Wanted, a new rock to hide under.

I spend most of my time wishing I could hide. Wish I could disappear, be someone other than who I am, or somewhere other than where I am. But the thing is that life went on. I didn't get to sit around and lick my wounds for eternity, which is what I really wanted. Most days are good days. Most days I smile and have fun and enjoy life the way it is now. But I always have the nagging desire to run away. Responsibility keeps me here, and logic. Well, and David. I'd sure miss him. I'd take my daughter with me of course, which would be cruel to the both of them I know. But I want to start over. I want to be able to live in a world where ugly things don't keep hunting me down. Its not rational or possible, I'm not claiming it to be so. But I usually feel the shadows come creeping up behind me. The most mundane things start to overwhelm me, I become overly sensitive and I just want to sit in a corner with my hands over my ears and cry "la, la, la" as loudly as I can so that I don't hear anything else. How can I be expected to deal with anything outside of the overwhelming gunk in my own brain? I want to sit on the couch, watch a movie and fade away. I want the outside world to go away, to leave me be. I feel so attacked lately. Like people think I'm too happy, so they do there best to get inside my head and poke around, dig up bones, scratch at the scabs. I don't agree with being an addict, I know better, but I understand it now. I understand that intense and overwhelming desire to hide your mind, to numb it up and soothe the aches.

Its been weird around here lately. I can't explain it. I just feel it. The shadow that looms in the room day in and day out. The distance in Davids eyes. Almost like the both of us walk around with our hands pushed out in front of us, keeping everything at bay, even each other. I'm too tired to deal with it, to confront it. I know what it is, and I can't muster up the strength to banish it. And should I? Shouldn't grief run its course when it sees fit? Shouldn't David be allowed to go through whatever it is he's going through with out me pestering him and prodding at him. Its what I want. I want to be left alone, to deal with myself as I see fit...when I'm ready to do that. Its hard when you are feeling so much ugliness inside and the one person you would go to for relief is also feeling that ugliness. We are useless to each other.

I just want to be left alone. I don't want to deal with anyone else's problems, or insecurities. I don't even want to hear about them. I know that's selfish and weird. I know it is. But I just want to run screaming when I'm confronted with it. All it makes me do is cry. Cry from frustration, cry from sorrow, cry from feeling hopeless and helpless. Cry just cause. And I hate to cry, which adds to it. It gives me a headache.

I just want to go away for a few months. Hawaii would be nice. Just the three of us, and disappear from all of the crap that is in my life. I just don't ever feel like I got a chance to get away and deal with me and what I needed.

Courage at the keyboard

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


I do know this...


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


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


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

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


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

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

Anyhow...

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

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!)

Incoherent ramblings about why packing things away makes me cry.

The summer before my daughter was born I bought a bunch of infant clothes from this young mom at her garage sale. I think I bought most of what she had. Everything was so pretty and clean and in such nice shape...and cheap, I just couldn't not buy them. I was pregnant for the first time. I'm sure I showed. Her daughter looked to be about 18 months or so at the time. I remember as she was putting everything in the bag she started to cry. Her mom made mention of how it's hard to watch your babies grow from babies to toddlers. I just remember feeling weird and uncomfortable. I mean seriously...they're were just clothes...nothing to cry over. I thought. Thoughts of a naive mommy-to-be who didn't have a clue of what she'd eventually loose.

:::

We're having a garage sale at our home here on Saturday. So I have found myself going through my daughters things, deciding what to hang onto "just in case" and what to part with. And oddly enough I'm doing it with a lump in my throat. An unexpected lump. My baby isn't a baby anymore, she's a toddler. She's growing up and having her own personality, her own likes and wants. And there it is...that pang. The pang that says that one of my babies is growing up faster than I can comprehend...and one never will. I put the two events together. I put aside so many baby items for Logan knowing that they would be used in just a few short months...and there they sit. Packed up. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Hoping. Just-in-case. Hoping because surely there will be another baby in this house someday. Surely this can not be the end of such a wonderful and short period of time. We live for 80+ years. And I get less than 18 months? 18 months to rock and hold my "baby" before she is no longer a baby. It wasn't long enough. I didn't know I would have such a desire to be a mommy. I didn't know how much I would love it. And now I do. And now I want as many babies as I can get my hands on. But as I look through Aubrey's stuff and I realize that there isn't a second baby here like was planned, and expected, and that there isn't one in my near future...how long do I hang on to this stuff...just-in-case?? Forever. I want all of it forever. I want to keep it because I KNOW that there is another baby in my future. Because I can just not accept that it has all been stolen from me. It was a mistake. There will be another little boy. Otherwise its all just a cruel reminder that we had hopes of a little boy, and those hopes have been smashed into a million slivers that have driven themselves down so deep into my heart I will never get them out!

