"You get what you pay for, but I just had no intention of living this way." -Counting Crows

Why We're Here...

My husband David and I delivered a stillborn Baby Boy that we loved, and wanted. Our first and only son, Logan, had Down Syndrome. Our daughter's smile is a little light in the darkness. She turned one year old three days after our sweet Logan tip-toed away on January 24, 2009. After 2 1/2 years we found out we were having another baby, whom we affectionatly called Rudy. Just shy of 6 weeks we found out Rudy was Ectopic. Rudy was surgically removed on May 26, 2011 delivering another blow to our already broken hearts.

What are your plans for Logan's remains?

Ter asked me this question, so I thought I would publicly answer it.

My husband and I thought it was very important to have an autopsy on Logan since there was no warning that there was a problem until he was already dead. We were advised by the Diagnostician to have Logan sent to University of Michigan to have a complete autopsy done sine the one the hospital does is on the brain, and not the whole body. But, to do this we had to just accept the terms laid down by UofM. If we wanted UofM to do the autopsy we would not get his body back. He would be cremated in a mass cremation with other babies, and his ashes would be placed in a vault with other babies in a plot that UofM had commissioned at a memorial garden nearby. At the time nothing else mattered but to know why he died. We needed to know if it was something that could or would show up in my daughter. If it was likely to happen to the next baby. If it was genetic, hereditary, cultural. We both were desperate for answers. Though I am horribly bothered by the fact that my son will be cremated (the whole burning thing wrecks havoc on my mind) and I am bothered that I don't have control over where he is or will be. I try to find peace in knowing that he is with other babies in the same situation. I have to be honest in admitting that it does bother me. But I really felt like we needed to know, and never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be something as "simple" as Down Syndrome (which was discovered through the amnio the day I gave birth). Though, we were told that Logan did not die from DS itself but rather a complication due to DS, and most likely a heart condition. We do still want to know every possible fact. I don't regret my decision. I just wish I could have had it both ways, the autopsy and his body. I would have liked to have chosen his resting place. We were told that it would be several months before the autopsy results would be ready, so I assume he is still at UofM (2 months later). Either way though, Logan would have been cremated if he would have had an autopsy. And we needed an autopsy. But, the hospital would have at least given his body back...though with out as thorough of an autopsy. We will be attending a memorial service put on by UofM later this year.

Unpleasant surprise

Driving to pick up my mom at the train station I drove past the place where my son currently is. What a very unpleasant surprise!
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Under the Tree Questions for February

Ok, so I get that I'm pretty late to this, but I like the idea that Carly has and I'd like to participate. So, here's my answer's to February's Under the Tree questions:
How long have you been blogging for?
I started blogging in January '09, four days after my son was born still.
Why did you start?
A friend of mine sent me a link to Certainly Not Cool Enough to Blog. I read Kristen's blog, all four years, in about a week and a half. I thought that it would be very therapeutic for me to write one too. I seem to be able to express myself more on "paper" than when I talk, and I felt like I had a lot to say and no one to say it to.
What do you want from writing?
Relief. Peace. Understanding. I want to feel like I've said my piece, that I've been heard and that there are those out there who "get it". I want to get all of the horror of this tragedy out of me.
Where is safest place for you to share your feelings?
On this blog. I hate feeling vulnerable and open with people face to face. Here in blogland I don't feel like I have to explain myself or risk being judged. And if I am, I don't have to look the assailant in the eye. It makes it easier for me to be honest.
Is there anywhere you feel completely accepted just being however you are really feeling?
Here in blogland. That's one of the great things about being here, we're all anonymous.
Can you recommend any books that you have read that have given you a new insight, hope or courage in this new life you find yourself in?
Empty Arms by Cherokee Isle, the hospital gave it to me and I soaked in every single word. This is the only one I've finished. I am currently reading Elizabeth McCracken's book An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination.
How would you describe yourself before you lost your baby.
This is hard to answer. I always saw myself very differently than I suspect those around me did. I was such a dooms dayer. Pessimistic. Paranoid. But, I laughed a lot and found joy in silly little things. I was a very anxiety ridden person, always worried. I took a lot of things for granted and was pretty selfish and spoiled.
How have you changed, who are you today?
I'm still learning who this new me is. It's only been two months. I don't think I laugh as much. I'm far more paranoid and anxious now, but I find I have little compassion or empathy for the insignificant drama that surrounds me. I have a hard time caring about anything anymore. I feel like my worse fear came true, so now I'm just waiting for the rest to come true too.
How do you think you are coping?
I think I am coping. I don't have suicidal thoughts, I have laughed, I do try to find the joy. Blogging helps me to cope, and reading everyone else's blogs helps me to not feel so isolated.
Do you see any light in this road or is it all dark right now?
It's all pretty dark. I know that I'll survive, and I'll go on with life. But I know it in my head, not my heart. I still cry several times a week. I'm still terrified.
Where do you imagine yourself to be in a years time?
I'd like to be pregnant. I would love to bring more children into this world. I would like to have more happy days than sad days. I would like to be more comfortable with my emotions and feelings about my son and to be able to talk about him with everyone, not just on my blog or with a few outsiders. I would like to find peace about my sons death, and not to live in fear. I would like to be able to remember him with a smile every time I think about him, and not tears and heartache.

Too much worrying...

I've been so full of anxiety this evening. I found out that my youngest brother (21yrs) got jumped last night and beaten up pretty bad by a "friend". My other brothers say that this "friend" is a psycho. Anyhow, I'm consumed with thinking about it. I guess the "friend" has a crush on my heterosexual brother, got jealous of something and totally flipped out. I keep thinking about all of the things that could have happened. Apparently this guy is a lot bigger than my brother. He did a number on my brothers face, broke his nose and hand (from blocking) with the elbow blows to his face. He spent the night in the hospital. I live 4 hours away and I feel so helpless over here. Sigh... I just had to talk about it. I find that since Logan died I'm just waiting for the other shoe to fall. I've become so much more paranoid than I used to be, and I didn't think that was possible. The other day my daughter fell and smacked her eye on a cabinet. She got a black eye from it. And I had to really push away some morbid thoughts. Then the another day my oldest brother couldn't be reached, for several days, so we all got a little worried and sent someone over to check on him (he lives 18 hours away) and all I kept obsessing about was him laying on the floor injured or dead. And now with my youngest brother, I'm obsessed with thinking this guy might kill him or something. One of those crimes of passion, if I can't have you then know one can, sort of things. I hate that I've become even more weird and obsessive about death. I hate sitting over here worried and obsessing about what might happen to him. I feel useless. Like I couldn't help my little boy, and therefore I can't help anyone else. Useless. Helpless. I hate feeling so vulnerable. And I hate obsessing and just waiting for someone else to die unexpectedly. It's an icky feeling.

Sobbing & Cardio

I've discovered, it is very hard to "run" on an elliptical machine and sob at the same time.

They don't deserve kids!

