Is the first year after loss really the worst?

I tend to think so. But what do I know, sixteen months out?

In the first few months after my loss, people would sometimes say, “The first year is the absolute worst.” This would come primarily from those who have suffered baby loss, so I trusted their opinions. However, in the back of my mind, I was always thinking, “I’m not so sure.” Everybody grieves differently. Our minds, our hearts, our bodies, everything “recovers” in different ways and paces. I place that word in quotes, recognizing that grief is a lifelong process, and from what I know there is never complete recovery from the loss of a child. But there has to be some degree of healing for any of us to continue living. Not merely surviving, but truly living, which is what I’m starting to finally do. Back to the questions at hand: So how could anyone know that my first year of grief would be the worst?

I’ll tell you. I’m sixteen months out. So maybe I don’t know a whole hell of a lot. But so far, it does seem that the first year IS the absolute worst. I know I will have days where the grief knocks the wind out of me probably for the rest of my life if not at least for many years. I know I’ll be in a retirement home talking about my precious son. I hope to be. He deserves that. However, the pain, the pain lessens. It has to. And while I hope that I will always honor and acknowledge my son as part of our family, I also hope that the pain continues to lessen. I don’t feel I need to hold onto the pain to hold on to him. I know that his legacy is about so much more than that.

My epiphany about the first year being the worst came to me at the most unforeseen time. A visit to the dentist. For some reason, the dentist always brings flashbacks. I always think about the last time I was at the dentist and how I was feeling. This dental visit was going really well. I got a clean bill of dental health, and everything was perfect. I flashed back to before my loss when TTC. I kept asking if this or that was okay during pregnancy (just in case I was pregnant), and the woman kept reassuring me. Then, she told me about a woman who had a stillbirth that was attributed to gingivitis. I thought that was just absolutely horrific and thought I would never forgive myself if something like that happened to me. (And of course, I did NOT lose Elias to gingivitis. But oh my, if hearing that story was not incentive to keep my teeth clean, I don’t know what would have been!)

Flash forward to my next appointment. This was only a few months out from my loss, maybe four or five. I just wanted to get in, get out, go home, and crawl under a blanket. You know, typical day. So I go in, and to my surprise, the hygienist says she’s sorry for my loss. I had no idea how she even knew. But I didn’t want to talk about it at all, and I felt so exposed and panicky and self-conscious and just OMG get me out of here! So they proceed to do the cleaning and had plenty to say. In nice tones, of course, but still. Teeth not in great shape (thanks, grief). Hadn’t been flossing enough (thanks, depression). Enamel worn away (thanks, months and months of barfing due to multiple gestation). I felt like sitting up in the middle of that dental visit and screaming, “My son died! I’m sorry I didn’t brush my teeth twice a day and always remember to floss! I was kind of busy trying to not off myself or end up in the freaking loony bin! Can you cut me some slack here?!?!?!”

I’m sure I had a visit in between that one and this one, but I was likely in my numb phase of grief (rather than the anger phase), so that visit doesn’t quite stand out so much in my mind.

But this one? It went so freaking well that the lady didn’t even give me the special “sensitive” toothpaste. She sprayed cold-ass water during those rinses, and it didn’t bother my teeth one bit. We talked about a bachelorette party I’m going out of town for and what salon treatments I might get beforehand (it’s at a water park). She told me all about her experience getting waxed for the first time (I know, right?!) and a little about her family back in Romania. We made jokes and talked about the weather, all that NORMAL stuff, and I walked out of there feeling like a million bucks. And almost like a normal person myself. I felt so awesome, I walked next door to FroYo and treated myself to some delicious calorie-laden teeth damaging frozen yogurt (I’d never been there before. Let me say that it is fan.tas.tic).

Driving home, scarfing my ice cream (unsafe, I know), I realized something that should have been so painfully obvious all along. I guess I’d just never really thought about it. But here it is. The first year after your loss, amidst the raw grief and anger and all that, there’s always that nagging agonizing feeling of, “This time last year I was __________”. Whether happily TTC, happily pregnant (or, admittedly at times miserably pregnant). “If only I knew then what I know now!” And that feeling where you trick yourself into thinking you could have changed the outcome now that you know what you know, which makes you feel panicky and guilty and so.freaking.upset.

After the first year, you start saying, “This time last year I was __________”. Suicidal? Hating everybody? Not sure my broken heart would continue to function? Not sure I would ever care to brush my teeth or shower on a regular basis?

And you kind of stop wanting to go back. You start being okay right where you are now. And you realize that a year from now, you’ll look back without panic attacks, and just think, “This time last year I had FroYo for the first time, and it was fan.freaking.tastic.”

Every Night

Every night I ask Elias to visit me in a dream and let me know that he's okay, that he loves me, that he isn't angry, that he's at peace. Every night I fail to dream of him, and when I wake up my heart is broken all over again.

Trying

People who have suffered the worst loss imaginable have to fight for their lives every day. I know that sounds melodramatic, and even loss parents reading this might think "exaggeration much?" but stop and think about having your heart torn out and being expected to survive that? And yet, we do. Survive. But when do we get to do more than simply survive? Every day is a struggle to get out of bed, shower, get dressed, hell even breathing just hurts some days. Now that the first year has passed, I am making a conscious effort to emerge from my hermit-like self-loathing pity party state and be an active participant in life. My son wouldn't want it any other way. He would want me to fully LIVE. So as I said before, I am striving for that balance of work, home, friends, hobbies, myself, and all the other things that grief "stole" my attention from. This is kind of a HUGE deal. Not everyone gets here. Some people stay STUCK forever in the black mire. Well, apparently not all of my friends truly realize the significance of my efforts or how much more difficult it is for someone who is grieiving to try and throw something like a dinner party. I spent allll day Saturday cooking, cleaning, decorating, and getting amped up to have people over. Two couples that we were expecting to come over didn't show up. One of them had promised to come and were a huge part of why we were throwing the party, because they said they never do anything. Less than three days before the party, one of them mentioned to my sister that they wouldn't be able to make it due to a prior commitment (mind you, we had spoken about the party for weeks beforehand where nothing was ever mentioned about prior plans). I find that excuse very difficult to buy, and I need to emphasize that this person never even bothered to tell me directly or apologize or anything along those lines. They didn't even ask if my sister could pass the message along. (?!) Another couple said they were coming and just never showed up. We heard nothing. A week or so ago, another friend of mine ignored several of my attempts to hang out after saying she wanted to. This was a friendship that had drifted, and I was trying to do some mending, which takes a great deal of emotional energy on top of grief. I tried suggesting different things to do and at different times, and she never confirmed anything, so I finally said "What is going on????" and still no response. So, I'm about done. With everyone. I keep putting myself out there, and it angers me that people must think I'm better, that I don't need friends, and it angers me that they don't know that in many many ways I am still fighting for my very life. Fighting to have some kind of life outside of the loss world, to do more than simply survive but to live. It angers me that my husband doesn't understand that concept, either. How will anybody else get it when he doesn't? I remember when he used to "get" me. I miss those days more than ever. Overall, I feel so disrespected, devalued, alone, misunderstood, unloved, and unimportant. If I didn't have my daughter here, I think I'd just be done with it all. The weather is getting nicer, and I have the day off, I should be out enjoying it, but I just want to crawl in a hole and disappear.

Feeling off-balance.

I just want to say that I miss this place, and I miss reading blogs regularly and commenting and all of the above. I am really struggling right now to achieve some sort of balance. I have stepped away for awhile, mostly because I feel I was here perhaps too often, and that's not good either. Life is not meant to be spent tied to a computer screen. The positives have been that I'm taking a workout class and am also learning to cook and enjoy other things. However, something is missing, and I know that I still need to come here; I need to write and to read and to connect. I just don't know how to get things balanced. Slowly I am "unsubscribing" from people on Facebook and will be doing a cleanup. I feel I have overdosed on social media to some extent, and I want to emerge from the shadows and focus more on "real life" and all that is tangible. Then, I realize, I don't even know what that means or what that is. Between my career, my marriage, my home, my family, my friends, it's just so difficult to balance it all. New hobbies and interests have taken shape in my life, but where do they fit in, and how do I incorporate all of this new stuff and still come here? It blows my mind when people say they are bored. How the hell are people ever bored? Life is so painfully short, and there's so much I want to do, become, achieve, and explore. So many people to connect with. So many people who can change and enhance my life. I can't disconnect from the loss community, either - not that I would ever want to. No way, no how. I am judged by people (and it is very obvious) for still reading the loss blogs when I do (which isn't often enough), for connecting with other loss moms on FB, and for wanting to acknowledge and honor my son. Maybe to some extent at certain points in my life, things were lopsided in that direction, sure. But now, I am realizing that, and the problem is that I don't know how to fix it so that it all has its proper place. I've found myself becoming much more social lately, which also has its pitfalls. Anyone in the loss community will tell you that figuring your social life out post-loss is a very confusing and difficult task. Just when I open my heart to be vulnerable again to friends, I end up getting screwed over again. I am at a point in my life where I am done with games and passive aggressive relationships. You're either my friend or you're not. I realize friendships are on a spectrum, and they shift and morph, but there's also a limit. And when I feel completely disrespected and devalued? Time to move on. I don't know how to achieve balance in my life yet, and I realize that's the goal so many of us have. I don't know how to reach "integration" as some call it. I don't know how to just be at work and focus on work, or be at home and focus on home. Everything gets blurred, the colors bleed, the lines shift. Just as I don't know who to trust anymore or how I will ever be okay again, really okay again, without my son here. Everything is lacking clarity, and I feel aimless, confused, hurt, abandoned, and scared. My grief has new layers to it that I never knew before, and I have horrible flashbacks and nightmares that can be triggered by many different things. I don't want to say I have PTSD, because I don't really know, but it really wouldn't surprise me. Work used to be my safe haven, my place to go and get away from my grief, and it was easy to compartmentalize to some extent. Why fifteen months out (today!) is it becoming more difficult to do that? Why do I find myself crying at work during my lunch hour? Why can't I focus and be efficient? Why do I still not know what choices are best for me, and why do I feel like depression is lurking around the corner threatening to snatch away any joy and motivation I feel?

