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Bite Your Tongue

by | Dec 12, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Breast Cancer, Cancer and Neoplasia, Caregiver, Compassion, Coping With Cancer, Fear, Feelings, Loneliness, Love, Sadness, Stress, Trauma | 0 comments

I’m sorry.  Right now, I cannot be a good friend.  I am not a good wife or daughter, sister, neighbor, niece or cousin.  I love you.  I appreciate everything you do for me and for my family.  But for now, everything I have, every smile I can eke out, every happy moment, belongs to my daughter.  I can’t give you what you want, not today and maybe not tomorrow either.  I don’t have enough for you.

My fear is all-consuming.  I am endlessly treading its dark waters.  Your well-intended positivity crashes into me, knocking me down before washing back out to sea.  Your genuine, heartfelt words of hope leave me salty-eyed, gasping for air, bracing for the next wave of “You’re so strong!” or “Kids are so resilient!”

Your generous offers to help are not falling on deaf ears, but I’m afraid my desperate cries for it are.  I can hear you happily proposing your casseroles, a walk in the park, an eager ”whatever you need!”  I’m sure one day I will very much need those things.  Today I just need simple kindness, compassion, companionship.  I need you to hug me and hold my hand.  I need you to stop worrying about the tasks on your list and just be with me, sit here and keep my head above water.

I realize nothing about this is convenient for you.  I know the closer you are to me, the deeper the water, the stronger current.  I’m sorry that you’re being pulled in, challenged, diverted from your regularly scheduled life.  But this is my nightmare and sadly, you’re in it.

so bite your tongue,
you’re not the only one
who’s been let down.

Why I Hate The Holidays

by | Dec 7, 2010 | Child Loss, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Sadness, Stress, Sudden Unexplained Death in Childhood, Trauma | 3 comments

Holidays have not been easy for me for a long time due to family issues between my wife and my parents.  That was unpleasant but tolerable. Details of that are completely different story.

Bringing our first and only child into the world helped.  I could now find joy in watching him open his gifts on Christmas morning, seeing the same joy in his eyes that I felt as a kid during the holiday season.

We had the same ritual for 4 years – stress over the holidays, money, buying gifts and so on. But it was all worth it to watch Kaden open his gifts and enjoy Christmas.

This year the holidays have gone back to “full suck mode.”  You see, our beloved only child of almost 5 years old passed away in January 2010 of unknown causes.  Doctors are unable to explain exactly why the life of our child was taken from us so suddenly.

I never thought anything could change your life more than bringing a child into the world.  I now know that losing that child changes your life even more.  Life continues on around you but somehow you are unable to keep up.  The same problems, and struggles you had before are now magnified by the constant pain, sorrow and discomfort in your heart.

Going through our first holiday season without Kaden is really taking its toll on us as well as our entire family.  Some people understand why we don’t want to leave the house to visit friends and family and gather for holidays just like we used to, but it seems that some are just flat out offended and hurt that you decide you are not emotionally capable of attending family holiday celebrations.

I hope that some day the pain will weaken enough to allow a somewhat normal lifestyle but for now, we are broken.

Miscarriage and Triggers: When Your Body Is The Trigger

by | Dec 6, 2010 | Grief, Happiness, Help For Grief And Grieving, Livng Through A Miscarriage, Loss, Miscarriage, Pain And Pain Disorders, Sadness | 4 comments

Grief is a very strange journey and process.  Some days I find myself in the best mood – happy and cheerful and then without warning can be smacked in the face with sadness and tears. Sometimes it happens without warning and one thing I have learned through these 10 miscarriages is that is okay. It is normal and it is okay.

There are times where a certain trigger will bring out the grief and I have been spending some time identifying those and learning to be okay with the emotions that come up.  Television has been a big trigger, so has Twitter and Facebook and mostly a specific time of year or date.  Those last ones I can brace for {as much as anyone can} or avoid Twitter or Facebook for some time if I feel like I just don’t want to face it for the moment.  My husband will brace me for television or movies that might have some sensitive material in it for me and will be there if it gets to me.  Those I can all ‘deal’ with. They make sense and can be avoided.

One trigger I am having some trouble coming to terms with – or figuring out just how to deal with – are triggers that are from within my body – normal body functions.

Miscarriages are painful.  PHYSICALLY PAINFUL.  Cramping and bleeding can be intense and one of my biggest lingering triggers is normal menstrual cramping and bleeding.  Kind of a double hit because women can be more emotional during their period and compound that with an emotional trigger response it can be very difficult. Very.

