There Are Days...

"The universe restarted, and we were completely different, completely OTHER. There should be another word for the loss of a child, because frankly, it is it’s own planet of unfathomable horror. "

-

I forget.

I forget how it felt holding him.

I forget those small moments in between his first and last breath.

I forget I am a mom. My mother's heart grows bitter with each passing month, and though my love for him still grows and strengthens, my resolve, my hope, my future waxes and wanes.

I forget the life I had, and ignore the one I live, thinking, maybe, just maybe, I'll be a mom again.

-

Then I tell my husband, I can't do it anymore. I can't trust in hope, but live in despair. It's better to just assume the worst. It's better to not let my hopes of the future raise high, then they will never have long to fall.

There are no little things of happiness anymore, just fake smiles, distracted laughs, forced happiness for others.

I love him. I love them. So much. My big man, and my little man, my whole life, only a half now. He knows I'm broken, but he loves me still. I've tried. I try to pray, I try friends, I try family, I try it all. To no avail.

There is one thing, only one, that can even begin to fix me again. It's held just out of my reach. Taunting me.

The ones around, all around, at every corner, at every turn, every sight, full of their little ones. Taunting me with my loss, with my pain, with my "should have beens", with my "never will be"s. Robbing me of my joy for them, turning it to bile and bitterness in my mouth. I smile, I say kind words, I go through the motions of happiness for them, but inside, my heart screams "why?!" Questioning the ways of fate, of life, of a heavenly plan with anger and obscene rage. No answer. No peep. No reassuring blanket of comfort.

5 years. 5 years in March. When we decided to make our dreams come true. 5 years of aching, wanting, medicating, doctoring, grieving, seething, desiring, weeping, and losing. Almost 1 year ago my little boy died. Almost 5 years ago, it was the beginning of the end.

I am 26 years old. I have been married 4 1/2 years. I have wanted children from the time my memories began. My husband Jamie has wanted to be a father his whole life. We have lived through the grief and pain of 10 lifetimes, but we still go on, together. My heart feels so old and weak. My eyes do not recognize the world which they look upon.

When they tell me "it will get better", I simply put on my smile, and nod. They do not know. This is simply an easy phrase to say, but there is no ounce of known truth behind it.

-

I forget.

The softness of his cheek.

The curve of his lips.

The smell of him.


But I cannot forget the overwhelming love I have for him, and I never will.

5 Months

It's a few days late, but happy birthday little boy.


I thought of you all day Friday on your 5 month birthday, but I completely forgot it had been 5 months without you. I guess the reason for this is simple: it seems so much longer. How can you describe such a deep loss and ache with a paltry thing like time. Each day seems a year. Each moment a lifetime. There is no graph, no ascending time table, nothing so practical as a rigid container that can be placed on time without you.

Friday was particularly hard for mommy. She had to find out that yet again, her dreams of giving you a little brother or sister had been dashed. No baby this month. She wishes with all her heart to pour all of the love and hugs she has stored up for you into another baby. So that in some small way you can receive it all too.

Please talk to God for mommy and tell him how much you want a little brother or sister, and how much it would help mommy and daddy love you more, and hurt less.

Love you Matthew, with all of my heart.

=

One day soon I will catch up to you. I'll scoop you into my arms, and hug you one moment for every time I wished I could hold you here, and I will never let you go.

Matthew's Birth Story

On Monday, March 19, 2012, after 8 days we received the glorious news that our son was negative for downs syndrome after being given a 50/50 chance of a positive. That was one of the best days of my life.

We still faced the open heart surgery that would be needed for our little boy when he was under 6 months old. While daunting, I was ready. The few days that followed were some of the best memories I'll ever have. Matthew was feisty, kicking like a champ, and Jamie even got to feel him for the first and what was to be the only time. He used to like to jump from the bottom of my belly to under my ribs, his head bumping my stomach out in a comical fashion. 

Late Wednesday night, after "marital activity", I started having ebbing pains in my uterus followed by a small amount of spotting. When timed, they were about 5-10 minutes apart and went on for a few hours. I had heard that such activities can bring on Braxton Hicks, so I was not too worried. I mentioned to Jamie we might have to go to the ER if they kept up or got worse, but eventually I fell asleep. Besides, at 22 weeks it's perfectly normal to have BHs. They did wake me up a few hours later, but in my sleepy stupor it didn't phase me. Plus, labor is unmistakable right? Yea they hurt, but not nearly as bad as I had imagined labor to be.

The supposed BHs continued through Thursday off and on. I had to breathe through some of them, but again, they weren't so bad that I thought it could be real labor. I decided that if they continued through the next day, I'd call my midwife.

Friday morning Jamie and I went to the echo cardiogram appointment for Matthew to meet with a neonatal cardiologist and discuss his heart defect. The ultrasound tech did a number on my uterus, and was pushing the ever living crap out of my stomach for about an hour. I was in a lot of pain, and the BHs got worse after the appointment. Of course, I thought that was due to the aggravation of being bruised and battered by the ultrasound probe. Labor never even occurred to me.

After our appointment, we had a whole day planned especially for Jamie and I. It was to be our last big date together before Matthew came a few months later. We went to our favorite restaurant for lunch. Meanwhile the contractions were getting worse, through lunch and the rest of the afternoon. I took a nap at home, drank lots of water, and tried to qualm my spasmodic belly. It seemed to help a little.

We had a big night planned. Jamie's hometown hockey team, the Winnipeg Jets, were playing the Capitals in DC and I, being the amazing wife I am, had surprised him with tickets. I sucked up the pains I was having and we went ahead with our plans. After walking around DC for an hour or so, we sat down to the hockey game. My contractions started to get worse again, and I spent the majority of the game in the lobby breathing through them. They still weren't painful enough for me to think labor. They were easy to breathe through, but coming pretty close together. After all, EVERYONE says how unmistakable and painful labor is. 

