I've been feeling the need for some introspection this week. Sunday was Ada's due date. Today is Willliam's. He would be four. This week has stunk.
It's been worse than I thought it would be. No, not worse. Just different. And maybe worse. A worse kind of different.
The months between when we lost William and when he was due were rough. Really rough. But I remember when we got to William's due date the first time around. It was a beautiful day, and it was sad, but it was happy too. It was peaceful, and wistful, and calm. I thought about it all day, and then it was over, and I was okay, for the most part.
This time, it's been opposite. We went through the horror of what was the physical recovery this time, and then I moved on. But I moved on with a little spot of bitterness left in my heart from that experience. People who know me might be surprised by that, but it's there. I'm not sure what the bitterness is towards, and it's very small, and it's insignificant in my overall life. But I think it is what has caused me to react differently this time. It made me push everything aside instead of dealing with things, until last month, when I no longer had huge projects to distract me, and it all just came spilling out, all these unresolved emotions, all these feelings of regret, and sorrow, and...anger maybe? Maybe that's what the bitterness is. Anger at how my doctors handled things. Anger at the situation. Anger that I'm dealing with this again, and I don't want to. I just want to ignore it. I just want it to go away.
Why do I put myself through this every year? Why did I give my children names, and why do I do things on what would have been their birthdays, and why do we talk about them and give them identities and make them part of our family? Why do I torture myself with all that? Why can't I just be like other women and let it go, or at least pretend to let it go even though I may never let it go inside? Sometimes I think I'm being overly dramatic, and I wonder if I'm trying to get attention or something. But that's not me. I'm a no-drama kind of person (except on stage). I don't do things like that.
No. This is real. And I think I know the reason for it all.
I feel things deeply. I always have. Not in an easily-offended, make-small-situations-into-big-deals kind of way, but when I feel happiness, or sorrow, or compassion, or love, I feel it with everything I have, with my whole body, with my whole soul. I throw everything I have into every life experience, whether it is a positive one or not. I believe we are equal parts our joyful and sorrowful experiences, and I think we feel those opposites to the same extreme. When I feel joy, and love, and life (which is most of the time, despite the seriousness of this post), I feel it fully. And so, when I feel sorrow, and grief, and sadness, I feel it just as fully. That is how life works. That is the law of opposites. Sometimes I envy those who go through life feeling those emotions only dully. But then I remember those incredible impactful moments of extreme joy--the arrival of my children (all four of them, in their own way), moments of belly-aching laughter and unconditional love shared with Ben, family vacations, glimpses at God's love for me, overwhelming moments standing on a stage doing what I love--and I know I would NEVER trade the way I felt in them. Even if it means today is awful.
And therein lies the answer to my questions. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I torture myself every year? Because I love those two little ones in that same extreme that I feel all other emotions. To steal a line from a play, one that spoke to me every time I heard it, I've realized I have a great capacity to love. And that capacity was filled from the first moment I knew those children where there, from the first moment I saw their heartbeats, from the first moment I felt them move. They are real. They were alive. They are my children, even if I only physically had them for a few months. And I loved them just as much as I've loved any other person in my life--to the fullest. Of course I'm going to remember them, and miss them, and feel their loss. That is how I do things. With everything I have to give.
I'm sure, in days to come, I will still compare. I will feel self-conscious knowing other women move on, forget, do things differently. I'm sure there will still be moments of introspection when I ask, "What is wrong with you?" Then I have to just tell myself, "Kirsten, yes. Of course you are going to be different than other women. You are going to handle this situation in this way, because you are YOU. And this is how you live your life. With nothing held back."
It's time to stop holding back and being bitter. It's okay to embrace the extremes. Because they make me who I am.
Today, I'm going to. I'm pulling out my August birthstone necklace, that I've avoided wearing all week. Instead of leaving them to fade in a plastic bag, I'm taking my ultrasound pictures from Ada and making copies, so I never lose them. I'm thinking of her instead of trying to ignore her simply because it was easier to do so. I'm letting her back into my life. I'm remembering William. Because guess what? They are my children. My beautiful, joy-filled, patient children, from whom I continue to learn every day. This is how I do things. I remember.
So, my dear, little Ada and my strong, wonderful William. Happy Birthday. And here's to many years of many more. I love you.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Growing Pains
I've avoided this blog for some time now. January 12th, to be exact. The date of my last post. At first it was because I felt I didn't need it. I was so strong. But then everything fell apart. And then I didn't write because I was angry. And I didn't write because I was confused. And I didn't write because things were ugly.
The other day I told a friend that writing to work through things in our lives gives our emotions and experiences a unique permanence. That's what I was avoiding. Permanence. Having to someday revisit the phyiscally and emotionally draining experiences we were going through. But now I'm ready. Because, while they aren't fond memories, they, like the actual loss of our beautiful children, came with lessons learned and strength garnered. And peace found.
But the process was very raw, and very ugly. And very hard to admit.
I really debated over what to do after we lost Ada. I spent several days getting conflicting information from the medical team at my doctor's office. At first, I had options. I could wait it out. I could induce labor with a medication to speed up the process and deliver Ada's tiny body at home. I could have an in-office procedure done. Or I could do as I did with William and go in for a D&C.
I wanted to avoid the D&C if possible. Last time, it was incredibly difficult emotionally to just go to sleep and wake up and have his body all of a sudden gone. And I hate general anesthesia.
I spent a long time on the phone with a dear friend who had naturally miscarried her 10 week baby. She was unselfish enough to repoen that experience and beautifully revisit, in great detail, the physically and emotionally wrenching days she spent in that process.
I spent some time discussing the in-office procedure with the nurse at the office and debating the emotional scarring that might come with being awake for that experience.
And then, my actual doctor called, days after the nurse had discovered Ada was no longer there. And she told me I was far enough along that the in-office was no longer an option and that she would prefer I do the D&C to reduce the risk of hemorraging.
So then there I was. Sitting in the pre-op waiting to be wheeled back for surgery. And then she was gone.
And I was okay with that. I still felt as I had when we found out. Peace. Strength. I knew everything would be okay.
Then, three days later, I woke up with excruciating pain. Labor. It was like labor. And it lasted for hours. Then I passed a huge clot, and it was over. The doctor on call said it must just be the last bit of leftover blood from my D&C.
So I moved forward. And then, two days later, it happened again. Agonizing pain, hours of labor, and another clot. And then days later, again, and again.
It was after that third episode that I heard it again--the animal cry. The out of body experience of hearing myself wail with such deep grief that it scared me. I hadn't heard it since the early days of losing William. But what had brought it out of me this time was not the sorrow of losing Ada, but the incomprehensibility of what I was now going through. I had made the choice to do the D&C. I had already gone through the emotional pain of that. And now here I was, a week later, going through exactly what I would have gone through had I miscarried on my own. And every single clot I passed reminded me of what I no longer had.
