Pregnancy and all its horrors this time around!

*This post contains talk about my current pregnancy.

I have no intention of turning this into a "rainbow baby" blog, but there are just some things I need to get out, and well...now I'm pregnant, so...

Worry. You know, when you're pregnant there are so many things to worry about. Lump on the fact that you've had a baby die, or maybe more than one (as in my case), and well...there's a whole lot of worrying. Not a day goes by that a pregnant post-dead-baby-momma isn't freaked out about something. I'll be honest though, most days I can pretend everything is normal. I say pretend because if I sit down and give it much thought, I'll easily be in a panic and well, frankly, its easier to cope when I avoid and deny all of the horrors that could or might come my way. Its an exhausting way to live and it makes it hard to bond with the baby. Sometimes denial and avoidance aren't such bad things.

Bonding is really hard. You see, I have trouble with ambivalence during pregnancy for about the first 5 months. I had it with my daughter (who is living) and again with Logan up until about a month before he died. With Rudy I never even got the chance to accept that I was really even pregnant since everything happened so soon and so fast. I have it again now, and I'm 17 weeks along. I'm holding out hope for that to go away soon, though the doc says it may not, given the horrors of the last two pregnancies. The doctors say its not uncommon and is related to hormones. I say its uber confusing to desperately want a baby, and than to feel nothing when you are finally pregnant, or worse yet, to feel like you've made a colossal mistake! Sometimes the guilt is overwhelming.

Fear. I'm afraid of everything. Most of its irrational. I'm constantly afraid this baby will die. That the baby will have some terrible condition. That the doctors will miss something (I have 5). I fear for my daughters life. I fear for my husbands life. I fear for my own. But then, I think everyone must have these fears. Maybe mine are just a little more...pronounced. I fear that I'm not eating enough vegetables, or gaining enough weight, sleeping on my back too much, using the stairs too much. I'm afraid of chemicals in my food, in the cleaning products, in the air. I'm afraid that there is too much stress in my home, and that's bad for the baby. I'm afraid of preterm labor now that the doctors tell me that I shouldn't be having braxton hicks this early, and I get them all day long. I'm afraid of the meds I took early on to combat the plague I got right after I got pregnant. There's just so much to fear this time that I was "lucky" enough to be ignorant to before.

Stress. I keep hearing how stress is bad for a baby. For the most part the stress that I get is from the pregnancy or my five year old. My five year old is a challenge. There's nothing wrong with her, she doesn't have special needs and she's not a bad kid. She's head strong. She argues about everything. She ignores me, and she throws tantrums to rival a two year old. I love her and thank God for the blessing that she is in this house every time I pray, but lets not fool ourselves or anyone else...kids are hard. She is hard. And most days I feel lost on what to do. I even took the parenting class "Love and Logic". And I'll be honest, I'm the problem, not her. I made her this way. I mean granted, God gave her a strong will, but I have been the one that has yet to find a way to tame it and to help her reel it in. Lately my biggest issue is exhaustion. I'm tired. I'm 36, overweight, out of shape, perpetually sad, pregnant and I. Am. Tired! And sometimes I just stare at her. I can't even discipline her sometimes because I just can't muster up enough energy to deal with it. This morning I grounded her for the first time. Usually she looses a privilege, sometimes more. Today I told her she was grounded, and that meant no toys, no friends, no TV...just chores, all evening. BTW, this elicited a tantrum on a grand scale. Today I lost my cool. Today I did a lot of screaming. I'm not proud of that. I hate that. I grew up in a house with a screaming mother and I swore I would NEVER be that mom. The screaming is stressful, it solves nothing and frankly usually makes things worse. Today has been a very stressful day. I was cleaning for the impending visit of my brother and his girl friend, hoping for a grand announcement of some sort. But then I got word form the GF that my brother has been committed yet again. My brother is young, only 26, a psyche major (if you can wrap your head around that!). But he has a lot of demons, a lot of sadness, a lot of anger and a lot of right to be. BUT, he drinks when those demons show up, and his drinking negates the affects of his psyche meds (for depression, I believe). And then he gets stupid. And all we can do is stand in the shadows and gape in horror at what used to be the worlds sweetest little boy. It makes me feel helpless. It makes me sad, knowing his demons, knowing I can't do anything to make them go away, knowing all I can do is stare at the train wreck that he has become. And I have an immense amount of shame and guilt that I want to run and hide from him. I want to not know. I want to protect this itty bitty baby that is growing in me and I want it to be born healthy, and living and normal. I don't want ANY stress. I feel like I walk a fine line and that it wouldn't take much to push me into the abyss of grief, and THAT would definitely not be good for the baby, or anyone else.

Sadness. I feel like I have been perpetually sad for a little over four years now. Granted, things are way better than they used to be. And I get that I have a right to be sad, two great reasons really. Their names are Logan and Rudy. And I knew that this baby wasn't going to take that sadness away. I did, really. I guess what I wasn't prepared for is the sadness that this pregnancy would add. I'm sad for this baby now too. I'm sad because my daughter is aware that babies die, and she prays in class every day for this baby. I know she is nervous, she's said as much. She's five. She shouldn't have to fear such things. I'm sad because I can't bring myself to buy anything for this baby just yet. I'm sad because I'm haunted with thoughts that it could be too early, what if... I'm sad that this baby has such a gap in age with its sister, and that it will grow to know about the two other siblings, before him/her, who died. I'm sad to think that Logan and Rudy had to die in order for this child to be. I'm sad that I fear a boy, that my dh fears a boy.

Pregnancy post-dead-baby is full of things I didn't quite expect, and lacking some that I did. And I know in the end this will all be worth it...if I end up with a living baby. I know that ten years from now I'll look back with a completely different perspective. But when you're pregnant everyone expects you to smile and love every minute of it. No one really knows about the haunts of this reality. People keep saying for me to have only good thoughts, and that God came through for me. And I just don't get it people! I am 7 weeks away from the point in which Logan died in utero, and with out a hint of a problem. And babies die ALL THE TIME!! For good reason, for unknown reasons, for no good reason. Babies die in spite of happy thoughts and prayers. And when they do, it isn't because God didn't come through, or there wasn't enough faith or hope or desire or whatever. Babies die. They just do. Its an ugly part of life.

Another pink line...I should be smiling, right?

Sigh.  Time.  It has a way of creeping by.  January 24th marked four years since Logan died, as well as reminding me that Rudy should've been celebrating his first birthday...and that the Muffin is growing up since she turned five and on that day we discovered her first loose tooth.  Yesterday I pulled that tooth, which was obscenely loose, out of her mouth.  Time.  It creeps by and we take a moment to look up and poof...so many moments and memories have passed by.

 

Logan.  I can't picture him at four.  I couldn't ever picture him as a baby either, but rather a two year old.  He will forever be two for me.  It makes me sad, not being able to even create who I think he would be.  But lately I haven't been able to feel much of anything other than ambivalence and fear.

 

Blame it on hormones.

 

After nine cycles, and on our last try, we became pregnant for the fourth time.  I'll be 12 weeks tomorrow.  I'm safe now, right?  [She scoffs]  I'll be honest, I have always struggled with ambivalence and maybe a touch of depression, during the first 5 months of pregnancy.  But lumping on the tragic circumstances of my past just amplifies it all the more.  Frankly, I'm terrified.  And no amount of ultrasounds and heartbeats and shallow reinforcement from "outsiders" can ease that for me.  I'm twelve weeks, second trimester, past the miscarriage prime...its been confirmed that its alive and in the uterus (bonus!) but then, so was Logan.  In fact Logan was perfect, until he just wasn't, all of a sudden...at 24 weeks.  And I tell you it irks me to no end the ignorance that is spewed at me!!  "God has come through for you!" (Well, maybe, guess we'll see).  "Surely it won't happen again!" (Why?  Because two flukes are enough?).  "Have faith" (Because my lack of it killed my other two?).  "Think happy thoughts!" (Because they are like a magic wand, and poof!?)  And it goes on.  Sadly it comes from those closest to me, the ones who HAVE to believe it'll all end happily.  I dunno.  In the end I feel like they think my concerns and fears are silly and unwarranted.  And really that just leaves me feeling alienated.  No one gets it.  And that should make me happy, right?  Because the only ones who get it have been there, and I certainly wouldn't wish this on anyone.  But really I just feel very alone, and freaking out with out anyone to seriously talk to about it.

 

I'm pregnant, so I should be happy, right?  I mean, that's what I thought was going to happen.  I thought I would be thrilled!  That's what everyone expects of me, right?  Its what I wanted.  Everything will be better, you'll be happier, get a happy ending (because "You deserve it!).   But I'm just scared, and reluctant.  I'm so much older now, so much time has gone by.  My daughter will be almost 5 years its senior, and I will be raising (hopefully) two only children.  The odds of this baby being born alive and healthy are pretty low.  No, I don't have any moments of happiness about this pregnancy.  That bliss has long passed me by.  I fear the worse, and the just as bad!  I fear a dead baby, a severely handicapped baby, a severely handicapped baby who will die a baby.  I fear what that will do to my daughter who is old enough to comprehend the horrors.  I fear what that will do to my husband who maintained all along that he did not think this was the right thing to do.  I fear what it'll do to my marriage.  Oh, and that's lumped in with all the other fears of motherhood.  What if the baby has colic?  What if I'm too old to do it again?  What if my daughter can't adjust?  SIDS.  Whooping cough.  Chocking.  Falling meteors (or is it meteorite?).  And all of this fear is suffocating.  Did I mention I've been sick twice, once with a fever for 4 days?!  Did I mention that I'm high risk for about four hundred other things.  Oh, and lets take into account my "advanced maternal age" now that I'm 35.  Every day I look in the mirror and ask myself what I was thinking.  In fact, the day I found out I immediately told my husband and then freaked out crying "what the hell did I just do?"  Because this was all me, and only me.

