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.