All I wanted to do was start moving forward and start learning to live my new life as I now knew it, but I couldn't. I was stuck. How could I possibly find the joy in the loss of my little one, feel her with me, think about the beautiful experience it was to carry her for that short time, when the physical healing went on, and on, and on, reminding me only of the loss?
An ultrasound confirmed I still had several large clots left that my body was trying to get rid of, but couldn't. My perplexed doctor gave me a prescription for the miscarriage-inducing medication I had so wanted to avoid before, and sent me away.
I left the office devestated. I felt there was no purpose to what I was going through. At least with the pain of a miscarriage I knew that there was a child, however small, that came from it, and with the sorrow came a beautiful joy I would never forget. But this? This was for nothing. She was already gone.
This was just hell.
I called my mom, and she caught a flight and came out that next morning to be with me through the process of taking the medication.
But it didn't work. It did nothing. The clots were still there. It was time for another D&C.
I agonized over the decision. I had tried everything already except for the in-office procedure. And though I was terrified of being awake, I knew Ada was gone already, and that it was just blood, and that it would be okay.
The morning of the procedure, I woke up with my stomach churning. We dropped our girls off with friends and made our way to the office. I took the pre-op medication and sat to wait out the hour before the procedure was scheduled to begin. But no matter which way I looked, there were pregnant women. Beautiful pregnant women, with beautiful round stomachs, and beautiful healthy babies. And in that moment, in the midst of my frustration and anger over our situation, I hated them all. I had to get away.
We found a bench and squeezed our legs between it and the glass so we could face outside instead of the crowded waiting room. It was a beautiful day. We held hands and talked and laughed and ate trail mix from the vending machine as the minutes ticked by to the moment I was dreading.
And then it came. I was shaking as they lead us into the room. But I had a feeling, deep down, that this would be the end.
It was awful. It was the most traumatic experience I've ever had. But it was over.
Two days later, I passed one more painful clot attached to a large clump of tissue. And that was it. I could move on.
We took off for Disneyland the next week. And as I walked in to the hotel to check in, knowing this trip was our week for healing, the uncontrollabe tears began. It was over. It was finally over. And we had made it. Seven weeks of hell, and we had made it.
I felt stronger. I felt peace. I felt relief.
And most of all, I felt Ada.
The other day I told a friend that writing to work through things in our lives gives our emotions and experiences a unique permanence. That's what I was avoiding. Permanence. Having to someday revisit the phyiscally and emotionally draining experiences we were going through. But now I'm ready. Because, while they aren't fond memories, they, like the actual loss of our beautiful children, came with lessons learned and strength garnered. And peace found.
But the process was very raw, and very ugly. And very hard to admit.
I really debated over what to do after we lost Ada. I spent several days getting conflicting information from the medical team at my doctor's office. At first, I had options. I could wait it out. I could induce labor with a medication to speed up the process and deliver Ada's tiny body at home. I could have an in-office procedure done. Or I could do as I did with William and go in for a D&C.
I wanted to avoid the D&C if possible. Last time, it was incredibly difficult emotionally to just go to sleep and wake up and have his body all of a sudden gone. And I hate general anesthesia.
I spent a long time on the phone with a dear friend who had naturally miscarried her 10 week baby. She was unselfish enough to repoen that experience and beautifully revisit, in great detail, the physically and emotionally wrenching days she spent in that process.
I spent some time discussing the in-office procedure with the nurse at the office and debating the emotional scarring that might come with being awake for that experience.
And then, my actual doctor called, days after the nurse had discovered Ada was no longer there. And she told me I was far enough along that the in-office was no longer an option and that she would prefer I do the D&C to reduce the risk of hemorraging.
So then there I was. Sitting in the pre-op waiting to be wheeled back for surgery. And then she was gone.
And I was okay with that. I still felt as I had when we found out. Peace. Strength. I knew everything would be okay.
Then, three days later, I woke up with excruciating pain. Labor. It was like labor. And it lasted for hours. Then I passed a huge clot, and it was over. The doctor on call said it must just be the last bit of leftover blood from my D&C.
So I moved forward. And then, two days later, it happened again. Agonizing pain, hours of labor, and another clot. And then days later, again, and again.
It was after that third episode that I heard it again--the animal cry. The out of body experience of hearing myself wail with such deep grief that it scared me. I hadn't heard it since the early days of losing William. But what had brought it out of me this time was not the sorrow of losing Ada, but the incomprehensibility of what I was now going through. I had made the choice to do the D&C. I had already gone through the emotional pain of that. And now here I was, a week later, going through exactly what I would have gone through had I miscarried on my own. And every single clot I passed reminded me of what I no longer had.
All I wanted to do was start moving forward and start learning to live my new life as I now knew it, but I couldn't. I was stuck. How could I possibly find the joy in the loss of my little one, feel her with me, think about the beautiful experience it was to carry her for that short time, when the physical healing went on, and on, and on, reminding me only of the loss?
An ultrasound confirmed I still had several large clots left that my body was trying to get rid of, but couldn't. My perplexed doctor gave me a prescription for the miscarriage-inducing medication I had so wanted to avoid before, and sent me away.
I left the office devestated. I felt there was no purpose to what I was going through. At least with the pain of a miscarriage I knew that there was a child, however small, that came from it, and with the sorrow came a beautiful joy I would never forget. But this? This was for nothing. She was already gone.
This was just hell.
I called my mom, and she caught a flight and came out that next morning to be with me through the process of taking the medication.
But it didn't work. It did nothing. The clots were still there. It was time for another D&C.
I agonized over the decision. I had tried everything already except for the in-office procedure. And though I was terrified of being awake, I knew Ada was gone already, and that it was just blood, and that it would be okay.
The morning of the procedure, I woke up with my stomach churning. We dropped our girls off with friends and made our way to the office. I took the pre-op medication and sat to wait out the hour before the procedure was scheduled to begin. But no matter which way I looked, there were pregnant women. Beautiful pregnant women, with beautiful round stomachs, and beautiful healthy babies. And in that moment, in the midst of my frustration and anger over our situation, I hated them all. I had to get away.
We found a bench and squeezed our legs between it and the glass so we could face outside instead of the crowded waiting room. It was a beautiful day. We held hands and talked and laughed and ate trail mix from the vending machine as the minutes ticked by to the moment I was dreading.
And then it came. I was shaking as they lead us into the room. But I had a feeling, deep down, that this would be the end.
It was awful. It was the most traumatic experience I've ever had. But it was over.
Two days later, I passed one more painful clot attached to a large clump of tissue. And that was it. I could move on.
We took off for Disneyland the next week. And as I walked in to the hotel to check in, knowing this trip was our week for healing, the uncontrollabe tears began. It was over. It was finally over. And we had made it. Seven weeks of hell, and we had made it.
I felt stronger. I felt peace. I felt relief.
And most of all, I felt Ada.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Joyful Sorrow
I never thought I would be relying on this blog again. I thought it was done, a closed chapter of my life that served its beautiful purpose and would live as a monument to something I suffered through, conquered, and came to deeply love and appreciate as a life-changing and self-bettering experience.