I know my son dying and another's living isn't supposed to be fair, or rational, or even comparable. But I can't help myself. I look around and I see people who just do not deserve the blessing of children. People who fight over their children, who use their children as pawns. People who abuse their children. People who neglect their children, people too young to raise children...and me? Well, I guess I'm just supposed to accept it. Go along with it. And what are these people thinking? These idiots who call me and want to get my opinion? Who want to complain about their children to me? Who want to gripe about parenthood. Who are stupid enough to think I actually give a crap. My sister is prime example. She smoked during pregnancy, she smokes in the car with her children. She had an affair and moved a thousand miles away for 9 months, leaving behind her five year old and her nine month old. She just went back, 6 weeks after Logan died. I'd like to be naive enough to believe she realized how lucky she was. And now, her husband and her fight over their boys, using them as pawns in their petty game to hurt one another. And she actually calls me with her self inflicted drama to ask my opinion about her kids..."Oh my! Whatever shall I do?? Poor me." Seriously. I wanted to reach through the phone and sucker punch her. Which she quickly got and hung up the phone after I told her I thought it was shameful that her and her husband were being such idiots and to stop fighting over her children. I hate this. I know I say that a lot, but I do. I really, truly, sincerely hate all of this.

I watch the TV show The Secret Life of an American Teenager on ABCfamily. The main character is pregnant, at 15, from a one night stand. That's what the entire show is about. I used to love it. I've watched it from day one. Tonight season 2 ends. Yesterday was the first time I've watched an episode since Logan died in January. I just didn't think I could handle it. I know it's fictional, but then not really. It happens all of the time. Teenagers getting pregnant. And I've realized lately that it's been a predominant subject line in most of my shows. Last weeks episode of Bones (my favorite show) was about a high school volleyball teem getting pregnant. I wanted to scream! And I remember girls in HS getting pregnant. My BF got pregnant just out of high school. Another close friend got pregnant at 15 (her baby died shortly after birth). My step mother was 15 when she got preggers with my step brother. Teens. Pregnant. Teens. Giving birth to healthy babies. Not me. Not this time.

I hate that this is such a part of me. It gives me such definition. "Hi. I'm Heather. I gave birth to a dead baby." there's no getting away from it. Even if I never tell another soul, I'll know. I hate that there's no changing the facts. It's like trying to be a different height. It's impossible. You can change your weight, your hair color, even your eye color. But you can't change this. It's a fact. One that won't ever change. I hate the finality of it all. I hate knowing that, at least according to others, yes it'll get easier, or further away...but it will always be there. Even if I have another child. Even if I have another boy. He/she will never be Logan. He/she will never be the baby that died. I will always have a dead baby. I hate that.

Random BS!

This random "inspirational" quote appeared on my diet blog today...

Whatever you vividly imagine,
ardently desire,
sincerely believe,
and enthusiastically act upon...
must inevitably come to pass!
-Paul J. Meyer

...if only that were true.


And just because I wasn't blue enough...

You know those days when things keep getting lumped on top of your head one right after another? Stupid, petty, little things that shouldn't matter...but combined they turn into a huge issue? You know those days? This is one of them!

My daughter used her potty chair for the first time...

At grandma's house!

Not here. Not for me. I've had her on her potty chair countless times. Grandma puts her on their just once and EUREKA!!

And because that couldn't possibly be enough. the universe punches me just one more time...

Then she poopied in her chair for Grandma too!

Of course she did...

This may not seem like a big deal to you. But, I'm one of those moms! The super sentimental, I scrapbook everything, want to be there for every "first" type of mom. And I've had one. ONE. One stinking "first" thing to be a part of! The first time she rolled over. That's it. I'm a stay at home mom. I should be seeing all of the firsts, or at least a majority of them. And I don't. I miss everything!! And dang it, I'm tired of it! What is the point? Why? Why does SHE get to see all of her firsts? Why not me? I'm her blasted mom! I'm always here! She goes to grandma's once a week (which apparently I'm going to have to put a stop to in order to see anything!), that's it! Why? What's with kicking me again, and again, and again?

It's the little things...


Just to clarify...and boo hoo some more!

Yesterday's post was a little misunderstood...I think. It's not that I'm afraid to LOOSE my grief, because frankly, I wouldn't mind that at all! I'm afraid I'm loosing TO my grief. I feel like I am going under a little more everyday and that it's beating me.

I don't know what my problem is. I mean, any more so than any other given day. But these last few days I can't shake it. I feel engulfed by darkness. Not just the weepies and boo hoo's...but dark, scary, all encompassing, hell-like feelings. Maybe it's what real depression looks like. I don't know. But it scares me. I don't want to go there. Ever see the movie with Robin Williams "What Dreams May Come"? That place. Where the wife is. That's where I am. I hate being here.

I don't want to loose.

I don't want to loose to this grief.

...today, I feel like I am loosing.

"No Address in the Stars" - Caitlin & Will

Most everyone knows by now that I love music. It speaks to me, I suppose. So I heard this song for the first time today... I thought I'd share it. It wasn't available on my playlist website, so I couldn't add it. Here are the lyrics though.

No Address in the Stars
(Caitlin & Will)

verse 1: I stumbled across your picture today. I could barely breathe; the moment stopped me cold and grabbed me like a thief. I dialed your number but you wouldnt be there. I knew the whole time, but its still not fair. I just wanted to hear your voice. I just needed to hear your voice.

chorus: What do I do with all I need to say? So much I wanna tell you everyday. Though it breaks my heart, I cry these tears in the dark. I write these letters to you but they get lost in the blue, cause theres no address in the stars.

verse 2: Now I'm drivin through the pitch black dark. I'm screaming at the sky oh cause it hurts so bad. Everybody tells me oh all I need is time. Then the mornin rolls in and it hits me again. Light. Aint nothin but a lie.

chorus: What do I do with all I need to say. So much I wanna tell you everyday. Though it breaks my heart; I cry these tears in the dark. I write these letters to you but they get lost in the blue, cause theres no address in the stars.

verse 3: without you here with me i dont know what to do id give anything just to talk to you though it breaks my heart oh it breaks my heart all i can do is write these letters to you but theres no address in the stars

Because sometimes flowers make things better, if even only a little.

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Logan's Tiny Tag

burble: I made a new one!

Barb was sweet enough to display Logan's Tiny Tag for the whole world to see. I just love seeing his name.


