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?

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.

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.

Waves & Stages...There and back again.

Grief comes in waves and stages. We all know that. I've been there, and back again.

If nothing else has been proven in the past year and a half, this has; I am hypersensitive to everything these days. It doesn't take much to make me blue anymore. My mom used to say that things rolled off me like water on a ducks back. These days I absorb it. I store it up in little bottles and stick them on a shelf. I collect sorrow and grief in all its forms anymore.

This has been one crappy week. My emotions have been spun tight, unraveled and tangled together, only to be sifted through each night while I lay awake and obsess on things that can not be, things that might be, and things that are. Lately it is making me physically ill again. Between the mess of thinking and hoping and being so sure that I was pregnant, only to start my cycle...my house sitting stagnant on a stagnant market, with teasers dangling and nothing coming to fruition...to finally finding a new home for my dog, only to be saddled with so much guilt and sorrow over the decision that I can not sleep, and am trying to drown my sorrows in food to which point it actually hurts...and then reinforcing the issues I have with myself and my complete lack of ability to stick to my diet.

They say not to do anything major for a year after the loss of a baby. Don't move, don't quit your job, don't get a new pet...or get rid of one. Right around the time I got pregnant with Logan I started getting very disillusioned with my dog. When Logan died...well, she took the brunt of it. Some people turn to their pets for comfort. For me, Kaida was just one more thing I couldn't deal with. She stressed me out on a level I couldn't handle and I begged my husband to let me get rid of her. It took a year and a half to find a new home for Kaida, well past the "recommended" time frame, home that I thought was good enough for her. I didn't want to place her in a home where she wouldn't get anymore love or attention than we were giving her. This past Friday I found such a home. Its perfect really. Its everything we hoped for. And now that she is gone I find myself feeling as though I failed her. She counted on me to love her and give her a good home, and I let her down. I broke my husbands heart in the process. I took away my daughters puppy. I did it because I didn't think I could cope, and now I feel like a whiny selfish bitch. I keep trying to remind myself that its for the best. In the long run it will be better for everyone. Kaida deserved a home where she would get the attention she so craved and deserved. She is a great dog. She is sweet as can be, and the problem laid with me. I couldn't be the "mommy" she needed, and damn it if that doesn't ring deep into my soul on a level I can barely comprehend. But here I am once again feeling as though I failed my baby. The guilt has crept into my belly and is sitting there like a stone. I failed. Again.

Logan's death changed everything. I'm just beginning to really see this, how deeply it all runs. Just how much has changed. Things I never considered, things that are still being revealed to me. It scares me. This event that I couldn't control, couldn't stop, couldn't prevent, couldn't fix will hold a power over me that I will not ever be able to reconcile. It makes me feel broken. A deep down sort of broken. Irreparable. Scared. Sad.

Will I never be me again? Will I forever feel like the shell of the woman I was?

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!)

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.

I'm leaving

I'm going to go hang out with my brother for a few days this week. He lives back home, about 3 1/2 hours away from me. I'm taking Aubrey with me. I have to get away. I feel like I am suffocating in this blasted house. It makes me nervous to leave David though. He's been hanging out in the pit with me this past week too, and I don't know if the alone time will do him some good, or harm. I feel a little guilty to leave, taking away his chance at smiles (Aubrey) and leaving him in silence. It's just for a few days, but black days can feel like an eternity.

I spent the day cleaning and doing weird things, like organizing how my clothes are hung up in my closet. I think I am trying to get some control in my life again, because I also tried to kill weeds that I normally don't give a crap about. Control. I have always been a control freak and lately between the death of my son and the subsequent weight gain I feel very out of control. I don't like it. It also makes me feel scared and lost. I want to feel like I have some say in my life again. I want to feel like my opinion matters to the universe. I don't want to feel so small and insignificant any more.