I called and talked to the midwife on call at my birth clinic. She seemed unconcerned. To this day I am a little upset at that. I explained what had been going on, and that I thought I had maybe lost my mucus plug. But she just replied that the mucus plug is constantly regenerating, and not to worry about that. At this point I had started to get worried, but as she seemed to think it was fine, I squashed my fears and took her advice: to call again if the contractions woke me up in the middle of the night, and then we would check to see if it was labor.

We left the game early, as Jamie was increasingly worried and wanted to get me home. I laid down again, drank water, and tried to sleep. Even a midst the contractions, I was able to sleep, and never woke up from them.

Saturday morning, they were still coming, and the bleeding was still there. I called the midwife on call, who was different from the night before, and she instructed me to come in at 1pm since she'd be there meeting another patient already.

The contractions got harder and faster over the hour before I was to go in. In the 20 minutes it took to drive to my appointment, I was breathing through each one every 5 minutes. Now I was scared.

===

When the midwife checked me, I will never forget the words she said. "I'm so sorry, you're 5 centimeters dilated." 

In that moment the bottom dropped out of my world. I looked over to see a look of shock and horror on my beloved's face. One that would not leave his face for many days.

"This baby is going to come today, I can feel his little feet kicking."

She proceeded to call an ambulance to take me to AAMC. She thought that Matthew would be born within an hour or two, and that we wouldn't make it to Johns Hopkins.

He had other plans.

During the ride over, I was in such shock that I didn't realize completely what was going to happen. I was more worried about Jamie than myself. The EMT who sat with me did his best to encourage me that some babies live at this age. I didn't take much comfort from his words, but his kindness was felt.

We arrived at the hospital at 1:30pm where I was rushed to a labor and delivery room. Our pastor, my parents and brothers, as well as a couple of friends arrived soon after.

The hours that followed seemed to both fly and drag. We decided to try everything we could to stop the labor, and to at least try to give him a few days more inside.

My bed was tilted to the point that I could see nothing other than the ceiling. Practically on my head. The magnesium to stop the contractions made me feel like I was on fire, but it didn't phase me. The antibiotics pumped, the contractions continued, and Matthew kicked like no other. He was happy.

They placed a Doppler on my stomach to watch his heartbeat. He was fine. Perfectly fine. He proceeded to use the Doppler as a target for his happy kicks, which in turn made very loud and shrill noises on the machine to the rhythm of his antics.

The faces around me were ones of worry, pity, and pain for me. I felt none of that. 

I did my best to console Jamie. His face ripped a hole in my heart every time I looked at him. I kept repeating over and over, "It's OK. We will see him again." It really wasn't OK at all, but who would know the perfect words to say in that situation?

The contractions continued to come, and I continued to dilate. By 4:30, I was almost fully dilated, and Matthew was still kicking.

We made the decision to let him come. It was made clear that there was nothing more we could do. They stopped the magnesium, and my contractions built. I was able to sit up and get comfortable, instead of being on my head, while we waited for my water to break. The midwife and nurses all said that once it broke, he would come very quickly.

Except, this was my son, and at 22 weeks gestation, he was already defiant.

Around 5:30, my water broke. The contractions picked up, and I got ready to push. Fortunately, it turned out only part of the sac had broken, and there was still a small part in tact that Matthew was encased in, protectively. This turned out to be a blessing, as it made birth easier on him.

He continued to kick through the next 4 1/2 hours till he was born. I, gently and slowly pushing so as to make it as easy as possible on him.

Jamie, overwhelmed, decided to step out of the room for a few minutes. The moment he stepped out, Matthew decided to come, after 4 hours of gentle pushing. The nurse ran to get him, and he was able to get in just in time to see his son born.

===

That moment.

That astounding, amazing, heart wrenching, intensely bittersweet moment that we had prayed for. Hoped for. Yearned for over 4 long years of trying desperately to become parents.

It was here.

Always - 4 months

Today Jamie and I celebrate 4 years married. Today Jamie and I celebrate the birth of our son 4 months ago. Wow, what a day huh? His due date is Sunday. This week is just full of that heavy ambiance. Not always bad, not always good, but somehow always hanging in between. I hate limbo. Hate it, and this week contains so much limbo it's just about ironic. A lot is riding on this week. Our hearts, our mental state (which may be gone Monday, fair warning), our lives. So much can change in the next few days. Some of me yearns for it, some is scared to death. There could be closure, or destruction. Hope, or another failure. The only way to know is by moving forward. Forward. Forward.

====

Here is another post from the babyloss board I frequent. I find so much understanding in these fellow parents of heaven children.

When do you miss him the most? Lu asked me last night.

"Alone in the car," I replied.

When I can't listen to the radio for another second and I'm tired of all the music I have and I'm just driving along quietly and my mind starts to turn, I feel him not-there so powerfully it makes me choke.

In the first months and years after he died driving alone in the car was when I cried the most.  A new story about pregnancy, or that perfectly placed Modest Mouse tune, it would annihilate me and the car was the perfect capsule to scream as loud as I needed.

It is also why I will never, ever put up one of those freaking Baby On Board signs.  I wasn't planning on running you off the road, but since you're rubbing it in my face maybe I should!?  Strange that they don't make a dead baby sticker to add to those insanely annoying sticker families, either.  Also, get out of the fast lane and learn how to drive!  My typical rant makes Lu laugh.

What about you? I asked her, serious again.

"When we're around other kids, friend's kids, that would have been the same age as him.  I always miss him, but that's when it's the worst."

Yeah, I agreed.  Absolutely.