It can sort of throw me back. It triggers me to re-live those days where i was fighting emotional and physical anguish.  It leaves me confused. Confused because I can’t avoid it.  I am almost certain that the emotions that play into it make the cramps that much worse which is then a cycle that I just can’t seem to avoid.

It has slowed down a bit now because I am on birth control that stops monthly periods but the cramps still come and go and each time I can be caught off guard and will find myself back there.

It is hard. very hard. I am learning that it is okay to feel it. I am learning to sit in the grief because running away from it will not make it disappear.  It will be okay.

{right?}

Everyone Knows About You, But No One Knows Where You Went

by | Dec 4, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Baby Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Grief, Guilt, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Cope With Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Livng Through A Miscarriage, Loss, Love, Miscarriage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sadness | 6 comments

I have never spoken to anyone about this but my husband, my mother, and, of course, my doctors. This may be one of the hardest things I will ever write. It may not all make sense. I don’t remember it all. But yet I remember it like it was yesterday. I will never forget it. This is my PTSD talking. I am in a very bad place right now. And I  know what happened to me isn’t as bad as some but to me it’s worse because she was mine.

Anyway, Oh God here goes…

You were due December 25th. I was so excited that both of your sisters were Christmas babies. I love Christmas. And I still do. Your due date was so amazing I couldn’t believe it – three children born on or around Christmas.

The beginning of my pregnancy didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Normal morning all day sickness for me.  Around 6 weeks something felt off I called my Doctor who is AMAZING, and she got me right in for an ultrasound. There you were – perfect. And fine. Little heart beating to beat the band with a due date of Dec. 25th. I felt better. Things resumed. We got to our 12th week and we told everyone and even started buying things. Come on – you were my fourth baby. What could go wrong? How could I even think that?? Everything was fine .

Then it happened. July 27th  I felt yucky and my back hurt SO bad. I should have called the doctor. You might be here today. I should have known. But I just thought I worked hard that day. It was hotter than hell. And it was just a back ache. I never ever had back labor. At 2:12 on July 28th, I woke up and thought, “shit, I wet the bed.” I hit my husband and said, “I wet the bed. Go get new sheets.” And then I went to turn the lights on. And it felt really off. It was sticky. I turned the light on and there was blood everywhere. I heard a sound like I had never heard before – it was my screams. I told my husband call the doctor and tell her we’re going to the hospital. Something was very very wrong.

My mom came running in and tried to calm me, but it didn’t help. I remember telling her keep the kids out. I didn’t want them to see the blood. And my back – OMG the pain. All the sudden I felt a pop between my legs and there was a “doll” between my legs – it didn’t seem real. I thought WTF is that about my own baby. I saw your little chest heaving up and down. You were breathing!!!!!!!

I screamed for my husband to stop calling the doctor. We had to leave NOW. She’s here. She’s ALIVE. She’s breathing.

You were 18 weeks and 5 days. You were perfect – tiny and waxy, but perfect. You breathed for 5 minutes. I held you in my hand as you took you first and last breaths. I will never forget them. I loved you so much in those 5 minutes. You were my daughter, Ariel Grace.

But the horror didn’t come until we got to the hospital. You WEREN’T a baby. You were nothing. You were – I choke on the words now. You were a miscarriage. But I saw you and I held you. You WERE breathing for 5 minutes. I have a cell video of it. But you were going to be discarded as if it was a miscarriage. I flipped out like my husband has never seen me flip out. I screamed and I wailed. I hit a doctor, I think. Not my doctor. She was AMAZING. She held me while I rocked the baby. She stroked my hair. She couldn’t change the policy.

You would never exist to the world. You would get no birth certificate and no death certificate. But to me and your father, siblings and grandparents you were EVERYTHING!

I made my uncle call his friend at a funeral home. He kind of laughed – not in a mean way but he told my uncle, “She’s not even as big as a cat. I can’t charge. I won’t. It’s a freebie.” I have her ashes. Although that was a HELL of a fight. But I think they knew I was a mad woman and I would not leave that hospital without MY baby.

I have her ashes hidden in my room. I left the hospital the next day with nothing. No baby, no belly, no nothing. I was empty and blank and a Zombie for a LONG time. Hell, I still am. I never mentioned it to anyone. Some people asked questions. I think I probably stared at them blankly. But I never answered. My husband or mother would later. I couldn’t talk about it. It’s over a year later and the pain is still unreal. I have nightmares of waking up to the blood every five minutes. I don’t know that they will ever go away.  But what is the worst for me is I can’t talk about her to anyone but my husband, mother and therapists.

