"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.

Most days I am smiling, genuine smiles.

A fellow DBM and I were emailing and she said this:

"I often look at you and how hurt you still are and wonder what's wrong with me. Why do I feel pretty okay at 9 months and you're still so hurt at a year?"

The thing is, Logan's blog is where I sift through the intense stuff. I don't use this blog, just to blog about my everyday life and goings on. I have tried to keep it exclusively about the muck I am trying to sort through that is wrapped around Logan. I noticed recently myself, the folks who read Logan's blog don't get to see the times that are good, the days that are happy and filled with laughter. Part of that is unfortunate because it does give the impression that I am still neck deep in depression. I am not. I think that I came out of the deep depression at around 10 months. I had weeks where I would feel great, and then I'd have a few rough days or a week, and then I would surface again. Most of the time, these days, I'm angry at the people around me for their stupidity. A lot of this stems from unresolved issues I had long before Logan. I think about Logan everyday, but it is a very rare thing for me to cry over (maybe once a month, maybe). I struggle also with the fact that David is so far from having another baby, which in turn makes me feel like I am grieving the other children I always planned on. I find too that my grief cycles on about the same wave as my menses, meaning hormones are playing a major role in that. Not that I am trying to minimize my grief, but I think that I come across a whole lot more sad in my blog than I do in real life...if for no other reason than because I don't blog about the sunshine. The point is, no matter where others may be in their grief, its probably all normal, I am normal. Everyone grieves differently, and at different lengths and degrees. Sometimes I read other stories, mom's who seem to be coping better than I am and I wonder. Sometimes I read stories about mother's who see far more filled with sorrow who's child has been dead far longer and I think to myself that I don't feel nearly that sad, what's wrong with me?? So you see? I think that it depends on the person. And I also think it depends on the time. Grief comes in waves. A mom may be feeling great now, and in three months feeling devastated. Maybe not. The point is no one should feel weird at all. Perhaps some find more comfort from the Lord and that gives them a peace many can't get a grip on. I've thought about that. Maybe if I could let my anger go, maybe I could find peace and comfort in Christ again. I don't know. But I do know this. So many of us try to over think this whole grief thing, and I think its just best to let it be and it will take care of itself. For months I wondered if I needed a shrink, if I needed pills. Now I see that I just needed time. Within 6 weeks I was questioning my sorrow. SIX WEEKS! I laugh at that now. Six weeks was a blink in the cycle of grief. I was just in a hurry to get it over with. These days I let it be and when I am at a high point I try to enjoy it, and when I am at a low point I take it for what its worth and know that I will cycle right back out of it, because that's what I've done for the past 13 months now.

But life the way it is now is bearable, most days. Most of the time I find myself going about life the way I used to, perhaps a little more intense and a little more sensitive than I used to be, but I don't walk around dusting and sobbing. I enjoy my old hobbies, my old shows. I enjoy my friends, have made new friends and go out and enjoy their company. I enjoy my daughter, my husband...not the dog. I still can't find it in me to tolerate the dog (who incidentally puked on the floor this morning because she doesn't know how to moderate her water intake!!). I'm not nearly as angry in general, or as angry with God as I was even a few months ago. I'm even contemplating returning to church again. I've started to look at Logan's death as horribly unfortunate for me, not personal (most of the time), and not some horrid act of God so much as it happens sometimes, and sadly it happened to us. Not that there aren't moments where I fall back into the mindset that God is punishing me, has it out for me, or abandoned me..because I am human and I still have those thoughts on occasion. For the most part these days are filled with laughter and life, new plans and hopes for the future. Instead of bad days or weeks, I have bad moments. Logan being dead makes me sad. Its just a fact, not one that will likely ever change. I can't believe that at 80 I won't still feel sadness for my son. But it doesn't rule my life anymore. It doesn't trump every thought that I have, every event that takes place. I think I have learned to try to accept it instead of fighting it off and trying to understand it. Sometimes really crappy things happen to people. Guess it was my turn. It could have been so much worse, and for that I am thankful that it was not. I believe that certain things will always tug at my heart. But I am long past breakdowns. I am long past feeling the urge to have my eyeballs floating in vodka because I just don't want to feel the sadness anymore. Yesterday I even decided that I was going to move Logan's box of ashes. Which means I have to touch the box. Open the box. Remove the inner box. I haven't touched that box since the day it arrived so many months ago. And I surprised myself by realizing that the reason I wanted to move the box from sitting askew on the top of my very dusty armoir was because I was tired of seeing a box sit up there. I've decided, for now, to place him in the hat box on the stand near my bed. The hat box is empty anyhow. I couldn't bring myself to put him in the armoir or in the closet, but I thought this was a huge step for me. So, at some point today, the box will be moved. And I can say with almost all certainty that it will not make me cry. Almost. Being that close may affect me, but the thought of it does not. I guess I can't be sure.

