A Silver Christmas

Look, we put up our Christmas tree.

Then we put up the little tree. The tree that will now always be referred to as “his tree.”

The hub framed the onesie I made for him.

I hung two ornaments on his tree. One was the Fisher Price Chatter Phone ornament the hub bought me for my birthday (less than two weeks after we lost him.) I wrote him a little letter on the bottom of the ornament, along with his birth date. I thought he should have it.

The second ornament is pretty self explanatory. It looks a little like his urn, except this Hello Kitty guy is dressed in winter clothes. It’s ridiculously cute and sad all wrapped up into one.

The hub and I both agreed that every year we will buy him a new ornament for his tree. I love that idea.

Why Us?

I won’t beat around the bush, I had a terrible Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is the anniversary of my mom’s death (five years now), and given the death of my son this year – I just couldn’t see past my own grief to feel thankful for anything. I was a ticking time bomb all day, having to close myself in bedrooms to hide the tears from everyone. I didn’t want people seeing me like that. I just couldn’t handle the weight of life that day. It still hurts to be around kids. Boys or girls, little or big. They all hurt. Every child that is alive represents everything I am missing.  The sound of their laughter equates to nails on a chalkboard to me. Everything hurts me, still.

The hub was playing with a little boy no older than two or so. I wanted to smile and join in but all I could do was sit there in silence as tears poured down my face. Why can’t that be our little boy he’s playing with? Why did this have to happen to us? What did we ever do in this life to deserve this? Those questions always go unanswered, yet I always find myself asking them.

Why us? Why all of us?

…I’m staying far away from Christmas this year, because if Thanksgiving was any prelude, it will be a complete disaster for me. I’ll just keep on pushing forward to New Years Eve, the night 2009 will disappear.

Dr. Hopeful

Today we met with our new OB, Dr. Hopeful. She was everything I hoped she would be. She was gentle, comforting and spoke directly to us, not above us. The beginning was a little rocky because it was the first time we had to come face to face with the autopsy and placenta results. To my surprise she came to the same conclusion as Dr. D-Bag in that Evel, although on the small side, appeared to be a healthy baby. All this organs were properly formed and in the right places. She was concerned with the weight of the placenta however. She recommended I get some blood work done to make sure nothing in my system was attacking the placenta. She warned me that they would be taking quite a bit of blood, but I never imagined it would be seven-teen viles worth (!!!!!!!!!!!)

Anyways, we concluded the meeting with her explaining how she would manage our next pregnancy (putting a great deal of emphasis into the third trimester.) I started smiling knowing that we would be in good hands once we get knocked up again. She picked up on my constant smile and said “I wish I could speed time up for you both. Nothing will be easy for you until you hold your living baby.”

How true it is. There is not a god damn thing I want more than to be pregnant again. I feel like the more time that rolls by, the further I get away from my path. The path I was on. The path that brought me joy when I saw a pregnant woman or baby. The path of jealousy and anger isn’t how I want to spend the rest of my life. Being a childless mother is a tough pill to swallow. I need a different taste in my mouth. Something a little sweet to even out the sour.

…I think this doctor has the spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down.

Cupcakes and Rainbows

Grateful. Appreciative. Comforted. Loved. Amazed. Shocked. Ridiculously Happy! (cupcakes AND rainbows!) Everything I felt when I opened this box on Saturday:

Five wonderful women band together and put this care package together for me (and the hub.) Somehow I feel like I am in debt to you all, but really, it’s just my way of saying how unbelievably grateful I am that we found each other. It is so important for me to express my gratitude towards you ladies, and everyone who has let our story seep into your heart. Waking up to comments and e-mails and care packages is beyond comforting. Knowing that there are people out there who follow our story and care about us is so comforting. And in this time of tragedy, it’s nice to have some comfort, because really that’s all we want. Someone to laugh and joke with. Someone to write to. Someone to talk to. Someone to listen.

People like you.

You all put a smile on my face, and it felt great. Thank you’z.

The Creative Boost

During my pregnancy I would always brainstorm with Evel about projects. If I had a really good idea I would rub my tummy and say “Good thinking boy!” He was my little junior art director that fueled my creative side. Without him I worried my creative juices would dry up.

Well, my creative side woke me up with this morning. I rolled out of bed with dozens of new ideas itching to be created. For starters I created a background image for a wonderful twitter account called @tweethug. They were a big fan of our Koko Kreepie Monsters and wanted something different. After finishing that I decided to keep rolling with a background for my own twitter account @jmcanary (if you’re on twitter you should TOTALLY follow both myself and @tweethug!)

I was pretty much unstoppable throughout the entire day. I took a break to cook dinner and now more thoughts are zooming in and out of my head as I write this.

Today my funk has been lifted and it feels a little bit more like me in my skin. A well needed change from the constant feelings of doom and gloom. Here’s to a good day, I hope to have more to come!