 

These past 12 weeks have been such a roller coaster.  Most of the time I've been waiting for the other shoe to fall.  Waiting to see if it stuck, waiting to see if it was ectopic, waiting to see if it was viable and now waiting to begin testing for Down Syndrome (since that's what Logan had).  We do that on Thursday.  And I love the ignorant people who like to try to reassure me that having a child with Down Syndrome can be a very rewarding experience.  Seriously?  First of all, who would want that for their child?  And secondly, the average person has no clue about what having DS entails.  How horribly painful it can be for a child.  If that child is ever even born, since 75% of them die before birth, most die before their 1st birthday.  A child who makes it past 5 is rare, and lucky.  Don't preach at me about having a child with Down Syndrome.  I know full well what it entails, down to every gory detail that I could find in print.  That rare door greeter or McDonald's employee you see out and about on occasion, they're the exception to the rule.  They're the mild cases.  No.  I fear DS as much as I fear another dead child (if not more).  Because for me, they are one in the same.

 

This is it for me.  My last hurrah.  At almost 36 (April) if this child dies, and if I wait the recommended year to grieve, and if I managed to talk my husband into it again (he'd more likely try to snuff me out), and if I managed to conceive quickly...I'd still be 38 before that baby would be born.  And after having my first DS baby at 31...well, I think the doctors would call me crazy for doing it again.  I know what my odds are of having another baby with DS.  They're not great.  I wouldn't risk it at 38.  So this means, living or not, this is my last child.  Which brings me full circle back to the issue of time.  It crept by while I was living and then weeping, and one day I woke up and realized I'd missed my opportunity.  But I still feel like I'm 19.  It was just the other day, I swear.

 

In the end, I realize, that if this baby makes it healthy and living, I'll think that all of this fear and worry was worth every penny of it.  I've had a living child, I know what is coming my way and how I felt when she was born.  I know that I'd do it all over again.  But I also know how wrong it can go, how unexpectedly and how quickly and how late in a pregnancy.  I know that there are thousands of things that can go wrong between now and August.  I know how fragile life is, and how it is not a guarantee no matter how much you pray and beg and hope and think happy thoughts.  Sometimes it just happens, and there's never a good reason for it.  So right now, I'm so deep in a fog that I can't see past the fear and anxiety.  I can't picture this baby any more than I could Logan or Rudy.

 

Have you experienced a subsequent pregnancy?  What was that like for you?

Is the price too much?

"Life is both pain and pleasure.  If this is the price you must pay for the hours you enjoy, is it too much?"  -Paolini (Eldest)

We are TTC...again.  In February my DH quietly, and with an overwhelming look of fear in his eyes, relented.  I won.  I guess.  If being granted the right to proceed into horrifying territory where monsters lurk, waiting to trample our hearts again, can be considered a win.

I thought I'd be happier.  I thought I knew what I wanted.  I thought I had it all figured out and under control.  You see though, now that the reigns have been passed to me, I am frozen with fear.  How much of a price am I willing to pay to find that elusive happy place?  How much am I willing to sacrifice, to forgo?  Who am I willing to sacrifice?  Myself?  Absolutely.  Not a question.  I'd do it again and again and again.  Been there, done that, survived...twice, if you can consider what I've done as surviving...I didn't off myself, so...  I know that in the end, if I get a healthy, living baby, its all worth it.  But what if a hundred die and not one ever lives again?  What if the child is so ill that I find myself wishing that the baby would have died.  [GASP!!]  But in reality I know that my two dead babies never suffered, never felt pain.  Is not my wish for their life, even with horrific handicaps and deformations, pure selfishness?  I struggle with this notion.  But, I have learned to disconnect myself from the reality of the horrors.  My husband?  Not so much.  Then there is the Muffin to consider now.  How will by daughter, who is 4 1/2, handle another dead sibling?  She knows of the other two.  It affects her more than I like to admit.  She mourns for them, cries for them, misses them.  She knows they should be here, and she knows she should have living siblings to fight with and to play with.  She knows of the still birth of another very close friend's child.  She was 3 1/2 when he died, she cried.  I believe she understood.  Am I willing to put her through another trauma because maybe, just maybe, this one will work out?

Most days I feel like a selfish bitch.

This past cycle was our first try.  Immediately I got sick.  I had a fever for 3 days.  I was freaked!  A week later my daughter breaks out in this weird rash, Molluscum is going around.  It can last for 4 years.  I freaked again!  Freaked so bad that I had my baby biopsied.  The spots have faded, Molluscum doesn't do that.  The derm is almost certain it was an allergic response.  Almost.  So, I'm still freaked.  Yesterday I started my cycle, 3 negative pregnancy tests later and one day early.  And get this, I was relieved!  Relieved!!  What?!

And I wonder.  Do I really want another baby, or do I just want control over the decision?  Was that the bigger issue, that I didn't have control over whether there would be another baby or not?  Am I ready for sleepless nights, screaming, diapers and toddlerhood all over again?  With the Muffin knocking on the door of five, we are finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.  The old argument that she needs a playmate is invalid at this point, its been too long, the gap too wide.  They will not be playmates.  But I stand firm that people need siblings  (I have 6).  They need someone to go complain to about their parents, and who better to understand than a sibling?  They need someone they can turn to when they don't feel like they can turn to friends or parents.  They need someone to have when we are dead and gone.  And yet, some siblings hate each other.  Some siblings rarely speak and are like strangers passing bye.  Some siblings die earlier than their parents.  My argument is losing its water...

This is it.  My husband said he can't do it again after this.  Frankly, I wouldn't put him through it a 4th time anyhow.  So, if we don't naturally conceive (and soon), or if another baby dies, I'm done.  We're done.  My DH seems to be in a constant state of panic.  Making babies isn't the innocent fun it used to be.  Fear lays there in the bed next to you, stares at you from the corner of the room.  Anxiety screaming in your ear.  Its a wonder either of us can even perform.  Sexy, eh?  Romantic, eh?  No.  Its not.  Its terrifying when you take that leap of faith.  Its terrifying when you put yourself out there on the limb again, waiting to be knocked off of it again.  Waiting for what surely must be the inevitable.  Outsiders don't get that.  "Try again, surely it won't happen again."  Surely.  But we know, don't we?  How many of us have lost multiple times?  Too many to count.  But the outsiders like their ignorance, and why shouldn't they?  But its huge, and its scary.  And each day of those two weeks are spent in a constant state of anxiety.  Am I?  Could this be it?  Please God, let me keep this one!  The turmoil and anxiety that engulfs us during those two weeks of not knowing is insane.  Then the huge let down when we are not.  The weird twisted and conflicting emotions if we are.  Yeah.  Its scary.  You see, even though this is our first official cycle TTC, there have been a few other times...  Times when I prayed one way and he prayed another.  Times when I tried to hide the anger and frustration and disappointment while he tried to hide his relief.  How are we a comfort to each other?  Luckily I am married to a patient, understanding man.  Luckily he can put aside his fears and comfort me in my disappointment.  Because even though he desperately does not want to go through this again, he wants me to have a shot at happiness, or at least contentment.

Though, we all know, one living baby just does not replace the dead one.  If only it were that easy.

How high of a price are you willing to pay?  How many dead babies can you suffer?  In the end, is all of the anxiety worth it?  Have you had another child post dead baby?  What did you do if you and your spouse were on separate pages (or even books)?

Waiting for the other shoe to drop

Do you fear the death of your living children?  I feel stupid crazy weird odd admitting this, but I do.  It's like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.  And this week it's beating me down.  Next week my four year old, my only living child, my first child, my real fluke it would seem, is having her adenoids removed.  I know, I know.  Simple.  Common.  No big deal.  No big deal, I suppose, if you've never held your dead child.  I'm not even allowed to voice my anxiety over her looming surgery, because no one gets my fear!  And frankly I'm tired of the looks and I'm tired ot the arguments that are supposed to win me over.  You see, its not that I'm afraid of the surgery in and of itself.  I think the doctor is great, he's a pro, he'll do a great job...but...what if she doesn't wake up from anesthesia?  What if she gets MRSA or some other horrible disease while at the surgery center?  What if we find out the hard way she's allergic to some med (like her grandfather who had his heart stop during back surgery due to Demerol, though the doctors assure me this is not hereditary...but what if it is...)?  And then, to add to my anxiety, a fellow BLM sent me an article on this genetic mutation that causes children to over-metabolize Morphine causing an overdose and death.  You can freak yourself out if you want and read it here on Baby Center.  So, freak concerned mother that I am, I called the doctor and asked the nurse to ask him if he's heard of this and can she have something else...you know...just in case.  Shockingly, he called me back and left a message.  Yes, he's heard of it, and yes they can prescribe something else, call him back if I have any other concerns.  Nice of him.  He probably rolled his eyes and cursed Google.  I bet doctors hate moms who call all freaked out about something rare they read on the Internet.  I try to not be one of those mom's, but I couldn't help myself this time.

