Dreaming In Color

Grief is not a linear path. I recognize the inverse relationship between my blogging and my happiness.

I wasn't writing very often for a stretch--things were going well. I was meeting people who might be a in a position to give me a job. I was spending time with AFF and other friends. I was "doing stuff." I still am...on all counts...but things are not going well.


I blame the holidays. I blame the neighbors' stupid floodlights that shine into my room and have chased me to another bed most nights. I blame the all-too-life-like, Prozac-induced dreams I have each night. They are crazy and vivid even though almost exclusively still in black and white.


In the early days I didn't want to go to sleep because I didn't want to wake up. These days I don't want to go to sleep because I don't want to dream.

Last night I dreamt of a positive pregnancy test I kept hidden in a linen closet. When I woke up in the morning I really didn't know that I hadn't woken up in the middle of the night, peed into a paper cup, saw two blue lines, and learned that I was pregnant. Once I figured out it wasn't true, I didn't expect not to be a in sort of funk all day. I just didn't expect the funk to keep deepening as the day wore on. Now it's almost time to go to sleep, but I am fighting it, and I am tired but I am sad and I am angry.

My grief is anything but pure today. It is so much anger and frustration it is rage. I am irritable. I am belligerent. I am hopeless and depressed about the other crap in life. I am brittle, unpredictable, and utterly inconsolable.

I blame the babyless-ness.

Baby(les)'s First Christmas

I don't know why I shouldn't have expected Christmas to be a tough day. I just hadn't thought much about it with Blue. I'd thought about missing him on Thanksgiving, I'd thought about missing him for the family ski trip in February, but not really on Christmas.

My sisters and brother were with in-laws this year, so the annual brunch guests were mostly friends and neighbors. That was a relief. I spent the morning attending my Sitto (grandmother in Arabic) while her regular Sunday caregiver went to Christmas service. Sitto hadn't been feeling well and she didn't wake up once from nine until noon. She is 94 and has Alzheimer's, so I was a little relieved to not have to answer the same questions over and over about what I've been up to lately. I was also a little relieved to not have to be at my parents' house helping my holidays-stressed-out mom get ready for guests. But I was very alone on Christmas morning. I looked around at Sitto's decorations and photos and holiday cards...there were my niece and nephew, there was my one-year-old nephew...and there was a missing card of a missing newborn great-grandson.

My sister called and asked me how to modify a cake recipe. She did not ask how I was doing on my babyless first Christmas. I thought about SS and how it was Christmas and he wasn't going to call, about how he never called, not once since I left. And it was just so fucking sad. We shared nine months of our lives together, we shared the greatest tragedy of our--my life anyway--lives together. And nothing. A G-chat. I'm so sad I was so committed to this person. I am so sad I almost gave my son a father like that.

I returned home in tears with my parents asking what happened. Nothing. Nothing happened. I went out into the yard and sat in front of Blue's tree. I whispered to the branches, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, sending energy from my heart, through Blue's tree, to the core of the earth, through Blue's tree, up and out into the universe, back through Blue's tree and back to my heart. "You're always with me, buddy." I looked up at his blue sky, I leaned over to kiss the skinny trunk of his tree.

I stood up in damp and dirty yoga pants, went inside to change into something suitable for guests and for Christmas. I drank two glasses of Champagne before I ate anything for the day. From then on it was easier to pretend there was nothing wrong.

Public Pregnancy, Private Miscarriage?

The Daily Beast ran this article on Friday about the Duggar family's public miscarriage. Here is the comment I posted:

"The Duggars had a public pregnancy, yet they should have a private miscarriage? It's a shame that this very important message--that miscarriage and stillbirth and medical terminations happen sometimes and it's not a dirty secret--is lost among the criticism of the Duggars' family size. Memorializing your dead baby may be "creepy"--until it happens to you. It's normal. And beautiful. My heart goes out to the Duggars." 

Do I agree with their choice to have 20 children? Who cares? 

I've been secretly hoping that Beyonce would miscarry or have a stillborn. Eccchh...really. I wouldn't wish it on my WORST enemy, actually. But I feel like the public could use a wake-up call about pregnancy loss, especially after the first trimester, and neonatal death. I am truly saddened to hear the ignorant comments from readers and even professionals about the "publicity stunt" pulled by the Duggars. From the article:

 “It just seems too public and almost seems like, ‘OK, we’re stars, everybody wants to know abut us,’” said Susan Newman, a social psychologist who has taken the Duggars to task for continuing to procreate in two columns for Psychology Today. “From what I know of parents who have lost children, it’s horrific. It’s not something you want pictures of..."

Who are you, Susan Newman? Here is her blog and here is her email address: snewman9@optonline.net.

She will be hearing from me. Let her know what you think, too. Respect and integrity are always in order. But do you think it would be okay if I send her the pictures of Blue?

Therapist Two Out of Three

Therapist B says all the wrong things. I can't get pregnant again soon. I can't date. I can't have sex. I have to be on birth control (um?). I can wait to meet a man. I can wait to have another baby. I have to get a job first and foremost. I have to attack my demons. I just want a baby!!!!!

I saw a local psychiatrist (Therapist C) last week for a new Prozac prescription. About 30 minutes into the session I considered asking her for another doctor so that she and I could be friends. I sensed that she spoke not just from clinical experience, but from personal experience, when she reassured me that I had time to meet someone and plan a family. I asked if she had a loss and she nodded, but did not elaborate. She wondered why I wanted an unplanned pregnancy; why I wanted that in the first place, and why I still wouldn't mind its working out that way. I knew where she was going, and it wasn't pretty: no one would ever want to plan a baby with me. I'm not good enough for a man to want a family with me.

I thought I'd slayed those low self-esteem dragons years ago. Okay, I hoped. Maybe it's just self-preservation, but I think it's not just low self-esteem. I think I don't want to have to choose. I want something to just happen to me. Clearly I suck at choosing. At choosing men anyway. I am not so confident in other decision-making areas of my life. I feel like I have so many choices, too many choices, that I am paralyzed into choosing nothing. What do I want to be when I grow up? Well, gee, I'm 34, shouldn't I know this by now? Where do I want to live? I really love it in Colorado, it really suits my lifestyle, the weather is great, I need to be outside...New York is so awesome, I love the culture, the food, the people...I want to live abroad for a time...my hometown isn't so bad after all, and I have friends here...I've always thought Portland would be a cool place to live. I mean, enough!