Three year old boys just becoming little guys with their dads running around the yard or walking down the street as alive and independent as only three year olds can be.  I remember pieces of what it was like to be that age, but I will have no memories of Silas at this age.  He vanishes to shadow every time I glance toward him.

In the evening, alone, I feel more alone for missing him, for never knowing him.  The constructs and inventions to heal a day are insufficient to make sense of why we can't share the world with him.

His death added a bone in my body lengthwise through my heart, sliced my liver in two, blew my innocent vision to smithereens, twisted my ankles unwalkable, trapped my breath in poisoned lungs.  I'm not the same person I was before Silas and that kinda sucks 'cause I kinda liked who I was.

More importantly, I was very much looking forward to who Silas was going to transform me into. (insert bitter laughter)

I am transformed absolutely but not at all how I wanted.

To be so wrong about how I thought things were going to go is profoundly undermining. What else will I get wrong?  What other traumas await down the road?  How can I trust myself to make any choices, to have any expectations about the future when his absence is devastating proof of how utterly foolish I could be?

Even worse is Silas's transformation from life to death.  From potential to memory with barely a stop in between.  From ours here to love and cherish and hold, to dust we cannot hug.

A thin, young, sliver of tree quivers in the evening breeze, under the stars of his name and they remind me silently of the never-ending-quiet blasting from his vanished lungs.

When do we miss him the most?  

Always we reply in unison.  Always.

-chris www.glowinthewoods.com

What To Say

I know in a situation like ours, most, if not all people will not know what to say to us, to me, and that is 100% understandable, and something I will not hold against anyone. But here's a few things I've learned can harm or help...just have been floating around my head and I hope can help others know a little better how to act around parents like us. It's extremely honest, and not aimed at anyone, but very bare and raw. I hope that no one takes offense, but this is all truth to me.

-

Don't even slightly pretend to know what we're going through, or liken it to anything that's happened in your life. It's not even close, it's not even imaginable for you, and it is so far from understandable that doing so just belittles our loss.

Don't avoid his name, and think it's easier not to hear. I crave it, I ache to hear it from other's lips, because there is nothing more normal than acknowledging my child. Just say it: Matthew.

Do listen with open ears, open hearts and open minds. Many things that may come out of my mouth might sounds harsh, or wrong, or even mean, but I am the one who has to experience this, and it is how I feel. If you want to help me, support me, and see me get through this, just listen and don't judge. For truthfully, you have no right to judge my place in life, and will hopefully never have to understand the foundation shaking feelings we go through.

Don't tell me "It's going to be OK", because it won't. It really, really won't. Things may change, and new joys may come into my life, but no amount of happiness will ever erase the loss of my son. I will learn to cope, I will learn to live again, but I will have to do so without him, and that will never be "OK", just different.

Do not ever, ever, ever tell me it was "for the best" or anything similar, because quite honestly, my ears hear "your son died for a good reason", and if I don't end up punching you right then and there, consider yourself lucky. (Also this includes any reference to "God doesn't give us more than we can handle", again, punch worthy)

Do pray for me. I need it. Especially because most times I cannot bring myself to pray these days. I'm hurt, I'm wounded, and I hold a lot of bitterness towards God. I need to work through it, and I will, but it will take a while. Please, my Christian friends, do not act like "giving it all to God" will make it all go away. Not even close. God gave us grief for a reason. It's a reflection of the importance of the life lost. I feel it so deep, because the loss of Matthew is so deep. No one knows better than Him the loss of a child, he lost his son too.


Do love me. Show your care for me. I can guarantee I will not always respond fervently, or even at all, but it helps to know you care. Silence is much worse than hurtful words or actions.


Do acknowledge Matthew. He is a person, and he deserves it. Talk about him as if things were a normal situation. I had a baby. I'm a mom. In my heart, if a person blatantly will not acknowledge my son, they have no place in my life.

Do speak to me honestly and act consistent. Never pretend that you have been there for me if you haven't. If months later you are just now reaching out to me, and have been silent before, do not expect much from me. If you could not be there for me in my most dire time of need, then let us not pretend to be friends anymore.
(This is a big one. There are supposed "friends" and even family, who were not there in the darkest hour. It became clear, very quickly, that I have quite a few "fair weather" friends. I cannot any longer let things like that take up room in my life.)

Don't push me through the grief process. Don't expect me to act "normal" for a very long time. I love you, but I love my son and my husband much more, and right now, it's about us. Be there for me, put the offer of connection out there for me, but place no expectations on me.

-

I hope no one takes offense to anything, or picks something and says "Oh crap I said that". Again, I hold nothing against anyone. If I was on the opposite side of this, I would have NO clue what to say or do and would probably say something wrong and hurtful. It's just a hope that others can understand a little more how to handle such terrible situations without being detrimental to the one's who've experienced the loss.

39 weeks

He was due in 7 days. He might have already been here by now.

I live my days in two worlds: what is, and what would have been. Split between the life I have to live, by no choice of mine, and the life I wish could be. Every moment has two views, every object, every emotion, every occurrence.

I could have been washing this towel for his first bath, instead of for me. The dishwasher might have been needing to be run for his bottles, instead of our dishes. I might have needed a quiet house for my sleeping son, instead of the work I am doing.

I live my two lives, hating one, and mourning the other.

I miss you so much little boy. My world is shattered without you, and will never be the same again.

As I sit and wonder what your birth day should have been, and what I would be doing right now in either preparation for you or caring for you, I am still thankful for your time here. Regardless of how surrounded in tears, grief, and turmoil that gratefulness is, it will always be there, and hopefully one day will be all that is left.