And then today...

Today Aubrey fell and smacked her mouth on the wood floor.  People, her head bounced!  And I tried to be all cool, shaking like a leaf and trying not to pass out (because though blood doesn't freak me out, HER BLOOD does!) while comforting her and cleaning up the blood, and praying that she still had teeth below all of that blood.  And I spent the entire day running her around.  First stop, pedi.  Does she needs stitches?  We don't stitch.  No kidding, but you'd know if she needs stitches, so clue me in.  Could use a stitch, but better to not traumatize her.  Ok great.  Let's get ice cream. Two hours later, its still bleeding.  Run into nurse, what do you think?  Needs a stitch or two, shouldn't keep bleeding.  Go home.  Call MIL.  She looks, nah, put wet bread on it.  WHAT?!  Seriously?  You should take her to dentist since she is complaining that her teeth hurt.  Ok.  Went to dentist.  DD has a mini melt down and won't allow Xray.  Weird, but ok.  Exam.  Looks ok.  Don't stitch.  Sigh.  Good.  But, she has several cavities!  WHAT?  Sigh.  I need a margarita.  Went for a walk instead.

You see, I know that I'm a freak.  I get that.  I don't live in denial about my irrational fear.  But today I felt like a bad mom.  And not because she hurt herself.  Hey, it was sad and I felt bad for her, but these things happen.  No, I felt like a bad parent because all day I was terrified that this was the beginning of some hideous end to her little life.  That this innocuous fall damaged her brain (which isn't that far out since the poor kid had a concussion at 3 from what seemed like a minor bump to the head and I wasn't even aware of it!).  That the gaping wound in her mouth would fester and introduce some hideous form of bacteria that I can't pronounce, much less spell.  That, if nothing else, her cute little baby teeth would die and/or fall out and it would somehow damage her self esteem and self image before she ever had a chance.  And all of these ridiculous thoughts make me feel stupid and weird.  I can't even be a normal mom to my living daughter anymore because I'm so consumed with terror over what feels inevitable to me.  Her death.  And all the while trying to be light and play it off to her so that she isn't in a panic and scarred for life because her mother is a FREAK!

Feeling like a freak is tiresome.

Being from a Christian family, I asked my brother to pray for my daughter that she doesn't have any complications next week.  My brother texted back "Don't worry sis.  God protects the little ones.".  I mean, what do you say to that?  Because what I wanted to say was something along the lines of "Sometimes, I guess."  What do you say to the moms whose little ones were not protected?  Logan wasn't.  Rudy wasn't.  So why should I believe that Aubrey is?  Because I want it so bad to be true?  What about all of the other babies?  What about all of the kidnapped children, the molested ones, the abused, the murdered, the neglected ones, the ones who get MRSA and die, the ones who get cancer and die, the ones born with holes in their hearts or water on their brains?  Were they protected?  God protects our little ones when it is in his plan and there isn't a lick we can do about it if its not!  What about the 4 children last year who they discovered had this weird genetic mutation?  Three of them died with in 24 hours after having their tonsals removed (another simple, common procedure).  God didn't protect them.  So who am I to believe that I am the special one?  That my begging and pleading to keep my daughter will make a difference this time, when it didn't the last two times I begged to keep my children?  In the end, and I know he was trying to comfort me and be helpful so I take it for what its worth and I don't hold it against him, but its that lack of understanding that makes me feel so alone in this world. 

Yes, I believe God is in control.  That's the part that scares me.

My Silence

I don't blog much anymore, obviously.  Part of it is lack of need, part of it is because I've been exposed.  Or at least I feel exposed, to my real life.  And you see, there was something special about being anonymous.  Not feeling judged by people I have to look in the eye, made it easier for me to be open and honest.  Not feeling like I have to explain myself and qualify each emotion, especially the ones I know to be irrational, but are there none the less, makes it hard for me to find comfort here anymore.  That makes me bitter.  I needed this space.  I'll be honest, it was an innocent exposure.  I believe deep down they were trying to help, to understand, not to gawk.  It just didn't work out that way on my end.   And frankly, now I just feel weird about this place.  Guarded.  Censored.  Fearful of my thoughts and the repercussions they could have on my real life. 

Anyhow...

So, seems like these days everyone around me is having a baby.  Sure would like to hide from that.  I'm currently in the middle of throwing my second baby shower in the past year.  That's tough.  I can't lie.  And though I am thrilled that my brothers are finally having children, being the only sister in the family, thus making me the "go-to" shower planner...is rough.  Most days I try to ignore the ache.  Its not about me, its about them.  They deserve their bliss.  I just wish I still had some...  I'm not jealous.  I don't begrudge.  Them having, or not having, babies doesn't influence my reality.  My children would still be dead.  I dunno.  Most days I keep those babies of mine in a protective haze.  Protecting them from the world, and the world from them.  The thing is, I have all of these conflicting thoughts and emotions that swirl around my fogged, perpetually mourning mind.  And most of the time they don't make sense and are irrational.  Which, frankly, irritates me.  I guess its because I keep waiting for it to all go away.  To wake up one day and go "Yup, that's done.  I'm over it."  Obviously that's not going to happen.  And really, I don't want it to.  Mourning those children are all I have of them really.  It makes them real.  If I wasn't sad for them, missing them, endlessly wishing that they were here, healthy and alive...well, wouldn't that be weird?  Because if my living daughter suddenly died now at four years old, I would endlessly miss her and wish for her to be returned to me.  I would for the length of my life.  And no one would expect otherwise, or think it odd.  I don't know why I've started to feel like I am odd for missing my other two children.

To try, again.

That's the fear on the forefront of my mind these days.  Oh, how badly I have wanted another baby!!  I kept saying I didn't want to go out like that, I didn't want to end on that note.  Like I refused to let nature knock me down and not get up and punch right back.  But the thing is, now that the decision is mine to make, and one that needs making soon, I'm not so sure any more.  I mean, with Spina Bifida hanging out on the sidelines waiting to take its turn to knock us down, the fact that Logan had Down Syndrome and that the odds of us having another child with Down Syndrome (ending in either another stillbirth, or even more awesome - a neonatal death, or at the very least a seriously ill child who will never know a normal life, probably never make it to it's 40th birthday and live a horribly painful existence)  is seriously high, and now let's throw in an increased risk of another Ectopic pregnancy thanks to the "fluke" we experienced last May...  I dunno, in that light, it makes the feeling of having a healthy living child seem like a real stretch, and that is dismal.  Let's lump in the fact that my husband is done, though is willing for the soul purpose of my happiness, but none the less is full of fear and would rather not tread down that path again!  Guilt.  The guilt weighs me down.  Guilt over the last two dead children.  Guilt over not being content.  Guilt over putting our living child through something that is not a necessity.  Guilt if it all blows up in my face, again.  Guilt over what that will do to my husband, to our relationship, to my daughter, to the people around me...and all because I didn't want to go out like that?  And when I think about it, and I talk about it, and I write about it and I see it all laid out plainly in front of me...I think I must be the most selfish person in the world...or nuts.  And yet, I come to the same conclusion each time...what if I decide not to have another baby, and then I change my mind and its too late (assuming that its not now) and I spend the rest of my life regretting it?  More wondering, "what if?".  Anymore I feel like my whole life is one big what if?  What if the kids would have lived?  What if Logan had been born with Down Syndrome and survived?  What if these dead babies have ruined us?  What if I never feel whole again?  What if another baby dies?  What if it doesn't?  What if I never get pregnant?  And though I keep 90% of this stuff to myself, its been eating at me a bit more every day.

perfect life...except..."  There is always that exception.  And each day I come to the realization more and more that no matter how much time goes by, I will always feel their hole.  I need to be okay with that reality.  I need to find comfort in what is, and not what is not.  Grief is like that though.  It follows us around, long after we are done with it.  It is a force that demands to be reckoned with.

Sigh.  I miss the ignorance.  It would be so nice to just feel like I wanted another baby, and so therefore, we'll do it again.  Now that decision is forever tainted with not only the normal fears of having a baby (Am I ready to do this?  Can I handle two?  Am I getting too old for this?)  but with the fears that only a mother who has dead children can ever have...  The knowledge, not just the fear.  I know what it feels like when it all goes wrong.  There is no more speculation.  There is no naivete about how bad it really is.  And maybe that is what scares me the most.  Maybe I'm not ready for another broken heart.

Cutting people off.

Look out! 2 posts in one week!

This post isn't really about Logan. The issues I have with my family go back decades. But you see the thing is, when Logan died, issues I had started coming into focus a little more. Hurts became a whole lot more defined. I found myself backing away from people, closing myself off and eventually cutting a few family members out of my life. I couldn't handle the drama. I couldn't take more hurt and anger and rejection on top of the heavy sadness in my soul. And instead of talking about it, dealing with it, even screaming it out...I shut it down. I stopped answering the phone. I stopped sending gifts, cards, photos. Did this happen with you?