So I think there is a part of me that just doesn't want to deal with all these choices. In the same way that I could be happy living in a wide variety of places--I lived in a 10,000 person tourist town for two years, then spent more than three years living in NYC with 10,000 people on my midtown block--I could be happy with a variety of men. Just somebody hand him to me already, I'll make it work! The problem is I seem to prefer to make it work with men who will abuse me. Not physically. Not in the obvious after-school-special kind of way (at least, that relationship did not last long). But emotionally. Subtly. A cool withdrawal here, a mild punishment there...and soon you're wondering "what's wrong with me?"

In case you were wondering, AFF is still extremely attentive. He's pretty awesome. I'm worried I will do something to shove him away. I'm also legitimately concerned that it's just too soon. I realize I met him one week after I left SS. It's really true that I never missed SS. I missed Blue, and leaving SS drove it home that my baby was dead. But I never missed his dad. I missed the opportunity to try again. I missed the love and support that I needed. I needed SS, and he wasn't there. I guess I need AFF too. He is attentive and loving and supportive. He kisses my blue star tattoo. He looks at me knowingly when someone in the room starts talking about babies. He cries when he imagines what it might be like to lose his son. He is truly the antidote. But then I wonder: is he good enough just like all the other guys were good enough, because I just want to meet somebody already? Is it possible that the first guy I date after my baby dies will be the guy I want to be with for the rest of my life?

Therapist B would probably say no. But I hate her.

Yoga Didn't Work for This

I don't know how to deal with these sad days after a stretch of good days. Why didn't anybody warn me about how terrible I would feel about getting my first period in a long time? Is this the hormones talking? I don't know. Why do these cramps hurt so bad? This sucks!

It has not been a happy past two days. I am so sad about getting my period. Apparently I would like another "unplanned" pregnancy. (The first one really was, but it would be hard to call another one unplanned.) AFF, seven years younger than I and working a crappy job, (hey, better than me with nothing) does not seem afraid of the idea of becoming a dad in the unplanned near future. (This is why I also call him "the antidote": SS is eight years older with a successful career in IT consulting.) Which is so unbelievably amazing I just don't know how to feel about that. You would think perhaps I have something to be happy about. Yet it seems my one true love is Blue. Last night I went out to meet AFF because I was having a bad day. Tonight I refused to get together with him because I was having a bad day. Sorry, dude. And good luck. He is doing a fantastic job so far, however.

Also, I am "officially" job-hunting, and that is not exactly a confidence-booster. Not that I have even been rejected yet. But whatever.

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I just found out my cousin had a miscarriage. My mom told me without any sort of prelude to troubling news. There is such a convoluted web of emotions spinning in my head and heart. Can I be supportive to her? How much is she suffering? How sad is she? How not sad am I? Is this her first loss? Is this better for me to know she had a loss, as opposed to learning she is pregnant? Are we really in a similar situation such that I should so obviously be able to relate, and to therefore be supportive? Because I am not sure that I can. I'm sorry that the news is troubling for my own selfish self. But I feel like my mom could've waited to tell me, could've waited until I wasn't having such a bad day on my own.


And she seemed to suggest that I can't keep asking people to exclude me from real life happening all around me. She wants me to stop feeling this pain so acutely. She thinks I need to work on it. I know she feels this because she is powerless to stop it. But she doesn't actually know if I should be in a different place from where I actually am. She doesn't know how much, weeks ago now, I thought about going to sleep one night and just never waking up. I know I am doing better.

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After 3/4 of a bottle of wine, I am not such a good writer. But thank you, 3/4 bottle of wine, for dulling my emotional and physical pain like nothing else can. (And screw you, Aleve!)

And I'm sorry, new loss mamas, if you haven't heard, that getting your first period after losing your baby is another one of those triggers. Beware. And be strong, and be sad, and be okay with whatever and wherever you are. There is no timeline for this.

The Good Son

In his family, SS was the good son. The one his dad could be proud of. The child who respected, and probably feared, the father; the child who did not look back unfavorably on the years spent in his dad's care. His dad died about eight years ago. Two weeks after Blue died, when SS told me he was "moving on," I asked him how long it took him to move on after his dad died. "A year." The words hit me physically. My stomach was sick.

I know that SS had unresolved grief from that loss. I know that SS felt some generalized hurt and sadness over the connection of father to son, son to father. But I have too much hurt and anger about the way SS treated me, not just after Blue died, but from when we first learned Blue was alive. I can't help SS. SS doesn't want to be helped. He doesn't want to name his baby. He didn't want to see him, he didn't want to feel him moving around inside me, even when he didn't know his baby was going to die. Who knows what SS has been doing the past three months? But he says "things are coming into focus."

Just when I thought I was going to send off a sarcastic email, for "closure," he IM'ed me. A friend from Colorado sent me a package that was delivered to his place. I had already decided to hold off on the email, actually, but I thought I would ignore any attempts of his (ha!) to get in touch with me. Here's the conversation:

SS:  How are you?

 me:  OK. A lot better. You?

 SS:  Better.... Things are starting to come into focus... I was dazed...

 me:  ???

 SS:  Just in a fog for the loss of the little guy...

 Sent at 1:46 PM on Wednesday

 me:  I figured that is what you are talking about.

what's coming into focus?

 Sent at 1:48 PM on Wednesday

 SS:  I am now able to focus... starting to exercise, work is coming together. I can see beyond the grief of the loss.

Got on the scale... 215lbs..!!! WTF!!!

 Sent at 1:56 PM on Wednesday

 me:  have you been getting any help? reaching out to anyone?

 Sent at 1:58 PM on Wednesday

 SS:  Not Professional help... Talked a little bit with friends. Reaching out is not my style.

 Sent at 2:02 PM on Wednesday

 SS:  Glad you are doing better. Mom and relatives are in town.

Need to spend time with them. Happy Thanksgiving.

I probably do not need to explain to anyone how unsatisfactory this exchange was. First of all, like I didn't know what he meant when he said he was dazed. Oh, we're talking about our dead baby? Oh, now I see. Then we have the chit-chatty "I got fat" comment. Not getting any sympathy from me, ya shit stain. Moving on to "reaching out..." Those are the most extraneous words I've ever heard. "Glad you are doing better." Really? Why? "Happy Thanksgiving." Go fucking fuck yourself you pitiful excuse for a human being. You mean the Thanksgiving we expected to be spending with our newborn? Well, I will not be having a Happy Thanksgiving. I don't think you should be either.