A Birthday Party and a Facebook Event

My daughter’s birthday party was two days after her real birthday, which was also Elias’s birthday and angelversary. (Angelversary is just so much easier than saying one year since he died or death anniversary…I don’t really believe he’s literally an angel. I guess it’s metaphoric in a way.)

Her party was…exhausting. A bit robotic and “sterile” feeling, being in a community center (we didn’t have room in our home for the number of guests). I am not complaining; please know that. But oh my, it was difficult to go through the motions and not lose my mind. And I felt like people were looking at me waiting for me to freak out. Did I have fun? Of course. Do I realize how lucky I am to have been able to throw a birthday party? Of course. Yes, I’m grateful to have a living child out of my pregnancy, and I fully realize that I am blessed to have her, and that this anniversary would have been much more difficult without being a member of the “parents of living children” club. But on the other hand, it IS much more complicated to have a pregnancy end in both a loss and in a living child at the same time, and I can’t pretend that to not be the case. Celebrating their birthday was very complex, and it took me months to figure out what to do. Same day? Different day? If they were both alive, obviously I would celebrate their birthday together, but is it not so totally different to celebrate the first birthday of a living child than it is to honor the anniversary of your child’s entrance into heaven? Those are just two completely different things, and to try to blend them together did not feel very natural to me. So I was left unsure of how any of it would really turn out. I just had to move forward and start planning what I could.

I knew that I wanted to mentally step outside of the whole “babylossmama” mentality and just focus on my daughter as much as possible, and if you judge me for that, fine, whatever, but you have to understand that I did not want to rob her of any joy that day or rob myself of the celebration of finally having a living child to celebrate a birthday for. (I’ve had two losses, remember, and both traumatic in very different ways, so this has been a long road for me.) I didn’t want to stay glued to the couch and wish my life away. I didn’t want to spend the months and weeks leading up to my twins’ birthday feeling sorry for myself. I wanted to do (mostly) what I would have done had I been preparing for the first birthday party of a healthy singleton baby. Call that denial, call it a defense mechanism, call it crazy, call it whateverthehellyouwant, but I wanted to do all of those things I would have done had I NOT been a grieving mother. So I did.

I filled a scrapbook someone had given me at my baby shower, and I didn’t edit any of the pages. I remembered in the early days hating that scrapbook and thinking none of it would ever apply anymore after Elias died, but it was a gorgeous scrapbook that someone had put a lot of time and effort and care and love into, and it needed my addition of family photos. So I spent weeks putting the photos inside organized by theme: pregnancy, shower, birth stats (I included a photo of clay molds of Elias’s feet opposite of Evelyn’s photo), bringing Evy home (that part stung the most to put together), bath time, meal time, family time, etc. I also put together a weekly photo album of my daughter (I am a photo freak), which was something I had dreamed about doing even before I was ever pregnant. I had seen such a photo album at my niece’s first birthday party, and I had thought about how intensely I wanted an album like that for my own child someday. So it was very therapeutic to put that together and remember that even though my life has been filled with such pain, there were times when I wondered if I’d ever get to parent a living child, and I didn’t have to wonder or fear ever again because in my hand was an album documenting the weekly changes in my gorgeous daughter. These things I enjoyed doing, but I admit I also did them partly in defiance, resisting the urge to lay around and pity myself and get lost in my grief, thus missing out on the simple joys I would have had as a mother to a healthy singleton baby. Mostly it just felt great to put together these keepsake albums for my little girl. I was actually really proud of myself upon their completion. I haven't been proud of much of anything in a really long time. (Irrational guilt gets in the way, really.)

As for the invites to her party, I made sure her brother’s presence was incorporated into the design. A girly owl graced the invitation, and there was a blue butterfly flying on its own happy little journey. I cried when I found the invite on Etsy. It was just so incredibly perfect to represent my babies. That invite set the theme and tone for the whole party. I wanted it to be girly and chic, with coordinating decorations, and so “mod hippie owl girl” became the motif. However, many of the decorations also included butterflies. My absolute favorite part of the party in terms of remembering Elias was that I had made and ordered (online) plantable seed cards in the shape of a butterfly to hand out as a party favor in his memory. My husband agreed that as much as we wanted the party to be her special day, we also wanted to include Elias in a more obvious way, as the first anniversary of his passing was a very difficult milestone for us to approach and pass. I think in the future we will be okay with his presence being a quieter more subtle one, but for this first one we wanted it to be clear and not only honor him but also send a message to guests that we recognize him as our son. I got the impression that people were really touched by the favors. And honestly, their reaction wouldn’t have mattered to me in the end either way, because I did what I could to elbow space for my son in the world (as my friend Sarah would say), and that’s all I can do. Finally, we had Elias’s name in the sand (what you see at the top of my blog) on display, just in case people didn’t pick up on the butterfly symbolism. We also did a quick balloon release, but I don’t really want to talk about that. It was rushed, and I felt flustered, and I felt like I looked like “that crazy lady” trying to get people to participate, and I felt a little like I was going to stab someone with the pink plastic cake knives if people didn’t come outside, but whatever. I am judged in my grief, and I know that. But I have to be brave and grieve anyway and do what I feel to be right.

All in all, the day of Evelyn’s party was nothing in comparison to her actual birthday. (Their actual birthday.) I will have to save that for my next post. But I will say that I put together a Facebook event in the weeks prior called “Remembering Elias”, and I can’t tell you how good that felt to do. To have something “out there” just for him, just as her party was (at least mostly) focusing on her. That balance is so difficult to strike, and I like to think I’ve managed to do it pretty well. It was very healing for me to also “explain” to people what caused his loss, as we had never been able to do that. I know they aren’t owed an explanation; it was more for me than anything else (that part of it). It was my way of saying I wasn’t going to hide in shame anymore, that I was going to talk about it, that this was something completely rare and unexpected and quick, and I’m not going to succumb to pressures to keep it hushed. The Facebook event went really well. It was amazing how many people sent their support from all over the globe. Countless people made remembrance pictures in honor of Elias (which was a suggestion I had made on the event page, because I wanted to be able to add to his album on FB). I love having an album on FB just for Elias, one that I can add to, just as I add to my other albums regularly. I know this probably sounds silly, and I know it’s just FB, but for me that helps me “elbow space” for him. As I’m uploading “one year old!” photos of Evy, I can upload remembrance photos of him, and the sting lessens a tiny bit.

I received heartfelt notes all week long in honor of Elias. I received dozens and dozens of photos from people for his album. Every single one made me tear up – grateful tears that my son was being recognized, that he mattered, that he matters still, and that he will always matter. I received flowers – gorgeous flowers with butterflies sticking out of them – in honor of my twins from a woman I’ve never met in person but feel so connected to. She also lost her son from a boy girl twin pregnancy very close to term. I cried when I got those flowers, and I brought them to my daughter’s party. It’s not every day you get flowers sent to you from someone who lives in another country – that was so incredibly special to me. Another friend of mine in the U.K. attended a candlelight vigil and remembered Elias. Candles were lit globally for him. I received ornaments in the mail - five – in honor of Elias for our Christmas tree. How lovely to have these and to know that we will be hanging them every single year. The outpouring of artistic expression, of love, of grief, and of remembrance for Elias moved me and changed me in ways that I can’t quite articulate. It’s taken me over a month to even write about it here. More to come in Part Two…where I share their actual birthday with you.

A place of non-sharing, one year out.

I don’t know why but right now it’s just becoming more and more difficult to share anything here. I know that not many people “in real life” even know about my blog, but it IS public. I don’t want to go private at this point. But some days it just hits me that this is where I share some extremely personal thoughts, and I just don’t know if that’s okay or not. Grief is a private thing, right? So why did I even create this blog? I’m asking myself these questions and not coming up with answers.

I feel selfish in that I write more here about myself than I write here about my son. It makes me sad that I don’t know more about him. It leaves me feeling so heartbroken and empty that I don’t know what he would have been like or who he would have turned out to be. (And while I'm thinking of it, if you'll allow this tangent, let me just say this. I can’t stand it when people say, “Oh it must be SO difficult to look at your daughter and think about how your son would be doing the exact same thing had he lived.”…and yes, this is actually something I have heard literally and several variations of it…How freaking idiotic can people be? I don’t think there’s a set of twins out there who do the exact same thing 24/7; in fact, I’m pretty sure that would be impossible…And just because they were born on the same day doesn’t mean they would have hit the same milestones at the same time…They were over a pound apart weight-wise at birth, just as one example…OH and they were also different genders! And we can’t forget the tiny little fact that they were two completely separate individual human beings, different DNA and all that, can we? Apparently, some people DO forget. Two.separate.eggs.two.separate.sperm. I think I should start busting out diagrams for people when they piss me off.)

So back to my question, which is by writing here am I really honoring my son’s memory? It sure doesn’t feel like it. I don’t feel like I am ever doing right by him, just as I rarely ever feel I am doing right by my daughter. A friend and coworker the other day described me as living life with “an impossible situation”. It’s an understatement, sure, but Truth. Nothing I ever do feels right. Grieving while I have a beautiful daughter snoozing in her crib upstairs seems horrible. Enjoying life while I have a son who never got to breathe a breath seems horrible.

Maybe I should just try to be numb all the time and not feel anything so I can stop feeling so freaking guilty about whatever I’m feeling. But that would require drugs, and I’m not all about those.

So that’s it. I’m in a place of nonsharing, and it really sucks. I feel I am betraying Elias by not writing here enough. More guilt. *sigh* I'm also dealing with not knowing where I stand with almost everyone in my life. I see why the statistics are not in favor of couples staying married after a loss. I see why Those Who Have Lost Before speak of losing friends and family after a loss. Early out, I thought NO way, that won't happen to me. Well, a year out, it's happening, some of it at least. I just don't know who I can trust or lean on anymore. I feel VERY judged to still be so sad and be over a year out, like there's an expiration date on my grief, and we're past the point where it's acceptable. Like at some point you are seen as "the crazy lady with the dead baby" instead of a human being with a right to grieve, a person who has been thrust into an impossible situation every minute of every day for the rest of her life.