My dad. Sigh. Ok, so my mom and dad divorced when I was a baby. I've only ever known my dad from a distance. He lived three and a half hours away and I saw him twice a year for 18 years. I don't remember him ever calling more than once or twice in between his visits, and if I ever saw him on my birthday...it's gone from memory at this point. My dad was an enigma to me as a child. He went on to quickly marry and start a new family. This gave me a Step-brother and a sister, my only sister. After high school I moved in with my dad to attend college (he lived closer to a big city, I was tired of home, it was different). To say the environment was hostile and explosive would be an understatement. My step-mother is a therapy session all on her own. Let's just say, it wasn't easy living there. The psychosis that floated around that house was unbearable and I was quickly trying to escape that trap. Anyhow, a few years later they all moved to SC (18 hours away) and the day easily ranks in my top five days. I mean, there aren't enough hours to be had to sit and type out the debacle that was the relationship I had with those people. The cliff notes version is that my step-mother is a diagnosed delusional paranoid OCD person. And with that, I've given her lots of leeway. She's sick. She gets a pass (or at least half of one). I've just learned that in order to find happiness in my life, she is best avoided. But I guess you just expect more from your father. At least you hope for more I suppose. My dad wasn't sick or abusive. He just wasn't anything. He wasn't around, and he left you with the impression that it was somehow your fault, or something you were imagining, or that you were just expecting too much. And as an adult I've started to see that he is a pathological liar, self involved to a sickness, and the biggest drama queen I have ever encountered. Through out my adult life I just tolerated it. Whatever, its just how he was. I never clamoured for an apology like the other three kids did. I didn't want explanations or excuses. I just wanted him to be different that he was. Not change the past, but change who he would be in the future. He didn't. And when my daughter was born it became very hard to tolerate. I won't get into all of the details, but I'll say this. He didn't meet my daughter until 2 months AFTER Logan died. She was 14 months old at that point. He popped into town to rescue my sister (drive her back down south) and stayed less than 24 hours. He did this after telling me for over a year he was too broke to come meet his granddaughter. I mean, I get it. Some people just don't care all that much about being a grandparent. But you see, he did. He has 6 other grandchildren. Two of which are at his home on a daily basis. All of which he met with in days of their birth. I'm sure if I'd have screamed and ranted and demanded, he'd have come down sooner. But, I'm not into begging for love and attention. I just felt like he should've come. He knew that. He had excuse after excuse, lie after lie, story after story. It got old. I remember when I was in labor with Logan. We had to make the horrendous phone calls to everyone to let them know what was going on. It only seemed right that I call my dad to tell him his grandson had died. So I did. And instead of offering a little sympathy or even...I dunno...something, he said "this is going to push me over the edge!" I mean reading it it doesn't seem like this big deal, but the thing is I was the one in labor with a dead baby, and hear I was feeling like I had to comfort him. He didn't try to comfort me. The conversation wasn't about me and what I was going through, it became about him. And that about sums up my dad. Everything revolves around him, and if it doesn't...well by golly you'd better be sure he'll find a way to make it so. You know, I wasn't mad that he didn't ever call to see if I was ready to slit my wrist. I wasn't even mad that he didn't make an effort to be at my side during the worse days of my life. I mean honestly I wouldn't have wanted him there anyhow. But in the weeks following Logan's death they wouldn't even let me have my grief. Every call revolved around one of my siblings, and how they had wronged my dad...what new drama was afoot. The final straw was a couple of months after Logan died, after my dad drove the 18 hours (though he claimed he was so broke he was in foreclosure) to pick up my sister (and the man she had an affair with and then deserted her 2 young kids for) so that she could go back to see her kids (because apparently Logan's death was some sort of temporary wake up call for her?)...not to meet my then 14 month old daughter, not to be with his heart broken daughter who was grieving the death of her son. Anyhow, he called me drunk (a former drug addict and alcoholic, rehab, broken family - affair...the whole bit). I don't know why he called me. Guilt? Attention? Its hard to say. But he called me repeatedly, while supposedly DRIVING to my house (18 hours away) and drunk off his ass. My father drunk dialed me in the midst of my grief to whine about how terrible his life was. I called my cousin (his BFF) and told him to deal with it, I just couldn't handle it. Weeks went by with no apology, no excuse, not a word. Nothing. And a little light went off. That was the straw. I just couldn't deal with the selfishness, the drama, anymore. I had way too much reality and sorrow and depression on my plate. REAL pain. Pain I didn't ask for, didn't deserve, and didn't put on myself. I just couldn't take anymore complaining, and whining, and boo-hooing about how awful their lives were when they had NO IDEA what REAL pain felt like. Their lives were shit because they made them that way. I worked my butt off for a good life, and was dealt a grummy hand. I shut down. I never answered the phone again. That was two years ago. He's never seen my daughter since (she's now three) and never even made an attempt to. My step-mother wrote me a crazy letter around the year anniversary of Logan's death. I responded, clipped, short, to the point. I sent pictures of my daughter, they sent them back with a really nasty letter. I sent Christmas and Birthday cards and Father's Day cards, they ignored my birthday, and eventually my daughter's birthday and Christmas too. With every passing month they become more hateful and cruel. Its one thing to be mad at me, to hold a grudge against me, but a three year old? See, and that is unforgivable in my book. And the sad part is, I miss my dad. I miss who he is when he's just being relaxed, not trying to outdo anyone, prove himself or lie. It makes me so sad that my daughter doesn't know her grandpa. That he doesn't know her. The other day she said to me, "Yoo's daddy is in heaben cuz he's dead." I guess she figured that's where he was since she's never seen him. I corrected her. Momma's daddy lives far away. But it made me so angry at my dad all over again. He's quit calling. His last attempt was in November. Not that they were real often or anything, but once every few months or so. I contacted him last June to let him know my mother's mom had died. I thought it was the decent thing to do. It was a very short conversation, 3 minutes is all. He managed to get in that my sister had deserted her kids again, and that the time he called me he wasn't drunk, he'd had a stroke, oh and that he'd send flowers (which he didn't). Uh, yeah. Except that my mom has had about 6 strokes, and has never acted drunk. I mean come on, you can tell when someone is drunk. He wasn't confused, he was stupid drunk. You know, like the drunk chic who hangs on everyone and asks if they love her, is she pretty...in a baby voice. That's what he was like. I talked to him a long time that night, it was sort of funny. I got in a nice couple of digs. Anyhow, so here I am, two years later and I'm tired. You'd think cutting someone off would be easy, but it hasn't been for me. I obsess about it EVERY DAY. Seriously. There isn't a day that goes by where I don't think of it, which enrages me even further. Some times I'm sad and wistful. Other times I'm angry and belligerent. And as far as I know my other siblings have cut them off too (for other reasons). I dunno. I'm just unsure of what to do with the thoughts. Its not like I want a relationship. For years and years I've just said I didn't want anything, I just wanted them to go away. The thing is, I'm wondering if I'll regret it. I mean, I tell myself that I'm protecting my heart, that it just can't take anymore pain and rejection and drama. And I'm protecting my daughter from the pain and rejection too (since I'm well aware of the favoritism that's already been displayed against my older brother's kids for my younger sister's kids). I don't want her to be hurt. I don't want to have to explain to her who these people are, or why they do the things they do. Why they don't love her. No. I don't feel loved by them. Not one bit. I don't know that they are capable of loving. But I obsess about it, relentlessly. I don't want to talk it out. I don't want some huge confrontation. I don't even want an apology, I just want him to be different, better.

My sister. Sigh. She's the spitting image of my dad. She doesn't think so. And for the most part she's been given a pass too because I feel like when you are raised in such a warped environment, how can you be any better? And my sister has lied, and done me wrong, and stolen from me, and who knows what else. But she had an affair (used me in that too, unwittingly) and left her husband AND KIDS (9 months and 5 years old) in SC to move back to Michigan because she felt it was something she needed to do for herself. And I tried, believe me I tried to excuse her behaviour and rationalize it and psychoanalyze it. She lived with my neighbors for several months while I was pregnant with Logan. And I tried to let it go, and I tried to except her life choice and the idiot fool she left her husband for (who I dearly loved) because that's what sister's do. And I believed her when she told me she had it worked out about her kids, and that there wasn't any other way, and that she was getting them... I was on her side as much as I could be. But when Logan died...I didn't get it anymore. I didn't understand how a mother could move 18 hours away from her babies, with no hope of visiting (being as she was broke, homeless and without a car). She deserted her children. It was unacceptable. Unforgivable. I couldn't look at her. I couldn't speak to her. I couldn't stand the sound of her voice. The hatred was blinding. She was blessed with a good husband (believe me, he was good to her), two beautiful and healthy babies and she threw it away like they were garbage. And I didn't get it. I still don't. I couldn't tolerate it. I couldn't look at her and be okay with what she had done to my poor innocent nephews. I wanted to hurt her, physically. I couldn't stomach anything about her. And until a couple of weeks ago (thanks a lot facebook!) I believed she was back in SC (because remember my dad came and got her and took her home). But she's not. She's in Chicago with that loser. Her boys? Still in SC. And I know they are better off with their dad. But its still inexcusable. Fine. I get it, some people get divorced. But these parents that move away from their kids? I don't get it. I can't fathom being away from Aubrey. The very thought of not having her on a daily basis gets my insides all knotted up and I start feeling homicidal. And the problem is that here my sister is, pregnant at 19 and unwed. Shotgun wedding. Baby #2 was unplanned, and miscarried at 7 weeks. Baby #3 comes along, surprise, 9 months later she splits. And these are the people having healthy living children while mine is dead. Its not fair! And I hate her for it. I hate her for not knowing how lucky she is. I hate her for pissing it all away. I hate her for hurting those boys. And the same goes for my dad! I just don't get why people like that are given children. Why can't it be those type of people who have babies die? People who think their children are accessories, punishments, a nuisance. Anyhow. My sister has called a couple of times. I never unfriended her on Facebook, but she was silent and she left me alone. Until a few days ago when she popped up and started commenting on my wall and then sent me an email about my step-mother (her mom) being on FB (I blocked her right away). I didn't answer anything. I still can't stomach her. Then today she sent me a message on Facebook. A real confrontational one too. I didn't respond. I blocked her.