Ok, so I feel like God, or the universe or whatever is telling me to deal with stuff lately. I run, I hide, I avoid conflict, confrontations, and uncomfortable situations at any and all costs. But today my friend of 22 years calls me...
"You're mad at me..."
(Me) "...Uh..." {Ah crap!!}
Anyhow, so we had to talk about it. I hate talking about it. I tried to be honest. What was the point of denying it? Apparently she knew. It's not that I was mad at her, I wasn't. I was more sad. Sad that our friendship had become what it was. Shallow. Vague. Barely, if at all. Angry at her past decisions; that I know don't have a thing to do with me, but that I can't deal with, that I can't understand. I didn't delve as deep as perhaps I should have, I just couldn't deal with more. And I know it was so hard for her to confront me. She's a lot like me. We avoid. I didn't tell her that I feel like I want more from the friendship than she does. That sometimes I feel like the obnoxious puppy who is begging for love and attention. I didn't tell her that she literally broke my heart last summer when she cancelled the much anticipated plans for her "real" visit, and for the first time ever...made me cry, and cry I did...a lot. I didn't tell her that I don't feel important to her since she rarely ever visits me (usually because she can't afford it, or the car, or her husband, or the kids, or, or, or...) but is coming for a convention this weekend...but then only staying the night. At least she is coming. I didn't tell her that I feel like I annoy her and embarrass her in front of her other friends. I didn't tell her that when we went to Indy I was miserable and felt so out of place amongst her and her other friends because she acted so phony, and I didn't know who that person was. I didn't tell her that she made me feel stupid and in the way that weekend. I didn't tell her that I was jealous of her attention to her other friends and how she seemed to want them to like her more than she wanted me to like her. I didn't tell her that I feel like an imposition on her life, an inconvenience. I didn't tell her that she gets lumped in with everyone else and the unloved feelings I have. I should have told her I suppose. But I guess deep down I know I'm probably not what or who she needs from me either. I wasn't there for her when she was clawing her way through her own darkness. I didn't get it. I couldn't relate. I didn't really even try. I have a lot of guilt over that, it makes me sad that we couldn't be there for each other. It makes me sad that there is such a shallow element to our very long friendship. I know she doesn't mean to hurt me. I know she would cry a thousand tears if she did know. But quiet honestly its like with everyone else in my life. I want them to want to love me on their own accord, I don't want to continually beg to be loved. Because then when it isn't given, even after you ask for it, well...that's just a little too much rejection. I can't handle anymore disappointments right now. And if I would have told her all of those things, and they didn't change, well...I would hurt more than I do now, and I just don't want any more sadness. I hate that we had to have a conversation at all. I wish we could have just gone on the way we were. I'm afraid this will be a weird thing between us now. I said things that needed to be said, things I'm sure she already thought...but they made me feel ugly. I wasn't mean, I was just trying to explain my self to her. I wasn't trying to point fingers or blame or make her feel like a piece of crap, but I'm sure it stung. I'm sure she cried this evening. I'm sure she has a mouthful of things she'd like to say to me. It makes me sad. People get so self involved with their own lives, often times they don't look to see what they're doing to others...whilst they are quick to point out what others are doing to them. I'm trying not to be like that. I'm trying to understand that where I am right now...it's an ugly spot, and no one wants to join me there. I can't expect her to join me here when I wasn't in her ugly spot with her. I just acted like it wasn't there. I didn't get it either. That makes me sad. I want a deep friendship. I want to know that when I need her she'll come running, with out me asking. I'd like to think I would do the same. I felt odd that she didn't come running when Logan died. I guess I expected her to just show up on my doorstep, and when she didn't...it hurt. But then, I didn't do that for her either. I want to feel comfortable crying in front of her, and want her to cry with me, and in front of me. I can count her tears, the serious ones, on one hand. Once when my brother broke her heart, once when I broke her heart, and today. 22 years. 3 tears. I think today was the first time I cried with her. That's sad. She should know me better than anyone. I should know her. But the last ten years... We barely know each other at all. I don't even know if we ever did. We know big ugly secrets. We know family and childhood drama. But I don't think we know each other very well at all anymore. That's sad. It makes me sad. And I think Logan's death just made it all that much more obvious to me. I shouldn't feel weird about telling her my heart is shattered since my son was stolen from me. I shouldn't, but I do. I hate being vulnerable. I've always been the strong friend. Or, at least I thought I was. I hate being heart broken, and I hate letting people know when they've broken it. I hate that much vulnerability. I should have told her all of these things. I should have, but I didn't.

Another cosmic kick in the teeth...ok, that's a tad dramatic.

I'm sure, by now, everyone here knows that I started a diet blog with my girlfriend last week. It really helped me to stay on track last week. But after a week of stellar performance (excluding my free day yesterday) of dieting and exercising and lifting weights, I didn't loose an ounce. So, first thing this morning it felt like I got another cosmic kick in the teeth. It's odd how the stupid little things lately are the ones that send me plunging into the abyss of despair. I know I'm being very dramatic this morning. Sigh, I'm just really disappointed and discouraged, and frankly I can't deal with the little disappointments of life anymore. Anyhow, here's the thing. Logan's death has affected me on every possible front. And I find when I am writing in my diet blog I have to reference Logan. But, I want to keep the blog upbeat, and I really don't want to share my feelings about Logan. I want people to comment on my dieting, not that they are sorry my son died. That's what this blog is for. But, unless people know what I've been through lately (the best that they can know I suppose) they won't understand why I feel so desperate. I'm not big on sharing my feelings and emotions with people I know. Anyone I know, knows that about me. Remember the song Tears of a Clown? When I was younger my mom used that song to describe me once. I never forgot it. You'll find the lyrics below. Anyhow, I feel weird talking about Logan on that blog. I hate that I feel weird talking about my son. Actually it's more that I feel weird about talking about my hurt and disappointment and frustrations relating to Logan's death, not Logan himself. I don't even talk to my girl friend about it. We've been friends for 22 years or so. Since we were 10 years old! But, we've never had that type of relationship. Plus I'm trying to deal with some anger issues towards her. And frankly I just can't talk to her about what I'm going through. So, I don't like splashing my emotions over Logan across the pages of my diet blog. But I know that people will just think I'm being dramatic over weight loss when that's not really the case and there is such a huge sorrow under the surface. My friends and family are on my weight loss blog. I only have one friend that has access to this blog, and that's only because he wears these ugly shoes too. In fact, he's started his own blog about the still birth of his own daughter last year. Anyhow, I just don't know how to separate Logan from the rest of the world. I don't know how to write about being pissed about the number on my scale this morning with out backing up the reason with the enormous disappointment I feel over my son. And I don't know why I am so scared for my friends and family to know what is bubbling under the surface of this very plastic smile. This morning I wanted to hurl that scale through the bathroom window. And I honestly think it was more because I was pissed that once again I feel like I was kicked in the teeth with disappointment after I tried so hard. Anyhow, here's that song.
The Tears of a Clown
Smokey Robinson & The Miracles

Now if there's a smile on my face, it's only there tryin' to fool the public, but when it comes down to foolin' you; Now honey, that's quite a different subject. But don't let my glad expression give you the wrong impression. Really I'm sad. I'm sadder than sad. You're gone and I'm hurtin' so bad. Like a clown I pretend to be glad. (chorus) Now there's some sad things known to man, but ain't too much sadder than the tears of a clown when there's no one around. Now if I appear to be carefree, it's only to camouflage my sadness. In order to shield my pride I try to cover the hurt with a show of gladness. But don't let my show convince you that I've been happy since you decided to go. Oh, I need you so. I'm hurt and I want you to know. (chorus) Just like Pagliacci did, I try to keep my sadness hid. Smilin' in the public eye while in my lonely room I cry the tears of a clown when there's no one around.
Oh look at that. Another break up song that fits the sound track of my life lately! So yes, of course, I added it to Logan's playlist! It's amazing that break ups seem as dramatic as baby deaths. I guess hurt is hurt, and I'm glad there are people out there that can write music that speaks to me.

No Lupus

By the way, the doctor who originally sent me in for Lupus testing called me the other day. I don't have Lupus. My other OB, the one who thought that I did, is apparently an idiot and misread the tests results...again. He's done that a lot lately. So, I fired him. Three weeks before my yearly check-up. I was affraid he'd tell me I had cancer next...and then I wouldn't. I can't take any more drama. I'm glad I didn't give this Lupus thing a whole lot of thought. Seriously, I feel like the universe keeps saying...