:::

I know why that young mom cried now. It's such a short window and I didn't know. I didn't savor it maybe as much as I should have. I didn't know. And now I do. I took for granted that I would be doing it all over again sooner than I could comprehend. Sooner than maybe I was ready for. But none the less, I was going to get to do it all over again. Logan should have been turning 3 months right about now. He'd be in a new size. 3-6 months. I'd have been a shopping fool all summer looking for baby clothes. He'd have been wearing those jumpers I bought from Kohl's two days before I found out that my world was crashing in on me. Green and Blue. Little lizards. I can see them clear as day in my minds eye. There, packed up with everything else. Shoved into the top of the closet that was supposed to be his nursery. I hate those memories. I hate what they remind me of. That gleeful innocence. Damn it. We were having a son!! A boy. And now it's just the three of us again and here I am almost 7 months later and I still can't get a grip on this new reality. I still can't believe this happened to us! I can't believe my baby died! My baby boy.

:::

Today I feel the loss of two babies. Different losses, but a loss just the same. I have sadness for my daughter growing so fast while I wallow around in the misery that was thrust upon me three days before she turned a year old. I have tremendous grief for a little boy I never saw enter this world alive. He will forever be a baby, just not one I get to hold and rock and feed. Not one I get to worry over, fret over, get annoyed with. Not one that will ever grow out of his own set of clothes. Not one that I'll have baby memories of and get to complain and cry about how fast it all went. They say it goes by in the blink of an eye. Logan, his went before I could even think about blinking. And what do I do with his stuff? Will I ever be able to place those clothes on another little boy? Will I be able to look past the face that should have been there into the one who really is? Will I even get the chance to make a concerted effort not to worry about having to try to do that?

:::

I don't like the loss of control I feel. Control over my own life and destiny. Shouldn't I be the one who gets to decide how many children I want to raise? Shouldn't I be the one to say weather or not there will be another baby in this house? Shouldn't I get to decide my future? How is it free will if I can will another baby all I want, and have none appear? I don't like being forced into the roll of a grieving mom for a baby that was never even born. I took it for granted. I took for granted how fast I got pregnant. And I did it when I wanted. We said, let's have a baby...and we did. We thought, lets maybe have another, and before we could really decide if it was the right time...BAM, baby! Getting pregnant was easy. I just did it when I wanted. And I took for granted that Aubrey's pregnancy and birth were so perfect. All babies, who are lucky enough to grow in the womb of a mommy who really wants them, are born perfect. Bad stuff happens to idiotic women who don't take care of their bodies and their babies. Bad stuff happens to bad people. Not to us. We're good people. We're good parents. We wanted that baby. We wanted our little boy and were overjoyed by his imminent birth. We missed something. Took it all for granted. Something. We just assumed. Assumed that babies are born healthy and alive and grow up when you love them. So what the hell happened? What did we do wrong? Assume? Take for granted? I just don't understand why our babies die. Why they're are created imperfect, why they get ill, why they aren't compatible with life? Why life isn't compatible for with them? I did everything right, and I failed. FAILED. LOST. STRUCK OUT.

:::

6 months, 2 weeks & 6 days later I am still reeling. Still trying to figure it all out, piece it all together. Accept it. Move on. Forget. Remember. Breathe. Not curl up and give in to the darkness that is so much more inviting than this reality.

:::

Guess I should get back to digging through memories and figuring out which ones I'm going to toss out for random strangers, who don't have a clue, to riffle through and pay pennies for. And I'll probably cry too. I'll probably stand there and remember the day I bought this or that for my daughter, how she looked playing with it, and how fast it all happened and how I thought I'd store it for Logan's use next year...and how it all came smashing down around me. And the day I realized it was ridiculous to hold on to so many things for a baby that IS NO MORE!! Or maybe I'll box it all up and just let it sit in the corner, with all of the other should've been items. Because in the end I'll try to hoard every minuscule memory I have of my babies...even the ones I fabricated. If memories are all I'll have left...

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.

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.

More dead babies...make it stop!!

I'm not a very good blog buddy.

