Memorials (Part 3)

Now that this time of year has rolled around again, I'm not sure what date to identify as the anniversary of my pregnancy loss. Today, Feb. 6, the day the doctor broke the bad news? Feb. 12, when the bleeding finally started? Feb. 27, when it finally stopped?

This whole month is an anniversary, I guess. But today's date seems to carry the most weight.

Like my due date, it's been surprisingly ... OK. (The lead-up to it was worse.) And despite what I wrote yesterday about triggers, the "gentle, wistful sadness" is the main mood that's been here today, and especially tonight.

I won't write much about it. I doubt that words can capture the mood as well as this one image can. It's from a locket, which says "I Love You to the Moon & Back" inside. I printed the image and pinned it to the side of the prayer box (not quite sure what to call it) that my best friend made. It's like a little altar where I've gathered a few important things and where I light candles sometimes.

There are candles burning there tonight, as I look out at the winter moon.

by EverAndAnon

Remembrance Day

After being away for a while, I just realized recently that today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, a day intended "to help families live with their loss, not 'get over' their loss."

Today, I'm thinking of my Baby P, who would have been 6 weeks old now. I'm also thinking of a good friend, whose miscarriage ten years ago I virtually ignored in a clueless attempt to help her "get over" it. I said that I was sorry, then focused on her next pregnancy and never brought the first one up again.

Later, I apologized. She basically shrugged. Everyone grieves differently, and she said that my reaction hadn't felt hurtful to her at the time ... but it wasn't helpful either, I know now. Of course, she may have preferred not to talk about details. Still, I wish that I'd reached out and just asked, you know, "How are you really doing?"

Today, I still try to respect people's privacy, but I'm no longer afraid that simply talking about a loss causes grief. The grief is there anyway. For me, talking about it can feel better—more alive—than the dullness of trying to distract myself with less-important things.

So to all who've lost babies before or after birth, I'm thinking of you and them tonight.

source

August 26, 2013

It's finally here: my would-have-been due date. If not for the miscarriage, I would have been 40 weeks pregnant today, if the baby hadn't already arrived.

Strangely, this date hasn't been as upsetting as I'd thought it might be. It's just another day in limbo, and I'm used to that. Yes, I'm thinking about the baby with love. I do that every day. What I don't do is spend much time dreaming about the details of what might have been. Years of infertility have trained me not to get too attached to dreams.

Yes, after 8 or 10 weeks of pregnancy, when I started needing to map out future medical appointments on the calendar, I was bold enough to note all 40 weeks. But I did it in pencil. Wow. It didn't occur to me until today how telling and sad that really is. My due date was never marked with a celebration of circles, exclamation points, and smiles, just a businesslike "40" with a mental asterisk and footnote saying, "if I should really be so lucky after all..."

Nope. 

Daydreams of motherhood require some details. I could fantasize about everything that might have been ... but the truth is that I have no real details about the life who was so briefly here, really here. All I have of him or her are questions. And the only way I can honor him or her is to hold the questions in my heart and just let them be.

Questions and love. Today and every day.

Blooms

Apparently my garden karma isn't totally hopeless after all. There was a nice surprise waiting for me in the yard yesterday: the forget-me-nots are starting to bloom.

Not only that, but a new generation of robins is using the old nest. Mama's been sitting on it for weeks—much longer, it seemed, than last time around. I was starting to wonder if the eggs were OK (projecting my own issues onto wildlife, no doubt) ... and then yes, I saw and heard two chicks for the first time tonight. :)

That Did Not Just Happen

The forget-me-not seeds that I planted last month in memory of my baby took a while to come up, but since then they've grown well.  Doting on them has become a nice part of my routine. Every day, I go outside to check their soil for moisture, pluck and fuss over them, and spend a few moments thinking of Baby P.