Soon

Soon I will update you on what ONE YEAR post-loss feels like. That was yesterday for us. Today we are preparing for our daughter's birthday bash for tomorrow. I will say this - I'm feeling pulled apart by the seams - grieving my son who I wish had turned one year old yesterday while celebrating my daughter who DID turn a year old. I put together a Facebook event and was overwhelmed by the support of both people in AND out of the loss community. It helps, in my opinion, to allow them to have their own separate days (as much as possible). Grieving and partying at the same time don't really jive, do they? *sigh* I will write a "one year" post soon.

Hating. Sobbing. Stagnating.

Super depressed. Rehashing and rehashing and reliving everything all over again. Hating that I can't go back. Hating not knowing if I even could have saved him, if the doctors even could have saved him, hating that we never even got a chance to try, hating that we didn't just do a csection at 36 weeks, hating that we didn't KNOW he needed to be out, hating that I tried so hard, prayed every day, and believed I would bring him home...only to lose him. I hate this. I know that of all the tests they run and all the things they look for he only missed a couple of points. But it haunts me every day to not know if that was an indication of something wrong or not. Was he really okay or already compromised?! Were they justified sending me home or should they have known to take him out?!?! I will never know for sure the timeline of events the last week of his life. I will never know WHY he bled out. My placenta did not abrupt. I did not have pre-eclampsia. This is just infuriating. A year out, I'm still infuriated. Devastated. I don't know how to "move forward". Not move on, but move forward. I feel stuck because of all of the unanswered questions in my heart and mind. I feel like I don't even know my own son's story. What kind of closure will I ever get when I don't even understand what happened???

Are you seeing (or have you seen) a therapist after babyloss?

If so, if you could so kindly leave a comment answering the following questions, that would be awesome. (A fellow BLM of mine offered to do a training for the Postpartum Health Alliance in San Diego for therapists on Perinatal Loss.) She would like to know 1. What did you find most helpful from your therapist?, and 2. What did you find least helpful from your therapist? My own therapist experiences I will gladly share with you (and her) soon, but I am exhausted and, well, it's not a post I can just throw together. I have had some wonderful experiences with therapists (well, one of the three I've seen), and I've had some pretty bad experiences as well. So if you are willing to share to help my friend gain some insight for her training, share away. (For the record, my friend is also a loss mom. She lost one of her twins the day before her induction date at 38 weeks. So don't be shy - she "gets it"!)

Missing Him.

What would he have been dressed as? I really don't know for certain. What I do know is that I would have loved to have had two baby pumpkins to lug around on Halloween. I look at her and wonder what he'd be like, who he'd look like, and how they'd interact with one another. My heart is so full of love for both of them yet so broken and full of missing him. I didn't expect this holiday to hit me so freaking hard, but it did. It's not like I had the twins' costumes all planned out and coordinated with one another; I wasn't that kind of twin mama. I wanted to celebrate them as separate individuals as much as possible and maybe would have done some cutesy stuff like that once or twice, but not much beyond.

But then, obviously, it isn't about the costumes. Or loss of being able to dress up both of my babies together, coordinating costumes or not. It's about the loss of a HUMAN BEING. The loss of my son. His first Halloween - what a stupid silly trivial loss in the big scheme of things. But the whole of the loss of him, the entirety of it, is just too much to process at once. So I focus on one thing at a time, and I mourn that thing. And this Halloween, I mourned the loss of purchasing his costume, dressing him up, and taking him door to door. My husband and I should have both had a baby in our arms instead of taking turns with one. We should have had people oooohing and ahhhhhing over our twins.

A good friend of mine brought her husband and daughter over (she was born three days after our twins), and at each house we trick or treated at, I kept worrying that the people would think they were both mine. Or that we would see confused expressions. But since there were clearly four adults and two babies, it didn't cause any confusion. I was relieved but also a little sad to think there couldn't possibly be anybody who may have thought they were both mine, remembering I had been pregnant with two. I wondered if people forget so quickly. But then, anyone who knew were were having two also knew he had died. So I don't know why that was even on my radar.

Once back at home, we turned the porch light on to let kids outside know we had candy to give out. After all, we couldn't keep our girls out long. It was chilly and nearing bed time. I thought about how lucky we were to know this couple. I thought about how at LEAST Evelyn would have a same-aged friend to play with at times. I thought about how much more difficult it would have been to trick or treat without this couple and their little girl and how without them there I would have felt the holiday anti-climactic and perhaps even lonely.

Suddenly, a little boy stumbled up the stoop, peered inside our screen door, saw the girls crawling around, and said, "Wow! Two babies!"

I felt my heart stop.

"You have TWO babies? You have a LOT of children!"

He was maybe six years old. He had no idea he was tearing the heart out of my chest and ripping it in half. I couldn't say anything. I just threw a piece of candy in his bag and didn't even look at him. I gave him an extra piece even, as if that would make him go away faster.

If the word "twins" had come out of his mouth, I would have lost it right that second. I waited for it, having a mini panic attack of sorts. If he had said that word, I would have been a blubbering mess, crying all over innocent children's candy. Somehow, it didn't.

When I went to bed that night, I just couldn't stop crying. Sobbing. My husband was already fast asleep, and there I was, shaking the bed with my sobs. (He's a very heavy sleeper.) I finally just got out of bed and took a shower. Somehow, that had a calming effect, and I was able to fall asleep after. But oh, the longing was so strong. I felt like I was going to die, and I don't mean that as an exaggeration.

In those intense moments of grief, it feels like it will never get better, the pain will never subside, the air will never be easy to breathe, your heart will never feel light and free, and joy will never return. Suddenly, it seems so reasonable that people die of a broken heart, and I just wait for mine to stop working, but for some reason it keeps beating.

"Help, I'm alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer." ~Metric

Happy 1st Halloween, baby boy. Oh, how I miss you. I carved this pumpkin just for you. I wanted to carve one for you, because this would have been your first Halloween, and you are still a part of our family. You will always be a part of our family. A butterfly pumpkin for my precious son Elias. It's not enough, and that breaks my heart, too. Nothing is never enough. Nothing can ever be enough for me to feel I am honoring you properly. I want to go back and save you. Anything short of that just isn't good enough.

I love you, to the moon and back, my forever baby, my son.

Candlelight Ceremony

Yesterday, I spent a great part of the day getting the perfect photo taken, edited, uploaded, and tagged for all my BLM friends for International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I reached tagging limit easily and had to upload the same photo three times. I also listed all the names of the babies under each photo (of the women and men I tagged). This was very healing, very therapeutic for me, but also very time-consuming.
In other words, I have more BLM friends than I realized. This is a blessing, to be surrounded by people who "get it", but oh so sad. So sad that so many people have lost babies. And I only friend a fraction of them, because if I friended every BLM I "met" on FB, it would absolutely overwhelm me and I'm positive I would exceed the limit for friends very quickly.

When I was done, I was pretty much emotionally drained. I couldn't believe that it took so much out of me to just sit on the computer for a while and do this little "project" of mine to pay it forward. I expected to feel good and pumped to go to a remembrance ceremony at a local bereavement center afterward (as funny as that may sound), but I was just feeling "blah".
I knew I would be given a wonderful opportunity to honor my son's life and to meet up with some local BLMs who have become friends of mine, but I was just in a funk from the very moment I left the house.

On the road, I realized my heart was so very heavy. I met up with some BLM for dinner, which was great, but I just kept thinking how I never in my life EVER expected for THIS to be what planning a family led me to.

A life sentence of memorial services, of feeling desperate to get others outside of the community to acknowledge my perfect, gorgeous, fully-formed son while they so readily ooooh and ahhhh over my daughter. Some days I feel like the worst mother, because I get resentful of the compliments I get...I just want to say, "I have a son, and he was gorgeous too! I don't know what color his eyes were, but I bet they were every bit as spectacular as hers!" I wonder if he's jealous of the attention she gets. Other days, on rough days when I am mourning him or spending a lot of time with blogs or other things in the loss community, I wonder if my living daughter is jealous of the attention her brother gets.

Nothing I do is ever right, STILL, after all this time. Either that is parenthood for everybody, or I am just ridiculously hard on myself, but I don't know any other way to be. I am constantly being pulled away, pulled at the seams.
I want to be here, 100% here, for both of my living children. But I have one living child and one deceased child instead of two living children. And so I always feel 50% here for one of my children and 50% able to grieve the child I lost. I'm not 100% at anything ever, and the perfectionist in me can't stand it. God am I far from perfect. I am so freaking imperfect I can't stand it.
I feel myself giving up on trying to be perfect, because I can never be perfect and have a dead son at the same time.

I adore the people I have met in this community, and I am not quiet about it - some of these people are the most inspirational and loving souls I've ever met, and I feel priveleged to know them and their stories. The outpouring of support on my FB page from people in AND out of the loss community was very heart-warming yesterday.

The ceremony itself though was not what I expected. I don't know what I expected, but I know this wasn't it. Maybe ten months out is just too early for that kind of thing. I felt very exposed under harsh lighting and a smaller room than I expected to be in. I think it is still VERY difficult for me to publicly acknowledge my pain. And shame has crept up in fierce ways, probably because I keep reliving what I was doing last year at this time. Bedrest in hopes of keeping my babies safe. You have all heard me talk about that like a broken record, so I won't recount it again. I was such a fool, and I am ashamed.

I feel like an idiot for not being able to keep my son alive, for not KNOWING something was wrong when it was wrong, for having BACKWARDS intuition that told me over the course of the entire pregnancy that something was off but then the week he died feeling peace and thinking everything would work out in the end.