I'm not ready.

I want to forgive them. Or at least I want to feel nothing about them. It eats at me and I hate it. I just don't know where to go from here. My dh tried to convince me to call my dad a few weeks ago, and I almost did. But I got so worked up, so angry, so hateful that I threw my hands up and said no way! I know that the more time that passes the bigger the chasm, and I'm not sure if that's a bad thing or not. I feel justified in my actions. But I feel petty at times too. The reality of it is that the three of them are never going to be different. People are who they are. You learn to accept them, or you move on. My older brother doesn't seem to have any issues with it. But I just can't seem to forget. I'd sure love some input from anyone in the same sort of shoes. Its easy to say forgive and forget if you've never been treated like a second hand kid your whole life. My dh, try as he may, just does not get it. His family is fairly normal.

Anyhow, I just needed to talk through some of this. Logan's death has changed the way I feel about so many things, and the way I deal with so many things. In a way I feel its good. Its helped me to stop being a door mat and to focus on the things in life that matter. So many other things that used to seem like a huge deal now seem petty and foolish.

Just one more way I'm different now, I guess.

Because really, how much is there left to say?

It's been about four months or so since my last post here. I guess after a while I've started to feel like I'm beating a dead horse. I mean, how much is there really left to say? Logan's second anniversary came and went on January 24th, mostly in silence. Not too many people even knew, or remembered, or at least mentioned it. We didn't commemorate the day or anything. I didn't cry. I mean, not that I wasn't sad, but I seemed to feel all dried up that day. Empty. Defeated. Deflated. I made a real point to try and be genuinely happy and celebratory for my daughter's 3rd birthday (a quick 3 days after Logan's anniversary), and I think I did a good job. These days my heartache is more of a shadow. Its always there, in the background. Easily found, most times ignored. But regardless of how I appear to those around me, and even how I seem to myself at times, I am not over it. I am not okay with it. I have not dealt with it, nor have I found peace in it. I guess I just feel helpless, or hopeless about ever finding the big meaning of it all. Most of the time I try to convince myself that maybe there just isn't a bigger meaning to any of it. Like so many other horrific things in life, Logan's death was just random...just like his life. No more a punishment or judgement from God than is child abduction or molestation. Horrible things happen all the time. But try as I may to be glad that we haven't had to experience other horrible things, I don't find comfort in any of it. I don't know that I'm still mad at God these days. I guess if anything I just feel abandoned by him. But then, sometimes I just feel nothing. It just happened. Its part of life. GOD didn't DO this to me. It wasn't DONE TO ME. It just was what it was. Down Syndrome happens to lots of people. Most of those babies die before birth. We're just among those numbers. But I can't get past the giant WHY? Why us? Why Logan? Why did we have to get pregnant THAT month? Its really just a big circle of whys. Questions I will never have the answers to. And even if I did, would it matter? Would any reason why be enough for me to nod in agreement, to believe it was the right decision, the only option, the best choice? I doubt it. I doubt I would ever feel ok with the reason why. I wish I could figure out a way to let that go, the question why. It eats at me.

I've often talked about how Logan's death has changed so many facets of our lives. The big one lately is the subject of another baby. I wish I wasn't so scared to have another child. I mean after I manage to get past the issues in the bedroom, then I fear having another child with DS. Then I fear the death of that child, and I fear the life of that child. Having a handicapped child certainly would change life around here, and I would have a lot of guilt. I know that lots of people who have handicapped children will tell everyone what a blessing that child is, and though I don't doubt it I fear the affect it would have on the healthy living child that I currently have. A life that would forever be altered because I was too selfish to be happy with what I had. Money that would have gone towards a better life for her (college and what not) would be used on surgeries and special care for a child that I forced into our lives. And say that child is healthy, and lives...will I ruin that child? I fear I may smother my children. I fear that my third child will forever live in Logan's shadow. I fear that my fear of anything bad coming to my children will haunt me and turn me into some uncontrollable psychopath! I fear getting pregnant, and I fear not getting pregnant. I fear that not giving my daughter a sibling will leave her lonely and "missing" a big part of life. I fear that having another child will leave less of me for her. The whole thing just flat out terrifies me these days, and has become a constant nagging in my mind. I feel like there is no great outcome to be had. Having another child will not alleviate the sadness of Logan, it may only confuse it, if not exacerbate it. I am confused, and I am scared.

Fear is what pretty much defines me these days. Fear that my living child will die. Fear that I may ruin her. Fear that I might let down my husband in my efforts to find some proverbial missing link. A link that can not ever be found. Fear that my God has forsaken me, or that I am too far gone to ever find my way back in my faith and beliefs. Fear that I will never be able to forgive God for the enormous heartache that we have. Fear that I will not be able to get pregnant, or to carry to term, or to produce a healthy baby. And oddly enough lately I have taken on this huge fear of death. I lay awake at night, I obsess about it while I'm driving. I think about my death on a regular basis and how it would affect my dh or my daughter. What will happen to me when I die. What happens if I die soon. Fear that any day could be my last. Some horrible accident or disease that steals me away from my daughter, my heartbroken husband.

Fear.

Perhaps its another phase of grief. I will hope this is the case.

I'm trying to resume life as if Logan dying didn't change EVERYTHING. But it did.

So. I thought I was pregnant. Sigh. For the first time in about ten months my cycle was 3 days late. I took a test after I was one day late and it was negative, but the test had expired months ago, so I thought maybe it was just too old. I woke up this morning and I just knew I had to be pregnant. Three days is a lot late for me. And I won't lie, I was excited. I was scared too, but the hope and excitement over shadowed the fear. A few hours later I started. Of course I did. Not yesterday when I was still wondering, but today...after I had convinced myself it must be true.

The thing is, we aren't "trying". David isn't ready yet. Sigh. So he was scared, or nervous or whatever. And I think this morning when I passed the news on that I wasn't pregnant he tried to not cheer. But he certainly didn't sound disappointed or sad. I was very sad. I cried and it was weird and awkward, and I quickly hung up. Its hard to be on such extreme opposites on this issue.

I'm trying to be patient. I'm trying to be understanding. I'm trying to not loose hope. I'm trying to not see the future flying at me with the speed of a freight train and the big fat age thing haunting me. I'm trying to shut up that scary voice that says by the time he is ready...I'll be too old and the chances of DS so high it would be stupid to risk it. I'm trying to keep a clear head about the whole thing and be positive and I am trying, I swear I am trying, to be content with what I have now. It just wasn't supposed to be like this. And I'm trying to resume life as if Logan dying didn't change EVERYTHING. But it did. And sometimes that reality is really hard on me.

And today these cycle hormones are my nemesis. And today I am sad all over again for the ones that may never be, because of the one who was...and then so quickly wasn't. And all over again I hate what happened to us. I hate that I am here. I hate that Logan died and I hate that it changed everything and I never got a say in the matter.

A new Logan on Earth

So, I have a "friend" that I made through my diet blog (we're "friends" on Facebook and talk a few times a week now). We're not real in depth intimate friends or anything, but we swap crazy mommy stories and because of how my child loss has affected my weight, she knows that I had a stillborn son last year. I've never gone into a whole lot of detail on that blog about Logan. Anyhow, she just had a little boy yesterday.

She named him Logan.

Of course she did.

I can't help it. That was the first thing I thought when I heard his name. Thankfully it was after I gushed about how happy I was that her baby was born healthy. But here's the thing, I doubt she even knows my sons name was Logan. I've only ever mentioned his name once on my diet blog and that was back in January. Who's to say she even read that post? Its sprinkled here and there on FB, but anyone who's on FB knows how easy it is to overlook a status update or photo post. So no, I don't think she got the name from me. I mean, Logan was one of the most popular names last year. But that's just the thing now isn't it? Coincidence. Everything is just one big coincidence. Sometimes I feel that way, and sometimes I feel like the universe is out to get me. To constantly send me stupid, but horribly painful, reminders on a regular basis. Little coincidences here and there. It wears on me.