But now, this blog is again open. This part of my life is again brought to the surface. And I am again tearing open these pages to pour out my soul and find healing and peace.
This week, we lost another baby. I went in for a routine 10-week appointment to find no heartbeat. That little body that should have measured 10 weeks, 3 days was only a small 10 weeks, and that little heart that had fluttered so hopefully in my previous two ultrasounds was still.
I had had a feeling going into that appointment. Actually, from the day I took that pregnancy test in mid-November I had a feeling that something was wrong, that there was something to dread in the coming months. I dismissed it as baggage associated with past experience, just fear that something COULD go wrong, fear of getting attached in case something did. But now, I think it was God preparing me, helping me know that I needed to brace myself, needed to strengthen myself, needed to know that while sorrow was coming, He was there to help.
Despite that feeling, in the past three months, I have grown to adore and cherish that little soul, that my heart has told me all along is another beautiful girl, living inside me and becoming part of our family. Ada. Ada Mae. It means noble and happy. And like our little William, Ada is now a forever part of our family. She was alive. She was moving. She was a person. And she always will be.
When we lost William, I got on my knees and begged God to never make me go through that experience again. And while we are here in this same situation, that prayer has been answered. There is an immense feeling of peace in our family. I felt that peace the moment I left that doctor's office. We are strong. We have been through this before. And we have come out of it. And we are all better because of it.
I am devestated. I am grieving. I am full of sorrow. But it is the most joyful sorrow I have ever known. Because of what we know from grieving William and because of the lessons we have learned and because of the perspective we gained from that experience, we know trials and tests and sorrow can be filled with joy. They happen for beautiful reasons that we may not understand, but we will. They can bring us joy in our future. They can give us compassion and empathy and the ability to help others in ways we otherwise could not. They can fill our souls with a kind of divine love and peace and strength and perspective that comes in NO OTHER WAY.
I know Ada is with God. I know she is strong, and beautiful, and noble, and happy. And while I am so sad I won't get to raise her now, I know I will see her again. She is my daughter. Forever.
Ada was due August 3rd, just 5 days before William. That first week of August this year will be one of the most deeply profound and joyful weeks of our lives. Because we will be able to celebrate two lives that have grown our hearts and changed us forever.
We love you, little ones. We love you.
But now, this blog is again open. This part of my life is again brought to the surface. And I am again tearing open these pages to pour out my soul and find healing and peace.
This week, we lost another baby. I went in for a routine 10-week appointment to find no heartbeat. That little body that should have measured 10 weeks, 3 days was only a small 10 weeks, and that little heart that had fluttered so hopefully in my previous two ultrasounds was still.
I had had a feeling going into that appointment. Actually, from the day I took that pregnancy test in mid-November I had a feeling that something was wrong, that there was something to dread in the coming months. I dismissed it as baggage associated with past experience, just fear that something COULD go wrong, fear of getting attached in case something did. But now, I think it was God preparing me, helping me know that I needed to brace myself, needed to strengthen myself, needed to know that while sorrow was coming, He was there to help.
Despite that feeling, in the past three months, I have grown to adore and cherish that little soul, that my heart has told me all along is another beautiful girl, living inside me and becoming part of our family. Ada. Ada Mae. It means noble and happy. And like our little William, Ada is now a forever part of our family. She was alive. She was moving. She was a person. And she always will be.
When we lost William, I got on my knees and begged God to never make me go through that experience again. And while we are here in this same situation, that prayer has been answered. There is an immense feeling of peace in our family. I felt that peace the moment I left that doctor's office. We are strong. We have been through this before. And we have come out of it. And we are all better because of it.
I am devestated. I am grieving. I am full of sorrow. But it is the most joyful sorrow I have ever known. Because of what we know from grieving William and because of the lessons we have learned and because of the perspective we gained from that experience, we know trials and tests and sorrow can be filled with joy. They happen for beautiful reasons that we may not understand, but we will. They can bring us joy in our future. They can give us compassion and empathy and the ability to help others in ways we otherwise could not. They can fill our souls with a kind of divine love and peace and strength and perspective that comes in NO OTHER WAY.
I know Ada is with God. I know she is strong, and beautiful, and noble, and happy. And while I am so sad I won't get to raise her now, I know I will see her again. She is my daughter. Forever.
Ada was due August 3rd, just 5 days before William. That first week of August this year will be one of the most deeply profound and joyful weeks of our lives. Because we will be able to celebrate two lives that have grown our hearts and changed us forever.
We love you, little ones. We love you.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Happy Birthday
This week we celebrated what would have been your 3rd birthday. And, like every year, we had carrot cake, since that's what I craved when I was pregnant with you, so I figure it must be your favorite.
Love you, little one.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
You're Still Here
Hi William.
It's Mommy.
Just letting you know you're still part of our family. We talk about you all the time. E loves you so much. Pictures of our family she draws include you. Sometimes you're standing with us, and sometimes you're up in the sky, in Heaven.
But I think that's how it really is. I know you're mostly in Heaven, but there are times I undeniably feel you with me. Times when I'm hurting, or really worried. And I can just tell...you're there, and you're there for me.
Thanks for looking out for your mom and dad, and especially your sisters. We still love you.
Love,
Mommy
It's Mommy.
Just letting you know you're still part of our family. We talk about you all the time. E loves you so much. Pictures of our family she draws include you. Sometimes you're standing with us, and sometimes you're up in the sky, in Heaven.
But I think that's how it really is. I know you're mostly in Heaven, but there are times I undeniably feel you with me. Times when I'm hurting, or really worried. And I can just tell...you're there, and you're there for me.
Thanks for looking out for your mom and dad, and especially your sisters. We still love you.
Love,
Mommy
Monday, August 8, 2011
Happy Birthday
It's August 8th.
William would have been one-year-old today. Time has gone so fast. It seems like just a month ago we were getting through my due date. And now it's been a whole year.
It's been an emotional day. I went and bought a toy for a one-year-old and donated it to a foster kids toy drive. When I went to drop it off I started bawling uncontrollably. The poor guy who took it. He was very sweet and very gracious though. Then I got in the car and cried my eyes out, the whole time praying and thanking God for the experience we've had and the short little while William was with us. It's been a day of reflection.
Tonight we celebrated. We sang "Happy Birthday" and blew out a candle and ate cake and everything. We celebrated that he is part of our family and always will be.
I had a doctor's appointment today too. Little girl is growing perfectly and is healthy and active. Ten more weeks. I can't wait.
But for today, I remember you, my little boy that I never met but knew so well. I love you and think about you always. Miss you.
Happy birthday, little one. Happy birthday.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Finally
*trigger pregnancy mentioned*
Well, I've spent a quarter of a year without a computer, which is why I haven't posted in so long. That and I've been sick. Very sick.
Yes, I'm pregnant. 17 weeks.
Wow.
Just that word carries so much weight for me, especially as I write it in the context of this blog. Somehow that word amidst all the sorrow and joy and anguish and healing of this blog is...out of place? Or maybe right in place. Just...poignant.