Disconnected

Feeling less than a part of the world lately. I'm going through the motions of the day to day normalcy, and I'm even starting to see people more, but I feel like I've reverted back to before I became pregnant with Matthew. Maybe it's because life had changed so drastically with him coming into my life, and now, with him gone, it feels like I've gone back in time a year. I feel like I've taken a huge step backward. The world doesn't view me as a mother, and in turn does not treat me as one. My heart is the heart of a mother, but my life is not.  I don't know what to do, what to feel, how to act lately. I have fallen back into acting the way I did before, even though I am not that person anymore, almost like an old habit.

I'm beginning to think I don't know how to cope with the person I am now. It's all such strange territory, none of which I know how to deal with or adapt too. When I see other moms talking about their day to day activities and responsibilities, all I can think is, that's what I need to be doing. That's the place I need to be, should be.

The empty shell of the present only echoes the diffused life of what has been lost. My entire existence is wandering, looking for the the road of before, looking for that place it belongs.

Less Time to Think

Working 2 jobs now, and I am so grateful for the opportunity. It fills my days with 8-12 hours of mindless business, and helps keep me from sinking into depression again. Weekends are no longer dreaded (the ones Jamie has to work were unimaginably hard), because I always have something to do.

I do have to remind myself that I am doing it for our own house, and for the things yet to come, but sometimes I miss being able to sit down for more than 10 minutes and just think about life without crying/sobbing/anger/bitterness (and the myriad of other emotions that occupy my brain when allowed too).

Between the extra work, 4 days of gym a week, and the constant tornado of animal hair that seems to follow me, the quiet moments of solitude are few and far between. Never thought I'd hate them and be glad they're gone.

Then, every once in a while, I allow myself to just sit and feel it all. Feel the rush of the tangled emotions and craziness that is always present up there, but that I keep walled up for fear of losing control. In public, online, alone, at work, driving....wherever I may be, that tangled, intricate, all encompassing mass is there to swallow me if I let it.

My unbidden passenger, the unwanted, yet clung-to roommate, the thing that will never be understood, never diminished, always tasted, and always changing.

Dream

For the first time since Matthew died, I dreamed last night. I dreamed all the time when I was pregnant, and quite frequently before getting pregnant, but the last few months have been dreamless.

I've actually ached to dream, in hopes that my "life that should have been" with Matthew would bleed through the edges of this world into my nights. I have wished that I could live just a few of those moments unconsciously. But my REM moments have been empty of glimpses of my son.

Last night I dreamed about another son, and oddly enough, I actually remember almost all of the details.

I dreamt of his birth, and the moments that followed. I dreamt that we named him Jayce Matthew. I even dreamt of the midwife cutting the cord, and handing him to me. The weight of his 6 lbs still lingers in my arms. The image of my brand new son, Matthew's little brother, lying purple and pink tinged, covered in that coat of fine, white hair on the scale, and screaming his brand new lungs off is still fresh in my mind.

I remember him wrapped in a receiving blanket, and showing him to his daddy, pointing out his chubby cheeks, and how much he looked like me, but with his dad's legs and arms. I even remember posting his picture and birth details on Facebook!

So, even though I didn't dream about Matthew, and the life he was to have, I did dream about the promise and hope of another son, which is something I have needed. We've been robbed of a future with our first born, but I hope, with all my heart, another little boy will come into my life some day.

It's A Little Thing...

I decided, randomly and out of the blue today, that I am going to start wearing 2 memorial bracelets around.

Here is why:

When we started having to plan Matthew's service, we were trying to think of little things we could do that would stay forever as a daily reminder of him. When my water broke, and it became clear that Matthew was coming within hours, and would be gone just as quickly, the hospital gave Jamie and all of the visitors (family and friends who were there while I was in labor) a purple bracelet that said "Forever in our hearts". I still wear Jamie's. We decided to get similar bracelets personalized to pass out at the service, and give to anyone who might like to have one.

The aim behind it is simple. I want my sons name to cross the minds of as many people as possible. I want him known, I want his tiny legacy to last as long as it can, because to me and his father, there can be no person we think about more than our little boy, and we'd like that to carry over to those around us.

We've adopted the habit of following up our frequent  "I love you"s with "but I love Matthew more". It's a small thing we do to remind each other of how much mutual we love we have for that little boy, and how much meaning and intimacy his life has brought to our relationship. We are no longer merely husband and wife, but have been replaced by the relationship of "the parents to our son". The two relationships exist side by side, but the latter brings SO much more meaning to anything we could ever be with just the two of us.

This is just a small example of how we feel the desire to "change" the world, in the wake of losing our son. One of the things that hurts the most, and is the hardest thing to understand, is why the world does not stop when your child is gone. Life, should not be without that little face in it. These things are our way of making sure that his little life did affect the world, even if it didn't make it stop turning.

So, I will, from now on, have 2 of Matthew's bracelets on at any given time. One for me, and one for whoever might like to have one.

I do not expect people to wear them all the time, or even at all, but I will rejoice in the fact that perhaps one or two more people might come to know the name of my son.

So if you see me, and would like to have one of Matthew's bracelets, just let me know, I've got plenty.

July

It was just a few months ago that I "couldn't wait for July". Now, I wish it was a few months ago instead of today. July was supposed to bring the child I have ached for, fought for, sacrificed for.

But instead, in 20 days it is our 4 year wedding anniversary, in 20 days my son would have been 4 months old, in 21 days I will have been without my precious boy for 4 months, in 25 days Matthew was due to be born.

July holds so much, yet so little.

I should be 37 weeks pregnant, and Matthew should be full term, ready to enter the world.

So many "should be's". So many "would have been's". So much lost, so much gained too soon.

So much gone until the day I meet my maker, and my life is ended on this Earth. So much to look forward too after my time here is ended.

So much emptiness where my little boy "should be".

