Thank You

Over the past 2 and ½ years since we lost Vivienne, I’ve made many friends and found many resources in the loss community. On my Facebook newsfeed, there are posts from friends and pictures of everyone’s children, with articles and commentary about infertility and infant loss interspersed throughout. It makes for an interesting daily read on the world.

Lately, I feel like I’ve been encountering a lot of stories about people being told that their grief is wrong, unhealthy, or even worse, a sign of mental illness. Every time I see one of these stories, I feel a sense of shock. How could anyone look at a grieving parent, at any point over their lifetime, and tell them that they shouldn’t remember their child? I can’t imagine anyone ever saying that.

And then I realize, the reason I can’t imagine it is that no one has ever said this to me. Having heard so many friends talk about it and after reading so many articles, I spent a while waiting for someone to tell me it was time to move on. But, no one ever did. Even after pouring out the most vulnerable and sensitive parts of my soul in this blog, I still never heard the words “you have to let go and move on.” Not once.

Generally speaking, the responses I have received to this blog have been positive. People tell me how it helps them feel understood (even on topics other than losing a child) and how they appreciate me writing so they can understand what we’re going through. There is a large contingent who have never said anything to me about it, and that’s OK. Maybe they are the ones who think it’s time for me to “get over it” and “move on” but at least they have the courtesy not to actually say that directly to me.

So, I guess what I’m actually trying to do here is to say thank you. Thank you for reading, for trying to understand, and for your positive and supportive comments. I feel lucky to be surrounded by people who don’t question how I travel the road I was forced onto. You probably think it’s nothing, but I have many friends who would disagree.

I don’t know where our journey will take us. I don’t know if I’ll keep writing in this blog or not. It’s not that this part of my life is over – remembering and grieving for my daughter is something I’ll do for the rest of my life. But it felt like a thank you needed to be said to those of you who have read and provided comments and notes of love and support over the past few years. Who knows where we go from here, but I do know that no matter what, we have a crew of wonderful people supporting us and rooting for us. And you’ll never know how much we appreciate that.

Will it ever stop?

That’s the question on my mind these days. It’s been 9 months since we lost Vivienne, which I know reads like a long time to a lot of people. I also know that it reads like such a short period of time to the people who have walked this path ahead of me. But still, it’s been 9 months, and I wonder if it will ever stop.

It is still more painful than I can describe to hear other women announce their pregnancies, seeing birth announcements, new pictures posted of the baby, and all of the cute things that your baby/child does. I want to be happy for people experiencing these blessings, but I have to admit, it’s hard. And it’s not getting any easier.

I thought with time, the bitterness would fade. I’m hopeful that it still will, because it’s not a feeling I enjoy. But I can’t imagine a time when I won’t feel bitter that I don’t get to have my daughter with me. I don’t know how it’s possible to not be bitter when so much has been taken from you.

When I was pregnant with Vivienne, it felt like the whole world was pregnant at the same time. I know that sounds like an exaggeration, but it really was a baby boom at my office, and I had multiple friends pregnant at the same time. After Vivienne died, I watched each of them go on to have healthy babies. I got the messages at work or on Facebook that proudly welcomed their children into the world. I tried to take the high road and send my congratulations, which was usually (not always) met with a kind note in return. Let me tell you though, the high road is a painful place.

If you watch, you can see by my face and body language the exact moment it happens—the precise moment I feel the little dagger in my heart at someone else’s happy baby talk. Sometimes, it’s just a twitch of my face. Most of the time, I lower my head and wonder if I can will myself into the walls to remove myself from the situation. Every time someone shows an ultrasound picture, talks about being pregnant, mentions being up with a fussy or sick baby, watching her smile/laugh/roll over, pictures for every month of the baby’s life, going to the park/zoo/games, birthdays, preschool graduations. . .you get the point. The list goes on and on. And it still hurts every time.

It’s not that I don’t want good things for other people. Of course I’m happy for the good fortune of others, but I can’t help but see it as a reminder of our bad fortune. And I would never want people to stop sharing their lives—happy events should be shared. What I really wonder is will I ever be able to just be happy for those people or will there always be a twinge of bitterness to it? Will the bitterness ever stop? I don’t want to live my life as a bitter person always focused on what everyone else has that I don’t. But, it’s not like I envy someone’s house, car, or job. It’s that they get to have their child with them to raise. I will never have that with Vivienne. That’s a pretty big one.

It is hard for me to accept that the bitterness may never stop. It may always be hard for me to be truly happy for others’ happy pregnancy/baby/child moments, without having a sliver of bitterness along with it. That’s not who I want to be, but it doesn’t feel like something I can control. 