I didn't say anything after that. The thing is, as far as he knows, nothing was wrong. In the world of SS, no reply is necessary after his last comment. Now I am thinking more about sending the email I wanted to send. The email that I thought would help me, but after talking it over with Therapist A, realized it would not in fact help me. The email that I thought was not about wanting an apology, or about getting him to change. I just figured out that's not true. I want an apology. A realization that he's sorry about the way stuff happened. I want a realization on his part that he was wrong. Not because he was wrong and I was right. I'm not sure that I was right. But I am sure he was wrong. Why do I need him to know this himself? I think that talking to him will bring me closure. We never talked. About anything. I am a talker and a sharer; he is not. But how can two people go through something like losing their baby, and never talk about it? He's not going to talk about it. Ever. Not with me, not with anyone. And he's not going to change. And if we have no future together, I don't need to care, right? I guess I want him to admit that he didn't love me, that he didn't want to survive this with me. Confess to the fact that he kept me in the relationship even though it was all a sham. I don't know if he even knows that. But I do. He is not fooling me. No, no, I am fooling myself, fooling myself for thinking I will ever get to have the conversation with him that brings me closure. This is the reality; repeat after me:

We never talked. I left. We never talked.

Goodbye Blue

Due date down, Thanksgiving to go.

Blue's memorial was last Saturday, November 19, his due date. Thirty people--family, friends and neighbors--stood in my parents' yard while we remembered my baby. The weather was beautiful; the sky was high and blue. I asked my dad to open the ceremony. He didn't expect to have to choke out every word. I didn't look around much, but according to others, the other men cried too.

My mom recited a poem, some friends read a few quotes, and then my aunt read Blue's bedtime story, Draw Me a Star. I thought I would sob through all of this, but I mostly just dabbed at wet eyes. After the readings we planted a tree. I sprinkled a small amount of Blue's ashes to mingle in the roots. Everyone helped to put dirt around the tree, some with a shovel, others with their hands. The tree is an amelanchier, small and native to the Northeast. Its flowers are white in spring and its fall foliage is orange. In summer it produces berries that are similar to blueberries. Of course. (That was an accident, actually!) After the planting I spoke aloud to Blue. Told him his story, told him how I missed him, asked for his forgiveness. I told him I would meet him someday through his brother or sister, and that I couldn't wait. I told him he is beautiful and perfect to his mama. Read the speech here.

After the ceremony, my cousin's husband stood in front of the tree and called energy from his heart, through the tree, down to the core of the earth, up through the tree, up to the universe, back through the tree, down to the core of the earth...He held me and we both rocked with sobs as he explained his belief that souls make agreements. Some agreements last for 90 years on earth, some for 40, some for 25 weeks and 3 days of pregnancy. Blue fulfilled his agreement. Blue needed me, and he chose me to help him fulfill his agreement.

Sending love and energy to Blue's tree.

I felt peace on Sunday. I believe I felt some peace on Monday and today. I think maybe Thanksgiving won't be so bad. Though I know this by now: I shouldn't plan on it.

Nice But Not Necessary

3. Family meals on Thanksgiving
2. Birth control
1. Dads

That Guilty Feeling

Earlier this week I felt that guilt creeping in...that guilt that I am not sad enough anymore. I went to the climbing gym with a friend, and walking into a bar for beers after, I thought, "I am not sad. I haven't thought about the baby in hours. I am not sad." And a moment later, "Wait. Is this over? Already?" Ha!

I've heard that the anticipation of the day--the due date--is often worse than the day itself. So I anticipated that the whole week would be hell. And then it wasn't. I think I might have even described myself as "happy" for those gym-climbing and beer-drinking hours. But starting again last night...wham-o! I'd been planning Blue's memorial service with my parents. A few days ago I worried that I wouldn't be emotional enough when I read my speech to Blue. As. If.

The memorial is on his due date, November 19. Three months and nine days after he was born still. It will be lovely. So many friends and family and neighbors are coming. It will be sad. It will be what was supposed to be the most wonderful day of my life.

At 4:00 Pennsylvania time tomorrow look up, wherever you are, and think of Blue in his big blue sky. Here on earth, we mortals weep.

Giving Thanks and the New Joy

First I will be taking away.

One of my bloggy friends told me in an email that I was "very nice" for naming NAWP that way (Not a Whole Person). She very generously suggested that the name captured how I want good things for him even though he has hurt me. But I didn't--and still don't--feel like I want the best for him. So in act of reverse generosity, I am renaming him SS. That stands for Shit Stain.

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Thanksgiving this year is going to suck. I do not care to be eloquent in saying that. There will be no Blue. There will be my one-year-old nephew who was three days old on Thanksgiving last year, just to remind me this year that there is no Blue. If there is one bit of light, it is that I had planned to be in DC with my newborn, SS and his family. I won't be having this same new tradition minus the newborn. I will be having the same old tradition of getting together with my family, difficult as it will be.

I had considered going away for Thanksgiving; taking a cool trip with some friends that would be nothing like family dinner. For a few years when I lived in Colorado, I would stay put, always finding a clan of other "orphans" with whom to share the holiday. One of my fondest Thanksgiving memories involves a football game, a lot of Gewurtstraminer, and making out with other girls and Redi Whip. Instead for this year I was thinking about a Utah canyoneering trip, or rock climbing in Red Rocks, Nevada, like old Colorado times. But things are different now. I can't just get in the car and drive to Utah, for one. And not as many friends have time to burn in the wilderness on long holiday weekends. Putting together a last-minute trip on the busiest travel weekend of the year? Boo. Spending time in the airport with happy couples and their happy little babies? Double-boo with a hiss. And I know I need to be around people who will truly care for me this Thanksgiving. I don't mean to say that my friends can't or won't do it--many of them have proven to be far better friends than I had even imagined. But sometimes people forget. Forget what JUST happened (no matter how long it's actually been). Forget how much I miss Blue, and how often I think about him. Forget how my grief turns ordinary molehills into mountains. This Thanksgiving I will be running in the park in the morning, making a new stuffing recipe, and having family dinner. Just like always. If I say it enough times, maybe I will believe it. Just...like...always.

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After Taking Away and Thanksgiving, now on to Giving Thanks.

Interesting text message of the week: You are always setting an example even when you don't know it.

