Another sleepless night

Another sleepless night.  I've never felt so helpless.  I couldn't unwind - couldn't even bring my shoulders down from around my ears, or keep my eyes closed.  They kept opening cause my brain kept spinning.  It's like being on constant spin cycle, without any end in sight.

I think I'm repressing most things to be able to get through the days, so at night when there's literally nothing to do, my mind wanders.  Not just wanders, it feels as though it is hijacked by the negative thoughts and replays of the past few weeks.

I wish I could just hold onto the good things to come out of this.  Whereas the horrible images and traumatic events are on repeat like a movie, the good times and things are like a play you go to see once - you feel happy at the time, but its harder to recall the further away from it you get.

I look at her pictures over and over, just so I don't forget her.  I feel like she's slipping away already, being replaced by the bad times and feelings I can't erase.

When I lay down to sleep, it starts.  I feel guilty.  I feel somehow, I should have been able to prevent this.  Should I have gone to the doctor earlier - would that have changed anything?  Should I have slept solely on my left side?  What if I simply drank more water?  What if I had an opportunity to practice kangaroo-care with her like that one mother and she miraculously sprung back to life like her baby?  What if we had gotten pregnant earlier/later?  What if, what if, what if.  The logical side of me knows this doesn't change anything or help, but these are the thoughts that find their way into my brain and keep me from getting any rest.

And the guilt.  The overwhelming guilt of it all.  Why her and not me?  Why couldn't I give Matt something to hold onto?  Now I feel as thought I'm slipping away from him, too - he doesn't have his daughter and now his wife is incapable of being there for him.  Why couldn't I give Parker a baby sister?  In his own words "now he has to wait even longer."  That tore my heart.  We waited on purpose so we would be financially secure and physically/mentally capable of handling a baby, and now this.  Should we have just had a baby ASAP?  What if I had other children when Parker was younger?  I feel like I've isolated him, relegated him to only-childhood, and thus put him at a disadvantage.

My whole family.  This year has been horrendous.  Coraline was the one glimmer of hope, the one piece of happiness I think everyone was hanging onto.  She was the Christmas present, the New Years promise, that everyone desperately needed.  And now there's just disappointment.  I don't care how many times Matt tells me they're not disappointed in me, I'm still the one who feels it.  I feel like they look at me and something clicks in their heads and they say "oh yeah, she promised us a baby and just left us with broken hearts."  And they can't look at me then.

What is my future after this?  I had a goal, a purpose, a reason for being here.  I guess I shouldn't have put all my eggs in this basket, but FFS.  I felt like I owed it to all the women who had a hard time getting pregnant, or in their pregnancy, since mine was so easy and complication-free.  I felt like it was my duty to have another, to not take it for granted that I could.  And above all, we love each other so much we wanted to create our own child together.

Everything - every promise for the future, every hope and dream, every relationship - has been ripped away.  Father and daughter, brother and sister, husband and wife.  All of them forever altered, because I couldn't save her.  I should have been able to save her - I should have died, not my baby girl.  I knew in an instant the second I held Parker in my arms what it was to be willing to sacrifice my own life for his.  And I would have done the same for her, given the chance. 

What I learned in 2012

Recap of what I've learned this year:

I learned that certain strains of upper respiratory infections have become resistant to most anti-biotics, and require a much stronger one plus a steroid to fully kick out of your system.  After three major ENT infections and bronchitis.

Shortly after being sick, I learned that thieves aren't always the sneaking-around-at-night type, but rather the kick-in-your-front-door-in-broad-daylight kind.  I learned that renter's insurance was the best decision we ever made, and theft is covered to the tune of a $4K check less than a week later.  I also learned the value of a good alarm system - but I still don't sleep soundly at night.

I learned that sometimes, people go off the deep end for no reason.

I learned to trust my first impression of people, specifically douchebags.  They're always douchebags.

I learned (well, confirmed) several people I work with are juvenile, backstabbing bitches with no redeeming qualities or compassion.

I learned that most large corporations are heartless, soul-sucking bastards, willing to mortar their walls with their loyal employees while robbing/raping them.

And most importantly, I learned that despite all my best efforts - despite sleepless nights and coccyx pillows, despite chugging TUMS for indigestion and propping myself up on towels at night, despite no alcohol, tobacco, caffeine, shellfish, soft cheeses or medication - everything can still crumble.  Everything can be taken from you in an instant, despite doing "everything" right.  I learned the most difficult lesson regarding the fragility of life, and not to take a single day for granted.

I learned I could love something so deeply that it ripped out a part of me when it was gone.  I learned my husband is the strongest person I know, and I would be nothing without him.  I learned my son has a tremendous capacity for compassion and care. I learned our little girl was loved so much by so many who never met her.