It's August. Summer is winding down and I am fearful of the coming winter. Logan died in the winter. He died on a very sunny and frigid day. The sun was impossibly bright that day, and the air made your lungs tighten up and your throat want to choke. Or maybe it was the grief and tears. But I am afraid of the blah days of winter that seem to be approaching at lightening speed, though I sweat as I stand her typing this. If I am this sad now, how much worse will I be in the dreary days of winter, with out sunshine and warmth, and with the anniversary of his stillbirth looming? It's still about six months away. Seems like a long time, but I know how quickly these past 6 months flew bye. It also means that my daughter will be two, and she is growing up so fast, and I'm not ready for that. I want her to be my baby just a little longer. I'm not ready for her to be a kid. I'm not ready to move on. I'm not ready for the next major milestone that I fear might put me in the grave, or at least into a deeper pit. I'm not ready to be further away from the memory of my sons little tiny life.

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.

I just want to be left alone.

Maybe it's hormones. I dunno. I always seem to find dark days when I'm more hormonal. Not that I need a reason to cry for my son. I don't understand why hormones would play a roll in my grieving process. Not that I need more to add to it. I know on my "stable" days that life will go on, that it is going on, and that I'll survive and maybe I will go on to have more children...but then maybe I won't...but either way I'll be ok. The way I figure it, I have 7 "stable" days a month. Woman spend a week hanging with Aunt Flo, a week pre-menstrual, and about a week around the ovulatory time. So, that leaves me a week to not be bombarded with emotions and hormone induced lunacy. And in that week, I have to be careful not to run across any newborns, baby shower crap, movies or TV shows involving having a baby (or even worse, someone loosing a baby)...which seems to be more prevalent after your own child dies. So, that leaves me a few good days a month. Because when I'm pre-men all I can think about is how bad I want a baby, and that it's not fair that mine was taken away. When I'm ovo, all I can think about is making a baby. And when I am menstrual...well, that week just sucks anyway. But I have come to realize that no matter how much I'd like to move on, to feel better...there are about 21 days a month that are working against that. I'm tired. I'm tired of these tears that seem to come out of no where. The ones that make me wonder if maybe I'm not really coping as well as I'd like to believe, and that maybe I'm just ignoring or stuffing the sorrow down. And I don't like not knowing what causes the tears. Obviously they're rooted in my son, but why today? Why this afternoon more so than any other time? I wasn't watching anything, I wasn't listening to anything, I wasn't doing anything that would provoke my heart. It makes me mad. I just want to be left alone. I want the sorrow to go away. I want to feel normal and whole again. I don't want to feel like something is missing. I don't want to feel like I have to fix something, or like something is unfinished.

I had ice cream for lunch. You can laugh. My diet has been one failure and disappointment after the next and these past couple of weeks I just can't deal with it anymore. But I had a mini 1/2 fat ice cream, it's not like it was Haggan Das or anything. Anyhow, as I stood there peeling the cover off the tiny tub and arguing with myself that this isn't an appropriate lunch and that maybe I ought to go pick something else up, the ugly mean spirited side of my heart said to me, and I quote "It doesn't matter anyhow. You don't have any reason to take care of your body any more!" at which point I burst into sobs for the umpteenth time today. Odd, the things the dark side will whisper in ones ear. The horrible malicious thoughts that drive us to the guilt and self loathing we experience, as if the pain of your baby dying isn't enough, we must add to it. We are more cruel to ourselves than anyone else is. But, I don't find that knowledge to be comforting. I don't care if my hormones, or emotions or the dark side of my heart is what encapsulates me into a weeping mound of sadness. The fact remains that I still feel such sorrow. My dh says that he is sad everyday. And I realized that though I try like hell to pretend otherwise, I am too. Everyday I know my son is dead. I can't even say that I remember everyday, because there hasn't seemed to be a moment where I have forgotten. But nowadays I just feel worn down. Like how you feel after a crazy busy day. Too tired to fall asleep, to achy not to think about it, but too drained to cry or talk. And there seems to be a permanent lump in my throat.