So, obviously I'm happy for her and blah-blah-blah. But the thing is, she talks about her kids a lot. I mean, who doesn't? So now I have this anxiety over the fact that I know I am going to hear his name on a regular basis. Logan did this, Logan did that, Logan rolled over today, smiled, said momma...all of those things that my Logan didn't do. And each one will be one more reminder.

It makes me feel guilty, petty, selfish and weird for thinking this way. Its like his name became sacred after he died. I hear Aubrey's name on occasion, and though I try really hard not to be a snob about it (since I prided myself in picking a lesser known name) and most of the time I feel giggly about meeting another little girl named Aubrey. But with Logan, well it was almost like I felt like no one else had a right to such a precious name. Like Jesus. Ok, not like Jesus, but you get the point. The name is usually not used (ok, at least not so much here in the US) and I think that is out of reverence and respect. The name is sacred now. I don't know, I just feel very...what's the word...territorial about it maybe? And I know my Logan isn't the only stillborn named Logan. In fact I know there is at least one other blog here with a baby named Logan who died. But see with her, I feel more of a kinship than a copyright infringement.

Everything is weird now. I can't even be cool about my friends new baby because of a stupid name. And I find myself thinking that if I have another pregnancy, I'll name that baby something really unknown (though not weird, I'm not into names like Apple or Jermagesty or anything)...just so that I won't have to hear it or see it with out me going to look for it. I think that's a lot of this too. I wasn't prepared. I didn't know she had planned to name him Logan.

And just in case you are wondering if I'm some huge egotistical insensitive jerk, I didn't say anything to her about it, and I won't. This is her happy time and I'm going to let her enjoy it and not be brought down by some weird coincidence she fell into with some crazy lady she met on a blog. And I'm sure eventually she'll hear my son's name, and maybe she won't think a thing about it, or maybe she will. Either way I'm trying to be positive and look at it like there is a new Logan here on this earth and I'm going to be lucky enough to be able to bare witness to his life. And maybe, just maybe it will help to fill in that gap just a teeny bit. Maybe.

Manic feelings

I'm not sleeping again, and I feel manic. Or more like a maniac. Either way, its exhausting. I'm tired, and I lay in bed and stare into the darkness and I obsess. I obsess about my family and the crap storm I feel like I am in the middle of there. I obsess about my marriage and my husband and I feel like something is wrong there and I can't put my finger on it. I obsess about myself and why I feel unloved, and why I feel worthless and why I don't feel like there is any hope...and it hit me tonight, maybe I'm not over the depression. Aren't those key signs of depression? And I know its somehow related to my cycle. I mean all women get moody just before the start of it, but am I just fooling myself during the two good weeks that I'm OK, and then when my hormones flux I find myself in another extreme? Its messed up, and it makes me weary. Weary of everything around me. The phone rings and I'm nervous who's calling. The mail arrives with no return address and I'm leery about opening it (since my step-mother has an affinity for sending me horrible letters and trying to disguise them with no return address, sending from a different state and changing her hand writing...yeah, I'm surrounded by crazy). I've even started dreading opening my email, because there's always something in there to deal with. I just don't want to deal with anything anymore. Its making me feel panicky. I'm starting to feel trapped and that makes me feel like I have to run and hide...except that I can't, because I really am trapped. Where am I going to go? I am a wife, a mother. I need my daughter near me. I need to be near the reassurance that is my husband, his steady and constant rhythm. Remember the good old days when if you wanted to remove yourself from the world you just unplugged your phone?? Now if you did that people would call your cell, then text you, then Facebook you, then email you...there's no escape. And how do you tell your family to leave you alone with out everyone taking it personal? Its just that I guess people have always been able to lean on me, and I've always propped them up with out much complaint, but I can't anymore. I don't want to. I want someone to ask me how I'm doing, and not because I'm some circus side show or a car wreck that makes people just HAVE to look, to stand witness to the horror, or because its a juicy tidbit of gossip, but because someone really does give a crap about how I am. And not just "someone" but the people in my life who are "supposed" to love me, who are "supposed" to care. And no one ever asks. Worse yet, I get the feeling its because people just expect that its been long enough. And no, I don't want to talk to them about Logan. I just wish they'd get a clue and stop pestering me with their mundane crap. Like all I do is sit around bored waiting for someone to saddle me with their problems. Really I just spend most of my energy trying to figure out how to avoid just that.

I cut off my Dad, step-mother and sister almost a year ago. My step-mother recently sent me two nasty letters. Illustrating, once again, that they never really got how impacted I was from Logan's death, not to mention the impact that they have had on my life as well. A subject, as I have stated before, that there are not enough words in all the worlds languages to explain that topic. But the thing is, it eats at me. Not my step-mom. She's worthless and evil and I can happily live out the rest of my days on this earth with out every having contact with her again. But my dad (and even my sister)...I just don't get it. How can you have such little love for your own child? How can a father neglect, abandon and take advantage of his children for years and years? I just don't get it. I can't fathom treating my daughter with such neglect and indifference. But the reason I cut them off is because I couldn't take anymore hurt. And in the year since I cut him off he's tried to contact me three times, the last one being in September. And, ironically, its not that I want him to actually contact me because I am so done with that. I can't take it anymore. But the fact that he put up so little of a fight for his daughter... Its just one more thing.

I'm tired of feeling obsessive. I'm tired of these extreme highs and lows and feeling manic. I'm tired of me being up when David is down and vice versa. I'm tired of feeling out of control and I just want some peace in my life. Some steady rhythm. I want to feel like these uphill steps that I'm taking are actually taking me uphill, instead of feeling like for every 2 steps forward I take 3 steps back, and not loosing an weight while doing it mind you. Its an exhausting way to live and it has worn me down again. It affects my very personality. It affects our marriage, how I mother my daughter and how I look at myself as a person. I don't like this person, and I'm too worn out to do anything about it.

Its the little things...

The little things. The stupid insignificant things. The ones that shouldn't matter, but now suddenly do. I hate those things. I hate the mountains that are made out of every mole hill. I hate that my heart breaks so easily now days, that I feel so burnt out, so raw, so abused. I hate that it is so easy for people to hurt me, to offend me, to leave me feeling abondoned. I hate that I have to force myself to let my daughter out of my site. I hate that I fear for her life, jump at every bump, scream at every fall, fear every tiny questionable thing. I hate what this has done to me.

Alone...listless

I keep hearing that song over and over. Pearl Jam. Daughter.

Alone...listless...breakfast table in an otherwise empty room
Young girl...violins...center of her own attention
The mother reads aloud, child tries to understand it
Tries to make her proud

The shades go down, its in her head
Painted room...can't deny there's something wrong...

Its odd, even to me, how I place myself in the most obscure places. This song doesn't have a thing to do with my "situation". Maybe its the odd pain I feel from the song. Maybe it's Eddie's voice. I dunno.

David is up north. He left today. My mother is coming in tomorrow. I just wanted a normal weekend. I don't want visitors. I don't want to entertain, to clean, to talk, to relate, to defend, to perform, to hide... I want to just be here with my tiny little family safe in the cocoon of my deceptively "normal" home. I go out, I perform, I interact with the "others" because I know its what's supposed to be done. What's normal in the real world. I do what I am supposed to do, in hopes of moving on, getting over...forgetting. Whoever wrote those rules don't have a clue. Sadly, I think it was me. Is isolation a stage of grief? First we feel isolated by our "freskishness" and then we resort to isolating ourselves, because really who understands you better than the evil voices in your head? I'm quite content to hang out alone these days. I used to be very social. But now, now I just want to hide away (Hey look at that! Another PJ song!!). Sadly I don't want my mother to visit. Its not her, its not personal. And I want her to see her granddaughter, I do. Its just that... I don't have the energy. That seems to be the common theme these days. I don't have the energy for much of anything. Energy, motivation, desire...whatever. They say its part of depression. Why is there no cure for depression? Something so prevalent in our society and the only thing they have a drugs that mask it, but none that eliminate it. The mind is a tricky place I suppose. And I fight with myself daily, wanting the drugs, not wanting the drugs. Wanting relief, but what if?? What if David announces that he's ready for another baby and then I have to wait another 6 months to rid my body of the poisons that are masking the pain? What if I could find relief in those pills? What if he never wants to have another baby because I won't "snap out of it"? Then there are always the thoughts about the head shrinker. I guess I'm just afraid I'll hear more of the same "these things happen" or "your grieving, you should be depressed". Maybe I'm afraid he'll tell me to buck up and stop wallowing in self pity. Maybe I'm afraid he'll make me cry. I'm tired of crying. I'm tired of such an overwhelming sorrow. I'm not sure I want to pay someone to tell me I'm normal and then make me cry. I can get that for free anywhere I like. My thoughts follow me around closer than my shadow. I try to convince myself that its best if I stay away from the sadness of others, if I stay away from my own sadness. But I guess the reality of it all is that I'm just avoiding the truth that has so confidently perched itself upon my heart. I'm sad. I'm so achingly sad that if the world stopped spinning, I might not notice. I swear it, if my daughter wasn't here I would easily allow myself to slip under. And what an enormous burden to place on the tiny shoulders of a 19 month old child. She wasn't intended to be a buoy, but how she has turned into one. Keeping momma afloat. It breaks my heart all over again. I look at her and I think how lucky she is to not be old enough to even realize there is something to be grieving for. And then I look at her and am saddened to know that her baby brother died, and she doesn't even know it yet. Will she ever know it? Will I lock him away like a dirty little precious secret? Everything in this "reality" contradicts itself. Oh how I want her to know that we did want her to have a little brother, a playmate, a partner in crime. Someone she could go to and complain about her parents to, like a sibling can only relate. Baby, Momma tried!! I desperately want her to know. But when she is old enough to process this information, will I still be willing to relive it, to pass the sadness on?

