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)?

Dusty Ovaries

I'm turning 35 this weekend.  Sigh.  I hate my birthday.  I don't know why Logan's death has had such a profound impact on the way I feel about my birthday, but it has.  Maybe its that whole getting older thing.  Three plus years ago, when Logan was conceived, my ovaries spit out a dry shriveled up egg that let my son down.  And here I sit, 35 looming like the biggest freight train you have ever imagined, and its barreling down the tracks at me...carrying my dusty ovaries.

That's what my friends husband calls them.  Dusty ovaries.  He said this, a few beers loose, to my friend (who is a few months younger than me) the other night.  Bastard.  And anyways, who's he to talk...more than a decade older than us with his wrinkly old balls!! [Enter Adam Sandler]

So every year, around this time, I get ugly.  I stomp around and snap at everyone.  I hate everything.  I overindulge on everything from sugar and fat to booze and TV.  Coincidently this turns me into a real bear the week after my birthday when I jump on the scale and see that, YUP, I'm still fat!  I guess that the only difference this year makes is that I am now aware of why I am being such a jerk to everyone around me.

Sigh.  I hate the time that has lapsed.  I hate the years that continue to move me further away from the memory of my son.  The faint, dream of a son, that I had so briefly.

In Good Company, a stolen post.

I read an excellent post today on She Brings Joy about being in Good Company when it comes to loss and the people in the Bible. I have often talked and posted about my struggles with my faith in Christ since the death of my son. And many are left with the impression that I no longer believe. And try as I may to convince people that I do still believe in God, just a different version than most people are familiar with, most people either come at me with verses that make no sense and have no bearing on my situation (therefor arguing God's case and or trying to defend Him, as if He needs their defense), or they dismiss me for being ignorant in the Word (which I freely admit to). The point is, "Anger is not disbelief." And though I freely admit to my anger towards God I know that he will meet me where I am, and work on me with what I have to offer. God can take my anger the same any parent can deal with the anger of a toddler. He takes it in stride, he understands it. He created the emotion.

I have no shame in my anger with God.

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.

Anyhow...

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.

This

This morning is not starting off good.  I have zero patience and feel wound tight and ready to explode.  I've been feeling this way a lot lately.  I have a cold, so I know that isn't helping.  And my 22 month old has one too AND is teething.  So we're both whinny and irritated.

I thought I was doing good.  For some time now I haven't really been feeling anything.  But last night my husband and I were snipping at each other and he said "There's the girl I've been seeing for the last three months!".  And the anger came boiling to the surface.  You know that anger.  The one that pokes its head out everytime you realize that this has changed you, that this has changed everything around you, how you view life, your partner, yourself, your future, your past, every one around you.  And I got pissed that I let it change me, that I couldn't stop it from changing me.  That every innocent thought, is no longer innocent.  That I can't think warm fuzzies about making babies with out remembering that one died.  That I can't think about my annual Christmas picture without realizing that last years picture had a very pregnant looking woman in it, with her husband and daughter...and this year there isn't a second child to add.  No transition.  He was there last year, he's not this year.  No sign or caption explaining why.  Future generations will look at those pictures and be confused, wonder what happened.  It made me so angry to realize, and have it voiced by my husband, that I'm different in a bad way.  I'm not happy.  I don't look forward to anything.  I don't want to celebrate.  I am angry that this has turned me into someone I don't recognize.  That it has taken away what little bit of self worth, will power, motivation and what not that I used to have and that now days I just feel like a giant worthless blob who doesn't hold up her end of the bargain.  I'm no wife to my husband.  I don't care anymore.  And it makes me angry that I don't care (so I must care a little or something), and that most of the time the new me beats down the old me until all I do is sit and stare.  Depression.  Yeah, I know.  No pills they say.  Gotta deal with it.  Its expected, its normal...blah, blah, blah!  WHATEVER!  I'm angry that this has given me depression.  I'm angry that my life is slipping away, my marraige, my daughters days.  All slipping by while I'm just too spent to do anything about it.  I feel torn.  Torn between who I feel like being, and who I know I am supposed to be.  Torn between cleaning this house, cleaning up myself, loosing this ugly weight that drags me down, being a good wife, a good mother and just loosing myself into the blob on the couch who doesn't understand why this happened to her.  What did I do?  What did my dh do?  What did that poor baby do that warranted this.  What did my dd do to deserve being born into a family that so soon after her birth would try to fall apart?  Why us?  Yeah, yeah.  I know.  Its not our fault, we didn't do anything to deserve this.  God has a plan.  Yeah, whatever.  It makes me so angry that I want to throw this computer through my window.  I don't want to be this person.  I don't want to have this ugliness hanging over me and every thought I have and every thing I do.  I want it to go away.  And I know I sound like a 5 year old stomping her foot.  I know it sounds ridiculous.  But it is what it is.  Its not fair, and I don't want it.  I want my old life back.  I want that innocence back.  One freakin' month ruined everything.  And I'm tired of living with it.  I hate this new me.  I hate what I do, how I think and what I know.  I am pissed that I couldn't stop this from ruining me.