This was from a person who did not know that I was blogging, did not know that I had turned to the Internet to find community with other baby lost mamas. I wanted to find someone just like me. So I started this blog partly because I wanted to be able to help other mamas like me--those left with no baby AND no relationship, thereby dashing hope of trying again soon. But I have found that even when our circumstances are so different, many of our feelings are the same. I have also found that even the mamas who are seeking and absorbing help in our community are unknowingly offering help to someone else.We are all setting an example. Whether it is an example to follow, or an example to not follow...we are all helping each other...always.

And so I would like to help with more intention today. Today is Friday, 11/11/11. I wanted Blue to be born today, just like every mama whose due date was/is in the month of November this year. For a few silly moments, in all of this true grief, I was sad that I had lost the opportunity to have my baby on 11/11/11. But today is not as bad as I thought it might be. Tuesday was my terrible, miserable day. Three months since Blue died. Then Wednesday was better. Yesterday was three months since Blue was born still; yesterday was worse. Today is better.

To all the baby lost mamas who have been promised that "it will get better," it will. But not everyday. Grief is not a straight line, and some days you will reel back further than you thought you ever were. And tomorrow may not be better. But if you can find joy in one little thing, if you can find one little thing to smile about, you will make a tiny move forward. Joy is not what it used to be--it's all relative. Redefine the word. Joy is desire, joy is "not sad," joy is distraction.

I have joy today, the new--perhaps distorted--kind. But I'll take it. An acquaintance has asked for my help in possibly starting a climbing gym in my hometown (where I currently live). I am going to Happy Hour yoga tonight, where the people know who I am and how I am really doing. And the guy I have called "attentive friend of a friend," so let's call him AFF, is getting friends together to go out dancing tomorrow night. SS would NEVER make plans, OR go out dancing. I have distorted joy in that realization. I have distorted joy in changing NAWP's name to SS.

If joy is relative, like I just said it is, then I probably have real joy in starting that climbing gym, going to yoga, and going out dancing on a Saturday night. Yes, I'll take it.

The Other Elephant in the Room

No, not my sadness and hopelessness and lack of ability to answer the question "Do you have children?" No, no, not my biological clock. Just ticking away. How do you bring that up in the passionate throes of a budding relationship? Okay, so there are more than a few elephants in the room. This post is going to get uncomfortably honest: I want to talk about suicidal thoughts.

Even though I just wrote a blog post about not wanting to die.

I recently sent a reply text to a friend that I was okay and had "stopped wanting to die." I didn't hear anything back after that, and even though she is a very good friend, I wondered if that were too much; if it was too honest. Maybe when people ask how you are doing they don't actually want to know that you had ever rather been dead.

As it turned out, the very next day I wanted to die again. That day is today. Three months exactly since Blue died. Yesterday I realized that I didn't cry. For the whole day. I didn't cry for a whole day for the first time since the middle of July. Until I read Blue his bedtime story. Maybe I was feeling guilty for not crying? So I made myself cry last night. But today, the tears were unstoppable.

Last night I dreamt that I'd had four miscarriages. Two boys and two girls. I was painting square, pink murals as I realized that my second boy was gone too. I think in the dream that Blue was the second boy, and the last baby. But maybe he was the first baby. I am not sure if it means anything either way. And I am not sure if the dream had anything to do with my terrible, miserable day.

Maybe my terrible, miserable day had to do with seeing my dear friend's eight-month-old boy, who reminds me of my cousin's two-year-old boy. And I think that everyone has her little boy except me. Then I attended middle school parent-teacher conferences with a Burmese woman whose family my mom looks after, because my mom was sick in bed. I only saw three pregnant women, and only had to overhear one conversation about how a baby should be given a chance at life, and not aborted, because it's a life. I am taking that out of context perhaps...but that is what I heard. I mean, are you fucking kidding me? And let's top it all off with the first time I have been asked the question, by a complete and total stranger, "Do you have children?" So of course I do not have a prepared answer. Though "I don't" seemed to work fine.

If you've never thought that you'd rather be dead, then I don't think you can understand the feeling that underlies the thought. It is utter despair. Hopelessness. Worthlessness. Excruciating emotional pain that laughs at physical pain. It is getting an offer in the mail for life insurance that asks "Is anyone depending on you?" As if you needed a reminder that no, no one is. And so, really, no one is depending on me. Sure, people love me, and want me to not take my own life--and please, listen, I am not going to do it, I just want to talk about it--but how horrible would it be for them? Would they feel as bad having lost me as I do having lost Blue? I can't imagine that anyone else in this world would want to die upon learning that I was dead. I guess I just want to talk about that honestly. I do understand that there are many other reasons to keep living, but can anyone tell me truly and honestly that someone else might die if I die first? And if that is the case, then why must I live? Why must I live in all this pain? In all this hopelessness? Like I said, I am going to keep living, despite the pain and the hopelessness. Because I am pretty sure that someday I will have my happiness. I will have my rainbow.

And I am also pretty sure that the only thing worse than losing your baby is being committed to an institution because of your suicidal intentions after losing your baby.

These are just thoughts. Not intentions.

Did You Just "Should" All Over Yourself?

Yesterday was a good day...for awhile. Today was a good day...for awhile. I guess I should be dividing the days into smaller time periods so I can have a whole good unit of time, instead of just a portion.

Which brings me to the concept of "should." How does it make you feel when you say you "should" do something? Or be something? Rather, how are you feeling about yourself when you say you should do or be something? JS tells me to be aware when I "should" all over myself. That it's not a nice way to treat yourself.

Somewhere in the midst of this conversation I told him that sometimes I feel like dying...but I know I shouldn't. And he said, well in that case, it's okay to should all over yourself. MP also told me a succinct text message: No dying for you.

I get it now. Whether it's thanks to the happy pills, or yesterday's little make-out sesh with a very attentive friend of a friend, or today's beautiful sunshine while I rode bikes and tasted wine with friends, I don't want to die. And not just because I shouldn't.

Too Soon

Please do not one more person suggest that I can adopt! First off, I KNOW my options. I thought about all of them when I first found out I was pregnant. It's like you want to deny me the experience of full-term pregnancy and childbirth. Yes, I did imagine what it might be like to have the baby on my own. No, I did not for one minute think about giving up my baby for adoption. And second, the other half in defective-baby-making is out of the picture, and with just one defective-baby-maker (me), the baby will be fine!