I've been hiding a lot, if only mentally. I've been hanging out in Forks, Wa. with Bella and Edward (Twilight) on audiobook. I walk around with my earbuds in listening to my iPod all day long, trying to escape my own life. Trying to be immersed in someone else's elation and tragedy, if only fiction. I've discovered that I can't sit around and watch TV or movies all day, so this is my alternative. I began to wonder today how rude it would be to walk around listening while my mother was here this weekend.

My mother. She has no clue. How can she? She had 5 children, they were all surprises and they all lived. I don't think she even knows how to handle me. I think my darkness frightens her. God is the solution to everything. Take your pain to God. Give it to the lord. I scoff. He gave it to me, why would I give it back? God is not my solution. At least not right now. And I think that scares my family. I am hostile, and I am bitter, and I do not want to hear about God and how they think he is the answer to my sorrow. He is the reason, at least in my book. At least for now. So, most of the time they go on as if my life didn't stop. Which is good, for the most part. At least until they start really wanting to know how I'm really doing. I try not to hide too much of it. If I have a total breakdown I want them to not be completely shocked, I think. The other day my older brother asked me how I'm doing, to which I replied "some days are bad, some days are not so bad" to which he replied "Why? What's wrong?" I simply stated "Logan". He went on to say he figured but wanted to make sure it wasn't anything else. I really have to restrain myself from saying DUH!! and smacking people in the forehead (like the V-8 commercials). I hate that people ask me how I am doing because really we all know that most of the time it's in a cashier-esque fashion. No one wants to hear the truth, they want to hear you say "fine" and move on. "I'm fine, unless you consider the GAPING HOLE in my heart where my little boy hangs out". I mean really, how do you answer that question? "Hey Heather, how's it going?" "Oh fine, I didn't cry or kill myself today, so I must be having a great day!" People don't want to hear that. I don't want to hear that. What the hell do you say to that? "Oh, well that's good?!" Seriously. I struggle intensely with the random social politeness I'm supposed to display.

I've gotten really paranoid lately. Its weird. It makes me feel weird. I feel like they're all looking at me, talking about me. I wonder if people can tell. The other day when I left the OB's office and those two pregnant chics were in the waiting area, I couldn't look at them, but I felt like they were staring at me, like they knew! I wonder if people think about it all the time (I'm guessing this is just a narcissistic feeling). I wonder if people try to think about what it would feel like if one of their babies had died in the womb; what they're lives would be like with out that child.

David is up north hunting with his dad and some friends. I'm glad. He so needs to get out of this house and away from me. It was hard letting him leave. I really had to struggle to keep myself from begging him not to leave me. Don't leave me alone in the silence with these wretched thoughts!! But I wanted him to go. I want him to feel "normal" again and be with other men, and not surrounded by child bearing woman (at work). My daughter wailed when he left. I thought it was a good idea for her to see that he was leaving. When he walked away and got into the truck she bawled. My heart broke. His heart broke. And I realised that I couldn't explain to her that he was coming back. And I realised maybe we should have just let her think he was at work. And I was afraid that her outburst tainted his weekend. Gramma will be here tomorrow, she won't have time to think about her daddy.

I sit here on my couch and obsess about whether or not Logan's tree went into the ground tonight. David and I decided to wait to go see it until we could both go at the same time, together, as a family. Its made me very restless today. I even found myself drawn to that area during my walk this morning. Not to see the tree, but in hopes that I would see a truck or something. Some sign that they were indeed planting it. I saw nothing. I'm hoping I don't accidentally drive by it this weekend. I'm hoping that I keep my wits about me enough to avoid that area. Its on a common route home. I pass that park quite often.

Well, its almost midnight. I'm tired, I'm roasting for some stupid unknown reason (since apparently my hormones are FINE!), and I know I need to get up early to straighten the house before my mother arrives in the morning. So, with that... I'm off, and hoping for a restful night and easy sleep...in a very dark and quite house...alone. (She shivers because yes, she is afraid of the dark and things that go bump in the night!)

These things happen...

I just thought to myself yesterday that it was probably a good thing that I haven't been blogging much lately. Moving on right? Healing? Whatever.

Today I got back my results from my hormones tests and had my annual. The doctor had to be in an emergency surgery, so I saw the nurse practitioner instead. All of my hormones are normal. Great. So then what's my problem? No PCOS, just cysts and one tiny fibroid. Apparently you get those from being fat! Funny that I didn't have those when I weighed 200lbs, but I have them now when I'm 170lbs.

Oh, and get this. Apparently it's been long enough. No kidding. After 7 1/2 months I shouldn't be crying anymore, it's been too long. I need to consider Zoloft. I need to consider a therapist. I need to loose weight.

I'm getting more pissed by the second actually. She made me cry. She made me cry several times. Why don't I get a room that doesn't have pictures of all of the other babies that lived? Why is this dumb nurse assuming that I am trying to have a baby now? Why is this nurse assuming that it was difficult for me to get pregnant? And did she seriously just tell me that if I get pregnant to come in right away so that they can do tests "so you won't have to go through all of this again."?? Excuse me? Apparently I need genetic counseling. Apparently my DH does too. We need to find out if there is anything in us that caused the baby to have Downs. WHAT? Caused?? But I thought it was random. I thought it was a fluke. I just wanted a pap. I just wanted the results from my tests. I just wanted to be someone else today. One of the naive ones.

Tears. Lots and lots of tears, in public. I hate public break downs. I had to walk past two pregnant woman who both stared at me. They're wondering, trying to figure out my story. I'm tired of people wondering about me. I'm tired of having to re-tell and re-explain my story over and over again. Why didn't the NP read my chart first? Why did I have to choke out that my baby died in January. She called it a miscarriage a few times. I didn't correct her. I wish. I wish that he would have passed silently out of existence. I wish I didn't have to know he had a face, and tiny little hands and feet. His perfect little pouty mouth, is button nose, his funky toe. I wish I didn't know he had a name. I wish he would have been a sad medical procedure that is so common that people say they're sorry, and then move on. I wish I didn't know what it was like to hold such a warm, tiny lifeless little boy in my arms. I wish I didn't know what it was like to have experienced a horror that is so unaccepted by the general population that people can't talk about it, or look me in the eye. I wish I wasn't the topic of conversation, or gossip or even the sad thoughts and concern that I am for people who know me, and even worse for those who don't. I wish this wasn't my reality.

I'm tired of people telling me that "these things happen" and I'm really tired of hearing it from doctors. Cancer happens too. Co-joined Twins happen too. Child molestation and murder and abortion and so many more unspeakable things happen too! No shit it happens! It happened to me. I KNOW it happens. Stop telling me that these things happen! I know! I get it already. It happened...it happened to ME! It happened to my husband, and it happened to my son! I don't care that they do happen and I don't care for what reason (even if it's God's and not one I'm meant to understand) what I care about is that it happened to ME, to US! Why does everyone feel the need to remind me that "these things happen"?

I just want a doctor who gets it. I want a doctor who says its normal to be sad and cry for 8 months. Its normal to feel like you are loosing your coherency with life. Its normal to want a baby one minute and not the next. Its normal to be scared and mad and resentful and to ask a million questions and to feel like its not fair. I want a doctor who understands that not everyone would choose to abort a baby that is not perfect. I want a doctor who can just go with the flow and get it. I guess what I want is a doctor who has been in my shoes and who is trying to help others. I want help, I do. But I want help from people who can grasp the complexity of what I am going through. But they all want to shove pills at me, and tell me to hop back on the horse. I don't want to. I want to stand here in my little dark corner and kick the dirt around and cry and scream and be sad and miss my son and wallow in the pity that is mine! If I had my way I would have chosen not to have gotten pregnant then. I didn't know! I didn't realize that I could have a child who could be so ill. Incompatible with life. I can't get that phrase out of my head. I feel incompatible with life now too. I just want to scream at people to stop looking at me!! Stop thinking about me!!

So now what? Am I just lousy at dieting? Was I doing it wrong? Am I imagining the heat flashes? Did I gain 13lbs so fast because I was a pig? Am I moody and crabby and argumentative just because I'm mad at the world? Whats with the headaches again? Is it not enough to snatch my son out from within me, but now the universe is trying to pull me under too? Do I not deserve a break? No. I'm no one special. I don't deserve a beak or anything else. It just the way the cookie crumbles, because hey...these things happen. Right?