I can't believe its December.  Christmas is just 3 weeks away!!  I'm a month and three weeks away from Logan's anniversary.  Almost an entire year yanked from my hands.  A year spent being someone that I'm not.  A year.  Gone.  And I'm glad its going.  The year mark is the magic number right?  The day when POOF everything is better and back to normal, right?  Yeah.  Right.  Its sad to say that I'm looking forward to February.  I have never in my life looked forward to February.  February is frigid cold and boring.  That's why they invented Valentine's Day.  Threw in a little excitement.  But this time around, February feels like a little light at the end of the tunnel.  I'm probably setting myself up for a huge dissapointment, but I'm clinging to in anyway.  I need to find hope in something.  I need to think there will be an end to this.

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.

Of course it's a boy...

Of course she's having a boy. Why not?


My friend, the first one who is pregnant (since I have two pregnant friends) text everyone to tell them of her happy news...she's having a boy!! I don't begrudge anyone their perfect baby or their happiness. I just wished, for my own personal selfish sake, that it was a girl she was having. A girl I can handle. I'm not so sure I can handle buying baby boy stuff for her shower, going to a shower that is boy themed, seeing and holding her precious, perfect baby boy...exactly 40 weeks after my own precious baby boy lay dead in my arms. I don't know how I will cope with watching her little boy grow up, knowing mine never will. Knowing they would have been friends. Knowing we would have gotten together for play dates with our boys. Wanting so bad for that little boy to be mine.


Why couldn't she have a girl? Is it too much to ask not to be kicked over and over and over again? Is it too much to ask that God leave a little of my soul intact, that he let me heal, that he stops ripping the scab off on a regular basis?


Today, I really want to hold my son.
He should have been 2 1/2 weeks old now.
SHOULD HAVE BEEN!!


When will I stop feeling like I am detached from my own existance?

I'm scared, I'm angry and I'm hateful!

