would-be birthday month

It's May again, and since the moment we flipped the calendar you have been on my mind constantly. There is still a heaviness in my heart about this month--a sort of bitter sadness that accompanies a broken dream, I suppose. I remember so many people commenting on what a great time of year it would be to have a baby. Of course, I never got to find out. Yet somehow, this month, your due date, still holds so much significance for me. In that alternate reality where everything is different, I would be planning your first birthday. I can't even imagine.

Mother's day was a little bit easier this year, although much too ridden with the word "first." Happy first mother's day! Once again I found myself in that familiar position of being pulled in two directions: torn between embracing the happy, normal, "first time mom" image, and the one whose heart bristles at the assumption that I was not a mother last year. What about that 24 hour labor last January, at the end of which I pushed out a tiny baby? What about the box of ashes on the shelf? What about the tiny flutter of hope that would become your brother, already nestled in my womb?

This year, he is the dominating force in my life, and my motherhood is a lot more obvious. But I like to believe that it truly began a long time ago, way back on the morning of September 9th, when I peed on a stick and it flashed an hourglass at me for what seemed like an eternity before spelling out something along the lines of: "you will never be the same." And now I can truly appreciate the magnitude of that moment, because I am, in fact, forever changed because of you. I am a better mother because of you. You have shaped me in so many ways.

All of that, and I will never get to know you. I wonder if May will always feel so significant; if it will always feel like there is a birthday missing on the calendar. Much of the time it almost feels like I am still waiting for you, and it isn't until those flashbacks of a hospital room, of tiny, lifeless fingers and toes, that I remember you are really gone.

Time is funny that way. That old cliche that time heals is a bit misleading, I think. Really, I think time is just distance. With time, you begin to lose touch with those moments, just like you might lose touch with friends after moving away. They are still a part of you, of your history, but suddenly you have this new life. You become someone different. You remember them, but they are not so present in your every day life, and so you drift. And I think, in many ways, we do begin to forget, just a little. We have to, if we want to be able to move on in this new life, which, for better or worse, keeps marching on. Eventually, maybe we get used to the distance, and the distance gives us the perspective to reflect more objectively, but it never hurts any less. I don't think time will ever truly "heal" that heartache, but it does soften it. A little bit of distance and detachment makes it easier to bear, at least until it all rushes in and takes you back again.

Am I the only one who has these moments of rushing memories that make it all very real again? Because I am having entirely too many of them lately.

the i-would-nevers

I am feeling really exhausted by people lately. Maybe it is hormonal or something, but I am in an angry, bitter, frustrated state with the population at large.

There are so many people around me that are newly pregnant. Two of them just within my small-ish group of coworkers. One of them is sixteen weeks, and has brought up genetic testing with me on two different occasions now--not exactly my favorite topic of conversation at 5AM (or ever). Since I have recently been through one and a half pregnancies, I have become the resident expert on "what to expect." So naturally, I guess, she was wondering about this blood work they were sending her for. When I told her it was probably for the quad screen, she went on about how she would be declining genetic testing because...

"I would never terminate a child."

If you are one of the unlucky members of our club, you know how that statement cuts right into your heart. I have seen it written online a million times, but I have never had someone say it to my face. I felt like I had been punched. Even worse was today, she explained that she did end up getting the blood work, but she "wouldn't get rid of it" either way.

Her tone was totally casual, not accusatory or even necessarily judgmental, but I am still somewhat dumbfounded. To her credit, she does not know all the details of my loss, and I'm not really offering them, either. I know that she really has no idea how many things could go wrong, or what she would do if something really did. I know that you cannot possibly appreciate the gravity of the situation until you have been there. You can't fathom the heartache and the agony and the guilt.

I have been struggling with the guilt lately. I tend to get caught up on the negative perceptions of termination and then torture myself with them. In my heart, I know I spared my daughter from suffering, but her defects are still the fault of my body. I am the one who allowed the induction of contractions that would ultimately end her life.

I am still trying to forgive myself.

It's been awhile. Not because I have not had anything to say, much to the contrary, but these days my time with two hands is rare and usually occupied by more important tasks. Orrin is beautiful and healthy and thriving, almost 4 months old. I still find myself taken aback at times, asking myself if this is really my life, do I really have a baby?

I think back to last year, when I was so desperately clinging to reminders of my motherhood, and now, when I am literally covered in reminders on a daily basis. Even at work, when I manage to escape the spit up and pee, I leak milk. Such a difference from the aching emptiness that followed your arrival. And still, sometimes, I don't quite believe it.

Today has been hard. I can't really figure out why I am in such a terrible mood, but terrible moods inevitably lead to reflection of terrible moments and that led me here. I find myself missing being pregnant sometimes, but I think it is more that I miss that short space of time I carried you. I miss that little sliver in my life that was so blissfully, obliviously happy.

