choices. If you feel like you want to make the choice to turn in the homework late and take a lower grade, then that is on you. Nobody will die. We will still have food to eat and a house to live in. Just so you know the consequences and you don't try to explain it away as anything other than your choice."
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A little over a year ago, 2/27/12, something awful happened in my hometown. A young man took a gun to my high school alma mater and shot up the cafeteria full of students, killing three and wounding three. He pled guilty on the last possible day the prosecutor was to hold the option open.

Yesterday, the young man responsible was sentenced to three consecutive life sentences in prison (plus some for the non-lethal injuries/attempted murders). His behavior at sentencing is the stuff of TMZ or Dateline. I won't say his name here or describe his behavior because I refuse to perpetuate his fifteen minutes of fame. He is not worth it. But it got me to thinking about this boy...so obviously broken. By what? That will be the subject of professional analysis for years to come, I'm sure.
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I feel like the process of letting go has really ramped up here during this school year. And I don't mind telling you that I'm terrified unprepared. Everyone has all the answers when it comes to the boy who killed. It was the parents...the grandparents...the lack of God...the friends...mental illness...pure evil. I am not so sure. I no longer believe that life hands you one singular thing that will determine who you will be. Even in the darkest times, you have choices. They may not be the choices you want...but if you search hard enough you will see the options and make the choices that will get you through (one way or another).

And so I wonder...if I told my son the right thing about the book fair...what clothes to wear...or his ability to choose to not do his homework.
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Why am I nervous to hit "publish?"
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A good day seven years in the making

Today I choose to celebrate...
...the husband who lets the dogs out every morning so I don't have to roll out of our nice warm bed
...the sunshine
...the little arms that hugged me tight and wished me a good day
...the perfect cup of coffee
...the pink tractor contest (known only to me and Sam)
...the free evening to "do something fun"
...the mystery of my Mother's Day gift
...the mortgage is paid
...the professional satisfaction of a job well done
...the chance of maybe getting the lawn mowed this week (it's scary out there)
...the freaks/pets and their never-ending devotion
...the love of my parents
...the happy memories
...the kindness of my friends
...the good things that come out of bad things
...the noise and dirt and chaos
...the dreams

So I take a deep breath and take another step forward. I no longer wish for what might have been. I no longer search for answers. Instead, I look around me and just feel.

I choose...

...love...

...and peace.

"I am thankful for small mercies. I compared notes with one of my friends who expect everything of the universe, and is disappointed when anything is less than the best, and I found that I begin at the other extreme, expecting nothing, and am always full of thanks for moderate good...If we will take the good we find...we shall have heaping measures." ---Ralph Waldo Emerson

Perspective

I hate Mother's Day for a lot of reasons.

I LOVE Mother's Day for a lot more reasons.

Please click the button and make a donation to help mamas and babies around the globe avoid reasons to hate Mother's Day. Donate because you hate Mother's Day. Donate because you love Mother's Day. Donate to honor your own children or your own mother. Donate because you REALLY have nothing better to spend your money on than saving a life (or two).

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Thanks!

IRL

I was talking this weekend with some friends "from the computer" (that one's for Shanna's dad). Truth is, these particular friends...this group of women...saved my life. I don't say that to be melodramatic. I say it because it is the truth. When I felt like I couldn't take one more step, they were there with the words I needed to hear..."It WILL get better. I don't know when or how...but it WILL get better." 

During our conversation, however, I made a mistake. And today, as I was processing it all, I remembered. I remembered how I first came to know this amazing world of the blog people. 

The day I came home from the hospital, I scoured the internet and searched for an answer. Why did this happen to us? to our Baby Alex? And then I found this post. 

"Orson was born in room 15 of MacDonald Women's Hospital, Second floor. Zelda was born in 16. And Calvin in 17. A trifecta." Just a few days after Alex was stillborn in room 17 at MacDonald Women's Hospital...and just four years after Calvin was stillborn in room 17 at MacDonald Women's Hospital...this stranger was welcoming a living son to the world. I greedily soaked up his words and followed the links of the people who commented on his posts. 

I fell down the rabbit hole. 

I was crazed and unkempt...and I didn't care. 

The people I encountered as a result of my rabid googling could have turned me away. But they didn't. 

And once a year, round about this time, I feel like I should thank them for that...thank YOU for everything. 

So...

Thank you to all the people who have come out of my computer and made such a difference in my life. I love you and I can never ever ever repay you for all that you have done for me.

Well, that was a fun few days.

It's "easier" than it used to be. But it ain't easy. There are moments when I literally wish April 8 - May 11 could simply be erased from the calendar.

Come on summertime! I am SO ready!

I couldn't even come up with a title for this post because I don't even know how to mark these entries anymore. Verbal diarrhea post #967572?

I took a pinwheel to the other two at the cemetery. I hadn't been for a long time before my friend lost her baby. Now I want to go every day. But I know it's not good for me.

I wandered over to her baby's grave. Rainwater beaded on the outside of a pack of baseball cards left for him. Indians Opening Day saw the longest game in opening day history. Seemingly appropriate for a dad missing his baby boy...his toddler...his big boy...his elementary schooler...his teenager...

I still have a brick filled with baby ashes sitting on a shelf.

Nobody else remembered April 8th...

...except me.

But, hey, at least it's "easier" now.

Little Bug - 3

Springtime voices

I'm revisiting this place because a good friend lost her baby. I'm revisiting this place because it is spring and I feel the oncoming freight train of the might-have-been's and what-actually-happened's headed straight for me. I'm revisiting this place because I read this entry by Bon and this entry by Julia and I realized I need to revisit this place to sort it all out.

For a while, I felt like I needed to be quiet...to sort things out in my head. But the truth is, it's not getting sorted out in my head. Babies die. Loved, wanted, precious babies. And friends speak the words you yourself spoke a million years ago. And all I can do is cry and shake my head yes...YES...THAT IS EXACTLY IT!

There has always been power here. Almost a magic. Found in not being alone. In speaking out loud all those things that run through my mind when I am alone (or standing in the middle of a crowd and simply FEELING alone). 

WHY?!?! 

I remember sitting there in the springtime sunshine yelling up at the bluest of skies. So many times I visited that place and asked...begged...

WHY?!?!

At first I strained to hear some message of love...some kindness passed through the universe to soothe my broken heart. And then I was there a year later and "F*** you...you don't get an answer," was what I heard in the silence. 

But these other voices came to me. These voices from amazing women who didn't know me...but recognized the pain. They didn't answer why. They showed me that it didn't really matter why. That I had strength in me I had no idea I had. That there is beauty in the pain. And that friendship can grow in the midst of the worst pain imaginable.

So now I will go to that place again for another funeral service for another loved baby boy named John Edmund. And I will mourn for all my friend has lost...and all that she doesn't yet realize she has lost. I will remember that raw pain and hold her up like you all did for me when I was too weak to hold myself up. I will offer my voice in the silence and hope that it soothes and strengthens. 

Because I know she will ask why.

And I know she won't get an answer.