I expected to connect with others during the ceremony and feel uplifted and in tune. Instead, I felt awkward, hot, self-conscious, loathsome, and freakish.

I expected to leave the ceremony feeling empowered, inspired, enlightened.
Instead, I lit a candle for my son and just felt like I failed him so deeply. Failed him in the worst way. And lighting a candle seems so miniscule compared to a loss so massive. Nothing will ever fill the void. I felt stupid for presuming that something so simple could be healing. I mean what's the point?

I took my seat after lighting the candle and felt like a failed mother. They asked us to meditate or say a prayer and then extinguish the candle, and I thought "What's the point in praying?" and felt that in blowing out the candle I was killing his memory somehow. It was not exactly a comforting point in the ceremony for me.
I tried talking to a few other people, but they all were so composed compared to me, and I felt increasingly self-conscious and claustrophobic and like a freak even amongst "my own kind".

Perhaps I need to do more grieving in private before I can do something like this again. But I will go again next year, and the year after that, and the year after that, because even if it's in the smallest of ways, I do get to mother my son by honoring his memory. And I will take any chance I get to mother him, because those opportunities are few and far between.

The center that put this candlelighting ceremony on is non for profit, and I think what they do is amazing. Although I wasn't in the right space mentally and emotionally for it, I can see others benefit from it. I absolutely adore the candles they made for each baby remembered. I edited the photo of Elias's candle so I could post it here, but the actual candle has his full name on it and will make a perfect "presence" during holidays and special occasions.

It's Sunday, and I'm so tired. I don't know why I thought this weekend wouldn't be emotionally overwhelming and exhausting. I am ready for a few days off of work to recover, seriously. I'm just so down right now. I hate when I feel this way. I want to hold my head up high and show my son I'm a survivor, but right now I just feel like I failed at the most important thing I was ever called to do, and I can't stand the sight of myself.

I love you, Elias. Always and forever. Even though I do not feel worthy of you, and maybe, just maybe that's why you were taken from me, I will never ever blow the candle out that burns in my heart for you every single day. You are my son, today and all the days I have left on this earth and beyond. To the moon and back, baby boy. I love you.

It's a Pity Party, and I'm Invited.

How much did I lose on my journey to start a family? Is that even something quantifiable? Sometimes, when I think about it all, I get so overwhelmed, so I'm going to spill some of it here to let it loose and begin to work on letting it go. Because self-pity is not my style, truly. It just doesn't suit me, nor does it honor my son.

What I lost...
-My first pregnancy ended in a completely unexpected early loss (I had no idea you could have a miscarriage without any symptoms of bleeding, cramping, etc…)
-Months of my life out of grieving and trying to recover from the blow of my miscarriage.
-Months of my life trying to conceive again (wherein I felt a profound sense of loss every single time my period showed when I just wanted a positive pregnancy test).
-The happiness of just being *pregnant* because I was terrified of bleeding and miscarrying again.
-The joy of having an ultrasound because at the first one and every single one thereafter I was terrified there would be no heartbeat.
-The joy of a “normal” pregnancy, because with twins I was high risk and had to worry times two, even though I was already worried more than your average pregnant mom before ever hearing the words, “There’s two in there!”
-The excitement of finding out their genders, because I was convinced something would be very wrong with one or both of them or that they would see my cervix shortening prematurely which would indicate I could very well lose them both.
-Feeling “normal” and “functional” at work because I couldn’t move around like I needed to or focus on any task in front of me.
-Not being judged by others, as suddenly people were criticizing me (sometimes openly, sometimes behind my back) for being so cautious and being a “worry wort” (clearly not understanding the psychology of pregnancy after a loss!), “oversensitive”, “living in the past”, and/or “a pregnant diva”, all because I wanted what was best for my babies and was willing to sacrifice whatever might make them safer and healthier. (Apparently I was expected to climb two flights of stairs up to fifteen times a day while in the third trimester with twins without going into a panic about preterm labor.)
-The joy of a “normal’ pregnancy and feeling like being pregnant with twins was very literally a subculture in and of itself that none of my friends (other than other twin moms online) understood.
-The ability to talk lightly about my due date with people who would ask, because “Well my due date is 12/31/10…But twins come early, so it could really be any day now” (followed by looks of shock and horror that I would say something so NEGATIVE when I was just stating what I had been told hundreds of times by various medical sources…Again, with the twin thing being its own subculture that many people do NOT understand…)
-The ability to freely purchase all the baby things I wanted / needed, because I would somehow “jinx” things the way I must have jinxed them before when I bought a few things and ended up miscarrying.
-The ability to work until my water broke, as I had fully intended when we planned to have a baby.
-The freedom to not do seven weeks of bedrest wherein I turned into a complete and total hermit and felt completely disconnected from my friends who mostly did not visit nor make a point to support me during one of the most trying times of my life. (Bedresters are their own subculture as well…)I had the joy of hearing "Oh just ENJOY this time! It's like a vacation! You just wait until those two little babies are here...You will be sorry you didn't just relax and enjoy all the peace and quiet of not working and having bedrest!!!"
-The freedom to drive places, eat out at restaurants, go shopping, get a breath of fresh air while taking a brisk walk, amongst many other things so that I could do bedrest in hopes of ensuring the health of my children.
-The luxury of asking my husband to go out and get me peach frozen yogurt and rub my back, because he was too freaking busy taking over the care of the entire household, chores, and meals, while I was on full bedrest.
-Feeling closer to my husband through the pregnancy instead of feeling like I was a burden because of my lack of mobility.
-My privacy, as I pretty much lived on the couch in our family room for a month and a half.

I lost all of that and then some. I did it all and then some, to bring my twins into the world whole and healthy, and then one died anyway.

Meanwhile, surrounding me were women who were very careless with their pregnancies, women who even blatantly ignored doctors’ orders and seemed to flaunt it in front of me, who all (thankfully) delivered live, healthy, breathing babies despite their complete ignorance and carelessness.
Ten months post-loss, I get to read an article about a woman who ran a marathon without any regard to how dangerous it could be if she tripped and fell on her stomach while pregnant. She and the baby were (thankfully) just fine. She even got fame for it.
I also get to read articles about women who seek no prenatal care at all and birth living, breathing, healthy babies only to kill them out of complete negligence or intentional murder.

What do I get? I get eight months of “I’m so proud of you!”s followed by a lifetime of “I’m so sorry!”s and people pitying me, hoping that babyloss isn’t “catching”, trying to avoid eye contact as they pass me, and secretly judging me STILL. Judging me for how I acted during my pregnancy, judging me for how I handled everything, judging me for going back to work “SO quickly!!!”, judging me for leaving my daughter with loving family members while I go back to work, judging me for wanting to acknowledge that I am a twin mother, judging me for recognizing that I will always have a son, judging me for connecting with other babylossmamas, and secretly blaming me for the death of my son. Because healthy women under thirty years old who do bedrest and follow all the doctor’s orders just don’t end up with dead babies. So clearly, OBVIOUSLY, I must have done something wrong. They tell themselves this, because it helps them sleep better at night; it protects their Faith, and it eases their fears that a horrible tragedy like mine could happen to them.

For the record, I am not bitter about my bedrest. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I believed in it, and I was happy to do it, but I won't deny that it was very trying.
What I do resent is thinking that all of that would equal a happy outcome, because I really did, and this loss just completely blindsided me.

ALL of this, when you look at the entire picture, was / is incredibly traumatizing to me, and I don’t think I fully understand the psychological or emotional impacts of it all on my heart, my mind, my identity, my life. I don’t even feel I have recovered from the miscarriage, let alone all that followed, and the feeling like I could NEVER do enough for my babies…and then one died anyway. I am just trying to process all of this and what it means in terms of who I am and how the pregnancy, not just the outcome, but how all I endured during the pregnancy in and of itself has profoundly changed me. I sometimes think those are the things I struggle with in terms of PTSD even moreso than the loss, just the everyday mental torment of never feeling I was ever doing enough for my twins. All the books I read that said how much sleep I should get, how much water I should drink, how many calories I should consume, only for me to vomit daily and feel I was failing my babies daily, even though they grew right on track and were healthy at every single checkup.

I tried so hard to do everything right. It consumed almost all my thoughts and was my identity for the eight and a half months I carried them.

Bringing them home safe meant more to me than anything in this world. It was my greatest challenge, and my greatest blessing, even with how difficult it was on me mentally, physically, and emotionally.
How can I not feel I failed?
How can I not feel everyone is disappointed in me?
How do I ever reconcile that in my mind and in my heart?

I would sacrifice everything all over again if it meant he could be here with me.
I would lay on a freaking couch every second of every day for an entire year, for an entire decade, if it meant Elias could come back to me.
I would give up my job, my social life, my favorite restaurants, every holiday there ever was, every shopping trip, walk in the park, and family outing.
I would endure just about anything.
I would give my own life.

But I can’t.

Instead, I have to live without him.
Live without him, and live with knowing (in the logical part of my mind) that I did everything I could and then some, while others are careless and for whatever reason get rewarded for their carelessness.

The loss of my son.
The loss of the unique parenting experience that is raising twins.
The loss of my daughter’s same aged brother.
The loss of my faith in prayer, in a God that intervenes, and in a God that is looking out for me and my family.
The loss of my understanding of the world.
The loss of believing there is any sense of logic, reason, or order to this world.
The loss of my world as I knew it.

What else must I lose?
Friends who don’t want to be reminded that horrible things sometimes happen to good people?
People being proud of me, because how can you be proud of a woman who couldn’t keep her baby alive?
My marriage?
My self esteem?
My self worth?
My identity?
My morality?

Who knows where the loss will end, if ever, for me.
It’s a pity party, and I’m invited.
I’ve gone from being a member in the subculture of being pregnant with twins and feeling misunderstood, to the subculture of being a bedrester and feeling judged, to the subculture of being a babylossmama and feeling ostracized by society. I’ll never, ever, ever be “normal”.

And during my next pregnancy, whenever that may be, I will still be cheated.