The Baseball Bat

Just when you think you’re moving on…wham! The baseball bat. I think that I’ve been coping well. I spend a lot of time writing in my blog about Logan, and I have a friend that I talk to a lot about Logan. But yesterday snuck up on me from behind and tried to do me in. We went to a Mom2Mom Sale. Sounds scary right? I didn’t think so. For some reason I’ve handled babies and pregnant ladies with ease. It doesn’t bother me to see either. I get wistful, and there isn’t a time that goes by when I don’t see a pregnant woman, a baby, a little boy and anything related that I don’t think about Logan, and admittedly I feel a twinge of sadness, even jealousy…but I don’t have break downs over it. I wanted to go to the sale. I have a one year old daughter, and I wanted to find odds and ends for her. I wanted to go just to get out and do something. I never thought I’d have a melt down…in public. I don’t do things like that. I don’t cry in public. I don’t like to cry in front of David, I certainly don’t like to cry in public! It was all well and good. I even stopped and talked to a new mommy with a 3 week old girl. She had some maternity clothes on her table that I was fingering. There was this navy blue top. A long sleeved t-shirt sort of top that I love to wear, especially while pregnant. I picked it up; I held it up and WHAM!!! Out of left field the baseball bat came flying in and bashed me in the face! I didn’t even see it coming. I couldn’t stop it. I looked at David as I started to panic. He was a few feet away. Oh my GOD!!! What was I doing? I wanted that shirt! And I started to freak out because I don’t need that shirt anymore, I might never need that shirt again! I wanted to need that shirt! I should need that shirt! And I didn’t, and it all came flying at me in the middle of a very crowded marketplace, right by this new mother and her tiny baby, right in front of all of these people! The tears welled up, and I fought and fought to keep them in. I felt that weird pressure in my face, the one you get just before you start to wail, and I looked at the floor trying to hurriedly fold the shirt up and place it neatly back on it’s pile, in front of the new mommy and her tiny baby. I didn’t look at the new mommy. I was afraid I had freaked her out. I didn’t want anyone to notice I was having a private melt down…in public! I didn’t want anyone to ask me questions. I didn’t want to be feeling this way…a g a i n! I just wanted to shop. I wanted to find neat little treasures for my daughter and not think about the horror that is my reality. My dead son. I didn’t want to think about having a dead son. Not today. Not that moment. David and I quickly walked away from that table. I regrouped. I prayed desperately to not have a red face (I am not a pretty, delicate crier!) or red eyes. David asked if we should leave. I was determined to stay. I was gonna win this fight with grief. I was not going to allow the grief to ruin my life. And so, we proceeded. And all was well again…

I thought…

Hours went by. I didn’t think about the incident but once or twice. We had lunch, played Rummy Royal with the in-laws (for 6 ½ very annoying hours!! No game should be played that long!) had dinner, came home and watched TV. And all was well. I thought. And there we were watching House, M.D. and enjoying our Saturday night like married folks do (watching TV) and at the very end of the show a woman says…

“Children are resilient.”

And I thought;

“Not always.”

And that was the end for me. I had a melt down. A c o m p l e t e melt down. The kind I haven’t had in about 5 weeks or so. I still cry here and there, but not like this. David said “It’s alright for you to talk about Logan with me” and all I could think of was “why?” Why bother? It doesn’t fix it, it doesn’t change it, it doesn’t make it go away. What is there to talk about? I miss my son desperately, or as someone in blog land so eloquently said it, I miss the promise of my son. And it’s final. There’s no hope that he’ll ever come back. Final. No hope. No slight chance that things will change and that one day I might not have this gaping hole. And the only one I can really share that with is David. No one else knows Logan. No one knows what his tiny mouth looked like, no one knows what his little ears looked like, no one else knows anything. It’s like a figment of my imagination, and David is the only one who got to be a part of it. When someone lives, and then dies, most of the time you have something. Pictures, memories, other people who witnessed their existence (I’m speaking of take home babies here) there is a tangibility to them. There is something. When there is a miscarriage there is no tangible evidence (usually). There are no pictures, no physical memories (like blankets, what their mouth looked like). There is nothing. So you either have something…or nothing. There isn’t an in between. But with stillbirth…you’re in between. You don’t have something, but you don’t really have nothing either. The something is that you saw that baby. You held that baby. You knew that there was, in fact, a real baby. Seeing is believing, right? The nothing is that chances are you don’t have pictures (at least ones you hang on your wall or keep in your wallet) you don’t remember their voice or cries, the way they opened their eyes. You don’t have real memories. You have a dead baby that you saw, who sort of resembled you or your spouse, but was probably red, had peeling skin and was ultra tiny (assuming the still born child was premature like mine). You have a physical memory of holding a baby. But there was no soul in that baby. The baby never cried. The baby didn’t really have a birthday. But the baby was there. There’s something, and nothing. And I am having such a hard time getting a grip on it. I can’t get my head around how you can have something and nothing at the same time. I’m not saying I wish I would have had a miscarriage, because I know if I would have I would have wanted more time, some physical evidence, a desire to have seen my child. And I’m not saying I wanted my son to be born alive only to get those memories and have him torn from me. And I’m not trying to discount anyone else’s pain and suffering; those who’ve had babies live only to die, and those who’ve had miscarriages, pain is pain and everyone has a loss to contend with, please don’t think that I am discounting anyone’s pain. I just can’t grasp where it is that I am. I can’t grasp what has happened to me; let alone what has happened to anyone else. This all came crashing in on me last night. And I blathered on and on about it. And I know none of it makes sense. The feelings that I have don’t make sense and trying to have them make sense for others is very difficult. It’s just that I have something and I have nothing and I don’t know what to do with it. The same goes for having my daughter. So many people go through this nightmare and never come out with a live baby at the end. I am so lucky, blessed, whatever you wanna call it, to have a living daughter before I endured the horror of having my son die. I should feel blessed. I should feel lucky. Because I am. And when I look at her I see that, and I know that, and I feel that. But then I think about my son, I don’t feel lucky or blessed. And then I don’t feel like I have a right to feel that way because it could have been so much worse. And I was lucky, or blessed, that it wasn’t. But, the joy of my daughter does not negate the intense sorrow of my son. So much of what I feel these days is conflicting. Something and nothing. Blessed and damned. Alive and dead. Happy and sad. Wistful and angry. I don’t recognize myself anymore. This grief is changing me on a daily basis. And all I could say at the end of my melt down is that I just want it to go away. I don’t want the anger or the sadness or the gaping hole in my heart. I don’t want the memory of a son who was never mine. I don’t want the knowledge that I have. I don’t want the sorrow for a little boy who came and went on the same day. We were fine before Logan. Why couldn't we just stay that way? I’m not sure what the purpose of his existence even was. What reason, what lesson can justify the amount of pain I feel? Ok, sure, God saved Logan from a lifetime of suffering. And for that I am grateful. No mother wants their child to suffer and would go through any amount of pain and suffering herself to prevent her child from having to do so. But since I believe that God is the only creator of life, what reason did he choose to create a life in Logan, only to take it away so soon? What reason could there possibly be? I know there is no answer to this. And this is where I am again…denial, anger and questioning.