So no, the year mark was not some magic date that set me free. In fact, I went into a real funk for a few weeks around that time. I will say that I do notice that every month I feel a little less sad, a little less depressed, a little more hopeful and normal again. And here at 13 months I can say with out a doubt that I will survive. My life will go on. I will find as much happiness again as one could hope for. I know it now because I feel it, and not because some one assured me it would be so.

However I will continue to have bad days here and there, how could I not? I will always need a safe place where I can come and sort through the struggles I face being a DBM. And I will use this blog to do just that. I just wanted to share with everyone that though it may seem like I am really struggling on a daily basis, in fact I am not. Most days I am smiling, genuine smiles and feeling real deep down satisfaction and happiness. But, I think, my memory of Logan will always hang around like a shadow. I'll find better ways to work around it, through it and with it, but I believe it will remain. How could it now? He was my son.

Crap! Where'd I put that armor!!

I've been feeling very attacked lately. By people who are close to me. People who ought to know better, be softer, love me more, catch me, take a bullet...you know, those people. But lately those are the ones I want to run from, hide from, close myself off from. I "see them coming" and my first instinct is to flinch, put my hands up, protect myself. It seems off to me, when I sit and I think about it. It makes me bitter. It makes me hateful and angry. And again I feel myself withdrawing, turning in, turning away. And I start to feel like I let my guard down, didn't put my armor on. Its my fault really. I have always kept everyone at an arms length, don't get too close, don't know too much. I don't feel comfortable in intimacy. I often recoil and shrink back when people touch me, I don't like it. I feel a sense of insincerity about it all. Like a snake coiling around its prey whilst singing a pretty song. I haven't always been that way. Its something I've picked up as an adult. But years upon years of feeling kicked around, stepped on and beaten down by the ones who are supposed to protect you will leave one feeling very defensive, skittish and distant. When Logan died I wanted to disappear. I wanted to fade away. I didn't want to die. I didn't want that kind of attention. I just wanted to not be noticed as I faded. I wanted to be left alone. And because I was so raw and angry early on, I was able to shut down and ignore and run and not many thought too much of it. These days I feel like that is not possible anymore. Like I am being sought out intentionally. Called to reconcile, called to state my case, defend myself, account for the behavior that is found unacceptable by people who can't fathom. And these days I feel like I am frantic in my search for where I stashed my armor. When I started to let the defenses down, when I started to "fade in" and people thought it ok to share their view of me, with me. I need that sign back. I need a T-Shirt, maybe even my baseball bat again.

And all of that leaves me feeling like all I've managed in my adult life is to let people down. My mother cries for a relationship with a fictitious daughter. I say fictitious because I will never be, could never be, the daughter she so desires. It leaves me feeling not good enough and alienated. My father, humph! There are not enough words in all the languages of the world for that mess... But it has left me asking why? And it has left me feeling ugly, shoved aside, overlooked, abandoned and so many other feelings that I don't even know the words for. [think scene from Hope Floats where her daddy drives away and leaves her screaming in the drive] My stepmother likes to remind me. Likes to send me hateful letters that make me feel as though I am to blame. Likes to make me feel as though I am the delusional one, the childish one, the selfish hateful one. The same woman who hasn't spoken to me in almost two years. The same woman who didn't acknowledge my son's death and chose, instead, to scream hateful things at me from the background, through the phone. This leaves me feeling like my head may start spinning, fangs may be produced and horns will shoot forth from my skull all while a demon-like guttural scream rises up from the depths of the darkest parts of my soul. And in the midst of such things I feel repulsive and disgusting to my beloved. Which leaves me feeling unsexy, undesired and gross. Not what a woman wants to feel, not to mention the affects it has on our intimacy.