Cheated out of the joy of a blissful, ignorant, naïve pregnancy that most women get to experience.
Cheated out of thinking a positive pregnancy test means I will have a live, breathing, healthy baby at the end.
Cheated out of thinking that a full anatomy scan that shows everything is fine means I will have a live, breathing, healthy baby at the end.
Cheated out of thinking that once we are “viable” we will have a live, breathing, healthy baby at the end.
Cheated out of thinking that once we are past the danger zone for prematurity we will have a live, breathing, healthy baby at the end.
Cheated out of thinking that once we are at term we will have a live, breathing, healthy baby at the end.
Cheated out of thinking that multiple ultrasounds and non-stress tests and biophysical profiles that all turn out with normal results equal a live, breathing, healthy baby at the end.
Cheated out of the excitement that ensues when a “blissful, ignorant, naïve” woman’s water breaks.
Cheated out of the excitement of packing a hospital bag with cute fuzzy socks and granola bars and coming home outfits and assuming that all will be peachy keen.
Cheated out of assuming that babies don’t die and that God is on my side so nothing will happen to me or my child.
Cheated out of hanging around the hospital chomping on ice chips and asking for my sister to get my chapstick and a tabloid for me to flip through to pass the time.
Cheated out of having my husband hold one of my legs while my mother holds the other and I deliver a live, breathing, healthy baby at the end.
Cheated out of even thinking that a planned c-section will ensure a live, breathing, healthy baby at the end.

Cheated, robbed, and ripped off.
From the joy of pregnancy, birth, a hosptial stay, and the “afterglow”.
There will always be one missing.
Two missing, to be exact.

And I don't know if my mind and heart will heal from being battered so.

And yet, the baby to come, the baby we are yet to conceive, the baby we aren’t even thinking about trying to conceive yet…Would not even have the potential to come into our lives had Elias lived.
So will I love that child that much more because of it?
Will I learn to resent that child because of it?

I think I will just miss my son, no matter what, and I will love my future child(ren), no matter what.
But what I’m hoping is that all this loss is over with, someday, somehow.

What I hope for is the ability to overcome these feelings of loss, to some degree.
To learn to enjoy pregnancy by embracing my utter lack of control over the outcome, which I was never able to do last time, or the last two times, to be exact.
To recognize that the end result is that I have a family, and even if my road to that end result is a rocky and terrifying one, I am lucky to have a family at all in a world where some women only experience infertility, loss, and no living children.
To recognize that I have delivered a living child, and I mother a living child, and her name is Evelyn, and she is the most beautiful baby girl I have ever seen, and no one can take that mothering away from me. Not today, not ever, no matter what.
To recognize that even though Elias died, our hearts in that hospital were so full of love for him…That the pain of his loss sprung from how much love we had, and still have, and nobody can take that love away.
To recognize that I am still a mother to twins, and I still have a son, and no one can take that away from me, and it’s part of who I am, forever.
To recognize that Elias is always with me. Always. He may just be my spirit guide, a butterfly flying free, a star in the sky leading me to live better.
To recognize that there were joyful moments with our daughter in that hospital, and during my c-section, when the doctors held her up for me to see, I knew I would live.

Pink Bear, Blue Bear

Did that really just happen??? Did I REALLY just have to sit and listen to a woman talk about her boy girl twin pregnancy for over a half an hour? Oh, and did I mention that her boy girl twin pregnancy was SIXTEEN FREAKING YEARS AGO?!?!?! How is that even RELEVANT? The people around her weren't even asking her questions or prompting her or anything; she just kept flapping her jaw as if she couldn't stop or couldn't think of any other topic worth talking about.

Does the universe just HATE ME?!?!?!

I have very good reason to believe this woman knows very well about our loss. We know mutual people. That is all I’m going to say. And yet she sits at the same table I’m at, of all the tables in the room, and proceeds to gab to the people sitting with her about her pregnancy that happened almost two decades ago…!?!??!

Blah blah blah blah blah. Really?!?!

Did she just NOT know? And if she DIDN’T know, why does she feel the need to go ON AND ON about her pregnancy like she’s a freaking celebrity for a half an hour + ??? Is she OCTOMOM? Does she want an award?

And if she DID know about my loss…I just don’t even know what to say to finish that sentence. I am going to hold myself back, since I do not know who will be reading this. And in my mind I am going to tell myself that she really didn't know, because any other scenario makes my blood freaking BOIL. But omg.

I know this sounds incredibly narcissistic, but I can't help but feel The Universe is flipping me the bird yet again. Twisting the knife yet again. Saying, "Why don't you just go kill yourself already? Don't you know, I'm trying my best to egg you on? Why don't you just give UP already instead of taking my insults OVER AND OVER?!"

I had to leave the party after only an hour, because I feared a very public meltdown.

Did I mention that today had already been an incredibly difficult one for me? As in, BEFORE listening to this women flaunt her twin "superpowers"?

Just ask my husband.

He’s the one who found me sitting on the floor of the nursery, sobbing hysterically, rocking back and forth, clutching a pink teddy bear in one arm and a blue teddy bear in the other.

He's been gone longer than he was here.

How the hell can it be that this little person who I think about the first thing when I wake up in the morning and the last thing before I lay my head down at night has been GONE longer than he was HERE? For weeks, it's been this way. But I haven't written about it. I still don't think I should, but here I am. I don't have much to say about it, but I can't post about anything else without at least documenting this simple fact. This very simple fact that my adult brain is struggling with so. I can't believe he's been gone that long. In the early weeks, the thought comforted me, that soon we would hit this milestone and something would lift somehow. Now that it's here, it's not comforting, it's excruciating. I don't want to be this far away from him. I want my son. I want him back. How could someone who is such a big part of who I am be gone longer than he was ever here? I'm beyond sad. I know I'm not saying anything new, but the 9 month mark has really taken its toll. I've reached new lows. It's like I feel the anger, but it's buried so deep it won't surface, it can't surface, so it just builds quietly behind my smiles. I'm a robot going through the motions with a subtle hope lingering that one day I will be glad that I kept going through the motions when all I want to do is literally give up. On everything. Nothing makes sense anymore, and I question every single decision I've ever made - not just during my pregnancy but my entire life. So that is where my mind is at - wondering who the hell I am, how I got here, and whether or not this is where I should be. Maybe I was meant to be living an entirely different life. Right now, I'd take it. In a heartbeat. I can't stand myself or this reality. And if there is no "plan", and thus no way I could be "meant" to be living a different life, well I want one anyway, because this is just too freaking painful and I am a shell of a person. And I am having trouble, what with how chaotic and scary and random life seems to be, with seeing anything that's not directly in front of my face, with seeing anything in terms of long term. What's the point in believing in anything? What's the point in having any goals? If we have no control anyway why even bother? If we could get hit by a bus tomorrow why the hell watch what we eat today? What's the point in ever doing anything good or moral or ethical? People drink and do drugs and pop out healthy full term babies so they can go on to beat them or neglect them, while countless others endure multiple losses of perfectly healthy babies that they loved and wanted with everything in them. I can't believe I didn't see the lack of balance and symmetry in the world, but now that it's in my face, in full view, I can never go back to feeling loved and safe and protected. I don't know if I will ever trust anyone ever again. I put my faith and trust in many different places - in God, in my family, in my husband, in myself, and in my doctors - and nobody could make sure I brought home my two perfect babies with me. It's the worst betrayal, to trust others with something as precious as your children, and to have them die. How the hell did this happen. How the hell did this happen. How the hell did this happen. I can't even bring myself to type question marks, that's how robotic I've become. I can't bring myself to sob and scream these questions, they just play on a permanent loop in my head in the background like horrible elevator music. So here I am. Typing, typing, typing. Going through the motions. Because they tell me one foot in front of the other, one day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time, one second at a time. But I don't know if I can trust anybody anymore, so how do I know they are telling me the truth when they say it will be worth it to get through the days a second at a time? And even if I do survive this, who the hell will I be when I come out on the other side?

Waves of grief, expected, unexpected, accidental, and self-inflicted.

So, overall, things in my life have been improving. My husband and I have had some recent epiphanies about ourselves and our marriage, and I truly think if we both put forth the effort to fix things, we will be fine. More than fine, because if we can get through this, then we can get through anything. Right?

So I’ve been feeling hopeful for the future, and I’ve been feeling good. I’ve even had moments of what I suppose they would call “acceptance” of what happened and of our reality. (?!?!)

However, yesterday I had what I would call an intense wave of grief that came on, but thankfully lifted within a relatively short period of time. I wanted to share it so that those of you who feel intense grief most of the day may have hope that some day you will have days that are mostly good but with a wave of sadness mixed in.

So I met my friend M and my sister-in-law A at Panera for lunch, which was great. I had some fleeting moments of sadness, like when I said, “We’re outnumbered” counting the kids and the adults, as my friend and I both had our daughters there and my SIL had her two girls there with her. I thought to myself, Every day I should be the one outnumbered. I should be at home with my two babies. And here, we should be outnumbered by even one more. Then, I looked over to see M and A’s girls (both two years old) jumping on the booth together and having fun, and my grief wave grew a little taller when I thought about how Evy will have to jump on the booth by herself when she’s two. How she won’t have Elias holding her hand to walk through life. How even if we have another child or children, she will still be lonely. Even if the “twin bond” thing isn’t real for all twins, even if it's usually something twins impose on themselves to feel even more “special”, and thus something she won’t “miss”, she will still be lonely, because she won’t have her same aged sibling to move through each milestone with.

It was rough, and it sucked, and it made me wish I could be M or A and not feel the pain I was feeling, obviously. It made me wish I could just eat lunch at Panera and enjoy the company of my daughter and friends.

After lunch, we went to Carter’s. I glanced over at the boy’s section and thought, “Nope, you’re not making me upset. Screw you, boy’s section.” Obviously there will be boy’s clothes at a clothing store for babies, and I know that, and I decide to not let it bother me, as obviously there will be baby boys being born and without them the future of our population would be gravely endangered.

