Therapist #1

The first one we saw wasn’t entirely horrible. She was able to bring me down from thinking a few irrational things concerning our loss. But that really wasn’t her focus. She was a grief counselor, and she specialized in pregnancy issues and loss. I know many women who love her, and I mean no disrespect, but she mostly just told me, “Everything you’re thinking and feeling is just SO normal.” She thought I maybe needed to come back once or twice tops. It made me feel worse, because I just kept thinking, THIS is normal? Feeling THIS HORRIBLE is normal?! Forever?!

I was only a few weeks out, so I was very much still in shock. I couldn't believe she so readily assessed my condition to be such that I didn't need more than a handful of sessions. Hell, over a year and a half out, I still feel I am trying to process everything. All of it. The miscarriage, the twin pregnancy, the scares, the bedrest, and then the stillbirth and live birth right at the finish line. How the hell, three weeks after the "conclusion" of such life-altering events, could anyone tell how I was really doing?! Even today, half the time, I don't know how I'm doing.

I will admit that it was a relief to visit someone who wanted me to talk about things, as so many people either avoided me entirely or just tried to distract me or tell me "you have to move forward somehow" when, again, I still was waiting to wake up from the nightmare that had become my life.

What I didn't like about this grief counselor was that she did not try to refute or dispute much of what I said but simply reassured me of my normalcy. I wanted to say, Look, lady, this may all be normal, but I'm damn tired of it! At one point I told her I felt like for the rest of my life, at every social gathering or party I would ever attend, everyone would just look at me with pity. That the party would suddenly become less fun because I was there, that everyone would feel sorry for me, that people would like me less because I'm a constant reminder of how horrible things can happen to good people.

Her response? That very well might be true, and people might think that. But you can't let that bother you.

Not really sure what her angle was there, but really, she should have refuted some of that. She should have reassured me that this was not my entire identity, that I would need to find people who saw me for more than my losses, that this really isn't a life sentence of misery. I'll admit that there are days where it feels that way. But just because it feels that way doesn't make it true. I've got a long life ahead of me. I'm only thirty years old. Any counselor who allows me to believe I will forever be the fun police, forever be a reminder of dead babies to anyone I ever meet, forever be only worth pitying? Really needs to re-evaluate her methods, at best.