I guess I should clarify something. I am having more good days then bad ones now, lots more. I don't sit around and cry all day. In fact, I don't cry over Logan much at all anymore. Don't get me wrong, there's a constant dull ache where I think his 4 month old smile should be. Not too many minutes go by where I don't think about what should have been. An event doesn't go by where I don't think he should be present. But I'm past the screaming pain that had me curled up into a little quivering ball of goo. And now I am usually either wistfully sad or bitter and angry, when I'm not smiling at my daughter and living "normal" life. Life is what it is now. I go about my days and there is a shadow of sorrow, but not the heavy shroud that it was. I thought I was doing ok. I thought I was moving on and healing at a "normal" pace. For the most part I just want to fade into the background. Some people call this pulling away or turning inward. I don't really want to be around others. I do it because it's normal, and its what I'm supposed to do. But all I really want to do is burrow down with my DH and DD and block out the rest of the world. There was a time when I wanted to be at the epicenter of every family gathering. Now, I'd rather sit on the couch and watch TV. Zone out. Block out. Ignore. Hide. Whatever. I don't want to stumble onto conversations about me and my DH. I don't want other people trying to explain us or defend us in their own ignorance. I don't want people to ask about me. I just feel like its because everyone wants to be in on the latest gossip. "Pst, are they going to have another baby?" "Pst, I bet its hard for her to be here with all of these other babies." STOP IT! Yes is makes me sad seeing all of these babies and not being able to show mine off too. I don't know if we're going to have another baby. Why do you care? Does it matter to you? Does my speculation about procreation have any impact whatsoever on your existence? Its like I want to close the blinds on us. I want to be able to peak out on occasion, maybe let a little sunshine in here and there, but then close them when it gets dark or I don't want nosy people peaking in the windows.

I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to be on this blog, in this frame of mind, in this house, in this state, on this couch, in these tears, in this pain. I don't want to be here anymore. I want to get as far away from it all as I can, and I just can't seem to figure out how to do that.

Taking Measure

You know, I've always been one to measure my life in milestones. I'll think to myself, "Wow, I've been with my DH long enough I could have gone through HS almost four times!!" Weird things like that. Anyhow, I find that I do that with Logan too. When it was winter I kept thinking if I could get past the winter things would be better. It would be a new season, it wouldn't feel the same. And here I am, faster than I can blink, knocking on the door of autumn...winter fast approaching...again. Its a strange feeling, how fast its all going. Seven months have come and gone. Three seasons. Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall is usually my favorite time of year. And though I am still feeling that old familiar prick of excitement in a hazy far off sort of way, I'm dreading what it means...and longing so much for it to go by quickly on one hand (to be past that scary one year mark with Logan) but for it to slow down because it's passing faster than I can comprehend and my daughters very short, and very endearing baby/toddlerhood is flying past and I feel like I miss so much and that I don't want to forget anything!!! (How's that for a run on sentence!?) It is bittersweet in it's truest form and ever so confusing for me. I just want to get as far away from this pain and these memories as I can. They keep telling me, "the salve of time" so I'm running for the salve with all of my might. But I feel so conflicted because I know that I spend a lot of my daughters life in mourning. And it shouldn't be that way for her. And it makes me sad. And I want it to be over with. I want to be here for her 100% and not with half of my mind wandering through dark alley's when I see her do something new and exciting! So as this winter comes screaming up on me, yes I get to get past the 1 year mark of my devastation...but it also means my daughter will be two, and I feel like I have missed out on so much of these last several months.

Ultrasound & PCOS

So tomorrow morning I go in for an ultrasound of my ovaries to check for the possibility of cysts that could indicate PCOS. Just more hormone checking I guess. The pathetic thing is that I'm more anxiety ridden over going through the ultrasound process (ON MY UNPREGNANT BELLY!!) than I am about the potential of having the incurable PCOS. The thought of laying there with my belly exposed going through the same routine I've gone through when there was a baby in there, except that now I'll get to see that for sure there isn't one in there...well, its just one more reminder that I'm no longer pregnant...and to go along with the birth control I've recently started to use to help regulate my hormones (with the horrifying side effect of baby prevention!!)...well, lets just say its a wonderful little reminder of what is no longer, what isn't currently, and what won't be for a positive minimum of three months while trying to straighten out my hormones. Ooh yay! Hello Monday.

Days like THIS??

Momma said there'd be days like this??

No, my momma didn't tell me.

In fact, I was pretty clueless that there was this kind of pain in the world. Pain that doesn't really have a face. Pain that is so multifaceted that it inflicts itself upon me for seemingly random reasons. Why is it that some days (and this is one of those none hormonal ones, this is supposed to be my one week of peace) I feel the overwhelming urge to stuff Peanut M&M's into my mouth, just after I'd eaten lunch and am feeling rather full? And why is it that there are days that I become obsessed with getting something to drink (we're talking pop here!!) so much so that I actually get dressed (just enough not to have people stare) and go to 7-Eleven?? I've become a comfort eater/drinker. I gained 10lbs this month. TEN!! And get this, I'm trying to LOOSE weight. I don't recognize myself anymore, my brain. It's like I'm two different people. The person I was before Logan died, and the person I am now (who is trying to fake that she's still the old me!). I think I'm depressed. Seems obvious, almost expected. To be honest, I don't really know what real depression looks like. You know, when you're past the blues and you start looking for alternative methods to feel good. I cry for reasons I can't explain. I know, I know. I'm the mother to a dead baby. I should be depressed. I should cry. But at what point does it go too far? I'm too logical to kill myself. At least I'm with it that much. But getting out of bed (and it's getting later and later) is a chore like none other. And getting off the couch, well other that to do what is absolutely necessary (and frankly, the bare minimum), just seems pointless. I know I'm supposed to function, and I do what I have to, but I don't want to. I don't see the point anymore. And days when my daughter is not home...well...those days are pathetic. Makes me wonder who I'd be if she wasn't here to keep me from sliding all the way under. I have an appt. so don't freak out about me or anything. It's just one of those days. A day when I can't describe the hollow hole in my chest, days where I feel like I am literally suffocating, days when I am quite willing to curl up and drift away into oblivion. Days when the Vodka in my cabinet calls to me, and my brain argues not to go down that path. So I don't, most of the time.

I don't want to know anymore.

I don't want to know my son is dead. I don't want to know that I should have a two month old laying in that empty room. That the room should be painted blue and green with little fishies (like this one). I don't want to know that I should be stressed to the max and flipping out because I have two babies. I don't want to know this reality any more. I don't want to know this kind of heart break, this enormous amount of pain that I can't explain to anyone I know. I don't want to stand by helpless watching the pain drag my husband under. I don't want such a wonderful man to have to experience such sorrow, and to know he experiences it because he chose me. I don't want to wonder what to tell people. I don't want people remembering I was pregnant, and not being sure where the baby went. I don't want people to know. I don't want people to look at me like that. I don't want to look at myself like that. I don't want every intimate encounter I have with my husband to be laced with fear, and remorse, and longing, and memories, and sorrow, and hope for something we can't have back. I don't want to search for ways to fill the void. I don't want to long for a different life. I had/have a great life. I have an awesome husband that I don't deserve who is as perfect for me as I could have ever dreamed to hope for, and a daughter who is such sunshine and rainbows you'd wonder how anyone could find a teardrop with in a hundred miles of her. I don't want to hide my life away. I don't want to spend my free time in tears. I don't want this sorrow in my home anymore. I don't want to miss a child I never got to know. I can't mourn someone I never met. It's unreal. I don't know how to do it and it has worn me down and split my chest wide open. How am I to heal? How am I to get over, to move on from an enigma? I'm tired. I ache all over. I'm spent and I don't know how it is physically possible to still be crying after six horrible months.

I've thought about a shrink. I have, a lot. But I keep coming back to the same point...how can they help me if they can't fathom what I'm going through? How can they tell me if I'm normal, or appropriate if they haven't walked in these shoes? All they can do is pat me on the back, ask me stupid questions about how I feel when I already know how I feel, and then give me drugs. The drugs don't sound so bad. A pill? All I have to do is take a pill and then poof, the tears will go away? I'm in! But we all know it doesn't work that way, or we'd all have that pill!

My favorite movie is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It's a horribly tragic movie, or at least that's how I see it. The point of the movie, if you don't know, is that this man is so heartbroken over a girl that he goes in to have his memory of her erased. And the entire time they are going through the process of erasing her memory, his mind keeps trying to hide her, because though the pain is unbearable for him, in reality...in his subconscious, he doesn't really want to forget her. That's how I feel. I would give my right arm to not know what I know. To not feel the sorrow that is engulfing my heart. But really, in all of my blinding pain, I still want Logan. I still want to know he was there, even if for a little while. And though I would have given anything at all to have my son be born and grow up (there's that qualifier for you), Down Syndrome and all, I'll take this pain of knowing he was here, that I had a son...even if he died.

I'm just tired of knowing that he died. Tired seems like a weird word to use. Weary. Spent. Exhausted. Drained. Empty. I feel all used up.

Is this what it's like when a spouse dies? A parent? Do I have to go through this again? Does Logan's death hurt this bad because he was a baby? Or because he was my child? It makes me fearful for the future. I am affraid that I can not survive out-living my daughter. I can not imagine that I could survive out-living my husband. It makes me hope that my death is first, and that makes me sad, and scares me. I am a coward. I have seen that kind of darkness and I am afraid to touch it again. I don't care how that makes me look.