I feel like I'm getting sucked under again today. The maternity clothes in my closet feel like a heavy weight that presses down on me. I've been obsessing over them for a few days. Pack them away? Give them away? Leave them in my closet? I've left them in there because somehow I formed this deceptive shroud around me that as soon as we were physically cleared to start trying, we would. Apparently I was the only one hanging out with that delusion. Part of me knew it. The logical part of me knew that this was most likely the end of my child bearing days. But my heart cries for more babies. I want more children. I should be happy with one. I should feel so grateful that I have a perfect daughter. But I can't find that gratitude. I can't find the contentment to have an only child. You can't force your spouse to have more children if they don't feel like they can. I am not the only one who suffers through this nightmare. What would that do to him? What would that do to me? What would that do to the child? It makes me feel crazed and selfish. I never thought there would be such a huge gaping divide between us. But there is, at least for now. And I'm terrified. I'm scared what it will do to us. I'm scared that I'll blame him and become bitter and resentful. I'm scared that he will too, if he agrees to have more children when he doesn't really want to. It is in my nature to give my daughter everything she needs. People need siblings. They need family who will be there long after we're gone. I have always felt very strong about that. They need someone they can gripe about their parents too, someone who knows and gets it because they have the same parents. And I feel like I am cheating my daughter. And I feel like I have so much more love to give. It's only been four months. And I keep trying to convince myself that there's time, that he may decide he wants more children too. But I know that our biggest fear (at the time) came true. Our child had Down Syndrome. That was always a thought for us, for some unknown reason. We were always affraid about having a child with DS. And then it happened. I was too old. At 31, I was already too old. I waited too long. I should have started earlier. I just never seemed to be ready. It never seemed to be the right time. If I had known... I would have done it differently... I didn't know I had one shot. I didn't know I would be punished for wanting to do the right thing, to grow up, to be married, to be emotionally ready, to be financially stable. I didn't know I would be punished. I didn't believe there was any possibility that my early thirties was too late. And now I'm ready and it's too late and I've missed my opportunity to have as many kids as I wanted. I don't want this decision to be out of my hands. I don't want to be forced to stop having babies because God's "plan" is the only plan, and regardless if I understand it or not I'm just supposed to trust him. How am I supposed to trust in the all powerful, if he allows such cruelty? Did he not create my son? Did he not create the egg that didn't do it's job? I couldn't control that! I couldn't prevent that, or have known! I couldn't have fixed it. I wasn't given the chance. I wasn't given the choice. I didn't want a retarded child, but I didn't want a dead one either! He didn't have to create life that month. How many months of my life have potential babies gone by the way side? Hundreds! So why now!? Why would he not only create life from such a disturbingly bad scenario, but then to take it away in the same breath? And to leave us with THIS! This horrible ache, this fear, this anxiety. None of which I can come to terms with! So how am I supposed to think it's ok now? How am I supposed to relax and think I can wait a while, maybe my husband will come around? If I was too old at 31, what will I be at 33? I understand his reasons. Don't tempt fate. Do we want to loose another baby? Do we want to have a child with DS, since the odds are so freakin' high NOW? What would that do to our family? He'd resent me if something went wrong. It would be my fault. I have a 1/100 chance odd for a repeat...that makes my reproductive system like 45 years old. It's stupid. But I can't help the ache. I can't help the desire. I can 't help but think that God wouldn't possibly be that cruel to me again. But he is. Lots of woman loose more than one baby. Lots of woman try for years and never get any. And I can't help but think that maybe I'm loosing out on some of the greatest love because we're too scared to get hurt again. What if I have more children out there with my name on them, healthy children, that I might never get to meet because there's a huge "what if" that hangs over our heads! How will I survive? How will I ever find the sheer bliss I had just a few months ago? I feel like not only did my son die, but now all of the other children I wanted. The other children I planned on. The other children I hoped for...it feels like they have all died too. And if I have no hope, and if I have no assurance that I will come out of this on the other side, whole and unbroken... How can I be any good to anyone else? How will I be able to accept this? How will I be able to live with this? How will I not be resentful? How will I not be bitter? I KNOW that I could go on to have fifty children, and not one of them would ever replace Logan. I know that I have a gaping hole where he should be, and nothing will ever fill that. I KNOW. But I can't end it on such a bad note. I can't just fold and give up. I keep telling myself that if I did have another baby die, it wouldn't be as bad. I'd be expecting it. I'd know it was likely to happen. I'd know what it felt like. If I was prepared, maybe I could handle it. Maybe I could chance the heartbreak and devastation if it meant I might get lucky enough to have a healthy baby, even if I had to repeat the scenario a few times. Maybe I could handle it. Maybe having a healthy baby would be a salve to the heartbreak. Maybe a healthy baby in the end would make it worth going through it again and again and again. Maybe. But I think it boils down to the fact that I just can not accept that God would be so cruel to me. No. God wouldn't possibly do that to me again. It would kill me. It would push me so far over the edge that I wouldn't come back from it. He has to know that. But what if my husband is right? What if Logan's death was more like a warning? And what if we do keep pushing and we end up with a severely unhealthy child? A consequence for not having headed God's warning. What would that do to us? It's not fair to my daughter. None of this is fair to any of us, and I don't get it. I don't get why this happened. I didn't just loose my son, I lost my hope. I lost what tiny shred of faith I had. I lost my innocence. And if I were to go on to have an unhealthy child, because I pushed, because I insisted...I'd loose my family too. I'd loose my husband. I'd loose what tiny shred of happiness I have left. You'd think that would be enough to convince me to stop being foolish. You'd think. Even if he did change his mind, even if he tried to convince me he wanted more children...I'd still be leery. I'd still wonder if he was doing it for me. It wouldn't be like before. We wouldn't be in it together. It wouldn't be mutually happy. I am so hateful for what this has done to us. Scared to find comfort in each other. Scared what could come of it, what might not come of it. I hate that this has given me such fear and anger. Above all else WE are supposed to survive this. Him and I, together.