I learned that life goes on, the world keeps turning, regardless of the challenges I face.  The sun comes up, the clouds roll through, and the cycle continues.  This year has left so much destruction, so much despair and loss, so much pain... I don't want to leave her behind in it.  I can't leave her behind, so now I must learn to carry her forward with me.  The one thing I need to learn next year is to have hope.

I love you, Coraline.  You are forever in my heart, and I will keep you there always.

Signs? Or just more heartache?

We went shopping today, after my much needed breakfast out with a friend.  I never would have believed that talking about this whole ordeal would be so cathartic, but it is.  It doesn't "bring it all up again", because its not like it ever left in the first place.  Coraline is the first thing on my mind every second of every day, and even when I sleep.  Talking about her doesn't bring up "bad" feelings, just affirms the loss I have and the loss everyone around us feels deeply.

We went to the bookstore to try & use my gift card.  I left disgusted.  Not a single book that deals with this situation.  Not in self-help, psychology, pregnancy/fertility, medical/health, grief/loss - nothing.  A few books on grieving briefly touched on "loss of a child", but nothing really in depth other than "this is the worst thing imaginable".  Comforting, right?  One book's only mention of infant loss went "miscarriage - abortion - neonatal loss".  Um, so stillbirth doesn't exist?  Did we just gloss right over that whole factor?  I guess, despite all the evidence I've found in researching this, that the 26000 or so cord-related deaths per year are just not important enough to register.  A flawless pregnancy never just suddenly ends in loss, right?

We've pretty much determined I'm suffering from PTSD, or a form of it related to the intense trauma of the whole experience and the constant grieving from the loss.  Again, I have two modes - forced numbness or near-suicidal depression - and switching between those happens daily, sometimes hourly.  I live in constant fear and paranoia, and I only do things because I'm being pushed or prodded along.  I take all of Matt's suggestions and just do them, cause its easier than thinking for myself.  It's easier than doubting every decision, from what I wear to what I make for dinner to where we go.  I don't want to think for myself most times, because most times it just feels wrong, like I'll make the wrong decision and feel even worse.

Matt and Parker desperately needed haircuts, and despite my not wanting to go to SuperCuts (where I went days prior to having Coraline to get that "new mommy" haircut and didn't want to run into any stylist asking "how's the baby?") it was the only place within several miles.  So off we went.  While the boys are getting their trims, I'm being subjected to one of the many crappy country muzak stations the salon plays, and one of the songs had me in tears.  I don't like or listen to country music, but this one made my heart ache.  I want to think it was a message from Coraline to us - something saying "hey, it's going to be okay - you're all together, doing normal things as a family - I just want you to know I'm here and I'm safe and loved."  I had to leave the salon to keep from breaking down entirely.

Well, remember me in ribbons and curls.
I still love you more than anything in the world...
Love, your baby girl. 

I know the song is about a woman who's "made it big" writing home to her parents, but those lines just reached in and ripped my already fragile hearts to shreds.  Part of me weeps because we never got to put her in "ribbons and curls", and I'll never hear the sweet sound of her voice. Another part of me has been desperately searching for a sign - something, anything - that I still have a connection to her.  That she's still a part of me in some way, because I'll be honest, I can't feel her.  I see her things and pictures, but inside I just feel dead myself.  And so the other part of me wanted this to be her way of trying to comfort me, trying to communicate, keeping that connection.

On the way back home, I saw a rainbow.  Not even a rainbow, really, just a sun spot that refracted and made a small rainbow colored pattern in the clouds.  It's not much, but I'll take it.  I still don't know if I'll ever get that "sign" or have that future-revealing, mind-clearing moment when everything falls back into place and the world makes sense again.  My world won't ever make sense because she wasn't allowed to be a part of it.

If by "waves" you mean "flood of biblical proportions", then yes.

It doesn't come in "waves".  It doesn't ebb and flow like the tide, or gently crash against you and then pull away.  It drowns you.  It beats you senseless and raw against the reef, and when the storm seems like its about to end, it recycles.

It doesn't leave.  It's always there, gnawing at you like a persistent flesh-eating virus.  And it takes its sweet time, oh yes.  It lets you get that glimmer of hope, that faint ray of light in the darkness before snuffing it out.  Before dragging you back to that isolated darkness, that incomprehensible sorrow and excruciating pain.  It makes you lose her all over again.  Just when you think you have a wisp of a grasp on your pain, your torment, it pulls the precarious ladder out from under your feet, and you crash down onto the jagged glass of horrible realization.  It blinds you, cuts you to shreds, and leaves you bleeding and clawing your way towards the surface again.

You don't have "stages" of grief.  They come all at once.  When your fists clench in rage so the nails slice your palms, but your legs are heavy and you can't find the energy to sit up.  Your tears flow hot down your numb face, your eyes red and sore but lifeless and glassy.  Your chest is hollow, your womb barren - how can you be filled with so many complex emotions and still feel...  empty?  How can your future, which held so much promise, be so hidden now, so bleak and dim.