My friends baby shower is in a month. She's having a boy. I don't know why that matters to me, that it's a boy, but it does. I wish it didn't. And I find that I am hurt, or mad or ambivalent towards her and her pregnancy because I tried so hard to reach out in the beginning and to help her not feel weird towards me, but in the end she shied away from me at every turn. And now I think I'm bitter at her for that. I don't know. My other friend, the other pregnant one, suggested us going in on a gift. I agreed, that way I wouldn't have to go shop for little boy things (not that there aren't other things to buy). But I don't even know if I am going or not. I should go. It's the grown up, right thing to do, and I don't think I'll have a melt down (although hopefully it'll be during my stable 7 days!). But what if I do? It scares me to go. It scares me to know that a little blue onesie could push me into hysterics. It scares me that she might feel weird if I'm there, and only invited me out of politeness. I hear she's huge. I haven't seen here since Logan died. I was supposed to meet up with her on Sunday and I found myself really not wanting to. I can't now anyhow, but I'm not disappointed.

Why is it that after our bodies betray us in such a horrible fashion do we still have such an overwhelming urge to do it again? We learn at a very young age that if it burns, we don't touch it again, ever. Why do I still want to run head first into producing another baby? Why am I counting down the days till we are cleared to try again (8, if your curious) when I know that I can't do it by myself? Why am I so freaked out about asking my DH how he feels about it? Actually, I think I know that answer, I just don't like it. He's been very honest from the get go that he's not ready...but I think that's what scares me the most. Having to rely on another person for their consent. And I wish there was something I could do to convince the both of us that it would work out, a dozen times over. That Logan's condition is a fluke. I keep reading that lately, how DS is just a fluke. Oooh, that makes me so mad! A fluke killed my baby! And why at 6 months gestated? Why not right away? Why not before I even knew I was pregnant? Why would he have to die when he was old enough to be delivered, to be seen, to be held, to be felt and heard? Still, at almost 6 months into my grief, I still have so many questions that scream for answers, when clearly there are none. But my heart wants answers, it wants to understand. It wants facts, and reasons.

Me? I just want to find peace. I want the lump in my throat to go away, and I want the knowledge that I had a son, and now he is dead to go away. I want the ache and the fear and the guilt and the sorrow...I want it all to go away. I just want to be left alone.

I want to have genuine happiness with out the shadow of sorrow.

Guilt, Weakness and Questions

It seems odd that silly things should bother me with such intensity. Little tiffs with my husband seem like the end of the world. Stupid comments by friends and family seem like maliciousness intended to put me in tears. Noisy neighbors, achy feet, lack of weight loss...they all want to send me into a spiral of despair. I guess it's good that I recognise it for what it is. Another facet of grief. But I hate it.

I hate that my husband and I can't even disagree anymore without me feeling like its a personal assault. Or that when my generally gentle husband does loose his temper with me, it feels like my world is falling apart. It's all I can do to keep from crumbling into a heap of tears and begging him to love me, not to think I'm a jerk...not to leave me?? Seriously? Have I become so insecure that I think my husband will leave me because I rented a movie different from the one he requested? Yea. That's what I've come to be. Insane, irrational, vulnerable, scared... Logically I know this is ridiculous. But even an off handed look from him makes my heart stop. Makes me feel full of panic and dread. I guess it's that I know that with him beside me, propping me up, making sure I don't plummet into the inviting depths of the blackness I feel like maybe, just maybe I can survive this horror. But if he steps back, looks away, turns his back...who will hold me up? How will I survive? I can't do this by myself. I can't shoulder this horror and not have one person who totally gets it. I need him more now than I ever have in my life. Not just want, but need. It makes me feel weird. It makes me feel weak and insecure and silly.