Unfortunately, It Wasn't a Rhetorical Question

For those of you wondering about my last post (where I asked "Is it EVER appropriate to tell someone who has lost a child to GET OVER IT"?), YES, this was said to me.  If you want to get technical, it wasn't said to my face but to others who let me know about it.  I just don't even know what to say anymore.  Honestly.  I feel myself pulling back, pulling away, avoding people, because I can not BELIEVE how judged I am.  Do people think I wanted this life?  Do people think I enjoy missing my son every day for the rest of my life?  God knows I never wanted this, that I prayed for my children every single day several times a day of my pregnancy.  This life is my worst nightmare, but it's the only one I have, so I have to figure it out, don't I?  I can't believe losing him wasn't enough, that I have to lose friends too, friends who won't take the time to talk to ME but judge me with no understanding of what I've been through.  Neither of these people have children of their own.  So they don't know what it's like to parent much less lose a child.  I look at how I live my life compared with how I expected things to turn out after losing my son, and I have to say I think I'm doing one hell of a job keeping my sh*t together.  I work a full time job, keep a very active social calendar, spend time with my parents and sister weekly, try new recipes about twice a week, blog every once in a while, and check in every now and then on a loss forum I help run on FB as co-administrator.  All while raising my daughter and missing my son simultaneously.  On FB I also make and post remembrance images for my close friends who have lost a child or children.  Yes, I go to counseling, but that is something I have needed to do long before my loss.  Of the two who have completely been judgy toward me, ONE is someone I trusted and shared a lot of my grief process with.  Which hurts, because I would never have opened my mouth had I known the judgment that was forming in her mind.  The other friend, I literally have NEVER ONCE talked to about my grief.  When he's around, I never mention my son, and he's never asked me ONCE how I am doing, so it never came up.  So how the hell does he get off telling multiple people I need to GET OVER IT already (apparently he started saying this when I was only six months out).  You'd think that I lit a candle anytime someone came to the house and demanded they say a prayer for my son or something.  That I live on the couch, dressed in all black, blasting Portishead and carving my son's name into my wrist with a butcher knife.  I mean seriously, what am I doing that screams "not dealing well"?!  If people are going to make this sort of judgment simply by my posting a few remembrance images on FB or because I have a shelf in my home displaying some gifts people have given us in honor of our son, then THEY are the ones who need to get their heads examined.  I did not just have a bad day.  I lost my child.  I will never get over him.  He will always be a part of our family.  Anyone who wants to judge me for simply loving and missing my child has absolutely no place in my life.  Anyone who thinks I am morbid for trying to help others through the difficult days by making and sharing a picture of a flower with a name and date on it to honor their baby is just cold and selfish.  It takes a few minutes of my time, and many of the women I've done this for have said it made their day, that they wanted to print it for their memory books, or even frame them in their homes.  Do people not understand that you have to be in a certain place yourself in your own healing to even be in a spot to try and help others?  I'm sorry to say that the losses of these friendships feel like betrayals far beyond any others I've ever experienced (as far as friendships go).  They just hurt so deep to my core.  I have been trying to stay strong and say "Good riddance", because that is the truth of it from a rational standpoint, but I have to be honest and just say that my heart hurts.  And I'm really starting to slip and struggle here, whereas before I WAS doing okay.  I look at other failed friendships and the drama leading up to their demise is so trivial and pales in comparison with this, so much that I'd be willing to mend any prior failed friendships, truly.  But this?  This I can't see any reconciliation for.  I see no context in which it could even be remotely appropriate for people to say such hurtful, insensitive, and disrespectful comments about me.  The anger, the anger comes from a place deeper than my own scars, too.  It feels like I'm taking on anger for the entire loss community, because I KNOW I'm not the only one who has been judged and lost friends after losing a child.  I'd always heard this happens, that it's inevitable, that you lose friends.  But until it happened to me, that shared anger for the community hadn't really set in.

Get Over It?

Is there ANY circumstance or context in which it is appropriate for someone to say, "I think she just needs to get over it already" when speaking of a mother who has lost her child?  Is there ANY way that could possibly be construed as someone who is caring but had their words come out "the wrong way"?

Right Where I Am: 1 year, 5 months, 24 days.

My friend and fellow BLM blogger Angie started an amazing project last year called “Right Where I Am”.   I participated and thought it was a really moving experience to be a part of something others might find beneficial in their grief: reading posts about where others were in their grieving processes.  A window into the future or into the past of what grief might have looked / will look at another point in time, as grief is constant yet ever-changing with ebbs and flows and different manifestations.  Sometimes as powerful as waves that knock you down and out of breath to the point where you think you might succumb forever.  Sometimes as gentle as a butterfly that flits by, reminding you of the baby that now holds a forever place in your heart instead of your arms. 

This year Angie has decided to run the project again, and I read her post on being three years out and felt so inspired (per usual!) by her words.  

Then, I went back and read my submission to her project from last year.

It was incredibly painful for me to go back and read, to be honest with you.  Partly because I can’t believe I ever felt so low.  Partly because some days, I still do feel that low, even a year later. 

Does that mean I’ve stagnated?  I don’t think so. 

You see, the Ugly Raw Grief only comes out to play every now and then.

So here is today’s post:  Right Where I am: 1 year, 5 months, 24 days.

The weather is getting warmer, sunnier, nicer all around.  Most of the time, this is a good thing – getting out of the house, taking my daughter to the playground, going for walks and staying active.  As I said, the Ugly Raw Grief stays at bay most of the time, because Life has simply gotten in the way.  Last summer, my daughter was just an infant.  This summer, she is a toddler, and there’s a lot more to do together.  Grass needs trampled on by bare toddler feet, sandboxes need played in by grubby little hands, and sprinklers need jumped over by exuberant children. 