I went immediately to the girl’s section and glanced around, feeling so grateful that I am a mother to a living child and can buy cute clothes for my little girl. (This reminds me of a rant I have for later…A Babies R Us rant…I’ll save it for now.) So I walked around looking at all the clothes, and chose very selectively, as money is a bit tight. I decided to try and find a rainbow onesie for my IRL BLM friend who is having a baby girl any day now (in April 2010 she lost her fullterm baby girl to a placental abruption). I walked all around the girls’ section, all the way to the back and then to the front, and I couldn’t find anything. Disappointed, and some irrational thoughts creeping, like “Us BLMs always get the short end of the stick, why can’t there just be the perfect onesie just waiting for me to buy it for this woman who absolutely deserves the perfect gift?” I went to go find my friend M and my SIL A.

Except there were customers literally standing everywhere I went to turn. I tried going this way and that way, until I was FORCED to walk THROUGH the boy’s section.

Are you for real?

Yup, the Universe hates us BLMs.

I managed to walk through staying calm, but of course in the back of my mind wondered if I would ever have a boy of my own to shop for (although I do realize girl’s clothes are way more fun to buy). I got to the clearance bin and started sifting through, and I found onesie after onesie that said “Grandpa’s buddy” and “Grandpa’s little slugger”, and it literally felt like knives going into my chest.

Flash back to the early weeks after we came home from the hospital and the day we decided to go through Elias’s things. My MIL had packed up his portion of the nursery (with our permission, of course), because we wanted our “homecoming” with Evelyn to be focused on her. Well. Going through his things wasn’t really too emotional for me, because let’s face it – he hadn’t USED any of those things. Plus, I was already a wreck, so how could it be any worse? Sorting through his things left me feeling angry, ripped off, robbed.
We decided to keep some clothing for a potential future son (it felt comforting in a way), and donate some of the other things to a store that raises money for cancer research (not any relation to our loss, but a good cause no less). The “Grandpa’s buddy” onesie someone had purchased for our boy about broke me in half when I came across it. I literally lost it.

The unfairness that my father will never get to hang out with his grandson still breaks my heart every single day. My dad was so proactive during my pregnancy. As my appointments became frequent and I was on bedrest, my father drove me to my weekly (and sometimes bi-weekly) ultrasounds. He was there every step of the way and bonded with those babies more than any other family member. He was the worrier, and even when doctors said things looked normal, he thought something was really wrong. It kills me, to this day. To think that my father spent the last days of Elias’s life pacing his home worrying about his grandson, and he was right. Elias needed saving. But none of us knew that. None of us really knew that. If we’d known that, we would have gone to the hospital. If he’d known that, he’d have done more than just pace. Of course none of us knew. We worried, but I’m sure there are countless families who worry or feel that something is wrong and everything turns out perfect.
Just not this time, but that doesn't mean anything.
I hope in my heart of hearts that my dad doesn’t blame himself for anything. One day we talked about it, and he told me that he doesn’t feel guilty, and that I shouldn’t either, because we did what we were supposed to do which was get things checked out. Even if we had begged for a c-section, which would have been irrational at the time considering the nurses said the tests were all within normal ranges, it wasn’t our decision to make. We weren’t the doctors. We weren’t in control. I could tell he meant it, and I was relieved that he wasn’t wrapped up in guilt. Anger, yes, but not guilt. I wonder if I will ever get to that point. I still feel like maybe I chose the wrong doctors, and that's why my son died, so it must be my fault because I chose them...but then we consult with others who say they would have made the same decisions based on the data. And at the end of the day I know my OB went above and beyond for me during the course of my pregnancy. If I had chosen different doctors, what are the chances they would have seen something wrong or guessed that I would be experiencing a one in five thousand pregnancy complication? And even yet, what are the chances we would have brought him home after the fact?

F*CK, the cards were stacked against my boy from every direction, weren't they?

I have tried to help my dad with his anger by explaining how fast FMH is and that either the doctors were right that everything was okay at that point or they were wrong, and a c-section might have meant he would have been born alive but with a massive bleed wouldn’t have likely survived. What we don’t know and will never know is if the bleed was happening at that point, how much blood had been lost at that point in time? Just impossible to know. But if it was acute and massive, as it was described to be, and as all the evidence points to, then I have to believe our end result would have been the same. The heartbreaking thing is to imagine that things may have been fine, and if they had done an emergency csection he likely would have been fine, but then why would they do an emergency csection at 36.5 weeks without an emergency being present? Why would they put me through major surgery with many risks without having a clear reason to do so? This is the fight inside my head of rational versus irrational thinking.

And all the woulda coulda shouldas are quieted for the most part when I pick apart rational from irrational. But oh, this battle is messy and painful.

I still get sad when I see my father. I love him so much that it hurts, and when I look at him and think of how this impacted him, it kills me. For awhile, it was really impacting our relationship. I felt I had failed him. I still do sometimes. I want nothing but happiness for my amazing parents, and I am so glad that they find such joy in Evelyn, because at least I know I did something right. See? There I go again, clearly still blaming myself. I fear I will always feel that sense of failure in that my son isn’t here, that he isn’t napping upstairs with his sister like he should be.

So Carter's basically sucked, and that's why. That stupid clearance bin full of triggers.

Today, because I apparently like to torture myself, I visited the “December 2010 twins” club on Babycenter. I felt like I wanted to see how my old “friends” were doing, the women who I’d connected with for all those weeks while we all feared preterm labor and whether we were eating enough, what we would name our twins, should their names rhyme or start with the same letter or not, should we dress them similar or not, what kind of sleeping arrangements and childcare we would get for two, and what impact multiples were already having on our marriage even before their arrival outside of the womb.

Mistake.

Those women, although wonderful and lovely people, weren’t really my friends. They were just ladies who were scared sh*tless like me. And now, they’re on one path, and I’m on another. A few of the women had left the group after miscarrying one or both of their twins. One had left the group when at her 20 week anatomy scan she discovered her boys had both died after tangling in their cords. I don’t know where those women went, but why would they return? And similarly, why should I? I made one real friend in that group, a woman who lost her girl a week or so after birth, and I still talk to her on loss forums. So really, why should I “check in” on the rest of them? I admit I was curious about whether they were still posting there, and I wondered what their babies looked like. And yes, they were still posting, and why wouldn’t they be? They need each other; they need others who “get it”, as I said before that moms of multiples is a subculture and support group in and of itself. I didn’t stay long but saw posts about napping, schedules, feedings, upcoming birthdays. I thought, “must be nice to have THAT be what you’re worried about instead of dealing with this New Normal.”

I remembered many moms whose pregnancies seemed so easy compared to mine. I remembered that while I was on bedrest for Halloween 2010, many of them were painting their tummies for the occasion and handing out candy. I had been so resentful at the time, and here I am. Nothing has changed. I am still resentful. I get to be the one who had a rough pregnancy that impacted many of my relationships as well as my self-esteem, and I get to be the one to lose one of my twins to something completely unrelated to my complications, something I had never even heard of despite the countless hours I spent reading up on potential complications, while they breezed through their pregnancies and painted their tummies like big ol’ pumpkins to be ooohed and ahhhed at, and most importantly got to bring home two healthy living babies.

I clicked on one profile and saw a photo of b/g twins sitting in a wagon on the 4th of July, and the tears came so easily. In fact, I was sobbing. The girl had an adorable dress with stars on it, and the boy sported red/white/blue plaid. He had his hand clutching her dress, and for some reason that killed me. I cried so hard and so loud that I can’t believe my daughter didn’t wake up from her nap. I looked at the ceiling through my tears and cried, “Why did you have to leave us?! Why couldn’t you just stay?! We need you here with us, Elias. I need you here to be a big brother to your sister and hold her hand through life. I need you to protect her and watch over her. Your sister needs you here!!!”

And I allowed myself to just be sad, devastated, for her. For her loss. To entertain the notion that she may feel broken not having him here, even though I hope with everything in me that she doesn’t, that she feels whole.

I don’t believe in the guardian angel thing, but in my own way, I do hope he is still looking out for his sister, watching out for her, making sure good things happen for her.

My sweet boy Elias.
My forever baby, my son.

The empty spot on the couch next to her.

When people see my daughter, they often immediately oooh and ahhhh over how blue her eyes are. Lately, instead of just being happy at this compliment, I find myself angry that I don't know what color Elias's eyes were. I find myself angry that Elias isn't here, because HE should be oooh'ed and ahhh'ed over. I see photos of my daughter with her two girl cousins, and I just think, there should be a baby boy in this photo. My baby boy. I look at the spot next to my girl and see where he should be sitting, and I wonder why the hell he couldn't stay with us. And I wonder if my daughter will always feel like somebody's missing. For a while I was doing pretty good with keeping everything separate / compartmentalized, but lately everything just runs together. I'm having a lot of trouble finding any joy in compliments or nice photos, because I am so fixated on how things should be instead of enjoying what is. I guess this is just a low point, but right now it feels like this is my life, like the rest of my life is just going to feel like torture. It is agonizing to have to go on without someone you love so f*cking much. My heart is just so heavy. I still find myself taking in a deep breath and thinking, oh my God, I can't believe this happened to us. It's been 8 months, and I still just can't freaking believe it. I spent my entire pregnancy taking it easy, drinking gallons of water, eating the best I could, following doctors' orders, getting extra ultrasounds, taking prenatals religiously, resting up, and trying to stay positive during a time that for me was pretty terrifying. I literally put everything on hold and focused on being a twin mama. (I can't stand women who say pregnancy for them is so easy they forget they're pregnant - there's NO forgetting when you are pregnant after a loss, and with twins no less!). How the hell does this happen? I still don't understand how I could have so much monitoring and take so many precautions only to lose my son. It's like the cruelest joke in the world was played on me. Does anyone else feel that way? I also feel like I ruined my marriage (we are very distant) and my parents' happiness with my simple desire for children. I broke everybody's hearts. How can I ever forgive myself for bringing so much pain to everybody I love? I feel like my life is just ruined and this world would be better if I'd never been born. The day my son died, he took my heart with him, and there's just this gaping void left. It hurts so bad it has this vacuum effect that makes it hard to breathe.