I can't celebrate. I hate that people are celebrating, and that I'm supposed to put on the happy face and play along. I don't want to play along. I don't want to share in other peoples happiness. I want to be left alone. I want to hide here in my home and not be apart of anyone else's world. I don't want to go to weddings, and showers. I don't want to hear about anyone else's problems. I don't want to hear about anyone else's life. I just want to fade away. I want to watch from a distance, when I feel like it. I do not want life to go on. I do not want to move past this part of my own life, like it never was. I don't want to talk to people. I don't want to answer the phone. I want to be left alone. I want to scream at everyone to leave me alone! Stop asking how I'm doing when you can't possibly get it. When you don't even really want to know! Stop probing me. Stop asking about it like you're being sensitive when really you just want to stare at the wreck that is me. You just want to break me, see if I'm human. See if I'm going to cry for my dead son. See if you can be the one to crack my wall. Stop pretending that you give a crap, when you just want to be needed. When you just want to be in the know. I want people who really care. Who care how it affects me, not them. Who care what this has done to ME! Who accept ME and the way that I am handling this, who don't take it personal, who don't try to inject themselves into my grief because it makes THEM feel better. This isn't about THEM, it's about ME! I hate people anymore. Why do people feel the need to call and push the subject when it's clearly a bad time? If I wanted to talk to you about it, then I would call you. I would talk to you about it. Why do you keep bringing it up and asking obvious questions? I think people want to hurt me. "It's Mother's Day, how are you handling it?"..."How the flip do you think, but thanks for bringing it up when I was trying my best to forget about it for one blasted minute!" Why? Why do they do that? So I'll turn to them for comfort? It's hideous. It makes me resent them. It makes me hateful. And I'm bitterly jealous. I didn't think I would be. I thought I'd be happy when my friend got pregnant. I was at first, but I'm not now. She tried to lump her pain in with mine. It took a few months to conceive...apparently that makes you infertile. She would complain and cry. Now she only wants a girl. I hate her for that. She should want and be happy with any baby. She should see how lucky she is to be older than me and to have a baby that lives. But she's only 12 weeks...there's still time. It's sick to think that. I don't want that baby to die. I don't want anyone to feel this pain. But it's been too easy for her. No morning sickness, so she tells me something MUST be wrong with her baby. And I just want to punch her. Is she trying to relate? Does she want something to be wrong with her baby? She asks me to throw her a shower, she shows me her maternity clothes...she's wearing maternity clothes now...ones that I wore...she doesn't look pregnant. I hate her for being pregnant. I hate her for worrying about her baby not being right, and then telling me that worrying is part of being a mother. She has no clue. My thoughts are sick, and they make me feel bad about who I am. When really, I'm just so sad. I don't want to be this person. I don't want to be at this point in my life. I don't want to be so filled with anger and hatred and sorrow. I don't want to feel scared and panicky and hopeless. I want to rewind. I want this to have not happened. I want us to be starting fresh to have another child now that my daughter is 16 months old. I want the excitement back, the pure joy of creating a new life. I can't help but feel like I should have known that was a bad month. And I know there are medical ways around having a child with DS. They could harvest the eggs and weed out the old ones. I hate that people whisper in our ears. I hate that anyone has the audacity to truly think they can have an opinion. I don't want their untainted opinions. They don't KNOW this pain. They can't even begin to fathom what THIS is. And I hate them for thinking because they witnessed it, maybe felt a little of their own over it, that they could even begin to think they have an inkling of what it is I feel and think and suffer through. They don't. They couldn't possibly.