Now I feel as though I have come full circle. I feel like I am back to feeling like I was better off locked away. And I yearn for the permission to fade away. I yearn for the acknowledgment that its normal, expected and okay to run and hide from the real world when I find it so difficult to accept my new reality. One that will always have one child less than should be present. And regardless of how many people, in their numerous ways, try to convince me that because they know loss and pain that they understand mine, when I can not begin to think they do. I do not try for a moment to understand what it would be like to loose a spouse, a parent or to have had cancer. I can not comprehend the pain of wanting to bear children and not having my body cooperate and get pregnant in the first place. I do not understand the pain of infertility because I have not been infertile. Those are different pains, different losses, ones I can not comprehend. But I hear it all the time. Loss is loss, pain is pain, and I say it myself. But the reality is that divorce and rejection are different realities then parenting a dead baby. Having your parents die, or your spouse is not the same has having a child die, nor is having a child die the same as a parent or spouse passing. I can not explain it. I do not try to put them in the same category. Its like saying the love for your child is like that of the love for your spouse. I can not try to reason with people that no, my loss is not the same as their loss. I am stymied as to why people want so desperately to find that common ground with me. Why people want to say to me "I've known loss and pain in my life also, so I understand." No! No, you don't understand. You may understand that I'm in pain, that I'm sad. But you can not possibly begin to understand the sadness that comes with loosing a child, anymore than I can understand the pain of divorce. I don't pretend to understand. I don't yearn to get on that level with those who do. My first thought is always, "Wow, that really sucks! I can't imagine." I don't know, maybe that makes me a cold person. But for me to sit here and say that I understand the pain of having my child die from cancer at 5 years old, after I've had a chance to get to know this child, their personalities and have made countless memories with them is misleading and grandstanding. I do not know that pain. I only know mine. I only know the pain of having what I understood to be a healthy and uncomplicated pregnancy for six oblivious months that turned into a stillborn little boy who died from complications with Down Syndrome. And I can not assume to know what it is to have a child with Down Syndrome, mine died before I ever got to know him. Another DBM blogger (and I am so sorry I can not remember who it was) compared the understanding of the pain of a baby dying with someone who tried to assume that they could understand based on the fact that their child almost died something in the form of this: "It would be like looking over the edge of the cliff at the churning murky waters and imagining what it would be like to drown. I don't imagine what it is like, I know what it is like." Thinking of how you would feel in that situation is so far from the reality of what it is that it becomes and insult, at least to me, for people to tell me that they understand...because they have known pain? I sprained my back once, but I can not fathom how it would feel to break it. I have been burned, but I can not fathom what it is to be on fire. I have been dumped by boyfriends in the past, but I can not begin to fathom the pain and rejection that comes with divorce. I just wish people would stop trying to understand and spend more time listening, nodding and admitting that they have no idea what I am going through, how I must feel, or this kind of pain. So much more pain could be avoided, I could stop feeling like I need to cower in the corner and protect my already damaged heart from those who love me. I didn't just loose a baby. When Logan died, everything that is ever connected with a child, with a person, died also. My hopes and dreams for him. The plans I made as a mother with a 16 month old and a newborn. The thoughts I had of my son and his daddy fishing, playing ball, building Lego castles. The thoughts I had of my daughter being a big sister, of my son being the first grandson to my mother, the first nephew to my brothers. The day dreams of my son learning and growing beside his grandfather. Thoughts of him as he grew, the person he would become, the life he would lead. The idea that there was this little man who I was in charge of forming and shaping and molding into a loving man, husband and father. That maybe I could somehow get retributions for the hole that my father put in my chest by helping to mold this young man into a great man. Do people think about those things when they tell me they understand? And not just say they understand but actually try to argue and convince me that they really do understand. Do they know that each and every time I see my husband holding a little boy, talking to a little boy or even looking, himself, at a little boy that my heart shatters again and again? That my heart shatters for the pain that is my husbands. Pain that I feel responsible for. Pain for not being able to understand what it is like for him, as a man, to have lost his son, and all of the hopes, thoughts and dreams that he possessed? Do not fool yourselves into thinking that you understand. Though pain and sorrow may be comprehensible to many, the pain and sorrow of loosing a child is beyond the understanding of anyone who has not walked this lonely heartbreaking path.