Can I just go crawl under a rock for awhile?

I know you guys are sick of hearing about it. But literally thousands of twins are in the area for the Twins Days festival this weekend. You know what I have to say about that? Why the hell do I have to live right by the town that hosts this?!?! Any more sick, twisted, cruel ironies anyone would like to throw at our loss situation?! F...M...L.

I just don't belong anywhere.

Warning: This is like three posts in one. If you get to the bottom, I am sorry to say that there will be no cookie. And you may even dislike me for what I have to say or think I am crazy or even find offense to my thoughts, but that is a risk I have to take, because this is where I go to vent and spew my thoughts so that I don't explode in the "real world".

This blog stuff is tricky. Often I want to write here, but I have so much anxiety about putting it “out there” for potentially the entire world to see. (Not that the entire world is actually looking or gives a sh*t.) I wasn't sure where this anxiety originated, until I thought about it for a while. I realized that I feel like I would write so much more if I’d simply lost a singleton pregnancy, honestly. I’d feel much more like part of “the club”. The dreaded “dead baby club” (or DBC), as many in the loss community call it.

My son died. I have every right to be here writing about him. I have every right to grieve him. I am a broken person. Yet I feel like many BLM choose to not follow my blog (possibly) because they don’t want to read about my living daughter. Just as they may not want to read other BLM blogs who have living children from previous pregnancies. Maybe I trigger their pain. Maybe that’s why sometimes I send a BLM a friend request via FB, and it just sits there. They don’t want to see photos of my infant daughter.

I get it, but it is still incredibly and painfully isolating to feel shunned at times by the BLM community.

What I want other BLM to understand is that yes, I still brought a baby home from the hospital. However, that does not mean I'm okay, that I don't need their support, that I'm going to be "over it" more quickly, or that my pain is any less. It is surely a different experience, but not better, not worse. I'd like to think my voice in this community still deserves to be heard, even though I brought a baby home with me.

You may think that I would find comfort in bonding with other mothers who have lost only one twin. And sometimes, yes, I do. Other times, I just feel more alone when I can't relate to what they are saying or vice versa. I wish more of the women I have "met" would blog about the loss of a 3rd trimester or full-term healthy twin, but they don't for whatever reason, and I must respect that. However, I'd be lying if I said that doesn't amplify my feelings of isolation, as there are limited blogs for me to read that reflect my experience. We chat on FB and communicate via forums, which I find incredibly helpful, but I need blogs. If more women who suffered a full-term loss of one or both twins put themselves out there, then perhaps future twinlostmamas coming home with less than two babies from the hospital wouldn't feel so freakish and alone. (I say that to include mamas who have lost one or both.)

* * * * * * * * *

I posted about grief-induced manic-depression and feel that calls for some sort of explanation but am not sure how to convey it here. A stillbirth and a live birth within three minutes. Just try, try, try to imagine that. I know, it’s impossible. I still can’t imagine it, and I lived it. I’ve said before it was the best and the worst day of my life.
I’ve heard other mothers who have lost one twin or triplet say that they felt numb, that the pain and the joy kind of cancelled each other out.
I did not experience numbness. If I ever said I did or blogged that I did, I take it back. This is one of the ways I feel so different than others in my kind of situation.
I experienced extremes, and those extremes continue on a daily basis. That is the polar opposite of feeling nothing.
As a result, I compartmentalize. I put my pain over here, and my joy over there.

And THAT, my friends, is why I feel manic depressive.

I’m forever in this in-between place, stuck grieving my son while celebrating my daughter. To solely focus on one at the expense of the other would be so incredibly unfair to myself and to them. I must juggle, and in that respect I truly still am a parent of twins, even today as I type this.

* * * * * * * * *

You will probably think this next section stems from my bitterness at what happened to me or think I am denial about what I truly lost. Go ahead and think away. You might be right, but I don't think so. Parenting twins from what I’ve heard from countless mothers is largely a big juggling act. Many twin moms say they never feel they are doing a good enough job. There is this nagging feeling of failure. Any time both babies are crying, they can only comfort one. They have enough love in their hearts for two, as any parent with more than one child does, but they can’t focus on more than one baby at once, and with twins their milestones are in sync and so there is always one baby taking a back seat to the other with any step. The moms express feeling more bonded to the “good” baby, and there’s horrible guilt that ensues from that. Basically, the gist of it is they feel perpetual dissatisfaction at never being a good enough parent to both twins.

It’s the truth of parenting multiples that these moms only discuss with other women in the “twin club” (as outsiders may simply judge them or say they are taking things for granted or throwing a pity party), and I was exposed to all of that for my entire pregnancy. It never diminished the love I felt so intensely for both of my sweet babies. It never made me wish I was only pregnant with one baby. But what I want to emphasize is that most people outside of that community have a hard time “getting it” because they don’t see the whole picture (or haven't really thought about it, haven't heard about it or been exposed to it). The real deal, where you learn what it’s really like from everyday moms, not the romanticized version you see and hear about with celebrity’s twins who have several nannies taking care of them, the matchy matchy clothes, coordinating Halloween costumes, and weekend-long festivals dedicated to twin status.

Society definitely puts it up on a pedestal, but ask any OB, and they will tell you that the womb was not designed to carry more than one baby. Carrying more than one is not what’s best for your child(ren), so no…It’s not a jackpot to land twins or triplets. I don't know where that idea originates. Obviously being able to get pregnant at all is an absolute blessing, but it just stings when people put the twin thing up there as the most "perfect blessing". (I'll admit it; I felt "special" too...Until my son died. Now I will NEVER build a woman up solely on account of her pregnancy - whether it's one or two or six babies, pregnancy is nothing you should say makes someone "special", nor is their pregnancy something you should be "proud" of them for. I'm actual in therapy partially due to people building up my self esteem through my pregnancy and consequent feelings of failure and lack of "specialness" now). Let's stop the hype, people. Twins are cute, fine. But this "perfect blessing from above" means higher risks all the way through the pregnancy, and many times a constant feeling of inadequacy during or after pregnancy (or both). A feeling of so busy you don’t get to stop and soak up their infancy (I hear). People constantly referring to your children as “the twins” with little regard to their names or individualities. Unwelcome attention and ridiculous questions from strangers. For many moms, their twins may be their only pregnancy (as I had figured mine would be, which is a topic for another day), and they find the time flies by so fast with multiple babies that they didn’t have time to breathe, didn’t have time to keep their own sense of identity intact, didn’t have time to stay connected to their husband, etc. I remember on the twin forums reading about the high rates of divorce after twins, and it terrified me. That the loss of identity outside of being a mother to twins was a very real phenomenon. That countless moms posted about having no friends in addition to their lack of identity.

Now, I have to worry about my marriage on account of having lost a child, not because we have twins. Now, I have to worry about my loss of identity because I may solely become "the woman who lost a son", not because my identity is simply twin mom. I've never heard a story with more irony than mine, and it's never a funny irony but one that sinks my heart.

Why I am writing all of this here I don’t really know. I can think of a few possible reasons.

First, maybe I want to “look on the bright side” or find that "silver lining" to my situation, as many babylostmamas tend to try and do (although I’d give anything to have my son back and would suffer those hardships for his sake in a heartbeat because I already loved him from the day I knew about him!).

Or, maybe I want to just put people in check who sit there and idealize the twin thing, because let's face it - it does far more harm than good, regardless of whether the twins survive or not. (And it's a lie anyway.) If one or both of the twins die, you are setting the family up to feel they have even more to grieve; you are making the loss more massive than it already is. And if both babies do survive, their reality won't likely live up to how much you've built it up for them, which (I'm guessing here) could only add to the feelings of inadequacy that many twin mamas already experience.

Another possibility - maybe I want to help other mothers who have lost one twin to “let go” of the twin fantasy.

Maybe I need to let go of that fantasy myself, as I will admit that I am still grieving the loss of my “twins”. I still struggle every day to not obsess over the fact that I should have twins here to snuggle and raise. I have to stop myself from thinking about how perfect it would all be. Again with the romanticizing. I am guilty as charged.

Maybe it's a little of all of these combined, but more so, I think the reason is this:
I am just angry as hell, because I will always feel like if my son and daughter were conceived during separate pregnancies, then I may have been able to avoid this pain. I'd rather them just both be here, alive, than have carried that special twin "status". All of our issues were related to the twin thing. Even though my OB says this wasn't twin-related, I have done my research. Placental issues are more common with twins. Stillbirths are more common with twins. My daughter being small for gestational age is because she had to share my womb. ALL of my pregnancy issues were related to it being twins. The excessive vomiting, GERD, preterm labor, bedrest, and in my non-medical opinion possibly our loss. So when I hear people idealize it, I just want to freaking PUKE. Especially when they know my story and shouldn't be so seemingly ignorant. Especially when they are babylostmamas.

I also find myself thinking a lot lately about what that means – to be a twin, to have a twin, etc. How much of it is real and how much of it is imagined? Is there anything to it beside being born at the same time? Women in the loss community (who have living twins) tell me that in all honesty their twins are no more bonded to each other than they are to their singleton children. They love their twins, just as they love all of their children, but confirm that the picture they had painted in their minds during pregnancy (about what it would be like to have twins) is mostly a lie that society perpetuates. That there is no secret language shared by twins, that it may or may not exist for any two siblings, that having a set of twins doesn't make the family have this perfect balance.