I live at two speeds now, either forcibly numb or hysterically devastated.  Most of the day is spent forcibly numb, where I don't allow myself to feel anything.  I process everything rather mechanically - do this, now do this, next that - in between moments where I sit, sometimes for hours, debating my next decision (which could be as "simple" as what to wear or eat) and mourning my sweet girl.  The times where I allow myself to grieve scare me, because I'm worried they won't stop.  I cry for hours.  I look at her pictures, her keepsakes, her things - they make me feel better than the horrible replay of the nightmare that is on full blast in my head.

Last night I just sobbed and bawled for hours.  I never understood why people at funerals wailed, cried out, vocally mourned.  I wish I still didn't.  When there are no more words to express a loss so deep it cuts your core and transcends the grave, your soul cries.  That is the sound of my heart, my soul crying out, expressing what words and tears cannot and never will.  Have you ever heard a mother crying out for her child?  It is often silent, but overpowers every sound in existence.

I never heard her cry.  I don't even know what color her eyes were.  I will never have a Christmas with her.  I will never get to brush her hair, or tie her shoes, or even get up for those exhausting 3 am feedings and changings I was dreading.   Her room sits untouched.  Her diapers, neatly arranged in a stack next to the powder and lavender lotion, unused.  Her stroller set is brand new, her crib was her brothers, and her closet full of clothes is both donated and gifted.  She will never get to use the baby carriage for her own sweet baby doll, just as I will never proudly push her down the street in hers. She will never see the pictures of her family, framed and one of the last additions to her room.  She will never jam the Snow White figure I bought as a girl at Disney into her mouth and gnaw on it to soothe her gums, which will never bear teeth to put under her pillow.  There are no first steps, first words, first days of school.  There are no hugs, no tears, no smiles.  There is nothing left of her but a box, her footprints, her blanket and some photos.

She is gone - she was real, but never was.

No rest for the weary

Well, I'm awake again.  Slapped in the face with harsh unforgiving reality.

Last night I forgot to take the Ambien, but I felt pretty tired and assumed nature would just take its course.  I was, of course, sorely mistaken.  The traumatic events were broadcast in high-def right in front of my face for several hours, leaving me bawling, shaking on the floor of the closet until Matt found me at 1 am.  I'd heard of mothers wailing for their lost children, but never experienced it until then - I know now why it happens.  We wail, we tear our hair, we cry out with a ferocious fury because nothing is bringing our children back to us, and there are no words in any language to accurately describe the anguish and torment that terrible knowledge brings.

You don't go through "stages" of grief - they hit you all at once, and often out of nowhere.  I am simultaneously furiously angry and devastated beyond words.  I have the frustration of a thousand speechless orphans, and the hopelessness of a million barren mothers.  I have the desire to punch something until my nails rip back and my knuckles are left raw and bloody, and I have no energy to crawl out from under the covers.

It isn't fair that this doesn't kill you.  It isn't fair that every day I wake up, take a breath, and live it all over again.  Pain this deep for this long should destroy someone.  It doesn't make me stronger because I'm "getting through it".  It rips apart the already fraying fabric of my soul and incinerates the shattered remnants of my heart with a freezing blaze.

In researching, I think I'm suffering from PTSD.  This is without a doubt the most traumatic event that has ever happened in my life, and it feels like it's still happening.  The nightmares come during the day and I don't just remember, I relive the horrific events over and over and over - always with the same outcome: helplessness, hopelessness, delivering my dead daughter and sobbing for her to forgive me.  Then the guilt comes in, and I hate myself - I hate that I'm still awake, alive, forced to suffer through each day with this overwhelming melancholy, these empty arms and womb, this useless, wasted life.  I'm terrified to live.

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us...

Easier said than done.  How do you pick up the slivered pieces of your heart, your mind, your life, and keep going?  How can anyone continue when everything they knew was just destroyed?  The hardest part now is trying to find meaning in the rest of my life.  I don't just want to keep plodding along in the same dead end jobs with no drive. I don't want whatever talent I have to be wasted or bottled up inside because I'm afraid to let it out.  I'm even bored/disgusted with writing half the time - I start the day busy and just end up surfing the internet for hours, ignoring everything else and letting the grief and anger and pain and isolation consume me again.

Before this I was going to take the full 3 months (12 weeks) of allotted FMLA time to search vigorously for a new job.  Now, with only 4 weeks left of my 8 week leave, I have no idea what to do.  I have to enroll in classes to continue receiving the loan (which I didn't get in the fall for no explained reason) but I don't know what I'm going to do education wise. Hardly anything piques my interest, or if it does, it's soon pushed aside by hyper-rationalism - "you'll never finish that, you'll get bored with it, you don't have time/energy/brains enough for that."  Self-defeating always, that was me.  But at least I was going to have her - I was going to have a little piece of perfect heaven here with me, something pure and good and borne out of the love my husband and I have for each other.  And that was ripped away from me, too.