I write my blog for me, and lately I have found that I avoid reading other's blogs. I think it's because I soak up everyone elses grief and add it into my own. I feel like I can barely handle the sorrow I have for my son, much less the sorrow I have for all of the other dead baby mommas and Daddy's. But today I was wandering through blog land. I clicked on a few names of people I didn't recognize who left comments on the usual blogs I visit. I have so many I like to follow that it takes me several hours to read through them all...and that's when I read every day or so. Anyhow, this may sound weird.

I know that I wasn't the last one to have a baby die. I know this in my head, but my heart can't accept it. I am always so dumbfounded when I find someone who is new to this. Like I can not believe that it happened AGAIN! And I find myself having a mental freak out or an internal panic attack and I can hear my brain screaming "WHY!? God!! Aren't you paying attention!? There are babies dying down here!! Do something!" And I want to cuss and scream for all of these families that are having to endure the unfathomable. That's how I think of baby death. Unfathomable. I still, after three plus months, can not wrap my head around it. I don't get it. I don't see how in this day and age there are sick and dying babies. I can't figure out how 50 years ago we put a man on the freaking MOON!! But, science STILL can't keep our babies alive. And every time I find a new dead baby momma I am grieved all over again. I am dumbfounded and speechless. Another one? Seriously? How does this keep happening? We can split atoms. We can split what ever comes of an already split atom. But, we can't prevent baby death.

Mostly lately I've been numb. And he's right...Numb is better. It's better than feeling like a zombie all day. It's better than feeling sick to my stomach all day. It's better than staying up till 4am because I'm afraid of my bed. Numb is better than feeling the pain in it's raw state. But, I know it'll be back. It comes in waves for me. I know that the grief will come crashing in on me and drown me once again. I don't think my DH and I are on the same wave though. He seems more blue than usual. We don't talk about it much. We've talked it to death. What is there left to say? "Hey, our son is still dead!" ... "Yup" ... "Still sucks!" ... "Yup" That's all I have. I wish I could fix it for him. I wish I could say something that would make it better. But, then I'd say it to myself too. It makes me feel just as helpless to see him as it does for him to see me I suppose.

Yesterday my 9 week pregnant girlfriend asked me if I was still going to throw her a baby shower with her mom. She threw one for me. She doesn't have any sisters, and I'm her closest friend. I had to tell her no. I felt like such a jerk. But I'm afraid. I'm a coward. I'm concerned that I'll flip out. I don't want to wreck it for her. I want her to feel free to enjoy her moment to it's fullest. I told her I would come, it would be hard, but I would suck it up because we're friends. I told her once we found out the gender, maybe things will be different. Maybe if she is having a girl it will be easier for me. But a little boy? No. I know that I can not do that. I've tried to buy her Maternity clothes. I had to tell her all of the things she thought I was saving to pass on to her...I was now hoarding. She seems understanding. I hope she is. She is so scared her baby is going to die. She has epilepsy, it happens. She has every right to be scared, and I can't help her not to be. I just try to tell her to hang on to the good that is now, and if something happens to that baby...we'll deal with it when it comes. I'll help her. Sigh. I'm terrified that her baby is going to die. She can probably hear it in my voice. She says to me "I don't feel sick, do you think something is wrong? They can't find the heart beat, I should get an ultrasound. I don't have discharge, do you think something is wrong?" I tell her no. I tell her all pregnancies are different. Everything is normal. But then I tell her if she wants another ultrasound, go get one. That much stress isn't good either. Sigh. I'm sorry that I have to be a reminder to her of the worse case scenario. My other prego friend is avoiding me. I try not to let it hurt my feelings, but it does. I wonder if I would have been scared too? I wonder if I would have avoided a dead baby momma.

I can't get past the feeling that I think people around me feel like I should be moving past this now. It starting to really piss me off. I find myself being very ugly and hateful towards the world these days. I find that I have little tolerance for people and even less patience. I've read that this is normal. I also get very bummed out about the dumbest things. Like right now, I'm waiting for my Twilight book series to arrive in the mail. For days I have genuinely felt sad that I can't go hide in those books. It felt good to be there. It was a relief that I welcomed, to be lost in a fantasy...far far away from my reality. I need a new project, but I don't feel like I have the umph for it. I'm been looking at the lawn. I keep thinking I should do something out there with that. But, I just get down thinking about all of the obstacles...so I never get started. I barely even clean my house anymore. I was never much for that before, but now I am really bad. And worse yet, I care even less. I know that it probably just adds to my husbands blues, but I can't seem to get past the guilt and do anything about it. And I loathe my dog. I mean true blue loathing. That makes me feel bad too. She needs to go. I need to find her another home...but that makes me sad too. I just want to be everything for everyone...and I get so down about it that I end up being nothing for everyone.