I find myself wondering what you would have been like. What your laugh would have sounded like. What color your eyes would have been, or if you would have been born with as much hair as your brother. Sometimes, when he is sleeping, I catch a glimpse of him that looks like you.

I have two babies.

Everyone forgets.

the may flowers

Your plant is coming back.

There are four green, perfect little stems shooting up out of the pot of soil that contains a part of you--the same pot of soil that I was so sure had become lifeless. I took a moment to marvel at them the other day, these delicate new beginnings, and I felt like they were charged with your presence, like a vibration, an invisible force.

I don't know how it all works, and I'm sure it can all be explained away scientifically, but to me it is so clearly a message from you...wherever you are.

There is new life. There is hope.

We are all embarking on new beginnings. And it's okay.

not over it

I came to write the other day, but ended up reading through my old posts instead.

I should know better. There is no better way to turn me into a sobbing mess than to revisit those darker days. The ache has evolved so much in the past year, but it is far from gone. Even now, with a healthy, warm, living baby who smiles at me every morning.

I have been struggling, this month, with the fact that I sort of let your birthday just slip by. I had big ideas for a celebration of your life, but then plans changed and we found ourselves out of town on the 9th, traveling around Seattle with Jesse's family and three week old Orrin. It wasn't until the evening, Jesse and I crammed into the back seat of the family van with Orrin in between, that the tears started to fall. Jesse was the only one who noticed, the only one who knew, and he took my hand and we cried together, heads bowed over our new boy sleeping in his carseat.

Look at this beautiful boy she sent us, he said, and I nodded. We promised ourselves we would do something to honor your birthday when we got home the next week, but we didn't.

We still haven't. And as the days keep slipping away, the timing seems less and less significant. Still, I find myself wanting to recognize your existence somehow. Perhaps I just didn't even give myself enough time to process the fact that it has actually been a YEAR.

I still have so much to process. This grief thing is far from over, but it is certainly taking on a new shape as we move forward.

safe in my arms

Little brother Orrin arrived safely on December 16th--those who are interested can read the story on the family blog.

We are thoroughly immersed in the new baby daze, but it has not escaped me that it is January. Layla's birthday is in 3 days. In the quiet moments, which are so few and far between these days, I feel the grief lurking. But things are so wildly different now than they were last year at this time. My heart is so full, my arms are no longer quite so achingly empty, and that makes it easier. We have an appreciation for this healthy, thriving, beautiful little being that is unparalleled by those who have never known the other side. We are so completely aware of what a miracle he is, and we are so thankful.

december again

It's December again. Yesterday was the ninth. It has been eleven months.

I am unclear how this year has slipped away from me, how it can possibly have been eleven months since we let you go. It seems just yesterday I was cradling you in my belly by the fireplace as the snow fell outside, wondering if you were a boy or girl, counting down the days until we found out. Could have been yesterday I got the call and the world seemed to stop and I became someone entirely different.

And at the same time it seems impossible that any of it ever happened at all.

Lately I've been feeling really overwhelmed with emotion about you. That is the only way I can explain it. It isn't sadness, at least not completely. There is a softness in my heart, a gratitude, an overwhelming sense of....well, love, I guess. That sort of all-consuming, everything-at-once sort of feeling.

We have officially entered the time of year that I have simultaneously been anticipating and dreading. I am faced with that now familiar juxtaposition of missing you while also preparing for and celebrating your brother. He will be here any day now, and so will all the dates that hold significance in your story. It's hard to know how to feel. If I am sad, is that a betrayal to your brother? If I am happy, does that mean I am forgetting?

Should I forget?

Things have been different lately. There is light where there wasn't before. I am not quite as angry, as guilty, as grief-stricken. There is a buzz of excitement in the air as the world around me anticipates the arrival of your brother. Things are changing. Eleven months has made it easier to breathe, to dig and contemplate and sometimes find some semblance of gratitude for the experience we shared. But it has not made me forget.

In the middle of a nesting frenzy in which I barely stopped to breathe, I pulled out your memory box, held it in my lap, and just cried. As exciting and hopeful as these days are, there is still room to miss you. Even if only for a moment.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. I have lots to say, but have been having trouble expressing my thoughts lately. I can't count the amount of times I have had words begging to be written, only to be ignored and then forgotten. With all the focus on the new baby and the impending birth, it has been hard to find the energy to visit the darker thoughts, even when I probably should. Sometimes it is so much easier not to open that proverbial box.

So that's where I am. Forgetting, but not forgetting. Missing you, but also finding peace with that, somehow.

I don't know what else to say.