I wish it were that simple. I keep telling myself that we are a vocal few in this baby loss community. That there wouldn't be seven billion people on this earth if something went wrong in most pregnancies. But it is hard now, to not know all the stuff that can go wrong. Damn. Anyway...

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I want to take this opportunity to comment on something that has nothing to do with Blue or even NAWP, whose name I am changing to SS going forward, which stands for "shit stain." I was running in the park the other day and I thought that the large, round, blonde approaching looked like she could be my arch-nemesis from high school. She was always big but in a muscled, don't-mess-with-me kind of way. I gave a collegial wave to my fellow runner as I ran by and realized that it WAS my arch-nemesis from high school. Like, forty (fifity?) pounds later. And I pumped my fists together in front of my body after I ran by and whispered "Yeeeeeeesssssssss!" And then a tiny voice in my head said, "I'm sorry I slept with your boyfriend. Or whatever." I ran on and proceeded to develop a rash and have my eyelids swell up grotesquely in some unexplained allergic reaction.

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It's been almost three months since I delivered Blue. As predicted, other people are starting to forget. I woke up sad today, but I only cried three times. No wait, five. Six. The day is not over.

It's too soon for me, everybody, to not be sad every day. It's too soon for me to tell you "I'm good," when you automatically--accidentally?--ask how I am. It's too soon for you to treat me like everything is normal. So please don't.

Today I should be 38 weeks pregnant. Two to go. (Though I was hoping for an 11/11/11 birthday.) So, you see, my baby should still be with me, in my belly, if not in my arms. And I am still thinking about him every day. I am still missing him and loving him every day. And still feeling like nothing will take the hurt away.

My Blue, you came too soon.

The Kindness of Friends

November. Blue's birth month. I don't know how this is going to go.

Last night I returned from almost two weeks visiting friends in Colorado. I was exhausted from running around, seeing people, exercising a lot (a la Colorado!), telling the same story over again. I was ready to go home. But it was sad to be back, and back with the little guy. I read Blue his bedtime story (Draw Me a Star), disintegrating into tears the moment I opened the book. I looked at his ultrasound pictures, his footprints, and I layed his receiving blanket over me in bed. I didn't want to go to sleep, so I stayed up late and slept until almost noon. I hate when I do that! I keep telling myself it was only almost 10.

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I've been meaning to share another experience from the weekend in East Hampton. I met up with my friend PH, whom I'd met in the bike shop the previous summer. He is very tall, young, sweet and overly energetic. He made a point of telling me last summer that his mom is eight years older than his dad. I could be into him, but he is still experiencing life independently. At 26 I was ski-bumming. I wouldn't want to deny anyone else that existence.

PH met me on the beach Friday afternoon, camera in tow. His car was packed to the roof as he was leaving the Hamptons for the season the next day. But he always carries his camera. The morning had been rainy, but the afternoon dried up and as we stood in the sand, the sun actually peeked through the clouds. I wasn't sure if I was going to tell him anything. Earlier in the summer, I made plans to visit and I was going to surprise him at the bike shop with my bump. That was the weekend I had to get the amnio. So I hadn't said anything.

On the beach lay a large stick, one that would make a very good pen. I asked him if he would take some pictures of names drawn in the sand, for some friends...and for me. He looked down at me and said, "Rough summer, huh?" He put one arm around me and I leaned into him. After a few minutes I said "Thank you for not letting go." He put his other arm around me, and he didn't let go with that arm either.

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I guess I am just surprised. Pleasantly surprised at the kindness of others. Severely disappointed in NAWP. At 42 NAWP isn't half the man PH is at 26. Maybe I get too hung up on age. I guess I put expectations on older guys. Then again, look at me. Thirty-four, no job, never married, living at home. Oh, I've got empathy! Perhaps I should be looking for a lesbian sugar-mama who has baby fever and biological brothers. But I digress.

I have been told I would be surprised by the people who aren't there for me, and surprised by the ones who are. It's true. And the unpleasant surprises are just too painful to even write about. I try to be grateful for the love that my friends have expressed. In Colorado I could talk, I could cry, I could laugh, I could look away. I could focus on being sad--for a bit--or I could focus on other things, like rock-climbing. (Thanks JS for this pic!)

I am starting to make moves to go back to Colorado. Back where I belong. That is, I think.

Ugh

Guess who answered his phone tonight? Why do I do this to myself???!???!!!!?

But I got to say some things I've been wanting to say. About how he chose not to grieve after we lost the baby. He immersed himself in his work, and I told him I understand that, but that that was a choice. It had nothing to do with taking care of me, as he claims. He was--is--angry about the way I left. My parents had offered to help me leave, but I told them I was taking care of it. I told NAWP I was going away for a few days on a Friday. On Saturday I told him I was leaving for good. My parents had come to help me drive back to their place. He doesn't know what changed between Friday and Saturday. He never asked for an explanation. He just wanted to be the one emotion he can feel--anger. I do see why he might be angry about the way things happened. I apologized as it all unfolded the way it did. Tonight I got to tell him that too. And I got to tell him how confusing it has been for me that he said he was worried about me, but he never reached out to see how I've been doing. That's when he said he was still angry.

I find it preposterous that he is angry about the day I left. What about everything else? What about everything I have to be angry about? But I'm not. Mostly. Instead I feel hurt. I feel the sting of rejection. The way that he said maybe we shouldn't break up, and then just let me go without any sort of fight. I don't know what I want him to do or what I want him to say. I woke up sad today, and I was just thinking of him, and I just wanted to call him. I've been feeling a bit better the past few days, visiting wonderful, supportive friends in Colorado and Prozacked sufficiently. But today was one of those backward-stepping days. I went to visit my second cousin's six week old twins. It was good, really, but tiring. And of course, it was a reminder of all I'll be missing come November. God, this hurts.

The Kindness of Strangers

The last morning in East Hampton I woke before sunrise to take pictures of Blue's name in the sand. My friend who hosted, OG (a nickname I secretly used for him when we were dating for about a month last fall), had originally offered to go with me, but when he heard what time I was leaving the house, he blanched. He offered his car instead. It was okay; I actually wanted to go alone.