The things I used to enjoy grow sour.  To borrow a quote from Game of Thrones - "A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth..."  Food has no taste, projects no allure, words no meaning beyond a trite sentiment.  Nothing fits, the situation or me.  I can't sit at home for the rest of my life, but I don't want the rest of my life to be lived in a haze of doing things for the sake of having something to do.  I can keep myself busy with the best of them, but it's got to have meaning for me to feel accomplished.

One of my favorite things was making projects for my baby girl - I had never sewn a quilt, but I gave it a go.  I spent hours searching eBay for the perfect yellow rug, the perfect crib skirt, the perfect bedding set.  I sewed a new lampshade after making her father replace two light fixtures that weren't "perfect".  Painting, sewing, crafting, gluing - these things were filled with purpose, because they were being done for her.  Had she lived, I know she wouldn't have been cognizant enough to even recognize these things for a few years, let alone appreciate the time and effort that went into hand-crafting them.  But that didn't matter, because they were for her - and she deserved the best.

I read stories about women getting second winds, new bursts of energy and hobbies that reignite that spark within them.  Mine was dying before she came, and I feel like the last of it died with her.  She was my inspiration and my hope, my new beginning and my finest hour.  I only go on because there is nothing else to do - nothing I do now will bring her back, not the photos, not the keepsakes, not even the memory.  Nothing will put her here in my arms again.  Anything new that I do is going to be done without her.  I didn't think a person could feel this empty, this lost and this hopeless.

And so this is Christmas...

It hasn't been terrible.  But the day isn't over.

Yesterday I was intent on making a semi-elaborate Christmas Eve dinner for the three of us, so I used the Game of Thrones cookbook to make honeyed chicken, buttered potatoes and multigrain bread, complete with pumpkin spice cake and iced blueberries for dessert.  The boys enjoyed it, and it kept me busy most of the day.

Today was okay, pretty standard.  Its always strange when things feel "normal", like the way they were before when I was pregnant, because Coraline is missing and there's supposed to be someone else here.  But I think everyone had a good Christmas.  Matt gave me gift cards to go shopping and a new SD card for my phone, complete with a personal message (haven't listened yet).  Parker got me a ring that he said was "not too expensive, but wasn't cheap".  He's 9, so that's par for the course.  His card was very sweet though - he said I was the best mom ever and I deserve all the love.  All his own words - I am so lucky to still have him.

It hurts not to talk about her.  She is real, and when she's avoided entirely, it feels like I'm being told she's gone all over again.  Talking about her is comforting.  Showing others her pictures with the same pride as a new parent is consoling.  She is real - we held her, we have pictures, we have all of her things.  Say her name - Coraline.  She had dark brown hair.  She had long feet and long delicate fingers.  She had chubby cheeks and her ears were shaped like her daddy's.  She was 7 pounds and 5 ounces, 20 3/4 inches long.  Her birthday is November 30th, and yes, she was born.  I was induced and labored and delivered her, with her daddy by my side.  Talk about her to me, make her real again - keep her memory alive.  Don't ever be afraid that talking about my beautiful daughter will make me "sad" - the sadness is always there, talking about her brings a strange sort of relief.  It is in sharing her life, her existance, her memory and her beauty and love with other people that I am able to remind myself that I am alive, that feelings transcend all rational thought, and hope is still around, waiting.

It was a good Christmas.  We lit a candle for her that is still burning.  She is always alive in our hearts.

Christmas Shopping and confirmation

Today was the first day of Matt's 4-day weekend.  I feel so much better when he's home with me.  He won't let me wallow in pity and stay in bed in my pajamas all day crying, which I did yesterday.

He wanted to go out present shopping, and since I didn't want to be alone, I opted to come with.  Dressed nicely (jeans, nice shirt, jacket) and even put on makeup (mainly to try & cover up the dark circles I've always had that have just gotten worse in the past 3 weeks).  It was packed, and I could deal with that surprisingly.  There were plenty of families, and babies, and pregnant women.  That was okay.  I don't understand the women who fall apart everytime they see a baby or pregnant woman, crying "why is she allowed to have her baby and IIII wasn't?!?"  Don't get me wrong, I understand the sentiment and the underlying jealousy - why them, not me?  But I don't get that stab of pain with every random pregnant woman I see.  Rather, I remember what it was like being pregnant with her, how she moved inside of me, hearing her heartbeat and seeing her wiggle on her gender ultrasound.  I don't wish ill upon them, or think "they'll never understand my pain and can't possibly want their baby as much as I wanted mine."  I just pray they never have to go through our situation and have a healthy thriving baby.