The problem with me though, maybe I'm being too judgy. I leave little room for others to make mistakes and hold people to the same standards of which I try to hold myself and I know that is a serious fault that I have. I know that, mostly, people are trying to find their own way, that they are sad and confused also. There is little else in this world that is more confusing and heartbreaking than the death of a baby. I understand that people falter because of this. And for the general population I will usually let it slide. People say stupid things when they are nervous. Anyone who knows me in person knows that I am the queen of this fault. I suffer from foot in mouth disease. My issue is more personal. My issue stems from holding to those standards the people who love me. Love me. I am aghast that anyone would want to argue about my sorrow with me, much less those who are supposed to love me. I can not help but to be judgy of those people. I did not realize that I was so judgy until recently. I've always been boastful about the way that I am not in denial of who I am, the faults that I have. Up until a few days ago no one would dare call me judgy (probably because they're afraid of being attacked). My new friend called me judgy one day. The thing is, I actually like her more because of it. I am so tired of fluff. I'm tired of asking people how I look only to hear that I look fine when I know that I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe and lipstick on my teeth. Why is it that people find it so hard to be honest? The fear of rejection perhaps. If I tell you what I really think, will you still like me? Anyhow, my new friend (coincidentally, a fellow mom in the pits) has right to think me a stalker, since I behave more like an obsessed school girl than anything (much to my husbands amusement). The thing is, she has a confidence in me that those who truly know me, wouldn't bother with. Its nice to be with someone who is so full of optimism for you that hasn't been tainted by years of recognition. She is my consolation prize. Don't get me wrong, knowing that I wouldn't have met her acquaintance had Logan survived, the circumstances of our friendship does not make me begrudge the gift that I see it as. Its refreshing to be with someone who is such an intrigue, who seems so mysterious and brilliant, someone who seems enthusiastic about life even in the wake of losing her own children. Its comforting to have someone in your corner who's foundation holds similar stones as your own foundation, and yet their structure is so completely different you find your self staring in awe. If I were asked about the good that has come from Logan's death, it would be making a new friend. A normal, not loony friend. Be advised though, it is not wise of you to point that out for me. I do well in finding what little good I can in the death of my son and I will be damned if someone else points it out for me.

This post was really long. I didn't realize I had so much pent up inside these days. I try to empty the "bottle" often so that I don't explode. However, lately I find more comfort in denying that I am being affected. It is easier to not deal with all of the crap that I feel pushing down on me than it is to stand up and call it out. It is easier to not admit when someone hurts you, than to show them your cards. My mother said that I keep my cards close to my heart. Isn't that the golden rule? Never let them see you sweat? Never let them see you cry? Don't wear your heart on your sleeve for someone to come along and knock off. Its easier that way. At this point in my life, I have enough going on with out trying to wade through the muddled mess that is the psychobabble and ignorant bible thumping that seems to want to come my way on a fairly regular basis.

Now, get off your lazy bum and help me find that armor. I know its around here somewhere...

Courage at the keyboard

Maybe its the year mark. Maybe people feel like enough time has passed now and that they should be granted the freedom to speak their mind, regardless of how it rips open my (very shoddily patched up) broken heart. Maybe people are just that thoughtless. Maybe people find courage at their keyboard the way so many find it in a bottle. I do not know.

I do know this...

It has been a year (almost 13 months to be exact). And no, enough time has not passed for comments such as:

"...not let the loss of Logan be wasted, a missed lesson & understanding, in vain. There's a reason, and God wanted you to find Him in it! God...the Author of life."

There's no point into going into the rest of the argument, and I am not taking this opportunity to bash the person who wrote this, or their beliefs. I will clarify that I do not believe that my anger at God (mind you, not for my son's death, but because he was created using a bad egg knowing full well his demise) will cause the loss of my son to be a waste. I do not believe that God allowed/caused/didn't prevent my sons demise because he wanted to teach me a lesson or understanding, thus I am not sure how his death would be in vain. In vain of what exactly? I do not believe that there is a reason, and I do not believe that God was using this to prompt me to "find" him, and since he is all knowing...he would've known this and that it would have been a waste of time.

The point here is, more or less, a big fat WTF?? I am grappling with the understanding as to why some find it their duty to explain God's mission. Why they are the self appointed ambassador's of his great wisdom. I know that so many turn to faith in the midst of their grief, and I think that it is a wonderful thing...for them. I wish I had the sort of faith that prompted me to run to God for comfort. But I don't. And I really am struggling with why there are so many people out there who are so quick to condemn and shame grieving people when those who are grieving falter in their faith, blame God and are honest in their anger. I could have worn a mask of false faith. I could have pretended to "run to God" or "give it to the Lord" as so many have suggested. I didn't. I have been up front and honest about my lack of faith, anger and questioning of faith. And yes I scoff and roll my eyes at the simple idiocy so many paint God into. I believe and accept the basic principles of Christianity, I just question its ambassadors and their self important need to "comfort" those who are ear deep in a pain that so few can begin to fathom.

Someone said the following to me once. It helps to feel like there are believers out there who aren't all gung-ho trying to argue God's case for him and accept that grief can not be argued out of. I found the words to be profound, and felt like for once an outsider might have actually gotten it.