I think I found a home for my dog. I should be happy right? The family seems prepared for her breed, and loving, and willing...and all I feel is panic. What if Kaida is scared and miserable? What if she feels abandoned? When I brought her home as a pup, wasn't it my job to protect her, to love her, to keep her safe? Yet here I am, ready to discard her because I can't deal with her anymore. I want her to be happy. I want her to feel safe and loved, and I can't offer her that anymore. I harbor so much resentment towards her now days. I don't know where it comes from. But I take so much of my grief out on her, and it's so unfair. But I have so much guilt and anxiety in letting her go. What if they're mean to her? What if they put on a good front for me, but are really cruel? What if the other dogs don't like her and bully her? Why is it that I sound so motherly to a dog that I don't want anymore? Why is it that I am overcome with such sadness about her absence? Will my daughter notice she's gone? Will I scar hem both for life? Why do I keep hearing Logan's name whispered in the background of all of these thoughts? Will giving my dog away make my husband more sad than he is? Will he resent me past the point of repair? Will it ruin me? Will this event be the final straw in our lives, the one that pushes us over the edge?

Why is it that I feel so weak and frail now? Shouldn't this tragedy have given me strength? I survived one of the most horrifying things that can happen to a person, I should be stronger now. But maybe I didn't really survive it. Just because it didn't kill me physically, does that mean I survived? Did I survive if it left me an empty shell, scared of my own shadow? And I'm tired of the irritation. My irritation level is through the roof. Everything irritates me. Infuriates me really. Playing cards, walking the dog, the blasted cricket outside of my kitchen window that won't shut up, making breakfast, taking a shower... All of these mundane things irritate the crap out of me. There is so little that I find enjoyment in anymore. I've always been an irritable person, but this is nuts. I have to fight the desire to just sit and stare out the window. I have to make myself eat, sleep, shower, smile, talk...when all I want to do is sit and stare. I don't want to die, but I have such little desire to live my life. I force myself to try to be the "normal old me". Who am I now? Who will my daughter know me to be? Has Logan's death ruined me for her?

I haven't managed to loose any weight. I'm beside myself about it. I work my butt off, and the scale doesn't budge. I've heard it all, it's muscle, it's hormones, it's blah... whatever. I don't care what it is, I want the number to drop. I don't care if I LOOK like I lost weight (as I keep hearing) I want to see a smaller number on the scale. I've become obsessed with it. I've heard it's harder to loose weight after kids, after you hit 30... But now it's just ridiculous. For 7 of the last 10 days (just as an example) I've eaten 1200-1500 cals and worked out burning on average 300 cals a day. I've gained 2 1/2lbs. No, it's not water. No, it's not "that time". No, it's not muscle. No, my scale isn't broken (though it may be shortly). It's the universe laughing at me. Maybe it's God's way of helping me break the yo-yo diet cycle and become determined enough to just be a person who exercises and eats right like it's normal, and not a diet. Whatever the case may be, it's making me very angry and frustrates the crap out of me and leaves me feeling like no matter what, I can't catch a freakin' break anymore.

In light of my son's death, it seems a silly thing.

But, it's just one more thing on my stinking platter of crap! And I'm tired. I'm so tired of feeling like I did something wrong, that I screwed up. I'm so tired of feeling like it's my fault, that I failed...again, and again and again. I'm tired of feeling. I'm tired of emotion. I'm tired of it not going my way. I'm tired of feeling like I have no control over myself, or my life, or my body or anything. I'm tired.

I'm really freakin' tired.

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.

And another one bites the dust!

So I went out with friends tonight. My one friend Crystal who is about 3 months pregnant didn't come because she had a migraine. I'm a little suspicious that she didn't come because I was there. I have sent her several emails over the past two months since we found out she was pregnant, this morning was the first one she replied to and it was 2 sentences long. I was trying to be understanding, she's busy, she's pregnant and let's face it...I'm a scary reminder of what could go wrong. But her not showing up to dinner... I can't help it. It might be narcissistic to think it's because of me...but I feel like she is avoiding me, and that hurts.