In A Letter To Another

I wrote this to another brand new babyloss mom who lost her child 2 weeks ago and was accused of being "selfish" by her co-workers...pretty much sums up where I am in life right now when it comes to friends and family.

Hi Allie,


I am so sorry you have found yourself on this agonizing road with us. It sounds like you are having to deal with some insensitivity on top of it, which is so far from helpful.


I have found myself to be a much more hardened person after losing my son 3 months ago. At 2 weeks, I can honestly I didn't give two hoots about another person on the planet except my husband. It's so normal, and I believe healthy to dive into yourself in the midst of the grief and just focus on your own well being and keeping yourself going. Even now, 3 short months later, my entire perspective of life and relationships has changed drastically. I HAVE to focus on my husband and I alone because otherwise I don't think I could continue living. Not to be dramatic, or attention seeking, but because it's the solid truth that my world ended when my son took his last breath.


Unfortunately, having been a very caring and loyal friend all of my life, many friends and family cannot and do not understand the change they see in me, hell, I don't understand the change I see in myself. But I know it's there for a reason, it's there as a result of losing my son, my world, my future. I will never be the same person I was before, none of us will, because we can't be. We can't go back to who we used to be, and quite honestly, I wouldn't want to. That person wasn't a mother to a beautiful boy named Matthew.


Please, please be gentle to yourself, and please, be absorbed in your own well being above all else. They can take care of themselves, and they should be worried about taking care of you instead of being so insensitive. This entire process, is life-long, and unending. If you do not learn how to cope, grieve, and live with it now, there will be a day that it comes crashing down hard. That is the entire purpose of grief, it's a learning experience, and a reflection of the love you had for your baby.


I wrote more than I meant too :-) But I just can't stress enough how important it is that you allow yourself to be "selfish" now and in the coming months. I have yet to reach the point that I "care" about others. Yes, I love my friends and family, but they are no longer and will never be my priority again. Day to day, right now, I focus on getting through the moments and hours without the clutter of worrying about who I may have offended or who I should be reaching out to.


Another thing I have learned, is those who are true friends and TRULY care about me, will understand my coldness, my lack of communication, and my "selfishness". Those who take offense and judge me for it, have no place in my life.


Blessings and hugs to you and yours.

The World May Never Notice

The world may never notice
If a Snowdrop doesn't bloom,
Or even pause to wonder
If the petals fall too soon.
But every life that ever forms,
Or ever comes to be,
Touches the world in some small way
For all eternity.

The little one we long for
Was swiftly here and gone.
But the love that was then planted
Is a light that still shines on.
And though our arms are empty,
Our hearts know what to do.
Every beating of our hearts
Says that we do love you.

3 Months

Happy 3 month Birthday Matthew. Mommy and Daddy miss you so much.

You're in a better place, I've heard a thousand times
And at least a thousand times I've rejoiced for you
But the reason why I'm broken, the reason why I cry
Is how long must I wait to be with you


I close my eyes and I see your face
If home's where my heart is then I'm out of place
Lord, won't you give me strength to make it through somehow
I've never been more homesick than now


Help me Lord cause I don't understand your ways
The reason why I wonder if I'll ever know
But, even if you showed me, the hurt would be the same
Cause I'm still here so far away from home


In Christ, there are no goodbye
And in Christ, there is no end
So I'll hold onto Jesus with all that I have
To see you again
To see you again


And I close my eyes and I see your face
If home's where my heart is then I'm out of place
Lord, won't you give me strength to make it through somehow
Won't you give me strength to make it through somehow
Won't you give me strength to make it through somehow


I've never been more homesick than now

Lyrics

Heard this song today that I don't usually like all that much, as it's fairly shallow and silly, but one of the verses touched me deeply. They weren't meant or intended in the way that they touched me, but all the same...

Lord make me a rainbow, I'll shine down on my mother
She'll know I'm safe with you when she stands under my colors
Oh, and life ain't always what you think it ought to be, no
Ain't even gray, but she buries her baby

The sharp knife of a short life
Well, I've had just enough time

I Still Sing

He's not here, but I still sing to him. I know he hears me.

I sing my love, my pain, and my mother's heart to him. I sing his name. I sing his songs. I sing love over and over again.

He hears me.

One day, the day that cannot come quickly enough, I will sing to him in my arms, and I will never let him go.

Another's Words, Spoken From My Heart

"I don't need to find a meaning in my son's death. Or, more precisely, I don't think there can be meaning grand enough to be worthy of him, to be worthy of the enormity of what it means to have to live without him.

To me, my son's death doesn't have to be beautiful and meaningful. It doesn't have to teach anyone anything, and it doesn't have to have changed our lives for the better. In fact, I think if someone tried to find anything of the sort in our story, I'd be beyond livid.

I remember a post on someone's blog from when I was only a couple of months out from A's death that has stayed with me throughout the years. The post was about how of course the deaths of our children are unfair, about how we, the survivors, didn't deserve it. There was a quote too, about how the only thing worse to imagine than their deaths being unfair and undeserved is for their deaths to have been fair and deserved. Jeez, right? What would you have to do to deserve to have your kid die? And if you put it that way... Well, the beauty and meaning thing, I feel similar about these-- what in the universe can possibly be worth my son's life? I have only one answer to that-- nothing, absofrigalutely nothing.

Which doesn't mean that I do not see beauty in our stories, in our story. The difference is that to me the beauty is internal.  It doesn't come from or depend on anything that happened as a result of A's death It's jagged and mangled, and may not look like beauty to anyone but us, and let's face it-- few are willing to look for long enough to see it. The beauty I see is in the origin of our pain, in why our worlds are torn and our hearts-- a mess of shards. That, of course, is grief, the new and unbidden roommate-inside-us.