How have I been feeling? Physically, terrible, but I'm thrilled about that. Emotionally, it's been up and down. Sometimes I have moments of complete surety and peace, knowing that this child is growing, feeling him or her move, knowing that everything is okay.
But then I have moments of great terror, of being sure that I will go through the pain of loss again, not believing that this child will ever be in my arms or in my home. Part of me just can't accept it and probably won't until this child is swaddled and clean, lying, breathing on my chest.
That being said, I love him or her so immensely already. I can't wait.
Keep growing, little one. Keep growing.
Well, I've spent a quarter of a year without a computer, which is why I haven't posted in so long. That and I've been sick. Very sick.
Yes, I'm pregnant. 17 weeks.
Wow.
Just that word carries so much weight for me, especially as I write it in the context of this blog. Somehow that word amidst all the sorrow and joy and anguish and healing of this blog is...out of place? Or maybe right in place. Just...poignant.
How have I been feeling? Physically, terrible, but I'm thrilled about that. Emotionally, it's been up and down. Sometimes I have moments of complete surety and peace, knowing that this child is growing, feeling him or her move, knowing that everything is okay.
But then I have moments of great terror, of being sure that I will go through the pain of loss again, not believing that this child will ever be in my arms or in my home. Part of me just can't accept it and probably won't until this child is swaddled and clean, lying, breathing on my chest.
That being said, I love him or her so immensely already. I can't wait.
Keep growing, little one. Keep growing.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Whole
I think I'm feeling...healed.
I've been afraid this day will come and that I would forget and that it would be awful and I would feel like a terrible mother.
But healing does not equate with forgetting. Healing is beautiful remembrance. Healing is moving forward to the future while still cherishing the past. Healing is gratitude for what has happened, and acceptance of life as it is.
One thing I've realized is that you can have a wound that has completely healed but that still leaves a scar, a reminder of what was so deep, so painful, and so poignant. A physically healed wound changes the landscape of your body, just like an emotionally healed wound changes the essence of your soul. It leaves you a forever different person.
So while I have a scar, a reminder of my wonderful little boy, I am whole again.
I'll still keep that ultrasound picture in a frame next to my bed. I'll still long for him on his due date. I'll still cry on anniversaries of his death. I'll always think about how old he would be and what it might be like if he were here.
But I had a very poignant revelation today.
Instead of mourning that we only had three months with him, I found myself rejoicing that I got to have him for three whole months.
And someday, I believe I'll get to see him again.
I've been afraid this day will come and that I would forget and that it would be awful and I would feel like a terrible mother.
But healing does not equate with forgetting. Healing is beautiful remembrance. Healing is moving forward to the future while still cherishing the past. Healing is gratitude for what has happened, and acceptance of life as it is.
One thing I've realized is that you can have a wound that has completely healed but that still leaves a scar, a reminder of what was so deep, so painful, and so poignant. A physically healed wound changes the landscape of your body, just like an emotionally healed wound changes the essence of your soul. It leaves you a forever different person.
So while I have a scar, a reminder of my wonderful little boy, I am whole again.
I'll still keep that ultrasound picture in a frame next to my bed. I'll still long for him on his due date. I'll still cry on anniversaries of his death. I'll always think about how old he would be and what it might be like if he were here.
But I had a very poignant revelation today.
Instead of mourning that we only had three months with him, I found myself rejoicing that I got to have him for three whole months.
And someday, I believe I'll get to see him again.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Due Date
It's August 8th.
And it's almost over, and I've made it. I've been okay so far.
I had a wonderful weekend with my mom and my sister just having fun and not thinking about things. Just kind of ignoring the fact that this should have been an excruciatingly painful weekend. And it worked. Mostly.
Friday night, after they had both gone to sleep, I broke down and sobbed for a good five minutes. I thought about where I should be, what I should be doing. I begged God for some comfort and some understanding. And it came. And I stopped crying and went to sleep. I was okay.
Saturday we walked past a Grandma sitting on a bench holding a tiny newborn. This little thing couldn't have been more than 2 weeks old. And I just couldn't pull my eyes off her. I just wanted to stand there and stare, to reach out and say, "let me hold her for you for a few minutes." As I turned around and walked away, I broke down, grateful for dark sunglasses to hide my tears. But I was okay.
Then today, I was just fine until we got home and I walked in my house and went upstairs, and then it became so real. I escaped it for a few days by distracting myself, but here, in my home, where the emotions have been so raw and so real, there are reminders everywhere. The nursery that should be covered in little boy bedding and the closet that still has 3T girl clothes instead of little blue onesies. The bathroom where I bawled my eyes out every night for weeks. The couch where I spent months throwing up only to find the little one who I loved so much and had suffered for was gone. Layers of different emotions came back and I broke down again. But it was short. And I was okay.
The night is still young. I'm sure there will be a few tears yet before I go to sleep, and maybe even more later this week when I realize that we're not bringing a little baby home to our house like I was expecting. But I'll be okay.
Last Christmas, when I was about 8 weeks pregnant, my mom gave me two gifts that I will always cherish. She gave me some adorable little baby girl shoes that I had seen in a store some months back and fallen in love with. She also gave me the softest, cuddliest, brown newborn boy's jacket. I love that jacket. Every time I miss William, I just pull it out and hold it and hug it, and it's like my little Liam is snuggling up next to me, his baby soft skin kissing my cheek. Tonight, I will hold that next to me as I fall asleep and dream of my strong, handsome son in Heaven.
Last Monday, my cousin's wife had a baby boy. I was due the day after her, and it's been hard watching her belly grow and seeing her excitement as they welcome this little boy into the world just when our son was supposed to be coming to us. But, Monday, he was born. We're not super close, and they didn't know much about our grief except that we lost our baby. They hadn't read this blog and didn't know anything about us naming our little boy. Yet, when he was born, they gave him a name that brings me so much comfort and peace, just by coincidence.
They named him Liam.
And it's almost over, and I've made it. I've been okay so far.
I had a wonderful weekend with my mom and my sister just having fun and not thinking about things. Just kind of ignoring the fact that this should have been an excruciatingly painful weekend. And it worked. Mostly.
Friday night, after they had both gone to sleep, I broke down and sobbed for a good five minutes. I thought about where I should be, what I should be doing. I begged God for some comfort and some understanding. And it came. And I stopped crying and went to sleep. I was okay.
Saturday we walked past a Grandma sitting on a bench holding a tiny newborn. This little thing couldn't have been more than 2 weeks old. And I just couldn't pull my eyes off her. I just wanted to stand there and stare, to reach out and say, "let me hold her for you for a few minutes." As I turned around and walked away, I broke down, grateful for dark sunglasses to hide my tears. But I was okay.