Then my other friend, Amy, the only one I really hang out with on a regular basis...she announced she was 6 weeks pregnant this evening. My first reaction was sheer joy and excitement...and then sadness (for me). So, I was glad that my first reaction was a scream and she got what she needed. But, crap! I'm not ready. Not that I ever would be, but not yet. I want to be a part of it. But I'm still so raw. She voiced her fear to me this evening. The fear of what happened to my Logan happening to her baby. I wish I could have comforted her. I tried. I kept trying to say "but what are the odds?" but I couldn't ever finish that sentence. She knows. She tries to "get it" the best that she can. I appreciated her honesty and told her that yes, it's possible that her baby might die (she's epileptic and has something else that raises her rates of dead babies) but that being the case she should try to cherish and remember and to savor every blessed moment...just in case. It's the best that I could do. Sigh. That's sad. I then told her that I couldn't give her any of my baby stuff. I'm not ready to let go. What if I decide to have another? I can't let go, not yet. She said she knew that. I hope she really did. Part of me really does want to give her my stuff. But I can't. I know I can't. I know I can't see her wearing my maternity clothes or dressing her baby in things I had for mine. I can't. This is going to be tough for me. I want to be involved. I can't wait to see that baby...I hope I don't run out of the house with him/her... :s Sigh. I miss my son. We would have been pregnant, all three of us, at the same time...just like we wanted. Now, I'm the odd man out. That baby is due in early December...6 weeks before Logan's birth/death. I don't know how I'll deal with that. I want a baby too. I want MY son. He would have been here in five weeks... crap.

Lack of sleep, nightmares, dieting, and blogging

I'm not sleeping. I fall asleep. I stay asleep. I don't realize that I'm not "sleeping" but every morning, regardless if I've had 10 hours of sleep or 4 hours, I feel like I have a hang over. I feel like I haven't slept at all. It takes me a few hours to rev up and get moving (which isn't cool when you have a very active toddler!). It takes me a good half hour to 45 minutes of hearing my daughter chatter away in her crib (and eventually holler) to wake me up every morning. My husband told me today that I toss and turn all night long. So bad in fact that he is thinking of sleeping in the guest room. That is so NOT something I can cope with right now. I need him in bed with me. I need to feel his warmth and comfort and sureness. I need that security. I can't have him sleeping in another bed because I'm a maniac at night and it keeps him awake (he's a very light sleeper). I'm at a loss as to what to do about this. I need rest. I need to feel refreshed in the morning, not like I was at a rave all night long. It's been two and a half months of this. I'm tired. I'm drained.

I'm having nightmares again. I say again because it seems like every time I am in a stressful time in my life I am plagued with horrific nightmares (I once mutilated my BFF with Freddy Kruger nails). I say horrific because they are straight out of a horror movie. I don't watch horror movies. I don't even like suspense movies. But I am back to dreaming horrific things that terrify me at night. My latest one, I lost my daughter in a store (I already get the symbolism here). I went searching for her and ended up in a valley like park with a pond. It was a beautiful serene place. There were tons of kids. No daughter. But the park was a holding tank of sorts for imprisoned kids for child molesters. Hundreds of kids. And then I see a group of men come walking (or running) in from a pathway through the tree's, menacingly. The kids all scream. One guy makes a comment about being 22 years old (would LOVE to know why 22!) and then I woke up. 7am. Heart racing. And it dawns on me...my daughter wasn't there. Which is good. It didn't bother (the awake) me that I didn't find her, but I was so relieved that I didn't dream she was in this horrible holding tank of molested children. Anyhow, so this is torturing me again too because I can't keep myself from dreaming or having nightmares. For most of my life I used to pray to God that I could sleep and not have nightmares. I have always had such graphic horrifying nightmares. When I was 4 or 5 years old I had a recurring dream about driving over a local bridge and my younger brother who was an infant falling out of the car and over the side of the bridge. The end always ended differently. Sometimes he'd fall into a boat, sometimes my older brother would rescue him, sometimes he'd fall into the water. What 5 year old dreams that sort of horror? I know that I was 4 or 5 because of my brothers age at the time. That dream has stuck with me through the past 27 years. I don't like having such graphic night horrors. It makes me feel "messed up". I don't like that. I have asked my husband in the past if he dreams horrible graphic dreams like that. He does not. That makes me feel weird.