The warm weather sometimes has its downsides.  Pushing my daughter, the empty swing next to her at the park seems to mock me, haunt me, remind me of my biggest loss ever, the loss of my daughter’s twin brother six days before they were scheduled for delivery.  I feel myself going back to that dark place, being pulled away.  Back to the grief, the self-pity which I’ve come to loathe, to the “Why me?” train of thought, “Why him?” “Why us? Why our family?”  I feel sorry for my daughter having to go through life without him here, and the tears fall so easily, for all of us. 

But then. 

Then. 

Then, I say in my mind, “Hey buddy.  I love you and miss you so much and wish you were here to enjoy this day with your sister.”  And instead of being reduced to tears, mostly, usually, I consider those moments to be times that the universe is winking at me and simply reminding me to enjoy the present.  To enjoy the life we do have.  To live every breath to the fullest for my dear little boy who can’t be here to live his.  Slowly and steadily I have felt less sorry for myself and more capable of grieving his loss. 

I look at my daughter and see her smiling, playing, unaware.  She isn’t half of a person.  She isn’t half of something lost.  She isn’t broken.  She isn’t anything less with his not being here.  She is her own unique person, and I celebrate her more and more with each day, knowing that not only does she deserve it, but so do I, and my son wouldn’t want it any other way.

This is one of the greatest ways my son has changed my life for the better.  I make an effort to live in the moment and enjoy each one as it comes, to live fully, to embrace each experience.  I’ve grown as a person considerably over this past year, and in some ways even though I’m broken inside I also feel more whole than I’ve ever been, which is yet another paradox I can’t quite wrap my mind around. 

The biggest heartbreak of my life was losing my son just days before he was “scheduled” to come into this world.  I would do anything to have my son back, and that still includes giving my own life for his, but I obviously can’t.  So here I am.  I do what I can for others, and some of my pre-loss friends have judged me harshly for it, saying I need to “Get over it”.  They are no longer my friends anymore.  More accurately, they weren’t ever my friends.  They don’t understand that to ignore the gifts that have come from my son’s existence would be to dishonor him, and I’m not about to do that.  So instead of being ashamed of those gifts, I embrace them.  The increased sensitivity I have for others.  The compassion.  Being “let in” to others lives, stories, and losses.  People say, “I could never read stories about babies who died.  That’s too sad.  I would be so depressed talking to those kinds of people over and over.”  To me, what’s depressing is that society has labeled us as “those kinds of people” who simply deserve pity and nothing more.  What’s depressing is that people see us as defined by our losses and nothing more.  What’s depressing is that people want us to “get over it”, not realizing that it would be much more disturbing and alarming if somehow we were able to do that.  That if we pretended our children never existed, it’s the same thing as saying they never mattered, that we don’t love them, that they don’t deserve recognition, that their lives had no impact on the world.  To be present with others and to be let into their worlds, their stories, and their losses, is not something I take lightly.  It is truly a gift.  I try to help others in small ways, whenever I’m given the chance, and anytime I’m contacted by someone needing support, I feel my son is bettering the world around him.  His life may have been cut short, but I hope to see to it that he lives on through the changes he’s made in me to help others.

Where I am now is in a place of remembering my son without always breaking down.  Where I am is in a place of healing and renewal but also anger, I must admit.  Trying to figure out what to do with the anger I have toward our society for making the topic of baby loss so incredibly taboo that women feel they must deny their children ever lived, that they must keep everything mum, that they should feel like a freak for something happening to their child in this incredible age of medicine and technology, that they should feel they failed their child somehow, that their motherly instincts should have saved their child somehow, that they must have had negligent medical care, that they must have not been eating right or paying attention or their child would have lived.  I have felt the crippling effects of how our society deals with baby loss.  Society is backwards in a way I never realized before.  The stigma attached to child loss is something that needs to change.  The real heroes in this world are all the amazing people, many whom I’ve been privileged to be in contact with, who have been real advocates for women in the loss community, who have helped to give them a voice, who have given them places to share their stories and connect with one another, who have helped them to realize they don’t need to hide in the dark or feel alone.  At this point in my journey, these heroes and the avenues they’ve created for positive changes are what sustains me through my moments of anger toward society. 

I thank you, Angie, for being one of Our heroes.

Sugar, Analytical Musings, and Bling.

Strawberry Margarita Cupcakes. And yes, they are as good as they look / sound. Better, actually.