The weekend was so intense emotionally, almost too intense. The films we saw during the festival were depressing at best, disturbing at worst. I walked out of our Saturday night film after the two ladies on the end next to me did the same. I went across the street for some tea, then spent the next 30 minutes sitting outside on a bench, sobbing into the phone with my mom on the other end trying but failing to console me. OG's girlfriend came to collect me. The tears were still streaming down my face uncontrollably as I met up with the others. She had filled them in, for which I was grateful. My eyes dried as we drove to dinner, and OG's girlfriend stayed by my side as we all had a much-needed drink at the bar. It turns out she lost a pregnancy a few years ago. She and her husband, who had a vasectomy reversal, lost their IVF twins when their doctor detected that the embryos were not growing into fetuses. By the end of their IVF experience, they were exhausted, and had realized they did not want the same future together. She, too, was on her own after baby loss. And she was so generous with her support, with sharing her story and with listening to mine. When OG said I was "freaking out" about not wanting to see the movie with the pregnant protagonist, she told him I was not "freaking out," but that I was in pain. She was such a good friend, and I had just met her!

After I'd taken all my pictures, I sat in the sand staring at the ocean. A woman and her companion walked by, not too far away, and I'd wished they weren't there. I didn't turn my head or say 'good morning.' When they walked back, she stopped to ask me if I was okay. She said she was a psychologist in town...did I need help? I looked up at her to say I was fine, unable to keep the tears from my eyes. She told me that whatever it was, it wouldn't stay the same. It couldn't stay the same. Nothing ever does.

I watched one tear roll down each of her cheeks. I wondered how desperate I must have looked. To myself, and for the sake of my own sanity, I suppose I pretended things weren't that bad. But I wasn't fooling this woman. I told her a little bit of what I was going through. I patted the sand next to me and she sat. I told her I noticed her crying, asked if I reminded her of someone. She told me about her sister who had been disabled at her very premature birth. She did not hesitate to give this explanation, but the thing was, she cried before I told her my story. She cried at the sight of me.

She wanted to make sure I wasn't thinking of going for a swim. I hadn't been, but the suggestion didn't seem half bad. As we stood she told me it would be okay. That I was a good person. "How do you know?" I asked as she embraced me. "Oh, I can tell." She offered her full name and her email address, and told me to call her anytime. She gave me another hug. I stood on the sand for a time after she left, contemplating what she'd said, contemplating what made her reach out to me. When I finally turned away from the ocean, a part of me was content to believe her.

A Whole Blue Sky

Today I cried for Blue. And only Blue.

This business about getting the ashes back from NAWP, I let it go. I realized that I just want to hurt him, I just want to take something away from him. And that has nothing to do with Blue.

And I know now that it was only our grief that kept us together. I do not want NAWP at all.

I am visiting my dear friend MP in Telluride, CO. In college I would say MP knew me better than I knew myself. As we made the three-hour drive from Grand Junction, I learned an important lesson. MP told me that only Blue could see the future. Not me, not NAWP. Blue decided to be here for as long as he wanted. And Blue chose me. Those "extra" 12 weeks, he chose to be with me. The tears were streaming down my face, as I realized that I could love Blue for what he was. Not for what I wished him to be.

MP told me not to lose that message. Love yourself, she said. Love yourself as you are. Love everyone as he is, not what you want him to be. See him as he is. Do not see what you want to see.

The sky here is an everlasting blue. I took a picture of pure, pure blue. I looked up and told my baby this whole sky was his. The whole sky was him. And I cried the purest tears for Blue.

Two

Big blue sky, little blue star.
Night or day, I am where you are.

Half My Baby

NAWP has half my baby. In a jar.

When we talked about breaking up, NAWP asked me what we should do with Blue's ashes. And I said I wanted him with me. When I left, NAWP said we would have to split the ashes. I thought it would be cruel to deny him that tangible piece of our son. I watched as he poured them out into an empty jar that used to hold jam. I thought he was taking more than half. But I didn't say anything.

I have been trying to reach NAWP for over a week. We have some loose ends to sort out. I want to actually talk, too, about us, about what happened, about what is going through his head. When I left he said he thought we should talk, that we should keep in touch. When I called him the day after I left, he told me he was worried about me. And yet he has not reached out to me once. I find it cruel that he has not returned my calls. I am not talking about a boiling bunnies type of phone stalking, I am talking about two brief messages, a few more tries to get him on the phone, one text. He is cruel for ignoring me, for acting like I don't exist. And I want Blue's ashes back. I want NAWP to know that he doesn't deserve them. That he doesn't deserve to be the father of my son. Yet I know that I am the one who is suffering, not NAWP, in his stupid little game of cat and mouse. But if I just go away, it's like he's beaten me into submission. I can't hurt him, I must know that by now, but can't I still try?

Pregnant In My Face

A friend of mine is having people out to the Hamptons this weekend for the film festival. I lived in East Hampton last summer and I absolutely love it out there, so I am/was really looking forward to it. Until my friend sent out an email about the film we are seeing on Friday night. It is something about a pregnant woman who questions her readiness to be a parent, with some other stuff mixed in, blah, blah. So it's not really a big deal, I don't have to go to that movie. But when I replied to my friend that I would skip the movie, he wrote back, "Why?" I don't know if he is having amnesia or if he thinks this shouldn't bother me.

Today I went to get my hair cut, thought maybe I would add some color, do something to spice it up. The last time I was there I was 20 weeks pregnant, and was chatting with the stylist about it of course. She predicted I was having a boy. She didn't do my hair today but she was working two chairs away, with about a seven-months pregnant belly. I should be eight months pregnant now. She must have known she was pregnant then but hadn't told anyone at work yet, or was just being nice by not talking about her own pregnancy. I was just so envious! I tried to remember if she is married, even though she is young, early 20s. I don't feel so jealous of married pregnant women; married women are supposed to have babies. I think she is. I may as well keep thinking she is.

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I am realizing how much it hurts that NAWP didn't want the baby in the beginning. That he didn't want to be with me. How many 40-year-olds who say they want kids freak out when their girlfriends get pregnant? I know, it's not me it's him. I know, he is not the person I want to share my life with, or share a child with. I can think that. But I can't feel that, because if I feel it, then it's like Blue died for a reason. Anytime someone suggests that I wouldn't want to have kids with that asshole, I want to remind them that if my baby weren't sick, I would be having kids with that asshole.Women whose boyfriends aren't dipshits like mine make me more jealous. Stupid Seth Rogin and Katherine Heigel in Knocked Up make me jealous. I guess because if NAWP weren't a dipshit, we could still be together, supporting each other, and trying to get pregnant again. I know that his dipshittedness had nothing to do with Blue having CF. But it did have something to do with my decision to let Blue go. Overwhelmingly, we made the decision we made to spare Blue the pain and suffering he would surely endure. But I also knew that NAWP would not take care of a chronically sick child. And we had to be together on that. I don't know what I would have wanted for my own life. Right now nothing is worse for me than not having Blue.