Am I forgetting her, am I not remembering her, am I cold? I just it hurts so bad. And no one that I personally know can understand that pain. No one I know in real life understands my anger and bitterness of her not being a baby because she was 18 weeks and 5 days and not a viable birth. Isn’t breathing for 5 minutes viable? Had we been at the hospital could we have made it farther my AMAZING doctor thinks that those 5 minutes were pretty darn special. And so do I for a baby with such under developed lungs.

Obviously now everyone knows she was never born and just went away. People have stopped asking questions. And I just can’t talk about it. I feel cold. And I miss her even more now. I don’t know that it will get better. She wasn’t a “real” living baby. But she was mine. I held her. I named her. I talked to her. And on her birthday I buy her a gift. I guess that really does make me crazy. Maybe I’ll stop someday. I don’t know. But I guess tonight on one of my darkest of nights, this needed to come out. Thank you for listening. No one else knows. And it hurt to talk about. A LOT so this was BRAVE. So thank you for reading.

364 Days Ago

by | Dec 3, 2010 | Abuse, Anger, Child Abuse, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Guilt, Loneliness, Sadness | 14 comments

I picked up the key – my key – to the apartment my son and I would soon call home.

I tried to figure out just what I could take. If I took too much – or the wrong things – I feared the price we’d pay.

I made the reservation for a U-Haul, knowing that I didn’t have the money to pay for it, but that it was the only option.

I learned that my son had been suspended from school, on moving day – inappropriate language. I was hoping to protect him from the process of moving but now he would have to help.

I had $74.87 in my checking account that had to cover the U-Haul, gas, food, laundry and basic needs for the two of us for six days.

I was terrified.

I grieved the life I thought we’d have. The family I so desperately wanted.

I was convinced that he would see his abuse was the problem. That he’d seek help. That he would change. That we would be the family I knew we could be.

364 days ago …

The emotional damage I allowed him to inflict on my son became vividly clear within days of the move.The realization of just how damaged I had become would materialize much later.

It hasn’t been easy. Not a single day. I’ve tried to make the impact on my son minimal, but he has often had to do without.

I’ve had to apply for financial assistance to help offset the cost for him to attend church camp and youth fall retreat, sharing very personal information with complete strangers so that they could judge if we were worthy of their money.

I’ve had to file for bankruptcy, facing the public embarrassment of admitting I could not meet my financial obligations.

I’ve had to get food from a food bank, more than once – waiting in line for hours with those people – hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, but never being quite that lucky. Feeling waves of humiliation and shame each time and never telling my son.

Many days I’ve felt like a charity case – a project for someone – not quite human.

Although we remain married, I suspect he will eventually find someone else who is prettier – smarter – more concerned with the image and the things so important to him.  When that day comes, I’ll be faced with the reality I’ve been avoiding – even denying.  The reality that confirms I wasn’t enough for him, and will never be enough for anyone – just like he told me years ago.

364 days ago …

It was the right thing to do.  It was the only thing to do. But I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t do it for myself.  If it weren’t for my son I’d have never left.  I still believe that I don’t deserve any better. That settling is my only option to combat a life of loneliness.  But my son?  My son?  He deserves better.

I wish I could have done it for me.

Due Date

by | Dec 3, 2010 | Anger, Anniversary Reactions, Breakups, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Cope With Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Livng Through A Miscarriage, Miscarriage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sadness, Spotlight On Baby Loss | 11 comments

Today is when our baby was due.

Today is when we would’ve met our child and become parents.

It’s hard writing those words, but even harder thinking about what they actually mean. We never knew if our baby was a boy or a girl, though we’re convinced our little one was a tiny princess. We named her, though only we know her name. I try to look at our faces all the time and imagine what she would’ve looked like. There is an emptiness in my heart knowing our family isn’t complete, that there’s someone missing.

I posed a question to people a while ago. I asked if they would consider someone a mother if their child never made it into their arms, and as would you expect, the answers were divided. I’m half in the park that “I am a mother,” and half in the “I’m not” as well. Without having her here in my arms, I feel like I don’t deserve the title of ‘mother,’ but I can’t deny she was here, even if only for a short time.

Her initials are CG, and I wish I could tell you her name, but somehow it doesn’t feel right. I’m tired of her being our secret though, and I want the world to know I should have a daughter here. I’m angry, frustrated, and hurt. I want people to know about her, I want others to miss her, I want others to care.

Today, I should be a mother, holding our little angel, breathing her in and going over all of her little features with the awe only a new mother can have.

Today is a lot harder than I thought it would be.