We got out of the house and went to a Cinco De Mayo shindig over the weekend. These cupcakes were my contribution. It was a nice gathering. I appreciate being included and getting out to do something somewhat festive.

I have to say, I've had an epiphany recently about something I've really been struggling with. Lately I've had this intense desire to reconnect with my non-loss friends, to sort of redefine my friendships, figure out who is legit, etc. I feel like I've been looking at everyone and everything with eyes anew.
I will never have both feet in the loss community, nor will I ever have both feet in the non-loss community. I need friends in BOTH. That is vital to me. There are friends who truly HAVE stood by my side, not having any clue what it feels like to go through a fraction of what I've been through, and I could never cut them out of my life nor would I ever want to.

But so many of the friendships, now that my "raw grief" had died down (as far as they know, anyhow) seem so SAFE. I can't put my finger on it, but it's almost like we talk about the weather and Pinterest and our latest pedicures, and that's it. After my loss, such conversations (after a few months passed and I could even stomach "normal" conversation) were welcome distractions. Even today, I certainly don't want to sit around and talk about loss 24/7. Who would? But I'm sorry, to me small talk is not going to sustain a meaningful relationship over time.
Do you know what I mean? Or am I just going crazy overanalyzing everything? (Wouldn't be the first time nor the last.)

My non-loss friends may not know what it's like to lose a child, but they certainly have things going on in their lives that I would like to hear about. Maybe they hold back thinking I have enough on my plate or whatever, but I want to feel connected, and this life is NOT a competition for who has suffered the most. I think that this recent need I comes from the realization that I have truly built some incredibly intimate bonds with women globally who share a similar experience.

When you have shared such private and life-changing experiences with others, when you've been inspired and supported and uplifted by women who themselves are fighting such battles, fighting for their very lives, how do you go about feeling that degree of closeness to someone who shares very little personal information with you?! I can see how some of the people I've known for years may feel intimidated by these new friends (not that any have ever told me that), but oh how vital they've been and continue to be. Some of them are lifelong friends now for sure. Some of us hang out in real life, some of us plan to visit one another someday, and some of us will simply always connect through the interwebs.

Oh, how I need them.

And yet I need my non-loss friends, too. I have some really amazing people in my life. So the question is this: How do I feel closer to people who haven't suffered a loss? Do I simply have to accept that many of my friendships will simply feel like surface friendships compared with the intimacy and support of women in the loss community?

You want to know what I really think?
  I call BULLSH*T!

You don't have to have suffered the loss of a child to be close to someone who has.  But yes, you have to accept them for who they are, for their family in its entirety, be present and abide with their grief when it comes, and allow yourself to be vulnerable and share what's going on in your life.
Not shy away and make the person feel shunned and contagious with dead baby plague. Is that too much to ask?

I also feel like people simply accept that after you get married and have kids your social life is over. Again, I call BS, plain and simple. I'm married, and that never got in the way of my social life. Starting a family has only added to my social events, not detracted from them. People who use those things as an excuse are doing just that - using them as an excuse because they don't really want to hang out with you. Plenty of women I know do maintain friendships alongside being wonderful mothers, wives, career people, students, etc. And I have several childless friends, and believe it or not - shock of all shockers - we actually find things to discuss OTHER than diapers, baby food, and strollers. Really.

All this to say, I have been learning a lot about who my real friends are over the past 17 months. The ones who were never really friends to begin with will use my grief, my children, my marriage, my eye color, my favorite pizza topping, or whatever they can as an excuse for their inability to relate to me.

Enough already.

We either grow together, or we grow apart, and if I can find a way to live somehow without my son, well, I think I'll manage. Let's stop kidding ourselves and each other. 

Just stop stringing me along. Let go.

Thanks to the lovely Brooke for sharing the above necklace on her blog, which I promptly told my husband about and he thoughtfully and dutifully purchased for me for International Bereaved Mothers Day 2012. "I am always with you. Be brave, have courage, and love life." It's so comforting to feel that Elias would want me to know that.

And, last but not least, I do so much on FB I often neglect this space, so as a final note, I wish all of you a peaceful (albeit belated) IBMD.

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.