I was okay up until the Hallmark store.  Searching for a Precious Moments figurine for my mom.  The ones I found I didn't feel right getting - all the little girls were blonde, and my Coraline had a full head of very dark hair.  We looked around at some other collections, and I unfortunately came across the baptism/baby section.  They had a type of "memory box" meant for collectibles from the baby's christening, which she will never have.  I didn't flat-out lose it and become inconsolable, but the tears did well up and were hard to hide.  Matt hugged me and we left, empty-handed, and talked in the car while I cried a bit.

We left and walked around Best Buy, which also brought back memories - my last visit there I was barely walking because of the hip/sciatic pain and pressure, and ran into an old friend from high school who fawned over me and my huge belly.  It was hard to walk around pain-free, fighting the urge to rub my stomach.  But I made it through that with minimal effort.

When we got home, a large manila envelope was stuck in our mailbox.  It was addressed to Matt, from the funeral home.  I didn't make the connection at first.  It was Coraline's death certificate.  I pretty much crumbled after that.  It's just another thing that "makes it all official".  Just something else to drive that stake in my heart deeper, that burning reality that she is never coming home.  The official cause listed was "tight nuchal cord", signed off by the doctor.  We opted against an autopsy, which may seem strange to many people but I think we were so distraught we couldn't bear that idea and didn't think a reason would give us closure.  My only regret is the possibility that there was a genetic issue that I don't want to repeat if we have more children, but I will get tested for everything under the sun if that happens anyway.

This horrible silence. Living in it, walking in it... there are no coincidences, no  signs.  Just silence.  Silence in the house day after day, and the awkward silence I keep whenever I leave.  The sad silence of loss without broadcast, without announcing to the world who she is and who I am.  Who we were together, and who we are, now, apart.  How it changed me, how it's still changing me.  How I grieve, how my heart sobs and my soul aches - how my love has turned to tears and empty arms.  How my husband, her father, mourns behind a stone facade of strength and stamina.  And there is nothing comforting - no "perfect" quote or "ideal" figurine - no material object or incidental event that has meaning.  There is just my shattered heart, which screams silently.

Three weeks - slept without Ambien

Huge mistake.

Between waking every hour and nightmares that gave way to the waking nightmare that is my life right now, huge mistake.  First I dreamed that the hospital had me deliver my baby, umbilical cord, placenta and all, and then put it back.  Then sent me home because I was only 38 weeks and I was to come back 2 weeks later to deliver her again.  Repetitive nightmare that never ends, thanks for having me relive that scumbag brain. 

Second horrible dream was that a couple was driving in a van down my street at night, arguing.  Matt & I were in the garage, and watched as they pulled over, and dropped off a car seat with a one-year old child at the end of our driveway.  The woman was driving, the man was telling her she had to get rid of the baby, who was crying.  Matt was hesitant, but I told her I would take the baby for a week (since it was Christmas) and keep it if she still didn't want it after.  She said the baby was a girl, named Collins (no idea why).  Matt & I were in our daughter's room, before we had renovated it for her so it had our old couch and television in there, and I was trying to feed Collins.  I was checking the bottle (Avent, the brand I used for Parker) and Matt was very distant/removed from us.  In addition to the grab bag of crazy, Collins was a very verbose and well-spoken one-year-old.  I asked if she wanted a bottle and she replied yes.  But wouldn't take it.  I asked her why, and she said 'because it was cold now."  We decided to have apple-cinnamon Gerber snacks (again, same kind I used to give Parker) instead.

After this I woke up with that empty pit in my stomach and hole in my heart.  I will never get to hold a one-year-old Coraline.  No one is just going to come and "give" us a baby to heal our lives.  I fell apart, right before Matt was leaving for work.  I cried to him that nothing is going to bring her back, and that's all I want and it will never happen - it's beyond the physical capacity of anyone or anything. I live a nightmare when I'm awake, I have them when I sleep - I feel like I'll never be able to function without prescription drug assistance again.  I don't want to be dependent on them, and I'm scared that's where it's going to lead.  I'm scared all the time, scared to leave my house, my bed - but that just leaves me alone inside my own head, which continues the cycle of fear and doubt and pain.

It wasn't over yet - after Matt calmed me down (or at least got me to the point where I wasn't hysterically crying) I fell asleep and had another nightmare.  I dreamed that Matt came back to the house to stay with me for a while, but was very distracted by his phone and computer.  I was still in the same miserable state, and he couldn't or didn't want to deal with it anymore.  He got dressed and left, laughing at me on the way out like he was completely callous to my suffering. 

I told him I wish I had an ounce of the confidence he had that we're going to make it - it would probably make the days easier. I don't even want to get out of bed. I feel like I can't do anything. I can't find hope anymore, it all just goes back to fear and pain and doubt. Even if I'm okay for a little while, I know its all still there, under the surface just waiting to come back and tear me down again. I can't pretend to be happy or hopeful for a future without her in it. He keeps telling me its going to come back, but i cant see it. I have no inspiration or motivation. Totally lost. And failing - I keep telling myself I'm not going to bother him with all this while he's at work, then I end up dumping everything on him.