People really upset me when they don't have enough knowledge to explain things, and they try to make up crappy excuses as to why God "does" something. Who says God "does" everything? And really? Do we have God all figured out to know Him so well as to know what He's thinking and if He's blessing somebody to say these "words of comfort"? People shouldn't preach and try to say something if they don't know enough of what they're talking about. It sours everything, it's NOT the order in which things are supposed to be handled. I'm sorry that you have become the receiver of this kind of treatment, that would get real old, real fast. I am sure, they were talking out of frustration in the argument and not even thinking about everything they were saying, using God to prove that they are right. That you shouldn't be mad at them for what they said, since it was of God. Sure, they believe in and love God, and in their heart they have the faith to put certain situations in His hands. But that's them, and it's a childlike faith. Which of course we are supposed to
have. But for heavens sake, there is a lack of wisdom in trying to win over one who is heart-broken in the middle of an argument and for the benefit of sticking up for God. Sometimes I wish I could get that through people's heads. God doesn't need us to "stick up" for Him. He'll deal with things in His own time and in His own way. WE need to quit getting in the way.


I have been feeling very attacked lately, on several fronts. And I don't get it. The only thing I can conclude is that the general population must think I am "milkin' it" and that after thirteen months I should be well on my way to creating that replacement baby, forgiving God, and moving on. And in my own ways I am. Life is much different for me now than it was even 6 months ago, three months ago. But I still feel the pulsating emptiness that is my son's spot every waking moment of my life. The thing is, I haven't asked for anything from anyone. And all I've really desired in this whole mess is to be left alone by those who can't find it in their selfishness to step aside and let me be. Why is it that I feel like it is expected of me to comfort them? Especially when I never asked comfort of them, only space, and a request that has been denied time and again. I don't know, maybe its selfish of me to not have the time, space or desire to handle or care of the (what I now feel to be) mundane idiocy of those around me. When Logan died it became very apparent to me that I had to use every ounce of energy and strength I possessed to not fall off of the deep end, and I stopped caring how that affected anyone else. And, call me selfish if you will but, I still do not have the strength, desire or will to tolerate or empathize with the drama and chaos of the lives of those around me. Its like I feel as though I am using all of my available resources to keep it all together, to hold myself intact so that I do not explode into a million pieces of sorrow and disappear into the inviting depths of my despair. And if I let one of those resources slip, then all will be lost. The hardest part is that so often the majority of the insult has come directly from those closest to me. Those I depended on to hold on to me, prop me up, save me. This is where I feel the most let down. The few people who should be on my side, are the ones attacking. And the ones on my side, the ones who ended up being the ones who truly held me up, they are all complete strangers. Strangers who relate and "get it" because they've felt this pain, they've stuck around to say "Hey, its ok. You're normal, this is all normal. You'll survive, I did." It adds a new dimension to my pain. Its become so obvious to me why so many become reclusive and alienate themselves after a great loss. I feel that I can only handle so much. I feel as though I am skittish of that final straw. It makes me angry and loathsome and gives me the desire to lash out at people who must feel as though they are being thoughtful and well meaning. It leaves me confused, flabbergasted and appalled. It leaves me just a little sadder than I already was. A little more frightened. A little more fragile, and a whole lot more likely to close myself off from a world that wants to injur my heart further.

Flippin' off the blues!

I've been blue lately. If I'm honest I'd say its been since just before Logan's anniversary. That's like 3 weeks now. I don't feel like I'm in the pit...yet, but I've definitely been wallowing in the deep end. I hate having the blues. It really messes up my day(s). Nothing gets done. I beat myself up and give in to all sorts of self deprecating talk and behavior. I keeps me from sleeping. Like tonight. Pile on top of that some other unfortunate events that have gone down in my personal life recently and you've got a real recipe for a blues fest. My eyeballs would be swimming in vodka right now if it wasn't for this stupid Metformin, which frankly I'm not sure has done so much to help. The problem is that I have faith in people, and I take them on their word. The doc said it would help...I believed her. But...

I have really gotten bad at wishing my days away. Which is not good for someone like me who has a hard time letting go of the past, and is very much afraid of growing old and dying.

And I tell myself all of the time, things have got to change. I need to change. I need to buck up and get it done. Force myself to be the "Suzie" that my dh thought he was getting when we got married. But I struggle with pulling myself up and dusting myself off. I struggle with caring. The evidence is all around me. Everything from the laundry that I haven't managed to get on top of since Christmas time (no joke), to the dust that is literally hanging from my ceiling fan blades, to the dog goop that is slung on my walls to the fat that graces (and not gracefully I might add) my rear end. The thing is, I care. I do, deep down in side. At night when I lay in bed and realize that another day slipped past where I failed at being the person I wanted to be, the person my daughter deserves, the person my husband counts on. I care when I am fighting the urge to hurl something through my large kitchen windows because I am so sick and tired of the grime and clutter. The never ending-ness of the mess that I not only can not seem to get a handle on, but certainly can't seem to maintain. I care when I finally catch a glimpse of my fleshy, repugnant body that I honestly don't recognize. I do care. But apparently not at the moments that count, or not enough.