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I do not expect not to see pregnant women out and about. I am even okay around pregnant friends or friends with new babies. I don't want their babies, I want my own, and really it feels nice to fill my empty arms with a baby. But I do feel like it is in my face A LOT. Like today. Twice. And on the first interview I had after Blue, the woman interviewing me, who was wearing jeans and a loose button-down shirt for casual Friday, asked if the room was warm or if it was just her, since she was six months pregnant. I did not get that job. The day I went to the doctor for anti-anxiety drugs (not recommended, by the way), a week or two after delivery, the office assistant was pregnant. I went back to the dentist the other day to fill the cavities that he said could wait until after I had the baby...and discovered the office assistant was pregnant. All married pregnant people, but all pregnant in my face.

TMI?

Last night as my dad was going up to bed, iPad in hand, he asked me the web address of my blog. Realizing that I had mostly written about sex in that day's post, I hesitated, then finally offered a disclaimer: It's really personal!

I began to wonder if this blog should or should not be my public diary. And I also questioned whether I should go on about NAWP when the blog is supposed to be about baby Blue. But let's be honest, this blog is about ME! That's what every blog is about, the blogger. And that's the whole point. Here is where I will say what I need to say, and though I will try to be tasteful when discussing TMI-inducing subjects, I just might offend my dad. And embarrass myself.

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Many babyloss mamas have their older children. Many have their husbands, and with them a hope of getting pregnant again soon. Many have loving husbands, though I suspect many experience the same double-loss that I have, losing the baby and the relationship too. I don't know if it's harder for other people. I only know what is harder for me. It is harder to not know, to not have any sort of idea, when I will be in the relationship where we're having a baby together. It is harder to be in the home of my parents, rather than in the arms of my boyfriend, who wouldn't be NAWP but would be the loving, supportive variety of boyfriend. It is harder to not know if this accidental pregnancy was some fluke of fertility and maybe I will never have another pregnancy. It is harder to not know if perhaps there was some complication from the procedure and I have lost my fertility. It is harder to be part of the babyloss community, and to now know of all the possible things that can go wrong in a pregnancy. Until I deliver a healthy, living baby, it will be harder to live without that baby. 

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Back to the subject. I want my experience to maybe, possibly, help someone else through a similar experience. I have a cousin who is a much better talker than listener, so I was surprised when she offered this insight: You may find someone whose circumstances were just the same, but her experience will not be the same, because you are different people.

That is true, and I take comfort in it, but still I seek a woman just like me. NAWP and I broke up about six weeks after Blue's death. And those were six difficult weeks. There were times when he held me, when he made dinner, when he let me cry, when we talked. But I cannot forget the times he turned his back, literally, on my tears. When he couldn't stand to be near me. When he used his "angry voice," a way of speaking so filled with venom that my reaction was visceral.

This loss on top of loss is part of my experience, and if it is your experience, too, well here I am. I want to help. So maybe I am sharing too much, but none of us should feel alone, more alone than we already feel. And when your bottom drops out, when your boyfriend or husband or partner in his or her own way disappears, this is what it feels like.

It is more like loss on top of loss on top of loss: hope fades too. I will never find someone. If I can have my baby, I will have the baby alone anyway, and it will be expensive. I will be pitied. And no one will remember I almost had it another way. I almost had Blue.

Not What I Meant

I have nothing to wake up for. No job, no other children, no husband or boyfriend...nothing. The anxiety of lying alone with my thoughts keeps me up later than I plan. And then I sleep later than I plan. No matter what time I finally drag myself from bed I spend the day physically exhausted. This is depression. I know. But I still hate my life right now in all its meaninglessness.

Last week, before the Prozac kicked in, I was telling my mom how badly I wanted to have another baby. And she started in on a lecture about how a baby doesn't solve anything, and how I'm not settled and I can't have a baby right now...as if I were a lonely, angsty teenager looking for someone to love her. I held a pen in my hand and I was a moment away from drawing on my other palm when I realized that what I really wanted to do was drive the tip of the pen deep into my skin. I yelled at her that I just wanted it. That didn't mean I was going to do it. Just like I didn't shove the pen through my hand.

There was one time since the procedure that NAWP and I had sex. I was already on birth control and he didn't finish. Still I was hoping I had somehow gotten pregnant, and I was a little more hopeful when I felt little cramps two weeks later. I've been through another month, started another pack of birth control pills, but since I haven't gotten my period yet or lost any of that softness around the back of my hips, I am still sort of hoping. I feel pretty ridiculous even writing that.

NAWP stopped finishing sometime back in March, I think. There was one weekend after we found out I was pregnant that we were still connecting sexually, romantically, but soon enough he completely withdrew. I would have to ask him for a kiss. With tongue? That was really hard. And of course none of that went over well. We would have sex once in a while but it was always for me. Which doesn't sound too terrible except actually it was. It was hard to believe he had impregnated me once. I asked him if he was afraid of hurting the baby. "No." He said he was "getting used to" my being the vessel for our child or something like that. He was "trying" to get back to a place where he was attracted to me. I have no idea how he was "trying" to do that. I gained nine pounds in 25 weeks of pregnancy, so there was nothing I could do physically myself. Not wanting sex was just another way he withheld emotion and a true connection. "Having sex" after you lose your baby is like one of those well-meaning but completely inappropriate comments people say when they hear your baby is dead. I try to remember if we ever "made love," but the realization that the answer is no is no more comfort than not making love at all.

My New Star

Surely I am not the only one to change her mind about getting a tattoo following some life-altering event. Here it is!

My Blue Star, on the pulse point, bringing him back to my heart.

I never thought I would get a tattoo. I never thought I would like something long enough to have it forever etched on my skin. I got it exactly eight weeks after I delivered Blue, accompanied by my childhood friend whose very-tattooed husband sat in the chair next to me. He said he wouldn't hold my hand, but he also promised it wouldn't hurt too much. It hurt a little but it was nothing compared to the hurt on my heart.