19 days - hitting bottom

Today was bad.  I forgot to eat, to drink enough water – basically forgot to take care of myself.  Wasn’t intentional, but it seemed to make my meds wear off more quickly (I was probably tired/dehydrated) and the nightly cry-fest hit me earlier than usual.  Unfortunately triggered by my son’s reaction to the photo album that arrived today.  I asked if he wanted to see it, and all he said was “no”, and went back to his toys.  I know he’s only 9, nearly 10, but it cut me like he couldn’t be bothered.  I feel like my heart is so broken, so fragile and raw, that my grief should transcend boundaries and everyone should cry along with me.  But I know I can’t expect that.  And he’s only protecting himself, he doesn’t want to be sad or want anyone else to feel sad, especially mom and step-dad.  I feel like I’m so emotionally fragile, however, I can’t cope with the slightest negative or even neutral reaction.

I’ve become extremely paranoid.  I’m terrified something will happen to my husband or living son.  I’m scared that my husband will eventually grow so weary of trying to take care of me and repeating himself that one day he will say “I’m sorry” and follow it up with “but I can’t do this anymore.”  I’m worried my son resents me because he feels this is my fault – at least it’s my fault because I got his hopes up and they were shattered without reason.  I’m scared he’s going to hold it all in and be emotionally stunted.  I’m worried our friends aren’t going to know how to talk to us from now on and we’ll lose a lot of them.  I’m scared that if we have another baby down the line, no one will get excited, and we’ll just get looks of worry and pity until we deliver a hopefully healthy, live baby.

               
I don’t want to live in fear, but I literally could not unwind myself from the fetal position, crying, today.  No one is ever going to be happy for us again, if we have another – they’ll just cringe when we announce it.  And I’ll panic the entire time.  And people will expect me to be “normal” anytime in the future.  I will never be “normal” after this – part of me died that day with her.  I am so empty it’s unfathomable.  I aged 20 years in an instant.  I can’t see the hope or happy future everyone keeps telling me I’ll eventually have, or the strength they insist I have just in “being here” now.  I’m only here because I’ve lost the will to do anything.

               
I told my son tonight that we have 2 choices – we can be sad and let the sadness ruin our lives, or we can live happy, full lives which is what Coraline would have wanted.  I feel terrible because I can’t believe that right now – I don’t think I have a choice.  I am hanging on by my fingernails on a thin thread that’s about to snap.  I’m emotionally destroyed, and I can’t even function enough to be there for my family.  I’m scared that this grief is going to consume me and I’ll just let it because I have nothing to fight for anymore – my husband will have left and my son won’t want anything to do with me.  I don’t know if we’re going to have another baby – I don’t know if I can bear it.  It’s not even a matter of being strong and moving past the grieving – it takes over and takes control and I can’t stop it.  Even when my head is pounding, even though I’ve lost hearing and have ringing in my ears from crying so much, I can’t stop.  I make myself numb so I can get through a majority of the day, then I let it all come out when Matt gets home. 

                
 I feel like a horrible wife/partner.  I can’t do anything for myself, let alone him.  I’ve only been depressed when he comes home.  I can’t be emotionally available to him, or mentally.  He keeps insisting there’s nowhere he’d rather be than at my side, but how can I be any kind of a wife to him?  How can I ever make anyone else happy when I feel like I’ll never be happy again?  He deserves so much more than what I’ve given him, which I feel is only pain and anguish.  He thanks me for giving him his baby girl, and though I know he’s sincere, that is like a knife in the heart because I couldn’t give him a living child.

                
 The blame is taking over.  I know I should stop the cycle, but I can’t.  She died in my body – my body betrayed me, how could I ever trust it, or myself, not to do the same again?  It was my job to keep her safe, and I failed.  Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a mother in any sense.  Some people float through life without experiencing any kind of tragedy – maybe this was the universe’s way of chastising me for wanting too much.  Although I can’t believe my innocent baby would be made to suffer for my sins, I have never felt this much heartache or pain and I don’t know how anyone ever recovers from it.

18 days and despair

All of this is pointless.  I made a baby photo book for her, am making a video slideshow of her, my hand hurts from writing so many “thank yous” and “we are so comforted.”  But today I just feel its all pointless.  Nothing I do, nothing anyone says, will bring her back.  I feel like my life ended with hers.   I hoped this would draw me closer to my son, but I just feel farther away from him.  We have nothing in common, he relates to and likes his stepdad so much more.  At least he has someone he looks up to.  I have nothing – my arms are so empty, my heart is caving in.  So much preparation, so much devotion and effort, to waste, now just a painful reminder of the life that will never be.