But, tomorrow is Monday, and like most Mondays it will be a starting over point for me...again. Tonight as I sit her (caring) I'm determined to flip off the blues tomorrow and try to finally get the upper hand on my day to day existence. I feel so out of control and so stuck, the least I can do is gain some control over this house and this body. Maybe then I won't feel so stuck in the blues all of the time.

Babyloss Momma Theme Song!

Monica over at KuKd (Knocked Up, Knocked Down) wrote and recorded a "theme song" for babyloss momma's that I thought was great and had to share! Click here to go to her blog to hear the song!

A year ago this time...

Do any of you go back and read your blog posts from a year ago or so? I got to wondering how I was doing around the 2 week post-incapacitating-horrible-event. I was seriously enraged. Funny, I still feel that way a lot of the time. I guess the anger is the part I hung onto the most. Then I found this paragraph in a post that really sounds like something I could have still written today. This is from a post from around the 8th of last year:
Today I took down all of the sympathy cards and threw out all of the dead and dying flowers that everyone was so kind to send. It’s been two weeks. And though two weeks seems like a flash in the pan, the day we lost Logan seems like a lifetime ago, certainly not two weeks ago. I couldn’t take the dead flowers anymore. I couldn’t take staring at the cards with their sad words. My brain wants to forget we lost a son. My heart won’t. It lingers there, the sadness, the emptiness that I always feel now. Like hunger, or that odd feeling you’ve forgotten something. I can’t explain it, but there is a spot that aches and is empty. I assume its Logan’s spot. The spot that would be filled with the memories of holding his newborn body while I nursed him or the spot that would be filled with the scent of his baby skin and hair. Or, the spot that would be filled with the sound of his crying and his sighs.
Whatever it is, I think it’s Logan’s special spot. One I put aside for him six months ago when we found out we were being blessed with a son. But I can’t mix it back in with the rest of me. So, I guess I’ll always have that empty spot where Logan was supposed to have been.
I still feel that spot. It never did get mixed back in with the rest of me. And it is still a weird gnawing sensation that I can't quite put my finger on. And it does feel very much like hunger. Maybe that's what it really is, hunger pangs. Hunger to be filled with everything that should have been Logan. Its uncomfortable, still, twelve months and two weeks later.

Too many thoughts on Thursdays

Music speaks to me. It always has. I have always found solace and comfort in the words that other people write. I find a sense of peace in knowing that everyone has these deep emotions that they can't express with out the shield of music. I used to be a poet. I used to write song lyrics. I didn't share them with many. I have thousands. Thousands of pages of unheard words brought forth by a broken heart, a new love, feelings of insanity. I've always needed to get them out. I talk a lot. I talk too much. I talk in circles, I repeat myself and worse of all I have a terrible memory...so the stories change, get tangled and take on a life of their own, sometimes with a form that is far from the original. I loath this about myself, and am not in denial about it. But I have always been comforted by the fact that I can express how I feel through symbolism and story telling, even if at times it doesn't make sense or sounds corny. It is what it is and sometimes people express themselves in odd form. I mean, look at Picaso. Sorry but no. He was not a good painter. BUT, he was good at expressing himself and a lot of people were provoked by his work, that made him great! We are all artists in our own ways. Through words, through tangible media, through food, through decorating...and the list goes on. I don't compose poetry or song lyrics anymore. In fact, the last poem I wrote was for Logan. It's buried somewhere in this blog. I'm not sure when I stopped writing. I think it has been in the last 5 years or so, when life took on a comfortable and protected feeling. I married my long time love, we had a nice home, cars, toys...everything I could want or need (short of a child). Eventually I had a daughter. Things were perfect. How many poems can one write that are coated in bubble gum? The urge to write faded until I realized that I don't need to write anymore. I don't have these awful emotions to get out anymore. Life was just the way I wanted it and I couldn't have asked for anything more. Then Logan died. And suddenly I found myself so far over that chasm that I couldn't form a coherent thought. I didn't have the urge to make rhymes or even sublime thoughts. I just sat and stared. Any desire to produce anything was gone. Except the urge to write in this blog. I think this blog saved me. I still needed to talk, to get it out, but somehow the thoughts and heartache I had for my son seemed so much more substantial and important than any I'd had before. I couldn't degrade his memory with a hokey poem that no one would read. I wanted to be heard this time. I wanted people to know my devastation. I wanted people to know that my heart was irrevocably broken. And anyone who reads this blog, they know. My husband knows. But most importantly, I know. And in the end that's the only thing that really mattered anyhow. Admitting that my heart was broken. That this tiny little soul, with a blink of an eye life span, took a huge chunk of my heart with him when he went.