There was a study in which researchers interviewed different twin types and asked them to pick who they would save if they could only save one person on the earth (I forget the actual wording of it or where the hell I saw this…), and most identical twins wanted to save their twin first, while fraternals were much less likely to give that response. Fraternal boy girl twins were in fact found to be least likely to respond that they would save their twin (most of them said both parents first). The studies showed b/g twins to be the least bonded of all the twin types. All of these things help me sort through what is real and what I may have built up in my mind. Or what others built up in my mind about the “perfect family” I was creating. I don’t know what it would really be like, because Elias is not here with us, so I try not to stay stuck in that place of imaginings. I assume that many women with boy girl twins are told millions of times “One of each, ooohhhhh, how perfect!” only to see their fairy tale ending isn’t reality, one way or another.

And I will not sit here and accept that my daughter will forever feel something missing, because that is just BULL and diminishes her being her own full healthy whole person.

* * * * * * * * *

At the end of the day, I have shifted from the twin club to the DBC.
And you know what? I still very much feel that I am parenting twins.
In much different ways, obviously, and I’ve written about that before, but I’m still trying to wrap my head around this.
I struggle between feeling like I am never grieving my son right or raising my daughter right due to one twin pulling me away from the other.
When I am sad I feel like a crappy mother to Evelyn, and when I am happy I feel horrible that my son isn’t around to enjoy it with me.
I feel society is judging me for the way I parent each of my children.
Many people judge me for even surviving this, “Oh I would just die!” while others judge me for being sad, "Oh you should just enjoy your new daughter! This time goes soooo fast; just ENJOY!!!"

And I feel that women in both of these clubs don't truly accept my membership, either, and want me to give my card back.

I.can’t.freaking.win. My life is a constant juggling act. This feeling? Sounds a hell of a lot like what those mothers to living twins express. Yet I can't go on a twin forum and vent about it, because I would just be that "horror story", even though I'm not. I'm a human being, not a horror story.

I feel I still deserve my “mother to twins” card, even though only one of my twins is here with me physically, even though other twin moms would probably disagree and say I don’t have it because I only have one child to diaper, bathe, and feed. My heart is constantly being ripped in two, as part of it stays here while another part of it wants to journey afar to find my beloved Elias. I am being pulled apart by the seams, and many mothers to twins (the ones who will tell you the real deal) say that that’s what it feels like to have two babies the same age. I’d obviously rather be in their position than mine, even with their complaints, and I will forever miss that opportunity to have my own twins, but it’s such a strange feeling to try to “let go” of the twin thing (and fully acknowledge that it is a fantasy largely not rooted in reality), while still feeling that I am very much a mother to twins in many aspects of the word.

I always feel like I am and am not something at the very same time. One foot in the twin club with the other foot in the DBC.

The loss of my son, the loss of "twins", the feeling of failure, the insecurities about my marriage, the fear that I will be incapable of doing my job due to my grief - those things have me feeling lower than low. One little thing can set me off. All it takes is the wrong comment from my husband to trigger my insecurities, and I spiral down. Friends around me are starting new marriages while I watch mine seemingly fall apart. I watch women flaunt their twins (or even triplets, which to me just seems like a cruel cosmic joke) out in public, and I feel toyed with. My entire day could be ruined just by a glimpse of a double stroller, and half the time they aren't even twins, but I imagine they are.

Am I still holding on to the twin fantasy? Maybe. Or maybe I just miss my son, and I want my double stroller back, because I wouldn't have had to return it if he'd lived.

Then my daughter smiles at me and cackles, and I feel on top of the freaking world again. I had convinced myself that I would never birth a living child (after my traumatic miscarriage), and so when I look at her and how amazing she is, an incredible feeling grips me. I think about how lucky we are to even have her, as I know how fragile life is. I think about women who lost both twins at term or women who will never have the experience of carrying their own baby ever, and I think okay, this isn't so bad. I think if I can learn to live without my son somehow, then I must be this invincible person with a strength I never knew existed in me. I think, what's the point in ever worrying or stressing over things in life when nothing is truly in our power? And that is so freeing to me. I think about how Elias would want me to live fully and be happy, so I have little tolerance for minor complaints and for a lack of spontaneity. My son has changed me so deeply, and most days I feel that he has changed me for the better. I look at my husband snuggling with my daughter, and my heart just melts. I am overwhelmed by how lucky I am to have them both here and our son waiting for us when it's our time. I fall in love with my husband all over again and think about how solid we are to have sustained this horrible pain. It seems our relationship is shatterproof. I realize we have been together for over a decade, and my insecurities fade (only to return when I am having a bad day, of course, and then I wonder with how much I have changed, are we still compatible? Will this still work?)

I feel more alive than I ever have in my entire life, but my son is dead. That is the single most confusing point to me.

My sister once told me, "I imagine things now will forever be shades of gray to you."

I thought for a few minutes, and said, "No, it's more like when I'm missing him, it hurts more than anything I ever imagined in my entire life, and I feel like I'm going to break in half from the pain. I feel it fully, and then I put it away for a while and try to honor him by enjoying the life I have left. On good days, it actually seems there are fewer shades of gray, and colors shine more vibrantly than ever before."

What I don't know is whether that vibrancy comes from my son or my daughter, and I hate not knowing myself anymore.

I hate not being able to trace the raindrops that form a puddle back to the clouds from where they fell.

Is there such a thing...

...as grief-induced bipolar disorder? Not.even.kidding. This is a real question.

Awkward Neighborly Conversations

Neighborhood graduation party.

So there I am just minding my own biz (but trying to be polite and conversational, if that’s even a word). So far so good, party’s going okay, I’m not upset, I don’t feel weird or abnormal amongst throngs of people who simply don’t know the pain I’ve endured. Well, most of them know. They just don’t know; they haven’t been through it. A man in his fifties who happens to have three sons looks over at a man in his thirties who has two daughters and a son. He says, “So you had to try for the boy, huh?”

The guy responds, “Yeah I guess you could say that!” (I’m suddenly wondering how their daughters felt hearing that one…)

So fifties guy responds, “Well we ended up with all boys, all three!” and then looks over at me.

I’m thinking, Don’t you even f*cking go there. Don’t you dare ask me if we’re going to try for a boy. We have a boy, and his name is Elias.

He says, “So when are you going to try for another?”

*Whew*.

Also, *whew* that he didn’t say, “When are you going to try for #2”, because I would have had to correct him.

I’m sitting there holding my seven month old daughter wondering why this guy is asking such a bold personal question, a question I might expect from a girlfriend my age when we’re out for ladies’ night after a few too many drinks. A question I might expect from someone on a loss forum who wants a trying-to-conceive buddy or a support system for a subsequent pregnancy.

A man in his fifties who I’ve never had a real conversation with before? Did he just run out of things to talk about?!

So I simply respond with a canned answer that we aren’t quite ready yet, that I just want to focus on my daughter for now, that my career is going to be more challenging this year and will require a lot more of my attention. You know, the surface reasons.

Does it not occur to him that I am heartbroken over the loss of our son? That this conversation is actually painful? That I am terrified at the possibility of losing another? That pregnancy for me is absolutely anxiety-ridden, and that I may have developed PTSD or depression after my loss?

Oh I expect way too much of people, apparently.

He says, “Well, we managed to have three boys in just four years. Bam, bam, bam, just like that! That’s the way to do it!”

Oh, you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? Let me pull out my pen and paper and start taking notes, oh wise one!

The lady at the other end of the table pipes in, “Well mine are ten years apart…” and doesn’t say anything else, but she says it in a somewhat frustrated tone. She picks up her glass of wine and sips at it, staring off. Her expression looks faraway, and I can tell there’s a story there.

So I look at her and say, “Yeah, sometimes things just don’t work out the way you plan,” lifting my eyebrows a bit and pursing my lips as if to communicate in a subtle way to this fifties man that it’s about time he shuts his mouth and stop acting like such a knowitall. She looks at me and nods, and both of us wonder about each other’s story.

What I really wanted to do was address this fifties man and say, Wow, three boys in just four years? What about I already have three babies in a span of one and a half years? I may have miscarried one and lost another, but I still conceived THREE BABIES. Two of them I carried for eight and a half months, but they still both count, don’t they? Or is my daughter here in my arms the only one who counts? I admit that I don’t always recognize my miscarried baby when speaking of children, and not everyone knows about that anyway, but seriously? I just had TWINS, and my son’s obituary was in the newspaper; he was REAL. In fact, you so generously contributed to a gift certificate so that we could purchase a tree in honor of our son; why you feel this line of conversation is appropriate completely blows my freaking mind..

Does it not occur to this man that I don’t want to hear about some family trying for a boy? That I just lost my son seven short months ago, that my heart is still shattered, that my arms ache to hold a precious living boy of my own? Literally ACHE. All of me aches for another. I know that no future baby, regardless of gender, will ever fill Elias’s spot. He holds a special piece of my heart and will forever. But oh my do I want the experience of raising my own boy. So much that as I type these words, the tears pour so easily thinking I may never have that opportunity. The tears pour so easily feeling like I am betraying my son by wanting another. The tears pour so easily wondering if my daughter feels like she isn’t good enough that I still pine for a living boy of my own.

I love my girl, and I know that if I had lost her instead, I would be writing a similar post about longing for a daughter of my own.

What kills me is that we almost had it all. We were going to have our entire family done in just one pregnancy. One and done. My husband wanted one child; I wanted two. But as soon as we found out it was twins, we were both in love (after the initial shock, of course!). Then we were over the moon when we found out we were having one of each. It literally felt like Christmas morning times a thousand. One boy, one girl. Perfect. PERFECT.

How the hell did we come so close to having our full term precious twins?
How the hell did we come so very close to having everything I’ve ever wanted, ever dreamed of?
How could we come so f*cking close only to have our dreams shattered, just like that?
How do we endure this pain?
How do we ever venture to dream of another living child at all much less dream of a particular gender?
How do I go forward in a world so cruel as to present me with everything I ever wanted only to snatch it away at the very last minute?

We almost had it all.
We almost had it all.
We almost had it all.

Every time I think that, speak that, type that, there’s a knife in my heart that twists and turns and makes me feel like I’m going to pass out from the pain.

Maybe I should refrain from attending neighborhood gatherings.