For all the love and support we have, I still feel so alone.  This loss is unbearable, and I can’t see through to the other side sometimes.  Part of me wants to continue, wants to put forth the effort and extra effort just to have something to do, to have something to cling to.  I have all this useless, wasted energy.  Nothing has meaning – I go through motions either because they’re familiar and second hat or because its something to distract me for a short while.  At first I wanted to be this bright, shining example of love for my daughter.  Now I just have no ambition.  I may just stay in bed tomorrow, just say screw it completely.

               
Yesterday I found the printout of our baby registry (or maybe it was the day before – the days seem to blur together more, into one amalgamous blob of grief and crying).  I haven’t been in her room since her birth, but I could tell you exactly where every item is in her closet – which drawer her socks are in, where you could find the diaper ointment and what was packed in her TWO diaper bags.  So much time and effort – I just thought about all the trips to Babies R Us, when I was panicking about “not being ready” and not having enough stimulating toys for her.  I spent the better part of a day sanitizing and sterilizing bottles, arranging them neatly in a newly cleaned kitchen cabinet for easy accessibility.  I must have mentioned them to my mother because (since they had to go to our house to let the dog out) they had vanished when we got home.  I don’t know what would have bothered me more – seeing them, or the punch in the gut I got when I didn’t see them.

               
We went to a support group meeting last night – Matt thinks its helpful because it’s an opportunity to talk to other people who have been through the same thing and are still here years later.  But I feel myself starting to get bitter.  I don’t WANT to be here, at all.  I don’t WANT other people’s grief compounding my own, or start internalizing their recovery timelines as my own.  It’s helpful for him because he’s had no one to talk to – I’ve at least had my online forums, but its usually just me crying and venting to him, and he’s been so worried he’s held a lot of his own feelings back, in fear of hurting me more.

Two weeks after

Everyone keeps telling me that one day things will “be okay” – the pain will end.  I doubt it very much.  I’m trying not to be consumed by this, but I feel like I’m living in my grief.  Matt tells me to take it slow, we’re only 2 weeks from her birth and I’m still healing physically as well as going through crazy leftover hormones.  But I’m so lost.  Us going out as a family together was supposed to be a good thing – but all I can do is sit there and think “this feels familiar, but it doesn’t feel right.”  I’m supposed to be lugging around a car seat and diaper bag, complaining about my boobs leaking, and only getting 1-2 hours of sleep at a time.  Instead I have an empty body, dried up breasts, aching arms and drug-induced blackouts. 

I know I can’t let the grief take over and be the defining factor of my life – I don’t want to be just that “woman who lost a baby”.  And I didn’t “lose” her – she was taken.  But all I can do right now with all this worthless energy and motherly instinct that should have been used to care for Coraline is try to preserve her memory.  I arrange her keepsakes and preserve her memorial flowers, instead of arranging her socks and burp cloths.  I create a video and photo book of the only pictures we will ever have of her, because part of me still wants to show anyone who asks (or doesn’t for that matter) “Look! Look!  Isn’t my daughter beautiful?” 

                
There is no “normal” anymore.  There is no getting better, or moving “past” this.  There is only learning to cope with the agonizing loss, and being able to subdue it long enough to focus on other things.  It all comes rushing back in the second I’m not distracted.  It’s horrible that I will carry these scars longer than I carried my baby girl.  The only things keeping me from completely losing my shit are my amazing husband, who has put my needs and healing above all else and has shown me the meaning of unconditional love, and my son, who needs his mother and whose father I’m afraid would use my “mental breakdown” as a chance to take him from me.

Bringing Her Home

Today is a bittersweet day, mostly bitter.  I called the funeral home who told me Coraline had arrived and we could come pick her up.  Never having planned a cremation before, I didn’t know what to expect.  Matt and I planned our day around picking her up, and the pictures from NILMDTS.  I was okay at the funeral home, even signed the receipt for her – she came home in a small plastic box about the size of an electric pencil sharpener, her name stamped on the side, with a certificate of cremation if we ever decide to inter her at a cemetery.  I held the bag containing her plastic urn and walked outside, then fell apart.  Matt and I sat in the car as I kept telling her over and over again how sorry I was, and Matt kept trying to tell me it wasn’t my fault and I didn’t need to apologize.  But to her I do, I will apologize every day.

               
Coraline, I’m so sorry you never got a chance to enjoy this world.  I’m sorry you never got to meet your big brother, who was waiting anxiously for you.  I’m sorry you were laid to rest not in the crib we lovingly prepared for you, but in a jewelry box that should have held your first hair ribbons and trinkets.  I’m sorry no one ever heard you laugh or cry.  I’m sorry your daddy only had one opportunity to hold you, and now just has a memory.  I’m sorry your heart stopped, and I can’t explain why.  I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to bring you into this world alive.

               
We did get to pick up her pictures from NILMDTS today, which was heartbreaking (again) to see, but I’m so glad I can see her and show others how beautiful she was.  It was very hard to relive that, seeing the absolute anguish on my own face, the concern on my husband’s.  Her hands & fingers were so long, like her feet, completely her daddy’s.  She even had his ears.