David made a good point to me last night. I said that Logan would have been 7 weeks old, and he said “No he wouldn’t, because he wouldn’t have even been born yet.” I’ve never thought about that before. Logan was only born because he was already dead. They induced me after he died. So January 24th, the day he was born dead, isn’t even his birthday. And, it’s not the day he died (they think he probably died on the 21st or 22nd). It’s just the day he left my body. How am I supposed to celebrate that day? He wasn’t supposed to be here yet! There was no birthday. This wasn’t supposed to be 7 weeks after he died…it was supposed to be 30 weeks along. And I’m pissed! And I’m tremendously sad. And I’m confused and scared. I hate that my blog exists, I hate that I know there are people, millions of people, who are parents to dead babies. I hate that we know each other because we share the sorrow of baby loss. I hate that I am not ignorant to this horror. And I hate that I go through life with a plastic smile on my face trying to be for others what they think I should be because they can’t cope with my reality. I am full of screaming. I feel like my entire being is one enormous scream. And I hate that. I hate that my entire life is shadowed by thoughts of a dead baby that I almost knew, but not quite. I hate that I can’t show people pictures of my son because they won’t see what I see. They won’t be able to look past the dark, red, peeling skin and see my sweet, sweet tiny baby boy. They’ll see a horror where they should see such joy. And I hate that I can’t show them pictures of my son. I hate that I can’t share memories of my son, because I have none. Nothing tangible and real. I could show the blanket, but why? I didn’t make it, I didn’t buy it and I didn’t pick it out. Some sweet volunteer made that blanket, and the nurses wrapped him in it. It wasn’t his blanket. It was a blanket for a dead baby. I have footprints and handprints…of a dead baby. I have nothing of a baby that was living. Everything I have of Logan has a horrific fact tied to it. Dead baby. Not a live baby who had living pictures and footprints, and then died. He was already dead. He had been dead for a few days. No one can see past that, especially if I can’t. I’m weary, and it’s only been 7 very long weeks...that flew right by. A second and a lifetime. Something and nothing. Life and death. And all I can do is shake my head in disbelief.

I still can’t believe it.


Seven weeks...

Seems like a lifetime ago...

Seems like yesterday...

It only hurts when I breathe!

Jason left a comment about my blog yesterday in which he states that he likes my blog title. So, I got to thinking what was the reason for my title? Where did it come from? I remember when I was sitting here trying to think of a title it just popped into my head. It took a split second and when I thought of it I knew it was perfect. So today I decided to search for that phrase online. I'm sure something prompted the title into my head. David and I thought it was a song or something...it sounded vaguely familiar. Turns out, we were right. Shania Twain has a song called "It Only Hurts When I'm Breathing". I'm a country music fan (though admitedly not much of a fan oh her music), so it made sense that I knew this song. I must've heard it around the time I started my blog. Anyhow, I looked it up.
Here are the Lyrics:

Hope life's been good to you since you've been gone.
I'm doin' fine now--I've finally moved on.
It's not so bad--I'm not that sad.

I'm not surprised just how well I survived.
I'm over the worst, and I feel so alive.
I can't complain--I'm free again.

And it only hurts when I'm breathing.
My heart only breaks when it's beating.
My dreams only die when I'm dreaming.
So, I hold my breath--to forget.

Don't think I'm lyin' 'round cryin' at night.
There's no need to worry, I'm really all right.
I've never looked back--as a matter of fact.

[Repeat Chorus]

It only hurts when I breathe.
Mmm, no, I've never looked back--as a matter fact
[Repeat Chorus]

Hurts when I'm breathing.
Breaks when it's beating.
Die when I'm dreaming.

It only hurts when I breathe.

So, there you have it. Break up songs. They always fit don't they? The chorus lines anyhow. I thought the chorus of this song fit perfect. I've often felt that if I held my breath... I've added this song to Logan's playlist. If you stick around long enough you'll hear it...or you could just click on the song in the playlist, it'll start playing automatically.

What if it WAS my fault?

Ok, so last night I'm emailing a friend of mine who is unlucky enough to be in "the club". And it dawns on me that my husband being in the situation he is in now (being a dead-baby-daddy, thank you KUKD) might actually be (gasp!!) my fault! Now, I know all you other mummy's wearing the worlds ugliest shoes are quickly shaking your heads because we all know that it's never any ones fault. Stay with me for a sec... If my sweet man was content with our first child, who was for all intents and purposes perfect (she is, trust me!) and I perhaps talked him into having a second child... because horror of all horrors I couldn't let my daughter grow up to be an only child... it would mean that this really is my fault. Because had we stopped with one child, being that she is perfect and all, we would have never felt the pain of the child loss that we feel now. Right? Back then my husbands reasoning for not having more children was because he didn't want to temp fate, press his luck, play the odds... We had one perfect child...let's not tempt fate. But who thinks like that? At least, who thinks like that before they endure the death of a baby? So, I'm sure I gave him the whole speech about not wanting to raise an only child (I'm biased, I grew up in a gaggle of kids) and how I'm only 31 years old, and seriously what are the odds (apparently 1/900...pretty good if you ask me!). And so, we didn't "prevent" a second child. And apparently when we don't prevent... Anyhow. He assures me I didn't talk him into having a second child. He assures me that he too wanted to have another baby. He assures me that his being in this position (wearing the worlds ugliest shoes) is by no means my fault. He has to say that. He loves me. He probably thinks I'd off myself. But here's the thing, and I can't quit obsessing about it. What if I did? What if I did talk him into having Logan? At this point it doesn't matter. It's done. There's no changing it now. But I can't help but think that him being in this position was my fault. I mean after all, it was my stupid egg that couldn't do it's job right! If he'd have procreated with someone else... Oh man, that's a whole different rabbit hole. And now, I want to have another baby. Preferably a healthy baby. One that gets to live and come home. But, what if this time I really do talk him into another baby? And what if this time the baby does live... And what if this time the baby has Down Syndrome (because now the odds are 1/100!!)? Then it would be my fault, and no one could say otherwise.

Why is it that we all live in such fear? Why is it fair to have that burden now too? We fear so much...what if I get pregnant? What if I can't? What if he doesn't want to? What if I don't want to? What if the baby dies? What if the baby's sick? What if it was my fault?

What if?

I'm gonna write a book...and other projects.

A friend of mine told me that after he lost his baby he immersed himself in a project, I've read about others doing that also. It dawned on me last night that I too have immersed myself into several projects. I started scrapbooking my son like a mad woman, even going so far as to make a 3 hour drive "back home" to visit my favorite scrap store. I'd stay up till the wee hours scrapping my head off. I've slowed down a bit. Then I realized that its because I've immersed myself into another project, self improvement. House keeping, planning, changing, remodeling...whatever (though admittedly I do more planning than actual work). And getting my fat butt in shape. I can't say "back in shape" because I was never really in shape to begin with. There was a time when I was really skinny, but that's just because I wouldn't eat. I didn't have one muscle in my body though. So, now I am on a quest to get muscles, and loose the jiggles. I'm becoming obsessed (this week anyhow, that may change quickly). I've mentioned my new weight loss blog before. I spend hours, I mean hours, messing around with it. Then I spend hours searching out recipes (ok, I've always done that.) Get this though, I hate to cook, but I love recipes! I have a terrible recipe book collection, and I doubt I've made 5 recipes from any of them. I like to read the ingredients, I like to fantasize that they will be good (because they usually aren't) and my husband will love it (because he usually won't). I subscribe to cooking magazines, I hunt around online (my favorite site is www.eatingwell.com) I buy books from garage sales. It's sick. Maybe I should have a menu collection instead. LOL! Then I work out, I have to admit I do this against my will, and the entire time I work out I think about what I will write in my blog, what I should eat, how long it will take me to complete this task of self improvement...but I don't think about Logan. And I think that's what I like about it the most. Being consumed with something other than grief, even if it's still hanging out in the dark recesses of my obsessive mind! It's a break from my sadness, no matter how short lived.