The next day I asked my sister if she noticed anything different about me as I gestured awkwardly and obviously with my hands. She slightly shouted: "Did you get a tattoo? Don't get a tattoo! Tattoos are gross!" Um, you're gross. Later that same night she asked over the phone what I was doing and I said I was reading babyloss blogs. And she said, "Why do you want to do that? You don't know anyone from anyone on the Internet." When I asked her not to criticize, and why was she shouting, and told her I did not want to have an argument about it, she said "bye" and hung up. Apparently I should not be looking to her for support. But it's a huge disappointment. Four days after the procedure she found me crying in a quiet room of our parents' house, and she asked why I was crying. Nice. I'll give you ONE guess. She said she was trying to get away from her kids. Nicer. I calmly told her to forgive me if I did not have any sympathy for her at that time. And she said, "I wasn't looking for any!" Nicer yet.

So I feel like, I already lost my baby, why do I have to lose my friends too? My sister was my friend. But for now she is just my sister.

The Story in Black of Blue

Blue was my first pregnancy. My boyfriend, NAWP (for Not A Whole Person), and I were dating about two months before I got pregnant at the end of February. I figured at this point in my life (I was 33, now 34) I could handle an unplanned pregnancy. In fact, I kind of wanted one. That said, I wasn't trying to get pregnant, or trick him into it or anything. But NAWP didn't want one. He was 41, now 42, and I guess I just will never understand his thinking. He said he wanted kids. He said "fuck" when he saw the pregnancy test. He kept saying it was "too much, too soon" for us. I wasn't completely sure that he was the one either, but like I once told him, "You're good enough." We would make the best of it. But really only I was trying to make the best of it. Once he realized I was NOT having an abortion, he pretty much checked out then. Withdrew physically, emotionally...sometime in June told me he liked the way we'd become friends. Um, what? I didn't want to be his friend.

So, I know it wasn't going to be the sweet little life I imagined. But I didn't care. I wanted the baby SO MUCH. The thought of even a medication abortion was unbearable. Okay, so I didn't have a job or health insurance and I'd known this guy two months, but I didn't care. I was even prepared to have the baby alone. It wasn't really my first choice though, and when NAWP talked of how his "sense of personal responsibility" wouldn't let him walk away from his child, I was relieved. Even if I had had to convince him this life would be okay. Even if I had to basically beg him to have sex with me anymore. Even if I knew that other guys would have been happy even in this same situation.

I know NAWP was hoping--hoping!--I would miscarry. I told him I had a dream about it, and he asked how I felt when I woke up. This was still early enough to have the abortion. Thinly veiled! When I saw the heartbeat at 8 weeks and my doctor told me miscarriage was very rare at this point, and especially once you make it to 10 weeks, he seemed kind of resigned. So we started planning for me to move in with him in Washington, DC, and I applied for health insurance there through the Pre-Existing Condition Insurance Program (do not get me started on how pregnant women cannot buy health insurance in most states in this country!). I didn't get any of my lab work done until 17 weeks when I had the insurance, because my doctor told me the labs were "pretty expensive." Cue ominous music, right?

Well, my first doctor in DC ordered all regular labs except one. I didn't like that practice and the hospital was not recommended by friends so I switched for the next appointment, at 21 weeks because July 4 weekend was 20 weeks, otherwise I would have tried to get back on track with the appointments happening in the right weeks. We had the "big" ultrasound and watched the little alien kicking around in my belly. It was a boy alien! And this doctor had me screened for cystic fibrosis (CF) carrier status. When she called the next week and left a message about something, I was actually hoping it was the CF result, rather than something she saw on the scan. And it was the CF test; I was positive.

Big fight with NAWP about how urgent it was for him to get his screening test. The doctor was like, "hey, whatever, don't worry, it's highly unlikely you're both carriers, it's just in case, because you're pretty far along." But since NAWP was soon going out of town for work he went for his test right away. Positive.

Now we had one in four odds the baby would have CF. I was 23 weeks pregnant. And though people kept telling me the odds were "overwhelmingly" in my favor, I just kept thinking that the possibility he would have blue eyes did not seem remote. Those were the same odds.

The amnio went fine and we got the diagnosis a week later. I had been preparing for the worst, pre-grieving as they say, but as the week went on I started to imagine the short, sweet text I would send to NAWP, still away for work--"He's healthy!"

But he was sick. Two mutations on the CFTR gene, two f508 deltas--the "regular" kind of cystic fibrosis*. We could have known about this 12 weeks earlier with CVS. I just can't get over that, whether it's pointless or not. I didn't have to love my baby so much (as if I didn't from the very beginning), I didn't have to feel him move around for weeks. The whole process of learning the diagnosis, learning about the disease, deciding whether our baby would live or die...it was agony. It IS agony. (At least that is what I remember feeling, f'ing Prozac!)

I have the tiny comfort and luxury of believing there is nothing to indicate that a future pregnancy will be problematic. All I want is to get pregnant again soon, but since NAWP is not a whole person, I have no idea when that can happen.

It's like NAWP got what he wanted--no relationship and no baby. He cried a lot too but he didn't feel even a fraction of what I felt. And I guess that's just how it is--the guys don't get it. "I want to be there for you," he told me as we discussed whether we would stay together. "But you can't," I said.

"But I can't."

He always said "I do love you," like he was trying to convince the both of us. He didn't want to try. He thought things would just go back to "being awesome" by themselves. That we'd stop being sad one day and then we could pick up where we left off when I got pregnant. As if I would just forget everything in between. He wanted me to get a job right away, he didn't seem to want me physically around. I suppose I was a reminder that our baby was dead, and maybe even a reminder that that's a little bit what he wanted. Now that I left I feel like he's gotten his way. I don't care if it's not really true, if he's sad too. He doesn't deserve to be sad the way I am.

I am staying with my parents for a bit. My patient, loving, understanding, generous parents. I don't know what I would do without them. And I am trying to recover from this nightmare, and trying to see a way to move forward. I am trying not to miss the life I wished for, because when what you miss is a fantasy, everything you miss is so fucking perfect.

I would take the reality, the surely sometimes ugly reality, with NAWP, if it meant I could have Blue. 

* For information on CF visit the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation web site at www.cff.org.

Why I Am Here

Because I am so, so sad. Because I don't know what to do without Blue, without the life I imagined with my baby boy. Because I want to find hope amid all this hopelessness. Because maybe I can offer that to someone else. Maybe not yet.