Then today, I was just fine until we got home and I walked in my house and went upstairs, and then it became so real. I escaped it for a few days by distracting myself, but here, in my home, where the emotions have been so raw and so real, there are reminders everywhere. The nursery that should be covered in little boy bedding and the closet that still has 3T girl clothes instead of little blue onesies. The bathroom where I bawled my eyes out every night for weeks. The couch where I spent months throwing up only to find the little one who I loved so much and had suffered for was gone. Layers of different emotions came back and I broke down again. But it was short. And I was okay.
The night is still young. I'm sure there will be a few tears yet before I go to sleep, and maybe even more later this week when I realize that we're not bringing a little baby home to our house like I was expecting. But I'll be okay.
Last Christmas, when I was about 8 weeks pregnant, my mom gave me two gifts that I will always cherish. She gave me some adorable little baby girl shoes that I had seen in a store some months back and fallen in love with. She also gave me the softest, cuddliest, brown newborn boy's jacket. I love that jacket. Every time I miss William, I just pull it out and hold it and hug it, and it's like my little Liam is snuggling up next to me, his baby soft skin kissing my cheek. Tonight, I will hold that next to me as I fall asleep and dream of my strong, handsome son in Heaven.
Last Monday, my cousin's wife had a baby boy. I was due the day after her, and it's been hard watching her belly grow and seeing her excitement as they welcome this little boy into the world just when our son was supposed to be coming to us. But, Monday, he was born. We're not super close, and they didn't know much about our grief except that we lost our baby. They hadn't read this blog and didn't know anything about us naming our little boy. Yet, when he was born, they gave him a name that brings me so much comfort and peace, just by coincidence.
They named him Liam.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Away
I've started so many posts the past few weeks that I just haven't felt like finishing.
Just wanted to post quickly. My due date is two days away. The 8th. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I'm actually doing okay. Mostly due to a really good book and a really good 8-hour movie that I've absorbed myself in this week.
My mom and sister are here, and we're about to leave for a really fun girls' weekend. I think I'll be okay.
More to come.
Just wanted to post quickly. My due date is two days away. The 8th. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I'm actually doing okay. Mostly due to a really good book and a really good 8-hour movie that I've absorbed myself in this week.
My mom and sister are here, and we're about to leave for a really fun girls' weekend. I think I'll be okay.
More to come.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Anxious
I've been feeling so...blah.
That's not even a word, I know, but ...what other word fits?
I've just felt anxious, and itching for change, and ready for something big in my life. It took me a long time to figure out why that was. Why all of a sudden am I wanting to move, or start a company, or take on some other massive project? Something HUGE.
And then I realized what it is. I was expecting a big change right now, and there's not one coming. And everyone around me is going through that change and I'm not. Instead my life is just more of the same. I feel like I have nothing to show, nothing to look forward to.
All last week I had periods of emotional breakdowns thinking about this. And then, all of a sudden, it's stopped. And I feel good. Really good.
I don't know what it is. Maybe that was my final grieving push. Not that I'll ever finish grieving, but maybe that was just what I needed.
I'm heading into a difficult month. My due date is only a few weeks away. Many of my close friends are delivering their babies. In fact, three have delivered in the past week with one more due in a few days. I'm not going to lie, it's going to be tough. But I'm realizing now that I'll make it.
Thank you for your comments and your love. To Anonymous, thank you for your comment. I'm going to repeat that over and over again during the next month. "I am a strong, confident and healthy woman, and I am looking towards my future, but will never forget the past."
And I never will. But I will move on.
That's not even a word, I know, but ...what other word fits?
I've just felt anxious, and itching for change, and ready for something big in my life. It took me a long time to figure out why that was. Why all of a sudden am I wanting to move, or start a company, or take on some other massive project? Something HUGE.
And then I realized what it is. I was expecting a big change right now, and there's not one coming. And everyone around me is going through that change and I'm not. Instead my life is just more of the same. I feel like I have nothing to show, nothing to look forward to.
All last week I had periods of emotional breakdowns thinking about this. And then, all of a sudden, it's stopped. And I feel good. Really good.
I don't know what it is. Maybe that was my final grieving push. Not that I'll ever finish grieving, but maybe that was just what I needed.
I'm heading into a difficult month. My due date is only a few weeks away. Many of my close friends are delivering their babies. In fact, three have delivered in the past week with one more due in a few days. I'm not going to lie, it's going to be tough. But I'm realizing now that I'll make it.
Thank you for your comments and your love. To Anonymous, thank you for your comment. I'm going to repeat that over and over again during the next month. "I am a strong, confident and healthy woman, and I am looking towards my future, but will never forget the past."
And I never will. But I will move on.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Due
My due date is only 7 weeks away, and I'm starting to feel it.
There's just this little tug at my heart that's missing that little boy I should be holding in just a few weeks. And I'm wishing I could see him and know what he looks like and sounds like and if he has my creativity and Ben's sense of humor. But I'll have to wait.
I'm deciding what to do on my due date. I think my mom and sister are going to come out, and we're going to go away for the weekend and just have fun. I think that's what I need. I'm fine thinking about it and remembering him all week, but on my actual due date, I think I need to do something fun and keep my mind off of it or I'll be a wreck.
August 8th. Will I ever forget that date?
Or February 3rd. Or January 25th.
I'm afraid I'm talking about him too much. I'm trying not to bring it up too often. But sometimes it can't be avoided. I can't just not talk about it. But I don't want people to think I'm just always complaining or always being depressing by bringing it up. And it probably just feels to me like I talk about it all the time. Because it's so much a part of me.
And I want to honor and remember, not avoid it, even though it might make other people uncomfortable. Is that rude?
For example, I just made a mother's necklace for myself.
There's just this little tug at my heart that's missing that little boy I should be holding in just a few weeks. And I'm wishing I could see him and know what he looks like and sounds like and if he has my creativity and Ben's sense of humor. But I'll have to wait.
I'm deciding what to do on my due date. I think my mom and sister are going to come out, and we're going to go away for the weekend and just have fun. I think that's what I need. I'm fine thinking about it and remembering him all week, but on my actual due date, I think I need to do something fun and keep my mind off of it or I'll be a wreck.
August 8th. Will I ever forget that date?
Or February 3rd. Or January 25th.
I'm afraid I'm talking about him too much. I'm trying not to bring it up too often. But sometimes it can't be avoided. I can't just not talk about it. But I don't want people to think I'm just always complaining or always being depressing by bringing it up. And it probably just feels to me like I talk about it all the time. Because it's so much a part of me.
And I want to honor and remember, not avoid it, even though it might make other people uncomfortable. Is that rude?
For example, I just made a mother's necklace for myself.
And I couldn't just put the "E" on there for my daughter. It just didn't feel right. I needed the "W" too to be complete. But then I get questions as for what it's for, and then I feel bad bringing it up...I don't know.
If anyone's reading this, what have you done? Has anyone else felt like this too?
Miss you, Liam.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
April Showers....May Showers...June Showers....
I haven't written in a long time, mostly because we've had some other family emergencies and things that have been keeping me really busy. Which is probably a good thing because they've been keeping my mind off William.