Due Date

Today is Coraline’s due date.  The babycenter app on my phone was nice enough to remind me I was 40 weeks today, despite the fact that I disabled all reminders.  Last night was decent, Matt & I watched a movie and actually cuddled (we hadn’t been able to do that easily given my huge belly).  Then it was bed time.  I took my Ambien and waited.  And the events started replaying themselves in my head – never fails.  I lost it – I couldn’t make it stop, all I kept seeing over and over was the ultrasound, my screaming, the birth, the pain – over and over and over.  Matt stayed awake with me until I calmed down and finally the drugs took over and knocked me out.  And that’s how I sleep now – there’s no peaceful drifting off, no relaxation techniques or soothing herbal tea.  And part of me doesn’t want to come off the Ambien because I’m terrified of waking up in the middle of the night & being alone again.  Once I wake up my brain is ON, and I just want to be able to not think for a few hours to try and get some sort of “rest”.

                
This morning I woke up miserable.  It was raining, and I’m sometimes a bit foggy in the mornings.  At night, the nightmare replays itself in my head, no matter how much I try to focus on the good parts (holding her, our friends at the memorial, etc).  And in the morning, I don’t have the constant replay going, just the consuming ache and realization that it’s all still very real.  It was raining when I woke up, and it just made things more unbearable.

Eleven days after

Today is 11 days from Coraline’s birth, just two days after her memorial service.  I’ve taken to distracting myself by deep cleaning the house (as much as I can without overworking myself, since I’m still healing physically).  Yesterday was “go through all my clothes and figure out what fits and what needs to be thrown/given away or boxed up (like maternity clothes)”.  Today it was laundry and general cleaning (husband mopped the basement, which was much appreciated).  The long-ignored stack of papers in the laundry room was finally addressed, comprising some tax returns, school papers, hospital discharge forms and the trigger - Coraline’s birth certificate form, which I had filled out over a month ago in anticipation.  At first I just stared at it, numb.  Then it hit me – she never got a birth certificate.  She didn’t make it into this world alive.  But she was alive to me.  She was alive inside me for almost nine months, kicking, stretching, hiccupping.  The hospital (which was unbelievably compassionate and understanding to us) did give her a birth certificate, with her footprints on it.  But the only official record my daughter will have is her death certificate. 

Parker

It’s extremely hard to not have answers for Parker.  We have always tried to be blunt and honest with him, even concerning sensitive subjects.  When I became pregnant and he asked the very basic “how are babies made” question, we provided him with a scientific and straightforward explanation. (Actually, I think he asked why women/humans don’t lay eggs, which led to the whole reproductive process talk).  We sat him down the day after we got home from the hospital to explain this to him.  We told him we had some very hard news to share with him and that we loved him.  It was then that he looked at me and seemed to notice the lack of stomach I had.  His face dropped and he whispered “is it about Coraline?”  I don’t know how we found the words to tell him, but we did.  We told him the same thing we had been telling ourselves – that her passing was not anyone’s fault, and she didn’t suffer, and that we were going to get through this together as a family. 

Grief

I haven’t hit anger yet.  I don’t know if I will – soon, in the future, or ever.  Frustration, yes, when I can’t do everything I want/need to as quickly as possible.  When my milk leaks and I watch it go to waste in a bra pad.  But actual anger…   I was such an angry person before our daughter was born sleeping.  Friends used to comment on my quips about people I encountered, how I would cut someone down with words.  Since Coraline, the wind has been taken out of my sails, in more ways than one.  The anger is gone.  Instead of looking at someone and seeing their flaws or judging them based on a first impression, I find myself wondering what their story is.  I can’t hold on to the anger I used to have over petty stupid things.  The overwhelming devastation has probably just crowded out everything else.  I’ve had confusion, seemingly unbearable sadness, frustration, despair, heartbreak, crippling fear, and physical pain – but anger has been absent. 

Three days after

We made arrangements for Coraline’s cremation today.  I knew today would be exceptionally difficult, and was tempted to just blur my mind with the prescribed Lortab, but I still wanted to be clear enough to remember everything.  My mother met us at the funeral home and we began the relatively short process of filling out forms and making final arrangements.  I held Bear the whole time. 

                
If you’ve never filled out a form for burial or cremation, especially in an infant loss, there are questions you never thought you’d be asked.  I tried to keep a clear head as I answered – was the baby pre-term, any defects in the baby or mother, any diseases, any medical complications.  No, no, no, no, no.  Everything I answered, aside from was a trial of labor attempted and was birth vaginal, was no.  It didn’t fully hit me until I had finished the entire form.  I put the pen down and just started crying.  Matt, as always, held me and let me cry.  But it killed me to have to fill in that form.  Not only was it the final record for our baby’s life, but there was nothing wrong with her.  I had a textbook pregnancy, zero complications, and she had zero defects/problems up until her stillbirth.