To me, there is beauty in the pain, in the grief. But not because I enjoy the sight of blood and gore-- I don't. I see beauty in why the pain and the grief are there. They are there because we love our children. And when they die, when we lose the world that was to be them, the pain is the reflection, the mirror image of the love. And to me, that's good enough. Actually, to me that's the only way it can possibly be."

-julia http://www.glowinthewoods.com/

Sometimes

I think about the things I've lived through, been through, and I can barely believe I've survived. I relive those moments again in my head with absolute clarity, and it feels like I am watching someone else live my memories. It can't be me. I couldn't have gone through something so horrific and still be alive. I'm not that strong. My memories seem like deception, but alas, they are true. Every single moment is true. Sometimes...I don't believe my own mind's recalling. How can I be here, when I was there? How can I have lived through that without losing my mind, my heart, my soul?

Keeps On Rolling

Ah, life. How unfair, yet healing it is that you continue on, regardless of the events within. I have wished you would stop countless times. I have wished you fast forward countless times. Yet, you ignore my wishes and steadily carry on, knowing better than I.

Steps have been taken and lost over these past few months. Mostly lost, but still, progress towards a little healing has been made. Unfelt, invisible, but still there in my days. My memories begin to hold not only intense pain, but also joy. I can sometimes envision his face without sobbing now, and the thought of his little nose and toes can bring a smile, when before there was only tears.

I carry my inked likeness of his tiny feet with intense passion and love, tenderly stroking the outlines of his baby feet daily. All of these things say "He was here." At this point, I can ask no more. Though there are so many moments that all I can choke out are pleas for his presence, there are now moments, amazingly, that I am able to acknowledge my gratefulness for his time with me.

Why?

Why not them instead of us? Why not her instead of me? Why not their baby instead of mine? How is it fair that they get 2, 3, 4, 5...and I can't even have just him? Why would you take Matthew away after we fought for him for so long, but give others beautiful "accidents". Why do I have to go through this, without the comfort of a child at home, or even children at home. Why did you have to take my first. I would have been happy with him as my only. Why would you make us go through so much, so, so much, and then rip him away. Why can't one good thing happen in my life, and not lose it. Why did you have to give me such an overwhelming desire, from such a young age, to be a mommy, but refuse me a living child. Why would you make me go through all that worry and fear with his heart defect and downs, then make everything wonderful again, only to rip him from my arms 5 days later.Why do so many, so many, get to have children they don't even want, and yet I can't have the only one I do want with every fiber of myself. Do I not deserve children? What did I do that was so horrible that I can't be a mom. Why must I suffer every day with constant thoughts of pregnant friends and mommy friends. Do I need to pray more? Do I not go to church enough? Is it because I cuss? I don't know. I know I'm not that great of a person, but did I really deserve this? Are my wrongs so great that my little boy and my husband had to suffer for them? I have never been good at anything in my life until I was going to be a mom. I finally felt like a person, instead of a lump of useless nothing, and I was going to pour my heart and soul into that little boy. He would have been raised to love you, to love his family, and to love himself. But now I'm left here, so desolate, confused, ripped apart, broken, and lost. Constantly plagued with pitied looks, having to respond to "how are you" with fake responses to avoid making others uncomfortable, and feeling like everyone has forgotten the one thing that gave my life meaning: Matthew. I had 6 months of pure ecstasy, after a life of pain and anger, and now I feel like I will lose myself in it. I just want to know why my little boy, when he was my world and my love, and everything to me. Why does my heart go on beating when his does not. Why do I have to finish life here on Earth when my place is with him. Why must I agonize through each day, and minute, and hour, without him. I just want to know, why?

Things

I miss shopping for my little boy. Strollers, bed sheets, pacifiers, clothes...I miss it all. Spent hours every day browsing every website I could think of, dreaming of Matthew and the use he would get out of the things I looked at. Now I am shopping for a lawn mower, a washer, and broken dreams.

The things I bought for him sit in the empty room that was meant for him, in the empty house he was to come home to, while Mommy's empty heart beats on.

2 Months

Happy 2 month birthday Matthew. I wish you were here with me every minute of every day.

Mommy put your footprints on her skin to show herself and others the footprints you left on her heart.

An angel, in the Book of Life, wrote down my baby's birth. 
Then quietly whispered as he closed the book, "Too beautiful for Earth."






---

Better, Doesn't Mean Better

The last few days I've felt "better". A word I have heard countless times from friends and family. If better means not thinking about Matthew every second of each day, or being distracted for hours on end by a new game my husband and I are playing, or being able to sleep without crying first, then yes, I have been feeling better.

And I hate it.

I hate it so much. I miss the constant tears, the anguished thoughts, feelings of perpetual loneliness, the inability to function in daily life. I miss it all, because that's what Matthew meant to me. He meant everything. Every aspect of life, tiny and large, and without him, life shouldn't be able to go on. But it does. It keeps going. I can't stop the world from spinning, but in my heart, Matthew's death should have.

My grief is still incredibly great, but it is very slowly starting to not control my life. Very slowly. That scares me. When you have grief of this scale, it becomes all you know. I feel if I let go of it even the slightest bit, I will forget the intensity of love I have for my little boy. You don't recover from a loss this great, you re-learn life, you change, and you're never the same. The world looks different. Each moment looks different. You are different.

I think that is what scares me: I feel different, I act different, I think differently. My heart is harder, guarded now, and my compassion has dwindled.

Change. That's what it boils down too. So much change in so short a time. Not good, exciting change either, but hard, gut wrenching change. I've gone from young wife, to expectant mother, to mother of an absent child in less than a year. I used to have it all figured out. Now, I know nothing. When I finally was starting to understand and love life, it threw me a curveball. All I can do is hang on for the ride now, and hope that things get "better".

Today

Today, I should be 29 weeks pregnant.