The Early Days

I was pretty much a hermit in the early days after Vivienne’s death, and I didn’t start this blog until a few months after losing her. I haven’t told a lot of people what those early days were like. I feel a bit of an obligation for people to understand those days—mostly because in all likelihood, you will know someone who will have a loss (1 in 4 do, an unfortunate statistic). And maybe understanding what those days are like will help you to bring comfort to a friend some day.

The initial hours and days were complete shock. There were big decisions that needed to be made, and we were in no shape to make them, but had no choice. We were asked if we wanted to name our daughter, which was an easy one for us. She is still our daughter, and she deserves a name. We were asked if we wanted an autopsy, and we were asked what we wanted to do with her remains. We were given the names of funeral homes. We were not asked if we wanted pictures of her, which in hindsight was the thing we missed. Fortunately, the nurses took pictures of her without our knowledge, so we have those to remember her. But, we don’t have any pictures of us with her, which I know is a big regret for both of us.

We threw away the clothes we wore that night—another reminder that we didn’t need. As we left the hospital, achingly aware of how empty our arms were without our baby, the nurse commented that it was a sunny day, but felt like it should be a rainy one. We went home and shut the curtains—darkness seemed the only appropriate environment. We spent the next few days in a random rotation of crying, sleeping, and feeling numb to the world.

On Sunday, the flowers started to arrive. Over the days after Vivienne’s death, we received countless cards, flowers, and gifts from friends. We joked that our house looked like a funeral home, but it brought us so much comfort to know that people recognized the depth of our loss. We kept every card we received, and pressed a flower from every arrangement to put with Vivienne’s things.

Sunday night, I woke up around 1 am completely overwhelmed by the loss. I was crying so hard that I could not breath, and I wasn’t sure how I would ever survive this. I got up and wrote the words I would say at Vivienne’s memorial service. Then I sat on the couch, rocking back and forth, and crying like a mental patient until my husband came to get me.

That week, we met with the funeral director, signed paperwork to have our daughter cremated, and picked out a box for her remains. We bought a hope chest (ironic) to put all of Vivienne’s things in. It wasn’t an option to give them away, and we could never use them for another baby—those are her things, and they stay with her.

My husband and I made an agreement, as we each worried about the other one falling into a pit they couldn’t climb out of. Our agreement was that we get up every day and take a shower. That was it. Some days, that was harder to do than it sounds.

Gordon and I were inseparable during those weeks. We did everything together, and couldn’t be alone. Our first trip out to the grocery store, we split up to get it done faster. I showed up at the cash register with cupcakes in my hand. He gave me a look, and I said “I saw a pregnant woman, so I grabbed cupcakes.” That was an acceptable answer.

We tried to leave the house once a day, coming up with random errands to run to force ourselves out into fresh air. But do you know what’s everywhere during the day on weekdays? Babies. Lots of them. It seemed like we couldn’t go anywhere without seeing someone with a baby, and me feeling like I had a flashing sign over my head that said “my baby died.” Part of me wanted to go up and tell these new Moms to appreciate what they had, but I knew enough to know that this would only make me look crazier.

There are all sorts of the things you never consider in the aftermath of losing a child. Did you know that your milk still comes in? My body delivered a baby, it didn’t know she died. So about a week after Vivienne died, I got a very painful physical reminder that I had no child to parent. That lasted for about a week. Then there are the kicks. Technically, they are spasms in the uterus as it shrinks back to normal size. But what they felt like were Vivienne’s kicks. I thought I was officially losing it that I could still feel her move and kick inside of me.

The mail, email distribution lists, and the nurses at the doctor’s office also don’t know she died. So, the fliers for cord donation, maternity wear, and formula keep coming. To this day, we still get flyers offering coupons on our child’s first photos. I had to physically remove myself from every email distribution list I could (and there’s no box to check for “I don’t want to receive your emails because my baby died.”), and I still get emails from maternity stores. There were trips to the doctor’s office where the nurses would ask “how’s the baby?” because they didn’t read my file in advance. It seemed like the hits just kept on coming one after another.

Two weeks after Vivienne died, we had her memorial service. It was just family at our home, and I think it was perfect. We played music for her, read poems or words we wanted to say, and cried with our family. It gave us some peace to know we had honored our daughter. It’s one of the only “proud parent” moments that we get.

I went back to work 2 weeks after Vivienne died. In hindsight, I can say without hesitation that it was way too soon. At the time, I needed something to do—something to occupy my time and my thoughts. I cried at the office A LOT during those first couple of weeks. I still do sometimes, but I try harder to hide it now than I did before.