I don't know what it is about certain days. Why some days, even now a year later, I feel trapped, lethargic and inconsolable. Why I wake up and have him on my mind in that instance, and why it hangs over me like a storm cloud all day, pressing me down. Maybe its because its Thursday and my dd is at Grandma's. Thursday's are quiet and leave a lot of room for shadows to creep in. It usually starts with a song (this is where I go back to the whole music thing from earlier). I'm driving the Muffin to Grandma's and some song comes on the radio, presses me down. I drop her off, I drive home, thoughts churning, more music playing, more pressing down. It is easy for me to find Logan in almost anything. Someones words, a little blond haired boy, a break-up song, a monkey, food... I hate to say he haunts me, because that just makes it seem ugly and scary. I think its my mind that haunts me. My mind always whispering terrible thoughts into my proverbial ear. Thoughts I have no business allowing to stake claim and plant them selves deep in my subconscious, letting their roots dig deep and torturing me. I'm an avoider. I hate tense situations, drama and confrontation. I'd rather ignore it. Pretend it didn't happen. But I can't avoid what happened to me. I can't avoid that there was this little life churning away in side of me for six months with out a lick of problems and then BAM!! Dead. Down Syndrome is detectable, and we had no warning. I don't know, maybe its better that way. Maybe in my ignorance I would have wished him dead rather than to have a crippled child coming in and "messing up" my perfect little bubble gum world. Wishing, because I wouldn't have had a clue about the pain of loosing a baby. Because maybe a lot of people don't really think of a fetus as a person until they're here. I mean, I always thought a baby was a baby from conception...but it wasn't a person. It didn't have a life, or a personality or face. It was an enigma. I had trouble with that with my first pregnancy with my daughter. I couldn't connect. It never felt real. After her birth I was overcome with emotion and a love I couldn't fathom before. The months following her birth I was in awe of how I just loved her with every fiber of my being and that nothing else mattered. But while I was pregnant, I just didn't get it. When I got pregnant with Logan I was still nursing a 6 month old. I was exhausted. I was sick. I didn't have any energy to be concerned with anything other than the current moment and situation. I feel like I missed a lot with Logan during those six months. I took for granted that I'd have all the time in the world to get to know him and right now my very young daughter was my main focus. Oh the things I would change if given the opportunity.

These are just too many thoughts for a Thursday of little consequence.

So the song that sent me spiraling today was "Nothing Compares to You". You remember that song don't you? Late 80's early 90's? Sinead O'Conner in black with that stark white bald head and the single tear on her cheek. I loved the song then and found out years later that Prince actually wrote that song, and recorded it himself. But this part:

"It's been so lonely without you here. Like a bird without a song. Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling. Tell me baby where did I go wrong?"

That was the one that got my head spinning like the chic in Poltergeist. Because that paragraph brought with it a million dreaded thoughts that I couldn't shake. It is lonely here. Even with my dh and the Muffin, its lonely. There is a missing life. There is a missing face, a missing voice, a missing personality that I wanted so badly to get to know. Would he have been like his sister, or a force unto himself that I can only guess at? And it leaves an eerie feeling in its wake. Silence, even in the midst of the noise and chaos that is my two year old, there is an eerie silence that should have been filled with his voice, his chaos and noise. And I can't help but to go back to the same old question, what did I do wrong? What did I do that would warrant not being able to mother Logan outside of the womb? Was I going to fail at it? Was having 2 kids so young and close together going to cause me to be a bad mother, so he was spared? And I feel like if I had that answer, even if it was one I didn't want to hear or know, would I be better able to accept this? The pathetic part is that I just assumed that by the time the year mark passed that I would have this greater knowledge. That I would have begun to accept that I have a dead child. Don't get me wrong, time has controlled the bleeding. I don't "lay here on the couch with my heart hanging out" (Garth Brooks) anymore. But its still very tender, and sometimes it still bleeds. I know I'm an impatient person. I expect fast results, and I want them now. And you can't rush grief. And if you ask around, these parents who went before us...years ago, when they're being honest and they don't think anyone is looking...it still hurts for them too. And I think that scares me. To know that I will always feel this ache. And in a way it comforts me and brings me some element of peace to know that this ache, this ache means that I had a little boy and my time with him was not enough.