Another project?

I'm gonna write a book. Seriously. Ok, I'm not going to write it since I have no real talent for writing (even if I have the gift of gab). Let's say, I'm going to compile a book. I will name the book:

Grief is a Funny Thing!
An Irreverently Dark Satirical Look at the "Lighter" Side of Infant Death
Blog Postings from the Members of "The Club No One Wants to Belong To"

I have read so many darkly hilarious postings in the last few weeks, and I'm gonna compile them (don't steal my idea because I will hunt you down! I don't get very many good ideas!). Obviously the book won't be for everyone, and obviously the only people who will "get" it are those of us in the "club". But, in my opinion, sometimes we need a little dark humor to help us cope. Maybe it's more sarcasm than humor.

What do you think? Would you read it?

How do I get it published?

What's wrong?

David keeps asking me lately what’s wrong. We’ll be driving or something and I’ll be looking out the window and he’ll ask, what’s wrong? Sometimes I want to laugh. Sometimes I want to smack him (it's annoying, but I like that he's asking anyhow). But the truth of the matter is, he knows what’s wrong. It’s wrong for him too. But I think it frightens him how wrong it all really is (it scares the crap out of me!!) and deep down inside I think he hopes it’s something else that is wrong. Something he can fix, talk out or smooth over, because that's what men do. Sadly though, it’s usually nothing at all. Usually I'm just sitting there, not consciously thinking about anything sad. I think I’ve just changed. Maybe I’m not all sunny and bright anymore. Maybe I'm not as talkative. Maybe it's because everything seems so trivial in the light of my son's death. Maybe I have more lines on my forehead. Maybe there's a permanent sadness in my eyes. I don’t know. It makes me feel a little weird though. I don’t want to be different. I don’t want to be a problem that needs to be solved or an issue that needs to be fixed. I just want to be. I want to be the person he married. I want to be me, but I think the new definition of me has been seriously altered lately.
I am working on being ok with that.
I don’t talk to David about Logan much. I reference him, but we don’t talk about him. We don't get down to the nitty gritty "how are you feeling?" stuff. I don’t want to dwell on Logan or bring him up if David isn’t thinking about him. I don’t want to ruin his day too, or add to the stress that he so clearly is already under. That’s why I blog, because I have to talk about it. But, if I’m honest with myself I know that I don’t have to bring him up to David. I’m sure David thinks about Logan just as much as I do. Men and women are different. At least David and I are different. I want to hear him talk about it. I want to know if he feels the breathtaking sadness that I do. I want to know if he wants to put his fist through a wall. But I also know that he probably just wants to forget about it, or keep it his private agony. I’ll never understand that…but as you see I am a yapper. David is reserved and private. But, I know that he knows how I feel. He reads my blogs...but we don't talk about them either. ;)

Why so quiet?

I don't live near my family. I don't live near my friends. I don't have to see them on a regular basis and experience the pitiful looks. I don't have to experience the uncomfortable silence, the shifting feet, the awkward glances to the side of someone desperately trying to get out of having to "say" anything to me. I wonder how much of what I perceive is in my head? Why is the silence that surrounds the mention of my sons name deafening? Why do people look away? Why do people talk about the dumbest things, when it is clearly an effort to avoid the elephant in the room?
There's Heather. Her baby died.
Why do people start shifting when I say dead baby? Why is it something I can't talk about? Why does it make people uncomfortable? Why do I care? I read a blog today, she was hilarious. She kept referring to "us" as dead-baby-mama's. I liked it. I am a dead baby's mama. It's a fact. Why do we sugar coat it? Why do we say things like; angel baby, lost, passed, went home, born sleeping??? I gave birth to a dead baby. It's not meant to sound ugly. It just is what it is. But then, I've never been one to sugar coat.
My name is Heather. My baby died.
But I don't like that I feel labeled now. And it's a label that I give to myself too. But I guess it's like anything else in life. She's a mother, she's a wife, she's a lawyer (I wish!)... She's a dead-baby-mama. I desperately don't want to define my life. But I guess for better or for worse my life has a definite definition now. Many definitions I suppose. I'm a mama to a living baby too, not just a dead baby. I talk about my daughter all the time. People ask about her. People want to know. But not my son. Very few people ask me about my son. I talk about him. What little I knew of him. Very few people in the "real world" are receptive. In fact two. Two people are receptive. Two people ask questions and aren't afraid. And I appreciate them. Two people. The two people who I previously would have thought would be the last two people to do that. Those two people are my go-to people. Those two people are the ones that I feel the most accepted whilst talking about my sweet baby. Those two people let me know it's ok to talk about my son too. They accept that he was a part of my life. They accept that I have a son too. They're not afraid of a dead-baby-mama. They're not afraid to look me in the eye. Two people.
Why so quiet?

I've changed my name!

Some of you may have noticed that I changed my display name from Icantletitgo to Heather. I changed it mainly because I am an author on a weightloss blog and it didn't make sense to sign my blogs with that name. I also changed it because I want you all to know my name, it's Heather. :) And, I also changed my name because every time I read Icantletitgo it made me sad and I always thought "But, I have to let it go or it will eat me alive!" So, there you have it. From now on my comments and blogs will be signed "Heather". I apologize for any confusion.

My diet blog

Ok, so my girl friend talked me into starting a diet blog with her.
If you are interested you can find it here.
But, it's still new...give us some time. :)
The point of the blog I guess is to keep me accountable. Maybe if I lay myself bare (but not necessarily naked) for the world to see, maybe I'll be a little more cautious about what I stuff in my mouth. Maybe I'll be more inclined to jump on the elliptical and jiggle the jiggles off...if I know that the general public will know that I was being too lazy to spare twenty minutes for my quest to not be an eye sore to man kind. Maybe it's the motivation I need. Maybe. Or maybe it will give me something to look forward to on days when all I can manage to think about is Logan. Which ever the case may be, I'll give it a shot. What's there to loose? Face? Or butt?

Another rainy day?