Today, I should be larger than life with a belly that induces waddling.

Today, I should be feeling my little growing boy bounce off the walls of my womb.

Today, I should be a expectant mother, celebrating my first Mother's Day in a blissful state.

Instead...

Today, my son has been gone for 7 weeks.

Today, my belly contains only fat, and nothing to rejoice in.

Today, the phantom jumps of my son haunt me.

Today, I am the mother of a boy in heaven, celebrating Mother's Day in grief.



Today, I can only hope in the future. I can only wish that next year I will have our second child in my arms to help heal the pain I feel today. I can only bury myself into my husband and wait for the clouds to clear, and for the sun to peep through.

Today, I am a Mother, I am a wife, and I am broken. Today, tomorrow, and forever, I love you Matthew.

It's Not A Competition

It's not a race. It's not a competition. 
Yeah, sure.
In my experience, people who say that are the ones winning.

...

Every day seems a race, and I always seem to be running backwards.

I hate to run. Ask any of my high-school coaches. The only time I ever enjoyed running was if there was a soccer ball in front of me, but I digress.

Before I got pregnant with Matthew, my competitors were all around me. My friends, the lady standing in front of me at the grocery store, cousins, and anyone close to my age. Every day of my life was spent anticipating and yearning for that promise of a step forward: two pink lines. Friends and co-workers would become pregnant, give birth to beautiful, bouncing babies, and start over again. Rinse and repeat. While I, on the sidelines with an "injury", would dream of the day I could step onto that track and run towards the finish line. Married friends, both older and younger, who'd been married less time than I had, became pregnant, and bubbled with happiness, smiles, and sported a round belly. Again, I looked on, smiling for them, savoring just the smallest taste of their new-mom joy, and envied each moment they had that I did not.

I spent years training for that big race. Years more than anyone else I knew. Did I need it more than them? Were they better prepared than me? Who knows. It was searingly clear that it wasn't my decision.

Then it came. The go-ahead from the Big Coach. "It's your turn. Run." Oh boy did I. Every moment on that track, each time my feet hit the ground that carried me closer to that goal, felt a gift from heaven, and it was. I rejoiced in each ache, pain, and discomfort. It was my turn, finally.

I could see the finish line. That glorious gold ribbon stretched out before me, waiting for me to reach it. Behind the finish line, my beloved husband waited, and in his arms there was a new face. A crying, hungry, beautiful, brand new face that had every feature of Jamie except his chin. He had my chin. My world was almost complete.

As I am running towards that beautiful face, only a short distance left to run, the distance between us growing smaller and smaller by the moment, my world is shattered. Suddenly, the finish line is upon me, sooner than expected. It's not supposed to be there, I should still be running. There is a flurry of people upon me, but not with the happy, congratulatory faces I expected. Instead I am met with faces of badly hidden pity, sorrow, and sadness. Faces that make attempts at forced smiles, but instead fill my heart with discomfort and fear. Faces of intense worry. All for me. All I can think is "What's happening?"

They hand me a child, attached to that beautiful face I had been running towards just moments ago. My mind rails against reality, rejecting what is, and gouged of what was to be. "It's too soon."

The face still holds that intense beauty, but smaller. Daddy's lips move to take those first breaths, Daddy's nose bubbles with leftover fluid as air fills tiny lungs. Little tiny hands reach toward me, even though those beautiful eyes I saw earlier, are still fused shut. Little feet kick my chest, weakly, but with my stubborn attitude. Mommy's tiny chin, finishing that beautiful face, rests against my breast. "It's too soon." I fall utterly, completely, helplessly in love with that face. Never to return. It shall be fused into my mind till the day I die, but it's taken away too soon.

Someone in a uniform comes and tells me "He's almost gone." I understand what she says, but don't grasp it. My mind tells me "No, he's supposed to stay forever. This isn't right."

What seems like seconds after I say hello to my new son, my dream of dreams, I have to say goodbye.

"It's too soon."

...

I find myself on the all too familiar sidelines again. Reeling from my unfinished race, and my agonizing grief, but telling myself "You have to run."

In a cloud of cruel deja vu, I see again my friends on the track, starting a new race, before mine had even ended. Their family stands on the other side of the finish line waiting, larger than mine. Happier than mine. The prizes of their previous races there to cheer them on. 

Jamie stands slumped alone on the other side of the finish line, waiting for me. The absence of our beautiful face all too blatant to both of us. A weak smile, full of sad encouragement, crowns his lips. I stare at my feet, still unsteady, still recovering, but determined to run. I look to the Coach, and ask to be put in.

Now I wait. Again. The fresh memories of that race over too soon still slicing in my mind and heart. The overwhelming desire to still be running for that beautiful little boy grates my insides. The track stretches out before me, looming and impossible. I've picked up what pieces I could find of my broken heart, bound them together with the thinnest thread of hope, and I wait to be put in.

It is a race. Those ahead are too focused on what's at the finish line to look behind, and those behind are left to watch the winners as they reach their beautiful faces.

Here We Go Again...

Jamie and I decided we would be trying for baby #2 right away. While it is extremely difficult emotionally to even think about being pregnant with another baby, when I still should be pregnant with Matthew for another 10 weeks, I know it's what we need to do. I'm scared to death. I have anxiety attacks sometimes when I think about it. Not because I am scared to have another child, but more at the possibility of losing another precious life.

The road we have traveled together over the last 4 years has been intensely, ridiculously, frighteningly difficult. Countless times I have envied friends around me who have had "easier" lives, and then I realize, I wouldn't be the same person without our trials. To be honest, I don't know how I've made it this far. After 3 1/2 years of desperately trying to get pregnant, then the miscarriage, the out-of-my-mind scariness of finding out about Matthew's heart defect and possible downs, and now losing him to a fluke. There is no time more apt than now for us to say "life is unfair". I used to say that a lot, when I was going through what I thought was hard times. I laugh in irony at those times. How naive we are until we experience life for ourselves.