I can still remember how raw the pain was in those first few weeks. I know that I have healed a lot over the past 6 months, but I also know that I still have a lot of healing to do. There are days when that time feels so far in the past. And then there are days like today, when I wake up missing her so deeply and profoundly that I don’t know if the tears will stop.  I guess that’s how grief goes—some days, you feel like you’re making real progress. And other days, you feel right back in the midst of it.

A little understanding

In the days and weeks after Vivienne’s death, we got a lot of offers for “anything you need.” At the time, I couldn’t articulate what I needed. Now, with tomorrow being 5 months since she died, I think I’m finally figuring it out. What I need is understanding.

It’s a tough one to deliver on, because I know that people who have not walked this path cannot truly understand what it’s like. They can’t understand what it feels like to have all of your hopes and dreams crushed in a matter of hours. What it’s like to go through every part of giving birth knowing you won’t have a baby to take home when it’s done. What it’s like to wonder if there will ever be a time when you feel normal again. What it’s like to spend time with your daughter by sitting with her ashes and looking at the only pictures you will ever have. It’s hard to ask for people to understand what losing a child is like, and I don’t expect that kind of understanding.

The understanding that I need is to recognize that my daughter is real and that she matters. That just because I didn’t carry her full term, and she lived no longer than 8 minutes that she’s somehow less of a person. She cannot be replaced, in my heart or with another child.

The understanding that I need is that my grief is powerful, and that grieving is something that I need to do. I know that grief and sadness are uncomfortable for a lot of people. It’s something we’re supposed to help people out of, not sit with them while they’re in it. When someone is sad, it’s our job to cheer them up and let them know that everything will be OK. But here, that’s just not the case.

The understanding that I need is that I will grieve, in one way or another, for the rest of my life.  This doesn’t mean that I won’t laugh, have good times, or enjoy life. But, there will always be something missing from my life because my daughter isn’t here with me. I know that with time, the grief will change. It won’t always be the sharp and constant pain that I’ve felt these last few months. But it will always be with me because she is a part of me.

The understanding that I need most of all is to know that what I’m feeling is OK. It’s not a process with clear and consistent instructions for how to get through, and it’s not a linear path. Some days, I’ll move forward, some I’ll move backward, and some days, I may not move at all. There will be a day where I feel I’ve made a lot of progress in working through my grief, and the next day might feel like August 19^th all over again. There isn’t a “right way” to get through losing a child. For me, there’s only my way.

I’ve had some amazingly supportive people around me over the last 5 months. And the one consistent theme about their support is that it’s just support, not judgment and not attempts to fix things. No words of “it’s time to move on” or “you need to focus on something else” or “everything will be OK.” Just words of “I’m sorry” or “I’m here for you” and even “this sucks.” And I want to say thank you to those people. Thank you for taking this journey with me and supporting me through it. I know it isn’t easy, but I also know that I can’t do it alone.

New Year, Fresh Start?

I can’t tell you how many times in the last couple of weeks I’ve heard “you must be happy to have 2011 behind you!” (or some variation on that theme) And while it’s true that I am happy to start a new year, it doesn’t quite mean the fresh start that I know everyone hopes for.

2011 was a year of the highest highs and the lowest lows. It’s the year I found out I was pregnant, and the only time I got to spend here with my daughter. I spent much of the year so hopeful about what the future held and how our family would change by the end of it. It’s also, as you all know, the year that I lost her. It’s not only that I lost her, but all of the hope that she represented for our family.

But, the passing of the calendar to 2012 does not quite put the past in the past like we’d like. No date on the calendar will tell me when my grieving will be easier to bear or when it’s time to move on (whatever that means). There is no magic bullet that a new year can provide.

The passing into a new year was actually harder than I expected. There’s something about a new year that means more distance than a fresh start. The passing of time both helps and hurts. I’m now further away in time from my daughter, which makes me feel further away from her. That distance can be hard to swallow. It’s amazing how you can want to turn back the clock and fast forward to the future all at the same time. I suppose it’s the balance between moving on and letting go, and sometimes the difference between the two is hard to spot.

So to respond to those who wonder, sure, I’m happy to have a new year. But that doesn’t mean the impact of 2011 isn’t still there. I didn’t wake up on January 1^st and forget what happened in 2011. It’s a new year, but I still wake up with the same pain and sadness. I am hopeful for 2012, but it doesn’t erase the past. I know that 2012 will bring us many blessings, and we’re ready for them. But it will also be the year that I celebrate my daughter’s first birthday, without her. That’s the thing about time—even though the years change, those same days come back again and again.