I can't make up my mind. When it's sunny I'm depressed because the sun shouldn't shine when someone is dead (although if that were the case the sun would never shine), and when it's cloudy I'm depressed...well, because it's dreary and depressing. I hate the rain. Not the thunderstorm, we need the rain, it's a relief sort of rain. The rain that drizzles down when it's been cloudy and cold for days kind of rain. I hate winter. 10 more days till spring and it can't come soon enough. I've decided to start dieting...again. I've had a hard time with wanting to give a crap about my body lately. I mean, I've never really had a lot of will power or been good at dieting. I love to eat. I love food and drinks. I love to taste. I bask in the delight of food. I blame my mother for this. She loves food too. When we get together for something, it's always based around food. But, while I was pregnant with Logan I didn't have much of an appetite. Not the morning sickness kind, just no desire to eat. I didn't want to cook (more so than usual), I didn't want to sit down and do it. I rarely ever thought about it. But the moment he left me...whew! I've been on a one way track to hugeville stuffing my face with anything and everything. I love to drink too. Sunkist is my current weakness. I'm obsessed with it. I started drinking it during my first pregnancy because I thought it was caffiene free (I recently was informed that it is not!). I replaced my obsession with Mt. Dew Livewire with the Sunkist. I just love it. I love the way I feel holding that bottle. I love the taste, the fizz and the coldness. I've never thought of my self as an emotional eater...but I am certainly an emotional drinker. I love Mocha too. Another thing I gave up for almost two years. Ten months with my first pregnancy, then the breastfeeding, then my pregnancy with Logan...close to two years of "nothing naughty". I love frozen strawberry margharita's too, and an occasional splash of vanilla vodka in my Sunkist or Livewire (makes for a mean Orange Cream flavor!). Anyhow, I gave all of that up on my 29th birthday...just as I became pregnant with my daughter. I always did really good when I was pregnant. I only gained 20lbs with my first pregnancy right up until the last two weeks...when I gained an additional 10lbs because I couldn't stop eating cookies for some reason. Did I mention I'm a sugar addict?? Then with Logan, I only gained 6lbs for the 6 months I was pregnant with him. But after Logan died...I lost the 6 pounds right away. I didn't even try. I lost all of the baby wieght with Aubrey by month two. But about a week after Logan died, I lost any and all control that I once had. I ate everything in sight. I drank it too. One, sometimes two bottles of pop a day. That's a lot of sugar. And Reese's after Reese's and cookie after cookie. I put on 5 lbs with in a week. That doesn't sound like much, but I'm not skinny to start with. I mean, I'm not obese or anything, but I certainly should loose about 40lbs. Anyhow, I've started and stopped about three times now in the last month. But yesterday I actually sat myself down and decided to do it full blast. We'll see how that works out. I'm not real good with self control or will power. But I can't take the emotional drain I get when I see myself in the mirror. I have to spend that energy on Logan right now, and I can't afford to have anything else draining me. My girl friend wants to start a weight loss blog, the two of us. So, we'll do that, and see how it works out. I don't want to not give a crap about my body any more, but I don't know how to muster up the strength I know this takes.

Sparrow Farm Creations

My cousin is a word artist. She takes pictures of flowers from her garden and she turns them into word art. She made me a print for Logan (shown above). If you would like one for your own, she custom makes these. You can choose a different verse, poem, or quote if you'd like. You can also ask for certain colors. You can click on the print above to be taken to the Memorial page on her site. All of the details are on her website: www.sparrowfarm.com There are prints for all occasions. You also made me a print for my daughter Aubrey when she ws born. It hangs on her wall. If you choose to order, tell her you came by way of Logan.

The funk

Man! I could not get out of my funk yesterday. I had the whole day to myself as my daughter was visiting grandma. I dropped her off and raced home excited to scrapbook my latest page for Logan. It's a page about the names we had picked out for him. Lauren Claire if he was a girl, Logan David for a boy. Anyhow, I scrapped for a few hours and my funk started creeping in. Sneaky. We even spent the evening playing cards with the in-laws, which I generally love to do, and the funk got worse an worse. Every noise annoyed me, made my ears physically hurt. I couldn't wait to get out of there. Then I came home and played Mafia Wars on Facebook. I sucker punched a few thugs, bought an apartment building, did some dirty jobs like mugging people...fun stuff. And at 9:30pm when my husband suggested we go to bed, I didn't argue, I didn't refuse (normally I stay up much later), I just went. Then I stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes. Today I just feel blah. I'm not in a funk, but I'm not really out of it either. It's a cloudy wet day (that alwasy helps with the funk!) but it's almost 60 degrees! It's been a bitter cold, hard and very long winter here in Southeast Michigan. But it's almost balmy out (thanks to the humidity I'm sure) so for the first time in a very long time, I am going for a walk. I'm taking my daughter, my dog and myself and we are going for a very long walk. Then later, I'm off to pick-up my brothers engagement ring from the jewelers so that he can propose on Sunday! That brightens my day! I love my future sister in law. Both of my sisters in law are a blessing to this family. So, I'm off to get dressed and dust off the stroller. Maybe I'll out run (ok, walk) the blah that is hanging around.

The confusion is confusing!

The confusion is confusing. I don’t know what I expect from myself. On the days I don’t cry or mope around thinking of Logan I wonder if I’m denying my heart its right to feel the extraordinary pain I must feel over loosing my son. I say must because there are days when I don’t feel anything, when I don’t think about the sorrow, when I view Logan as a fact, only a fact, and not the heavy weight of the love and loss I have…but then out of nowhere, with out a conscious thought about him I start to ache and cry. Something small like the title of a book or an innocent comment (“She loves that cat like a child!” Uh-no she doesn’t.) And out of no where (although obviously it’s somewhere) I cry. I cry even before the thought crosses my mind. I am confused why there are days where I think of him as a fact, a cold hard fact. I talk about him like a fact. I was pregnant, I had a son, he was born dead and his name was Logan…the end. We all know that is not the end. Then I cried, forever. My heart broke a million times a day. But I find myself looking at pictures of myself pregnant, ultrasound pictures, my pregnancy journal and I don’t feel a thing. But I do, I must. Deep down in the recesses of the heart that I’ve come to commonly ignore; I miss my baby. I miss his kicking, I miss the anticipation and I miss the dreams I had for him. I miss my family of four. If I had only known. If I had known that my little boy would have such a short time here on this blasted planet I would have taken more pictures of my belly, regardless of how ugly I felt. I would have sat around with a heart beat monitor and memorized the sound of his little heart. I would have sung to him, I would have written down every kick, I would have talked to him and told him I much I loved him. I would have tried so much harder to appreciate being pregnant instead of moaning and groaning about every little ache and annoyance. I would have stayed awake at night to feel him roll around in my belly, instead of trying to sleep through my pregnancy to wake up one morning in May with a take home baby boy. I would have. But I didn’t. I have a lifetime of memories written down on a few pages, vague events that I didn’t pay enough attention to. But I am so confused as to why I can go days with out feeling the pain that I must have. And then BAM! I’m a sobbing mess. Crying and aching for an enigma. How can I feel so much for a little boy I barely knew? Those six short months, gone in such a flurry and leaving in their wake so few memories to cling to. And endless tears.

"The first time anyhow." and "What are the odds?"