These dreary days.

I've been feeling dreary lately. Could be the cloudy/snowy weather, it always seems to provoke the blues in me. I dunno. I feel disconnected again and out of sorts. I've let my diet slide for the last few weeks, started drinking loads of pop again (running for comfort perhaps??) and not wanting to clean or shower. This used to be common place for me, earlier this year. But the last couple of months I've managed to stay afloat and breathing normal. But I feel blue these days, impatient and irritated by the mundane things in life.

My new friend, the one who had a miscarriage recently, is so sad. The thing is I like her, a lot. Stalkeresque liking. And it breaks my heart to know she feels such sadness, sadness that I can relate too. And I have this overwhelming urge to comfort her, to protect her, to shield her from this devastation...and I feel helpless and clueless about how to do that. And I guess its because I know that I really can't. Baby loss trauma is one that each person has to wade through in their own way, on their own schedule and no one can fix it, or make it go away. Grief has to be dealt with, it can not be sugar coated or ignored. It can not be fixed with soup or margaritas (believe me, I tried). But I can't help myself. I am obsessed with how she is doing, how she's feeling, what can I do to help? And I feel like maybe I'm being overbearing or weird and freaking her out. And I struggle with knowing where the line is. Am I calling too much, not enough? Am I pushing her to handle her grief like I handled mine? Am I being a pest, or does she want me to call/come by and is too reserved to ask? I get the feeling that she feels like she is an annoyance or a bother to others. And all I want to do is stand in front of her and protect her from the crap that is flying her way. To be a "force field" for her and help her through the most horrific thing the average person will ever go through. But the thing is, we're new friends. I've known her for a year and only recently been a friend to her outside of our children's playgroup. And I don't want to come across as overbearing or needy or smothering or whatever. But if anyones gonna understand her pain, isn't it me? I don't feel like I'm doing enough, or doing too much and its a weird spot to be in. I suck at making new friends.

My other friend, the one with the newborn who has colic... I need to call her. Selfishly I can't seem to work up the umph to do it. She's a compulsive complainer, I love her anyway. I complain an awful lot myself, so who am I to judge? But the thing is, lately I've been feeling weird about her. I know it must suck in a way that I can not imagine to have a baby with colic. To never get peace or rest or feel like you can comfort your child. It must be heartbreaking. And get this, she NEVER complains about it (at least not to me). I'm sure a lot of people feel weird about complaining about their kids to me now days. But I know she wants to, and who could blame her? And I feel guilty about it. I told her having a baby is the most incredible thing ever, that there is nothing but sheer joy! I was wrong. I assumed because my first born was sheer joy, that hers would be too. But its so hard for me to hear that she's miserable, that she isn't enjoying these early days with her daughter and I can't help but think of the alternative (dead baby, not happy one!! Go figure!) and it makes me sad. I want her to be happy no matter what. To know that she is so lucky, because these few bad months will pass and she'll outgrow the colic and then it will be better...her baby lived. And I hate that I feel those things. Hate it. I hate that it is so hard for me to empathize and feel compassion for anyone who has a hardship, because hey, at least they don't have a dead baby. I know how it sounds, I do. I know I sound selfish and bordering on loony. And I know I should suck it up and be a good friend and listen to her hardships without thinking she's ungrateful for her gift. But, like I said, I'm feeling blue these days. I'm missing my son and I'm sad that I know another mother who's baby died and I can't help her. And right now that just seems so much bigger than colic.

A Slideshow for Logan

I've added a slideshow of the pictures I've uploaded to this blog since the beginning. Maybe a few extra's. Enjoy.

Logan's name at the Waterfall

I love it when parents come up with a way to memorialize our children. Seems I can never get enough of it! Waterfall Angels is just that, a beautiful way to remember our babies. Lisa (mommy to Jasper) is writting names on a lovely river rock and then taking them down to Rainbow Springs State Park in Florida and taking pictures. She then lovingly uploads them to her blog for the parents to click on the photo and save a copy to their computers. I just loved the ones she did for my sweet Logan. You can see them here. Thank you Lisa for giving me one more sweet reminder.

Her? But not me?

A local woman stabbed her baby with a butcher knife. She gave birth to a healthy baby, and then stabbed it! And THIS woman got a live baby, and mine died! Her, but not me?! I don't see the logic, the everything happens for a reason crap!
On a side note, they think the baby will survive. And yes I think its sad that this chic was mental. That's not the point.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Sparrow Farm Creations Memorial Prints

Songs for Logan

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