Avert your eyes men!

This post contains subject matter of a feminine topic. Men, you may want to avert your eyes.

I'm supposed to start my cycle on Saturday. I know, we all feel much closer now. But here's the thing. That knowledge fills me with extreme anxiety. I am anxious that I may be pregnant. Logic tells me this isn't likely since we've done pretty much everything to prevent that from happening...but what if? I'm not ready to be pregnant yet. Then, on the other hand, I'm anxious that I am not pregnant. Which logic tells me is the best thing right now. But, the emotional side of me wants to be pregnant. I shouldn't be having my period because I should be 33 1/2 weeks pregnant. Should be. But, I'm not. It's messing with my head. I want to still be pregnant, and I want to still be huge and waddling around and complaining about being pregnant. I want to be fixing up the guest room to be the new nursery. I want to be busy nesting, and dreaming, and planning, and freaking out about having a new baby. I want all of that. I want my son. He should be here still. He should be kicking my ribs, and hiccuping, and doing somersaults. He should be. And I'm right back to being pissed that he's not. Last month was my first one. I didn't know it would arrive so soon (exactly 6 weeks to the day!) so I didn't have time to dwell on it. And when it arrived, it annoyed me, and made me terribly sad. This month, I'm anxious of what could be, and what probably isn't, and what I don't want, and what I really do. And I'm confused, and anxious, and full of sorrow. I hate what has happened to all of us. It is so permanent, and I can't hope for any change at all. And I see the dark cloak swooping in on me again, and I'm trying like hell to out run it. Now, I know that a lot of this is fueled by hormones, but not all. I don't want to replace Logan. I don't want to necessarily be pregnant with a different baby. I just want a do over. I want to try to get it right this time, and right with Logan. Obviously that's not possible. But I've come to realize that my heart doesn't have a shred of logic in it. Not a shred. I should be 33 1/2 weeks pregnant today. Should be. I should be 6 weeks from having my son.

My mom was here over this past weekend. I finally got the opportunity to show her Logan's memory box. And I realized something as I looked at his pictures. I didn't feel anything. There was a dead baby there. But not mine. My son had big blue eyes and blond hair. My son had his daddy's beautiful smile, and a cute little macho walk. My son, the one I always pictured, was not the one in those photo's. I didn't know that little boy. And it made me so sad, and it made me livid. I wanted to throw my kitchen chair against the cabinets. I didn't, obviously. I just sat there. I stared at a dead little baby with so much anger it blinded me. My baby wasn't supposed to be born yet. He wasn't supposed to be past tense. He wasn't supposed to be a dirty little secret, or an unspeakable horror. He wasn't supposed to be dead. I just don't know why after some ten weeks I still can't wrap my head around what happened. I don't know why I feel so obsessive and angry about something I have no power to change. I don't know why I can't seem to accept that I had a son, and he died. Why can't I accept that? Why can't I move on? Grandparents die, we move on. Aunts and Uncles die, we move on. We don't obsess over it. We don't scream that it wasn't fair. We accept it, and we move on. I can't accept this. I can't move on. I want to. Believe me, I've never wanted to move on so bad in my life. But I'm stuck right here. Stuck in the knowledge that my son is dead, that he's not coming back, and that we may never go on to have more children. And I hate it. I hate every blasted minute of this grief, and loss and knowledge and sorrow. I hate that it is steeped in every aspect of my life from looking at my husbands face and knowing my son would have looked just like him, to watching my daughter play and laugh and knowing I'll never have that with Logan, to my freakin' period! It's everywhere. I can't out run it, I can't hide from it, and I'm obviously having a hard time dealing with it. Where's my baseball bat? Something needs to get smashed!

They don't deserve kids!

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

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

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

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

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

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

At grandma's house!

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

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

Then she poopied in her chair for Grandma too!

Of course she did...

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

It's the little things...



Sigh...