It's so hard not to let my bitterness grow. I try to keep it at bay, but it's still there. Bitterness towards God for taking him away after we'd been through so much, at the world for continuing on without him, at those around me, family and friends, for having children and healthy pregnancies, and at myself for failing to bring a healthy boy into the world at the proper time.

You can't imagine the thoughts that pass through a grieving mother's mind unbidden. I look at people around me, and wish they would know just a hint of what I have gone through. If only they could understand a little bit. Yet, I don't what them to understand. No one should have to understand this horror.

More than anything, you want to trade for your child's life. Anything you could give, you would. I would have gladly given my life for his. Jamie would have as well.

It is so hard to have an overwhelming need to sacrifice, but not have that choice.

Every day, I dream of a world that I would have had a choice. I've dreamed of time travel, heavenly intervention, just about any fantasy you can think of that would make it possible for him to still be here. But no matter how many times I dream of these possibilities, I wake up to the real world. A world without him.

In the midst of all this, we have the desire for another child. A younger brother or sister for Matthew. Our second, yet they will live as the first because Matthew cannot. I am scared of the pregnancy; of the months in between those 2 pink lines and that first wailing cry. I'm scared I will get attached, and love that baby as much as I loved Matthew when he was growing within me. I know I will, and that scares me the most.

At the same time, I yearn for the day that baby will arrive, healthy, pink, full of life, and ours to keep. I live only for that day. All else is unimportant. It is our main focus, our only life goal, and the desire of our hearts. We are parents without our son, but one day, hopefully soon, we will be parents to another child. One who will stay with us, and that, is the reason we are able to make it through each day.

Embracing the Pain

Each day brings it's own trials. I never know what to expect when I wake up in the morning. Will I be reminded suddenly of all the feelings I work so hard to control and break down in sobs? Will a friend announce a pregnancy, or birth, throwing me into a pit of despair and aching? I just don't know. Each morning I put on my face of normalcy, but every shred within me fights against the display. Nothing is OK. Nothing is right.

I miss the hope and joy. Never before have I been without both. I was so hopeful, my entire life. Now every small piece has been scattered to the wind the moment my little boy passed in my arms. I mourn it. I miss it. I miss being happy. I miss enjoying life.

No one knows me anymore. The person they knew for 25 years is gone. I feel myself so incredibly changed. Yes, some remnants remain. Yes, more will surface as the years go by and I find my purpose again, but for now, I am a stranger to myself.

People still pray for me and Jamie. We need it desperately. People try to tell us to find our comfort in God, and to look to him. What I know they don't understand is, He feels our grief just as deeply as we do.

There is no complete comfort, at this point there is very little comfort. Only distractions. We do not wish to be rid of that which makes our days so hard. Our grief is our comfort. Our sadness is our healing. I am so thankful for each stabbing pain, debilitating ache, and agonized tear. They mean that Matthew mattered. He was loved more than anyone else will ever know. His father and I feel each throb of unending love for him every moment we live, and it's because of our grief that we are able too.

It does not get easier. You learn to cope a little more each day, but it does not lessen. I've learned, I do not want it to get "better". I want to feel that intense emotion every time I think of him. I do look forward to the day it turns to different emotions, instead of just pain. Love to replace bitterness, hope to replace despair, and joy to replace sorrow.

Do you see my mummy?

Do you see my mummy? 
If u see my mummy, 
please hold her tight for me, 
cause even though shes smiling, 
her pains not easy to see. 
Shes hidden it deep inside her, 
a smile upon her face, 
so u don't feel uncomfortable, 
or put in an awkward place. 
She will laugh and she will smile, 
sound normal on the phone, 
but deep inside shes screaming, 
''help me i'm so alone'' 
i can hear also her bother, 
cause its screaming from her heart, 
she dosn't know why this happened, 
why we had to part. 
shes all mixed up inside her, 
her body is filled with pain, 
please someone help my mummy, 
before she goes insane. 
Just talk about me to her, 
don't think that the pain has gone, 
that she should be over me, 
for her pain will go on and on. 
She held me in her body, 
then held me in her arms, 
she wanted to look after me , 
and keep me away from harm. 
But she feels in a way, 
that she let me down, 
and i cant reassure her, 
that i am always around. 
I want to hug her tightly, 
and take away her pain, 
but i cant do that from here, 
wait until we are together again. 
I am and always will be, 
the baby that she bore, 
and even though you loved me, 
my mummy loved me more. 
Don't compare me to a lost dog, 
or a granddad or a nan, 
she will help you with your worries, 
if she feel she can. 
Don't expect to much from her, 
its her child that she misses 
shes like a china doll inside, 
could crack up into pieces, 
so hold her please so gently, 
tell her not to be afraid to cry, 
and listen to her go on and on, 
"why oh why oh why?" 
She's not the person you once knew, 
yes shes changed alot, 
one day her smile maybe genuine, 
one day it may not. 
So please let me rest peacefully, 
i wont until you know, 
that my mummy need your support, 
not that silly look of "so?" 
That as i barely breathed, 
i wasn't really real, 
that its harder to have memories, 
how do u think that makes her feel? 
cause we have many memories, 
you weren't lucky enough to share, 
I wasnt a thing that wasnt meant to be, 
she carried me past the maybe stages, 
she then gave birth to me. 
So if you see my mummy, 
give her a gentle squeeze, 
don't tell her what i've told you, 
she wont be too pleased. 
She likes to think its private, 
the pain is not being shown 
but it is there believe me, 
she is feeling so alone.