I've mentioned before that I started a diet blog with my girl friend (who, by the way, only needs to get in shape...not diet!). We've been going about it for a month now. I am so frustrated. I am up a half a pound from where I was a month ago. Anyhow, I wrote this about it and I was hoping for some input from some of you ladies (and men) who've been in similar shoes. So much of my emotions have been tied in with this weight loss crap, and I am getting really frustrated. Actually, I'm starting to feel like a failure. Like I'm just not tough enough to hack it. Maybe this isn't the "time" for me to be trying to loose weight, but I want to anyway. I need to feel like I can control something, even if it's as trite as my diet. I read on Jen's blog today that she ran 8 miles in one day while on vacation in Hawaii. My first thought was WOW!! My second was, "Sheesh...while on vacation??" I would love to know how to get into that mind set where I want to run, even while on vacation. To exercise because I want to, not because I should, or because I think I have to. I want to eat healthy so that my body and my mind feel better. I feel like crap about two minutes after I gorge. I feel sluggish when I don't eat healthy food. I want to get into the mind set of being a healthy person in all facets, naturally (by this I mean with out thinking about it). Where I don't give it a second thought. I don't think twice about using olive oil. I used to. I used to hem and haw about cooking in which kind of oil. Now, most of the time, I grab the olive oil with out a thought. That's how I want all of it to be. I've tried off and on for years. Any thoughts on how to just be a healthy person, naturally? That questions seems too simplistic. Obviously I can't wave a magic wand and "Tah dah" poof I'm a healthy thinking person. But I would love to know how to start moving in that direction when I feel like I have so much emotional baggage now.

Weird post tonight I know. My husband is playing cards with some of his buds, and originally I had planned to scrapbook. I never quite made it off of Blogger and down into my scrapbook room (Yes, I am such a devote scrapper that I have a room). I had gotten a little behind on the 20+ blogs that I read (whew, don't miss a few days or it takes hours to catch up). I want to read everything that everyone writes. I'm always afraid I'll miss something important or big. Or an opportunity to holler out a "Me too!!" or a chance to send a (((HUG))). Blogging has become an obsession with me. Reading and writing. I feel comfortable here. Accepted, understood, at home. You all acknowledge my pain and loss. You all "get it" like no one in the "real" world seems to. How can I expect them too? So I come here to find comfort and understanding. Like I said to Mary "We come here to cry in private. We shed our virtual tears with our virtual friends, in our virtual reality...the only reality that seems real anymore" (ooh, and she writes beautiful poetry, you should meander on over and take a peek). But I started to wonder this evening if I am hiding here. And, if I am, is that bad? Am I going to end up some crazy lady who walks around muttering to herself (things I want to blog, I am sure) that people whisper about at the playground (that's a shout out to you Angie)? I don't want to be some weirdo locked away in baby loss blog land...but I like it here.

Too much worrying...

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

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

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

The Tears of a Clown

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Smokey Robinson & The Miracles

Now if there's a smile on my face, it's only there tryin' to fool the public, but when it comes down to foolin' you; Now honey, that's quite a different subject. But don't let my glad expression give you the wrong impression. Really I'm sad. I'm sadder than sad. You're gone and I'm hurtin' so bad. Like a clown I pretend to be glad. (chorus) Now there's some sad things known to man, but ain't too much sadder than the tears of a clown when there's no one around. Now if I appear to be carefree, it's only to camouflage my sadness. In order to shield my pride I try to cover the hurt with a show of gladness. But don't let my show convince you that I've been happy since you decided to go. Oh, I need you so. I'm hurt and I want you to know. (chorus) Just like Pagliacci did, I try to keep my sadness hid. Smilin' in the public eye while in my lonely room I cry the tears of a clown when there's no one around.

Oh look at that. Another break up song that fits the sound track of my life lately! So yes, of course, I added it to Logan's playlist! It's amazing that break ups seem as dramatic as baby deaths. I guess hurt is hurt, and I'm glad there are people out there that can write music that speaks to me.

The Baseball Bat

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



I thought…



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



“Children are resilient.”




And I thought;



“Not always.”




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



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






I still can’t believe it.