But now that everything is under control again and I'm at liberty to grieve again, all my emotions are so close to the surface that any little ripple causes a tidal wave. August 8th is barreling closer and closer, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. And there's nothing I can do to stop the bellies of my 14 pregnant friends from growing.
It seems like every day I get another baby shower invitation. Last week I had 3 baby showers to attend. And each one of them just makes the hurt a little deeper.
I have one really really good friend that is not pregnant (and really, that's it), and she's been trying for a long time to have a second child. While I pray that this month will be the month for them, selfishly I rejoice that I have someone who is feeling that pain with me and who I can relate to. Which is the most terrible thing I can possibly think of to rejoice over a friend's pain.
I guess I just feel so alone and so terrible. Alone because no one understands and everyone is doing what I SHOULD be doing, and terrible because I unintentionally hate all my pregnant friends and am terrible about my non-pregnant friend. These are very confusing emotions I'm trying to sort out.
I think people must think I have to be over it by now too because the things that come out of people's mouths are....ugh. I was sitting at a shower with three of my very best pregnant friends last week, and one started going on and on about how EVERYONE is pregnant and how fun it is, etc. And every word was just torture. And I just wanted to jump up and down, waving my arms and saying, "Hello! Do you not see me sitting directly across from you? Do you not remember that my baby is dead and that I'm supposed to be exactly in your position? Do you not remember the tears you shed with me just three months ago?" How can you forget something like that?
I know I can't. It's getting harder again.
But now that everything is under control again and I'm at liberty to grieve again, all my emotions are so close to the surface that any little ripple causes a tidal wave. August 8th is barreling closer and closer, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. And there's nothing I can do to stop the bellies of my 14 pregnant friends from growing.
It seems like every day I get another baby shower invitation. Last week I had 3 baby showers to attend. And each one of them just makes the hurt a little deeper.
I have one really really good friend that is not pregnant (and really, that's it), and she's been trying for a long time to have a second child. While I pray that this month will be the month for them, selfishly I rejoice that I have someone who is feeling that pain with me and who I can relate to. Which is the most terrible thing I can possibly think of to rejoice over a friend's pain.
I guess I just feel so alone and so terrible. Alone because no one understands and everyone is doing what I SHOULD be doing, and terrible because I unintentionally hate all my pregnant friends and am terrible about my non-pregnant friend. These are very confusing emotions I'm trying to sort out.
I think people must think I have to be over it by now too because the things that come out of people's mouths are....ugh. I was sitting at a shower with three of my very best pregnant friends last week, and one started going on and on about how EVERYONE is pregnant and how fun it is, etc. And every word was just torture. And I just wanted to jump up and down, waving my arms and saying, "Hello! Do you not see me sitting directly across from you? Do you not remember that my baby is dead and that I'm supposed to be exactly in your position? Do you not remember the tears you shed with me just three months ago?" How can you forget something like that?
I know I can't. It's getting harder again.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Writing
So I'm going to write a book. Or at least an article.
More people need to know what it's like to go through this. I think it's terrible that it's such a taboo subject. So I'm going to open it.
It's probably been done before, but I want to write sort of a memoir of people's experiences with miscarriage. Mine included. Nothing scientific or medical about it. Just emotions. Reactions. Reality.
It will probably never get published, but it will be more for me, for us, in honor of our little ones.
So if you're willing to share your story, let me know. Kirstenbradford@gmail.com. Thanks.
More people need to know what it's like to go through this. I think it's terrible that it's such a taboo subject. So I'm going to open it.
It's probably been done before, but I want to write sort of a memoir of people's experiences with miscarriage. Mine included. Nothing scientific or medical about it. Just emotions. Reactions. Reality.
It will probably never get published, but it will be more for me, for us, in honor of our little ones.
So if you're willing to share your story, let me know. Kirstenbradford@gmail.com. Thanks.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Trying
So now I'm starting to get the questions about when we're going to try again. It really doesn't bother me, which is somewhat of a surprise. I thought for sure that would surface all these emotions again and I would feel that anger rise up inside and be angry.
But I'm not.
For the most part, people are very respectful and are asking just because they would love to see me comforted with another pregnancy. But that's not what I want. Really, that's not what would bring me comfort. I know a lot of women can't wait for their first period so they can start trying again, but I guess I'm not in that group.
I'm in a completely different group, or maybe it's not even a group at all. Maybe I'm alone in my thinking. I just can't bring myself to start thinking about another baby yet, and I think it will be some time before I can. I've analyzed that perspective, and I think there are several reasons why I, personally, am feeling this.
1) There's the obvious physical reason. I get terribly sick. Horribly sick. Emergency Room sick. And I don't want to do that again any time soon.
2) Maybe it's selfish, but I'm kind of enjoying my time with E and with Ben and with...myself again.
3) I feel like trying this soon takes away from honoring the little one that we lost. I want there to be a spot in our family for him, more than just one extra month than we thought would be between E and our next child. I feel like there needs to be a space big enough for me to remember, "there's another child in between these two."
4) I want to be emotionally healed enough that if, God forbid, something like this happened again, it wouldn't totally destroy me.
5) I think the biggest reason is that I want to make sure I'm ready for the sake of our next baby. I want to make sure that I want THAT child, and it's not just that I want to be pregnant or I want to have a baby this year. I want to be able to focus on that specific little one that will come to us and not always be thinking and grieving for William.
So really, I think it will probably take me a good year. Past my due date, past the day we found out what had happened. Or at least close to that. Maybe Christmas. It has to be after Thanksgiving, because I think having another August due date would be too difficult. September or October would be great. But who knows? I may change my mind next week. Or God may have another plan in store for me too.
So in a way, I'm glad people are starting to ask. Because then I can tell them and they won't be watching for that pale, sick look, or that little pooch under my shirt, or for frequent runs to the restroom. They'll know that when it comes, it comes. And that may be a while off.
On a different note, I'm at the point where I've started sending this blog to a few of my very close friends. I'm okay now with people who actually know me knowing what I've been feeling. But I do want to say one thing to everyone who reads this blog that I've been thinking about writing for several weeks now, as a disclaimer of sorts. Don't feel like you have to feel sorry for me. That's not the purpose of this blog, to gain sympathy. Though it's been awful, and terrible, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone, the only thing I would trade this experience for is having that baby in my arms. But I wouldn't trade it for anything else. I've grown like I've never grown before and learned things that have made me so much better. This blog is to help. It's to help those who are going through the same thing, it's to help those who know someone going through the same thing so they can understand, it's to help anyone who is grieving, it's to help people understand what this is like so they can see that perspective. And most importantly, in my eyes, it's to help me heal. Thank you so much to all of you who read this, whether I know you in person or not. I couldn't do this without you.
So if you are reading this, please take away some joy and understanding and the big picture of what life is all about--grieving, growing, and finding joy.
But I'm not.
For the most part, people are very respectful and are asking just because they would love to see me comforted with another pregnancy. But that's not what I want. Really, that's not what would bring me comfort. I know a lot of women can't wait for their first period so they can start trying again, but I guess I'm not in that group.