Anyhow, Echloe is the newest dead baby momma that I follow. She's about a week in. Swing on over and give her a hug too. She needs a lot right now.

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.

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.

Why so quiet?

I don't live near my family. I don't live near my friends. I don't have to see them on a regular basis and experience the pitiful looks. I don't have to experience the uncomfortable silence, the shifting feet, the awkward glances to the side of someone desperately trying to get out of having to "say" anything to me. I wonder how much of what I perceive is in my head? Why is the silence that surrounds the mention of my sons name deafening? Why do people look away? Why do people talk about the dumbest things, when it is clearly an effort to avoid the elephant in the room?

There's Heather. Her baby died.

Why do people start shifting when I say dead baby? Why is it something I can't talk about? Why does it make people uncomfortable? Why do I care? I read a blog today, she was hilarious. She kept referring to "us" as dead-baby-mama's. I liked it. I am a dead baby's mama. It's a fact. Why do we sugar coat it? Why do we say things like; angel baby, lost, passed, went home, born sleeping??? I gave birth to a dead baby. It's not meant to sound ugly. It just is what it is. But then, I've never been one to sugar coat.

My name is Heather. My baby died.

But I don't like that I feel labeled now. And it's a label that I give to myself too. But I guess it's like anything else in life. She's a mother, she's a wife, she's a lawyer (I wish!)... She's a dead-baby-mama. I desperately don't want to define my life. But I guess for better or for worse my life has a definite definition now. Many definitions I suppose. I'm a mama to a living baby too, not just a dead baby. I talk about my daughter all the time. People ask about her. People want to know. But not my son. Very few people ask me about my son. I talk about him. What little I knew of him. Very few people in the "real world" are receptive. In fact two. Two people are receptive. Two people ask questions and aren't afraid. And I appreciate them. Two people. The two people who I previously would have thought would be the last two people to do that. Those two people are my go-to people. Those two people are the ones that I feel the most accepted whilst talking about my sweet baby. Those two people let me know it's ok to talk about my son too. They accept that he was a part of my life. They accept that I have a son too. They're not afraid of a dead-baby-mama. They're not afraid to look me in the eye. Two people.

Why so quiet?

Solitude and Isolation

Solitude is a weird thing. I never realized how isolated one could feel. But I feel so isolated since Logan’s birth/death. His “Angel Day” as I have read it being called. I guess it’s supposed to take the sting out when we say it? Maybe it’s because it sounds prettier than the event really is, and therefore we feel like it wasn’t so bad? Can you sugar coat the loss of your child? I think this is about as ugly as it gets. Why do we tip-toe around it? I don’t know. I’ve been trying not to immerse myself in the grief of other’s, but sadly that is where I find most of my comfort. I find comfort in knowing that I’m not alone, that other women have been neck deep in this stinking pit of despair, and eventually climbed out. It gives me hope that one day I’ll be able to look at the things that I intended to be Logan’s and not feel angry, sad, confused…or at the very least not cry. I’ll probably always have some degree of anger, I’m sure I’ll always be sad about it and I’m sure I will always be confused since I doubt God is planning on sending me an email any time soon on his reasons for taking my son back. Men just don’t grieve the way woman do. I wear it on my sleeve. Men, they don’t like to talk about it, they don’t like to be reminded, and dwell and ponder and ask why over and over and over again. And other than the “man” in my shoes here at home, who’ve I to talk to? Who’d even possibly begin to understand unless they’ve been here? I don’t really know anyone else. No one I could possibly feel comfortable talking to. And that, that makes me feel isolated. When people have a baby they talk endlessly about it, they share labor horror stories, they talk about the burps and farts of their tiny bundles. No one wants to hear about my story. People like to go through life not being reminded of the ugly things. I should know, I’m one of those people. So, I don’t talk about Logan the way I do Aubrey. I don’t tell the clerk at the store about his tiny little feet. I don’t tell the mother behind me in line about his tiny little lips. I keep all of those little tidbits to myself. I smile and act interested when they talk to me. But I’m not. I don’t want to hear about their perfect little pregnancies, their perfect little births and their perfect little babies. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy as a Lark for them. I’d glad that there are healthy babies being born every minute of every day. But, it just reminds me of what I don’t have. I don’t have my little baby boy.