My dad finally came to meet my daughter, thirteen months and one dead little brother into her life. Yes, I’m bitter, resentful and full of hatred. Upon seeing his granddaughter for the first time (did I mention she was thirteen months old?) he said “Well kids, you’ve done good!” and my first reaction and immediate response was “The first time anyhow”. Why? Why is it that I say those things? Why is it that I try so very hard to find the humor in my son’s death? Obviously there’s nothing funny about it at all. Maybe I like the look of horror I usually get. I’ve always been one for reactions. Maybe I want people to feel the horror that I carry around. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself that it wasn’t as big of a deal as it really was that I don’t hurt as much as I really do. I hate bad stuff. I have never been one to know what to feel or say or do in the face of a tragedy. I shut down, I ignore, I bury and bottle. But this is my tragedy. Maybe I make jokes before other’s can. I don’t know. It’s weird. It makes me feel weird about myself. Maybe I want people to think I’m dealing with it and moving on. I am. I am dealing with it, and I do feel like I am moving on…and all the while carrying my little tragedy around in my pocket. But honestly I feel like we did a good job the first time around, and totally screwed it up the second. I know Down Syndrome isn’t my fault. Nothing I did or could have done would have changed it. At least that’s what the doctors say. But it was my body that did it, my egg that didn’t cooperate and split the way that it should have. The egg that had one purpose; to split the right way…couldn’t get it right. “What are the odds?” (A common thing people say); well at thirty-one the odds are one in nine-hundred. If you had an eight hundred and ninety-nine percent chance of winning the lotto, you’d play. I’d have played. ONE IN NINE-HUNDRED!!! I’d say my odds were pretty freaking good. I’m always that ONE, and now they tell me I have a repeat chance of one in ONE-HUNDRED now. How am I supposed to even think about conceiving another child? And they all say “But what are the odds?” and all I can think is “pretty freaking good!” It sickens me to feel this way.

If it could get worse...just wait, it will.

Could it get any worse? Sure. It always can. It always does. I got a call Tuesday (in the midst of this chaos and drama called my family) about some blood work my new OB sent me in for regarding the fact that my mom has mini strokes. He wanted to check for a clotting disorder, just in case. If I choose to get pregnant again, this is something they would need to know. So I went. Nothing was wrong with me, and I knew it. I mean, what are the odds? Apparently pretty freaking good.

“Some of the test came back abnormal”
“Abnormal for what?”
“Well it appears that you may have Lupus.”

Oh, is that it? [She asks herself sarcastically] Why not? After all, look at my odds for anything bad lately. So in the last thirteen months I’ve gotten pregnant, had a perfect daughter, got gall bladder disease, had the said gall removed (therefore I have no more gall), got pregnant with a son, was told son was abnormal, had son die, gave birth to dead son, was told son had Down Syndrome and now it looks like I might have Lupus! I mean why not? Bring it on. Because right now I feel like if it could go wrong, it probably will.

A scrapbook page for Logan

I finished a scrapbook page for Logan that I just love. So far I’ve done 3 ½ pages. This particular page is of the day we found out we were pregnant. It was our first family photo of all four of us. My daughter is wearing a shirt that says Big Sister on it. I had it made since I couldn’t find one in her size (6 months at the time) and that is how we wanted to break the news to our parents. I didn’t do this on purpose, but I’ve since come to think of it this way…I recorded that day’s memory on a tag that is tucked between two hearts; Logan’s story, hidden between mine and David’s heart. It adds something to the whole page for me. I named the page “Great Expectations” because we had such great expectations. EXPECTATIONS!! I expected to have a second child. I find the feelings I have while scrapping Logan are odd. I probably wouldn’t have given this page that title had I scrapped it while I was pregnant. I made an entire scrapbook of my first pregnancy, and just the pregnancy. With Logan, it’s not that it wasn’t as important…but a second pregnancy just didn’t have the same “thing”. I don’t know how else to put it. So, the title of this page seems a little cynical or something. Regardless, I really like this layout.

The ring

David picked up the ring I had made in memory of Logan on Saturday. It’s beautiful. It’s not really what I had in mind, but it fits all the same. I’m glad to have it finally. I look at my hand several times a day. And every time I do, I think of my son. Sometimes I see his stone nestled between my two stones and I think it looks like a hug. I’m wrapped around my little boy. Here's a picture.

I knew it would eventually happen...

So, it happened. I mean, I knew it would eventually happen…to one of them, but I have to say I was a little surprised…but then, not so much. One of my friends is pregnant, newly pregnant. They called to tell us the news yesterday. I was surprised that she was the one that got pregnant since another one of my friends has been trying to get pregnant for a few months now. We had quests here when we got the call, so maybe I was distracted by the company, but my first reaction was shock, then excitement, then pity for my other friend who I knew probably was jealously sad (as only a woman trying to conceive herself can be)…and only then did I get a weird twinge. Not anything real major, nothing that caused tears or even a lump in my throat; just a weird feeling. And I shamefully have to say I think it might have been skepticism, because as most women who have lost a baby would think after said loss, the baby isn’t here yet. That feeling makes me feel sad. I wish I still had that blissful ignorance. Anyhow, I ordered her a Maternity Record Book that I had also had for Logan and just loved. I know that when I got pregnant, either time, I was always so pleased that people gave a crap enough to honor my new baby. But, as I was checking out online I suddenly thought perhaps it was too soon to send a gift. I mean she’s probably only 6 weeks along tops, so what if she had an early miscarriage. Then she’d have this record book sitting around to make her sad. Then I thought about how I still filled in Logan’s record book even after he passed, and I went ahead and bought it. Those types of thoughts make me sick to my stomach. I was cynical before, but now I’m just cruel. I don’t know why I bought her a gift. The old me probably wouldn’t have done that. Not that I wouldn’t care or be happy, I just don’t think about doing things like that. I’d like to think I bought her a gift because I really am happy for her and I want to share in her joy. But I think part of me wants to unconsciously say to her, and everyone else, that I’m dealing and that I am not begrudging her any deserved happiness. She’s a great woman; I would never want to begrudge her of such a blessing. But it’s almost like maybe I’m trying too hard, trying to convince myself perhaps. But I am happy. I’m so happy that babies live. That miscarriages, and still births and infant deaths aren’t the norm. Don't get me wrong, I may freak out when their baby is born, especially if it’s a boy. I haven’t had to deal with that yet. No one I know up close has a baby. As I figure it the baby won’t be due until November. That’s nine months of healing and distance I can shove under my belt. I say shove because sometimes I feel like I am forcing myself to deal and heal. I just want it to be over, I hate unpleasant things, and upon talking with so many woman in similar shoes, I am faced with the fear that I will never “get over” my grief. Not that I think I should “get over” my son, but I had hope that I would move on and find the bliss I once had.

On a different note, part of me wonders if she’s sacred. Being pregnant is scary enough on its own merit, but when you have a friend who just gave birth to a dead baby with a serious defect, that just has to be very unnerving. I also wonder if she’s afraid to share her pregnancy with me. I’ll have to email her about that. I really think I’d like to be a part of her adventure. Part of me also wonders if she rushed into getting pregnant because of my tragedy. I’m 31; my son had Down Syndrome, a syndrome that most don’t equate with any pregnancy under 35. So I wonder if she got scared to wait (she’s 27). I hope not. I hope that I am being Narcissistic and that she didn’t give me and Logan a second thought. I hope that eventually I won’t think this way. But I’m scared for her. I find myself scared for all pregnant women now... and there’s that cynicism again.

Sparrow Farm Creations Memorial Prints

Songs for Logan

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