I'm in a completely different group, or maybe it's not even a group at all. Maybe I'm alone in my thinking. I just can't bring myself to start thinking about another baby yet, and I think it will be some time before I can. I've analyzed that perspective, and I think there are several reasons why I, personally, am feeling this.
1) There's the obvious physical reason. I get terribly sick. Horribly sick. Emergency Room sick. And I don't want to do that again any time soon.
2) Maybe it's selfish, but I'm kind of enjoying my time with E and with Ben and with...myself again.
3) I feel like trying this soon takes away from honoring the little one that we lost. I want there to be a spot in our family for him, more than just one extra month than we thought would be between E and our next child. I feel like there needs to be a space big enough for me to remember, "there's another child in between these two."
4) I want to be emotionally healed enough that if, God forbid, something like this happened again, it wouldn't totally destroy me.
5) I think the biggest reason is that I want to make sure I'm ready for the sake of our next baby. I want to make sure that I want THAT child, and it's not just that I want to be pregnant or I want to have a baby this year. I want to be able to focus on that specific little one that will come to us and not always be thinking and grieving for William.
So really, I think it will probably take me a good year. Past my due date, past the day we found out what had happened. Or at least close to that. Maybe Christmas. It has to be after Thanksgiving, because I think having another August due date would be too difficult. September or October would be great. But who knows? I may change my mind next week. Or God may have another plan in store for me too.
So in a way, I'm glad people are starting to ask. Because then I can tell them and they won't be watching for that pale, sick look, or that little pooch under my shirt, or for frequent runs to the restroom. They'll know that when it comes, it comes. And that may be a while off.
On a different note, I'm at the point where I've started sending this blog to a few of my very close friends. I'm okay now with people who actually know me knowing what I've been feeling. But I do want to say one thing to everyone who reads this blog that I've been thinking about writing for several weeks now, as a disclaimer of sorts. Don't feel like you have to feel sorry for me. That's not the purpose of this blog, to gain sympathy. Though it's been awful, and terrible, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone, the only thing I would trade this experience for is having that baby in my arms. But I wouldn't trade it for anything else. I've grown like I've never grown before and learned things that have made me so much better. This blog is to help. It's to help those who are going through the same thing, it's to help those who know someone going through the same thing so they can understand, it's to help anyone who is grieving, it's to help people understand what this is like so they can see that perspective. And most importantly, in my eyes, it's to help me heal. Thank you so much to all of you who read this, whether I know you in person or not. I couldn't do this without you.
So if you are reading this, please take away some joy and understanding and the big picture of what life is all about--grieving, growing, and finding joy.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Starting Again
So two Sundays ago was terrible.
Sunday morning I woke up to terribly sharp pains on my right side. I was completely hunched over while I was getting ready for church. I could barely get dressed.
About a week-and-a-half ago I had the same thing, though not as severe. I thought for sure I had appendicitis, that on top of everything else going on, I would have to have an appendectomy, bringing me back to the hospital where everything happened. But I called my doctor and found that no, it wasn't my appendix. I was ovulating.
So I've been dreading the inevitable start of the bleeding. And that Sunday, doubled over in pain, I knew it was starting.
Sure enough, by the time I got to church, I was normal. I was having a normal cycle. My body knew it was no longer pregnant.
Ugh.
So then I walk into the meeting, and the first thing is a baby blessing.
You've got to be kidding me.
I thought ot myself, "I'll be fine. It's been over a month. Surely I can sit through a baby blessing." But no more than two words into it, I felt that sob creeping up into my chest, and I had to get up quickly before I disturbed anyone.
I had a good cry in the bathroom.
Just too many emotional things in one day. I hate having a period. I'm not supposed to have one for a good year at least. And the blood just reminded me of everything.
Sorry to be graphic, but...what else can I say?
Sunday morning I woke up to terribly sharp pains on my right side. I was completely hunched over while I was getting ready for church. I could barely get dressed.
About a week-and-a-half ago I had the same thing, though not as severe. I thought for sure I had appendicitis, that on top of everything else going on, I would have to have an appendectomy, bringing me back to the hospital where everything happened. But I called my doctor and found that no, it wasn't my appendix. I was ovulating.
So I've been dreading the inevitable start of the bleeding. And that Sunday, doubled over in pain, I knew it was starting.
Sure enough, by the time I got to church, I was normal. I was having a normal cycle. My body knew it was no longer pregnant.
Ugh.
So then I walk into the meeting, and the first thing is a baby blessing.
You've got to be kidding me.
I thought ot myself, "I'll be fine. It's been over a month. Surely I can sit through a baby blessing." But no more than two words into it, I felt that sob creeping up into my chest, and I had to get up quickly before I disturbed anyone.
I had a good cry in the bathroom.
Just too many emotional things in one day. I hate having a period. I'm not supposed to have one for a good year at least. And the blood just reminded me of everything.
Sorry to be graphic, but...what else can I say?
Friday, March 5, 2010
New
I feel like a completely different person.
I don't know if I can pinpoint exactly what it is, but I'm going to try.
I think I just view life completely differently now. Things seem a little more fragile, a little more real, a little more temporary, but also a little more eternal. I just think of things in different ways. I notice more. I listen more.
But you know, I think I might be happier. Maybe not happier, but more carefree. I find myself not caring about what everyone else thinks. Today in Target, I ran up and down the isles and rode on my shopping cart just because it makes E laugh. And making her laugh is what I live for now. I could care less that other people are staring at me and probably thinking I must be her babysitter because I'm too immature to be her mom. But I love it. And I just talk to her all the time too. We have silly little conversations in the store and and sing at the top of our lungs and just have...fun. I don't feel that need to have adult conversation anymore, aside from with Ben, of course. I'm just, well, content. I think my priorities are finally right.
I realized today that it's been over a month since we lost William. I can't believe it's been that long. He is still so real, everything still feels so fresh. But I think I've grown up in the past few weeks, faster than I ever have before. And while it was the most terrible, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching growing up I've ever experienced, I think it will make me better.
I guess that would mean being William's mom makes me better.
I don't know if I can pinpoint exactly what it is, but I'm going to try.
I think I just view life completely differently now. Things seem a little more fragile, a little more real, a little more temporary, but also a little more eternal. I just think of things in different ways. I notice more. I listen more.
But you know, I think I might be happier. Maybe not happier, but more carefree. I find myself not caring about what everyone else thinks. Today in Target, I ran up and down the isles and rode on my shopping cart just because it makes E laugh. And making her laugh is what I live for now. I could care less that other people are staring at me and probably thinking I must be her babysitter because I'm too immature to be her mom. But I love it. And I just talk to her all the time too. We have silly little conversations in the store and and sing at the top of our lungs and just have...fun. I don't feel that need to have adult conversation anymore, aside from with Ben, of course. I'm just, well, content. I think my priorities are finally right.
