Wednesday, September 27, 2006

I have been having a hard time lately.

Well, that is probably a given. Why wouldn't I have a hard time? Every moment of everyday is suppose to be different. I am suppose to have a living child. I am suppose to be getting him ready for bed. I am suppose to be angry my husband is out at a baseball game and I am here, stuck with a fussy baby. He probably should have rolled over for the first time. He would be smiling. He would fit into that blue dinosaur sweartshirt and matching pant outfit that I fell in love with and had to buy. My husband and I may be stressed out. We may not be getting along. Maybe the baby would have had colic. Maybe it would be tough.

It was suppose to be different.

This past weekend marked the one year anniversary since I got the double pink lines saying I was pregnant.

When I showed it to my husband, he high fived me. How cute is that? He was so excited and I was so terrified.

Very much like the day before we found out we lost our son. My husband was telling me how excited he was 'to get the show on the road' and meet our son.

But I was terrified. I was scared of the huge change our lives were headed. I told him he could stay in a few more days.

I am so sorry, my special baby, I was excited to meet you. I really was.

Maybe I was terrified that it would be all over before it really started.

Friday, September 15, 2006

I did something today I never thought I would.

I sent some of his clothes away.

They are a couple who had their boy a few months after we did. Another set of clothes went to a woman who is pregnant with her son. Her husband died suddenly a few months ago.

They were clothes I really liked, things I had picked out. They were not, however, my most favorite items. There is this little blue hooded sweatshirt with a dinosaur on it and matching blue cords. It breaks my heart to look at it. I love that outfit so much. Well, I love the image of my son in that outfit.

Walking into his nursery was hard. It is full. Changing table, crib, toys, stroller, diapers, wipes, shampoon, shoes, nuks, slings, blankets and on and on and on. It is like time stood still.

That we pretended for nine months that we were going to have a baby and one day...well, we stopped pretending.

We don't plan on storing everything or getting rid of things. First of all, we have no where to put anything. Second of all, we will use things if we are blessed with another child. We would have handed down items anyway. If we are not blessed with a child, well, we will cross that bridge when we come to it.

I will, however, redecorate. The theme in his room will always be "his". A new baby will have a new theme. The new baby will not be him. The new baby will not take the place of him.

However, looking towards a new baby? When I spent 9 long months looking towards him? Really difficult. I already put in the work for a child. And I am back at square one. In fact, I am way back. Square one is light years ahead. Because square one was a happy couple deciding to add to their familes. Wanting a child to know his grandparents and cousins.

Now we are a terrified, heartbroken couple who still wants a child but things will never be the way they were.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

So, Grief makes you selfish.

Death, makes you selfish.

Can you imagine what it would have been like to lose your mom or dad or spouse in the attacks on 9.11? While you are grieving your greatest loss.... so many other people are grieving. You have to share your grief with everyone. Everyone has a story. The statistics say something like 1 out of 3 people knew someone effected by 9.11 directly. Your grief you have to share with the families of 2996 people.

So, you have this horrible loss and so do all these other people. After awhile you want to scream "it is about ME. Not YOU. Me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Their stories don't mean much to you, because your story is more important. Because it is you.

That is how I felt yesterday, 9.11. Yes, I remember 5 years ago. I remember how scared I felt. I remember worrying about my mom who works in the airline industry and not knowing where she was that morning. I remember staring at the TV.

Me. Me. Me.

But 9.11 marked a new anniversary for me. It was the day in 2005 I got pregnant with my son. One year ago. It may strange to someone who doesn't know ovulation and timing and how two weeks before you get that + on your pregnancy test you are pregnant.

From all calculations, 9.11 was it. I even joked "take that terrorists! Good things do happen on 9.11" One year ago he was a bunch of cells growing in me. I didn't even know he was there yet. So, everywhere I went yesterday, was "9.11", message boards, journals, driving down the freeway, the news, everyone asking me "where were you 5 years ago?"

And I couldn't stop the tears. Not for the 2996 victims and their families.... but for myself. My husband. Our families. For my son. Who got to live 40 short weeks and never open his eyes and see how, despite 9.11 horrors, this world is a beautiful place.

So my very personal grief was coupled with America's grief yesterday.

For the next 40 weeks, each week is going to mark another thought of "where was I one year ago? Oh yes, He was inside of me, growing, kicking, and preparing for life that was never to be.

Friday, September 8, 2006

So, there is this walk this weekend.

It is a memorial thing, fundraiser for stillbirth awareness. I threw my heart into this walk. I bought all these tshirts for our friends and family. I carefully picked a font and desgined the front and back of these shirts. I printed out the iron transfers and made 12 tshirts. Well, I made 13 because I royally screwed one up. (Of course, it was the last one I made. I must have been getting lazy.)

I sat back and surveyed my work. I am very proud of these shirts.

Why? They are stupid shirts. Why do I care so much if people wear them? I am fearful people won't. Or will think they are stupid. Or will cover them up with jackets.

I care so much because I can't DO anything for my son. I cannot give him a bath. I cannot kiss him. I cannot hug him. Sometimes, it is even hard to love him. That is hard to type. Of course I love my son. But my heart is so full of pain, there is little room for love. I am having a hard time loving anyone right now.

So, these shirts. It was something I could do. I have found a few things here and there I can DO for him. I bought a huge memory box for his things. I made him a memorial website. We spead his ashes. I blog about him. I got a tattoo in his memory.

Each one of these things is my heart and soul. Each one of these things I see as a replacement for story time. For bath time. For sleepless night and endless days and stressed out moments.

So, those 13 shirts. 13 pieces of me. 13 things I never got to do with him. Eventually, I am going to run out of things to do for him. Grief is the only thing I have to hold now.

Wednesday, September 6, 2006

He was my son.

He is my son.

How do you explain the loss of your child to someone? A loss such as this. No childhood illness. No random, tragic car accident. He died before he lived. Before his first smile. Before his first hug. Before his first kiss.

Do you know how many times I am asked on a weekly basis if I have children? I do. Because I counted last week.

6 times.

The lady who cut my hair. A client at work. The guy who was our closer for our mortgage refinancing. The kid at Target who saw me staring at baby halloween costumes. You get the picture. Well meaning people, who are just trying to make conversation. They don't mean to enter into "this" conversation with me. In fact, looking back, they probably wish I had said no. They probably wish they had never asked.

Because I answer. I answer truthfully.

"That is a hard question for me to answer," I say. "We have a son who passed away".

Maybe he never breathed on his own. Maybe he never opened his eyes. But he lived inside of me for 40 weeks. 40 wonderful weeks. Roughly 280 days. Well, 279. Because he died one day before he was due.

He was born as any baby is born. Hospital rooms, contractions, husband telling me to push, epidurals, nurses, blood, stitches. When he made his entrance? Absolute silence.

So, yes, I tell people about my son. He passed away. He doesn't live with me. He lives in heaven. Whose exsistence, I question. Whose exsistence I try to believe in, because if I don't, I never get to see my son again. He was beautiful.

I smile softly at the memory of his face. He had his dad's nose. Hands down. My lips though. And through pictures, I have discovered he had my piggy toes.

People will always say "Oh, I am sorry". I prefer to leave it at that. Because if they keep talking? Stupid comments. But that is a topic for a different day.

So, I will tell you my friend, I have a son. He passed away. This is the story of his life, our life with and without him, our healing, our laughter, our tears.