The other day, I noticed that they were looking a little waterlogged after a rain. They're in a small pot that's wedged tightly inside another (ornamental) pot. When I picked up the outer pot to pour out the water that had settled in the bottom, most of the dirt and plants suddenly spilled out too, dumping the whole mess onto the ground and flinging muddy splatters everywhere—onto my fence, my jeans, and into the cup of tea I'd brought outside to enjoy. It was a spectacular mess. I just stood there staring at it. Then I said, out loud, two times, "That did not just happen. THAT did NOT just happen!"

Because these plants had special meaning to me, it was hard not to attach way too much meaning to the accident, too. Of all the pots on my patio, I had to mess up this one? Was it a reflection of my mothering skills (or lack thereof)?? This wasn't a little wilting on a hot day, because I'd watered them late; this was SPLAT, good-bye, the whole lot dumped unceremoniously upside-down. What could I do? I scooped the seedlings back into their pot, tried to sew their tiny roots back into the soil, then gave them a blessing and a well-deserved apology.

The outcome? So far, I've been relieved to see that they seem to be recovering just fine. "It's OK," I can almost hear them saying when I come outside to dote and fuss over them now. "We're growing up. Maybe you can, you know, back off a little and just let us do our own thing!"

April is the Cruellest Month

Since a friend quoted that line recently, I've had it on my mind … and had to roll my eyes at my own melodrama.

Seriously, though, this April has been hard. I would have been more than halfway to full-term now, and everywhere there are reminders of what should have been. This crazy profusion of sunlight and flowers and babies outside in strollers—lovely as it is—is also jarring. It makes me feel out of step with the world.

No, it's no longer winter in my heart. Now I see my state of mind and heart reflected best in the thawing mess of very early spring—the conditions of about a month ago. Remember? The first buds were venturing out, and some didn't survive the frosty nights. The ground was still littered with last year's leaves, plus the mud that might someday allow something new to grow.

Last weekend I drove my mother to a nursery to pick out some new flowers for her yard. I didn't expect to buy anything there for myself, not quite yet. But there was one thing that caught my eye and ended up coming home with me:

No, I can't keep living in the past. I need to move on and make the next TTC decisions very soon. (More on that to come.)

But moving forward doesn't mean that I'll forget.

Memorials (Part 2)

After ordering this print and debating with myself some more, I also ordered a little pendant that says "Forever Loved." Picking one took a while.

I debated about it because the idea of buying something for an "occasion" like this just felt wrong. There are actually a lot of things a person can buy, from tacky to beautiful to extravagant. Shopping tends to overwhelm me even in the best of times. In this case, not only was it not fun, but it also made me feel queasy and even, I have to admit, a little ashamed.

Wasn't it morbid or—worse—frivolous? Why spend hours shopping for something when I could just spend the same amount of time crying privately for free? Was I distracting myself with stuff at this least appropriate of times?? Well, not successfully, that's for sure, since I cried through the whole experience…

I don't actually believe these judgments that came up reflexively. I just want a physical reminder because I miss the baby who was physically here. I want so much to have something to touch and to keep, literally, close to my heart.

So when the necklace arrived today, my first emotion was relief … followed by an aching knowledge that this is NOT what I actually want. This is not holding my child in my arms.

"Miscarriage of Justice" by Lina Scarfi

Memorials (Part 1)

The Lumineers' song "Ho Hey" ("I belong with you; you belong with me; you're my sweetheart") was special to me while I was pregnant. Lately, I haven't heard it much—maybe once in two weeks. The break from it was a relief. Then on Sunday, in just a few hours of flipping through radio stations, I heard that song five times.

I had been planning to order a little print with the lyrics to put in the baby's room. On Monday, after some internal debate, I went ahead and ordered it anyway. It belongs in my memory box along with the ultrasound pictures, the journal I kept for the baby, and the magazine I couldn't resist stealing from my RE's office in December because the cover headline said "2012: A Year of Incredible Miracles!"

Gathering these things helps me to focus on the baby instead of on my own general hopelessness. It's actually a comfort. It’s one of the few actions I can take that still feels motherly.

Always

by Sweet Lemon Art