I realized today that it's been over a month since we lost William. I can't believe it's been that long. He is still so real, everything still feels so fresh. But I think I've grown up in the past few weeks, faster than I ever have before. And while it was the most terrible, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching growing up I've ever experienced, I think it will make me better.
I guess that would mean being William's mom makes me better.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Away
So we took off and left.
We decided our family needed a vacation from everything and a chance to readjust to what are family is like and will be like for a while. Just three for now.
So we decided to take off and go to Disneyland for three days. Planning this trip has been keeping be busy, which was part of it's purpose. I think I could tell you every single Disneyland tip in the book...that's how much I researched.
We got to our hotel late Wednesday night, got up, ate, and hit the parks. Let me say, watching E meet her idol, Cinderella, was the happiest moment I've had in a long time. It was so wonderful to just go and be away from everything that reminded me of the grief of the past few weeks and just have some wonderful happy times with E and B. Not that I forgot. I thought about William the whole trip, but in a happy way. In remembrance. In love.
When we were driving home Saturday night, I didn't dread getting back into real life. I actually found myself looking forward to it, to starting over, to recreating myself with all these new lessons and things I've learned woven in.
I think that leaving was the best thing we possibly could have done. It provided some separation. It was like a little happy bridge between the sad past and the hopeful future. And with what I hope are our saddest moments behind us, and our memories and thoughts of William in our hearts, there is only hope ahead.
We decided our family needed a vacation from everything and a chance to readjust to what are family is like and will be like for a while. Just three for now.
So we decided to take off and go to Disneyland for three days. Planning this trip has been keeping be busy, which was part of it's purpose. I think I could tell you every single Disneyland tip in the book...that's how much I researched.
We got to our hotel late Wednesday night, got up, ate, and hit the parks. Let me say, watching E meet her idol, Cinderella, was the happiest moment I've had in a long time. It was so wonderful to just go and be away from everything that reminded me of the grief of the past few weeks and just have some wonderful happy times with E and B. Not that I forgot. I thought about William the whole trip, but in a happy way. In remembrance. In love.
When we were driving home Saturday night, I didn't dread getting back into real life. I actually found myself looking forward to it, to starting over, to recreating myself with all these new lessons and things I've learned woven in.
I think that leaving was the best thing we possibly could have done. It provided some separation. It was like a little happy bridge between the sad past and the hopeful future. And with what I hope are our saddest moments behind us, and our memories and thoughts of William in our hearts, there is only hope ahead.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
A Whole Week?
So it's been a whole week since I've written. There have been times I've wanted to write and haven't been in a place to, but for the most part, I've just felt okay. At least the past few days I have. Which sort of scares me a little. It means I'm moving on. And that I might forget.
I realized today that while the pain of a miscarriage and the grief of it is exactly the same level of intensity as losing a child that has already been born and as been with you for some time, it is probably shorter in length. While you miss being pregnant and having that child with you, there's nothing to miss about them being around. It's not really one fewer person in your house (though in your heart it is), it's not missing hearing their voice or seeing their smile or interacting with them. So maybe the duration is a little shorter, though no less painful. Just a thought for today.
Is anyone reading this? I wonder.
So on Thursday I bought a bracelet. And I actually attribute a lot of my doing-wellness to this purchase. I've been aching to have some physical reminder of all this. I tried some tulips. Good, but I'm in constant fear they're going to die. I bought some rings. Nice to have something, but they had no significance. They were just something I could wear every day as a reminder. And then I thought of this bracelet.
I have a friend who designs jewelry. And when I say designs, I mean really designs. Not just makes it for her friends or what not, but well...let's just say while I was at her house on Thursday, Cheryl Crow called to place an order. That kind of "designs jewelry." Anyway, she has this bracelet that I've always really loved, but can't afford. But I immediately thought of this piece.
It's called "Tapestry." Here's the link to it so you can see what it looks like:
http://www.twisted-silver.com/default.asp?256n675=qrsn7y6_241q7p6_qr5p4v26v10&c41q7p65gB2r5_VQ=E&c41q7p65_VQ=HDE
Anyway, I liked the symbolism of a tapestry. It might sound a little cheesy, but every time I look at my wrist now, I remember that our family is woven together forever, that Liam is always part of our family and is woven in our hearts too. And nothing can break us apart.
Also I heard this address a long time ago comparing life to a tapestry. If you look at the underside of one, it's ugly. There are knots, and strings, and parts that don't look so great. But when you turn it over, all those parts make up something beautiful. That's how life is. There are parts of life that are ugly, and difficult, and terrible. But it's those parts of life that make us into something beautiful, that make us into who we are. Now, when I look at my wrist, I think about that. This part of my life is ugly and terrible, but we will get through this, and it will make me better and stronger, and more able to help people around me. So while I hate going through this, and while I miss my baby like crazy, I know everything will be okay. And that I will see William again soon.
I realized today that while the pain of a miscarriage and the grief of it is exactly the same level of intensity as losing a child that has already been born and as been with you for some time, it is probably shorter in length. While you miss being pregnant and having that child with you, there's nothing to miss about them being around. It's not really one fewer person in your house (though in your heart it is), it's not missing hearing their voice or seeing their smile or interacting with them. So maybe the duration is a little shorter, though no less painful. Just a thought for today.
Is anyone reading this? I wonder.
So on Thursday I bought a bracelet. And I actually attribute a lot of my doing-wellness to this purchase. I've been aching to have some physical reminder of all this. I tried some tulips. Good, but I'm in constant fear they're going to die. I bought some rings. Nice to have something, but they had no significance. They were just something I could wear every day as a reminder. And then I thought of this bracelet.
I have a friend who designs jewelry. And when I say designs, I mean really designs. Not just makes it for her friends or what not, but well...let's just say while I was at her house on Thursday, Cheryl Crow called to place an order. That kind of "designs jewelry." Anyway, she has this bracelet that I've always really loved, but can't afford. But I immediately thought of this piece.
It's called "Tapestry." Here's the link to it so you can see what it looks like:
http://www.twisted-silver.com/default.asp?256n675=qrsn7y6_241q7p6_qr5p4v26v10&c41q7p65gB2r5_VQ=E&c41q7p65_VQ=HDE
Anyway, I liked the symbolism of a tapestry. It might sound a little cheesy, but every time I look at my wrist now, I remember that our family is woven together forever, that Liam is always part of our family and is woven in our hearts too. And nothing can break us apart.
Also I heard this address a long time ago comparing life to a tapestry. If you look at the underside of one, it's ugly. There are knots, and strings, and parts that don't look so great. But when you turn it over, all those parts make up something beautiful. That's how life is. There are parts of life that are ugly, and difficult, and terrible. But it's those parts of life that make us into something beautiful, that make us into who we are. Now, when I look at my wrist, I think about that. This part of my life is ugly and terrible, but we will get through this, and it will make me better and stronger, and more able to help people around me. So while I hate going through this, and while I miss my baby like crazy, I know everything will be okay. And that I will see William again soon.
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