Evel – Two Months

My lovely friend S. has posted two beautiful letters to her baby Henry that I found incredibly inspiring. After reading her letter, it dawned on me I haven’t written to Evel since he was born. So, this one’s for you TLB.

(And yes, I curse in letters to my son. Don’t judge.)

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Dear Evel,

I just dropped dad off at band practice. After they jam a bit, the guys are headed to a hockey game. It’s funny because your dad HATES sports. So does your mom. I used to tease your dad and say you would probably grow up to be the biggest jock in school. And even though we loathe sports, we would have been your number one fans. We would have cheered you on, embarrassing you along the way every chance we got. We would have never missed a single game, that’s how much we love you.

I cleaned your room today. I wiped two months of dust off your old fisher price toys I bought for you. I plopped down in the middle of the floor, opened the ‘remembered always’ box that contains the ugly onesie the hospital put you in to take photos with. I wish I was better prepared for your arrival, we had a black crimson ghost (misfits) onesie and matching hat ready for you. But somehow we just weren’t ready for you, two months ago.

I often replay those last days we had together. You weren’t really an active baby, so it was hard to tell the doctor I really didn’t know the last time I felt you move. While I was trying my hardest to push you into this world, the nurse said “Looks like he has dark hair.” Right then and there you already proved me wrong. I figured for sure you’d take after your dad with a headful of luxurious blonde hair.

The hardest thing I’ve had to deal with is the fact my maternal instinct failed me. After the nurse told us the news that you were dead, I stopped living too. I completely separated myself from you, trying to put myself in a different place. We had no idea you would be born dead and to this day, two months later, it seems like it never happened. How can I call myself a mother when I never even held you? I was so afraid of what I was going to see.

I always pictured you to look exactly like your dad. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Maybe you would get my chubby cheeks, but that’s it, all your other features would strikingly be of your father.

But when I saw the pictures of you my heart literally fell to the floor. You looked so much like me that I died again in that moment. You were little me and I am so fucking sorry I was ever afraid of you. I will never, ever EVER forgive myself for not holding you and breathing you in. I cheated us both out of that moment. Maybe that’s why I haven’t written you. Because I am so ashamed of myself. Ashamed that I felt like I had to protect the image I had of you, instead of embracing the person you were. The person that looked so much like me.

My little TLB, how I wish things could have been different for us. We can’t go back now, we can only move forward. Forward to a place where I can forgive myself and accept that I will forever be without my first born child. A child that looked just like me.

You have taught me how to love unconditionally now. You have literally expanded my mind, my body, and my soul. You made me fall deeper in love with your dad, and made me realize that life has to go on. For your sake and for mine.

It’s never going to be easy celebrating life without you, but today is our day. My maternal instincts are in full swing and I need you to feel my love. Because baby, I love you and there are so many other people that love you too. Mommy is just so sorry. So, so sorry.

With love,
Mom (and dad)

Holy Hormonal, Batman

The only thing I want right now (besides the obvious) is my period to show itself. Yes, you read that right. I WANT my period back, damnit.

Three mornings ago I fixed myself breakfast, a handful of chocolate chips. Sign number one.
Two mornings ago I woke up to half a dozen zits. Sign number two.
Yesterday I woke up and was pissy with the hub. Sign number three.
Today I’m just a fucking wreck. Crying over cheetos.

Right now, my period means everything to me. It means my body is going back to the way it used to be. It means I can start charting and figuring out this whole ovulation thing. It means we can start moving forward. Because without it, we can’t go forward. We can only wait and I really suck at waiting these days.

Today marks two months. Two months my entire life was flipped upside down. The only thing I want is some regularity, and my period was something that was so regular in my life. Month to month, it was always there.

Wow, a whole post about a period. Ain’t that some shit?

Holy Shit Lady

I just survived the hugest public punch in the heart. I’m still all shook up though.

After finally balancing the checkbook, the hub and I took a well needed trip to Sam’s Club. The store was all decorated for Christmas and the near sight of the over-sized Christmas tree made me want to vomit. We hurried along grabbing the random things we needed then headed for the check-out line. There was a little girl in line behind us that had a never ending cough that made the back of my throat feel scratchy. All I wanted was to get the hell out of the store.

As I handed the check-out lady my card, she scanned it and started ringing up our items. “So Julie, what kind of dog do you have?” she asked as she swiped the big bag of dog bones. Confused, I answered her quickly then all went quiet again. “That will be $74.65 Julie.” I handed her my check and waited for my receipt.

“So is there a little Jonny at home?”

(WHAT THE FUCK DID SHE JUST SAY? ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?)

“Not yet.” the hub answered for me.

:::::

I have absolutely no idea how in the world I lived through that moment. I still can’t stop thinking about it. She invaded so much of my personal space it’s impossible to put into words. She might as well of stuck her tongue down my throat and asked me if I wanted to have a threesome. I felt violated. Completely violated.

What was I suppose to say “Actually, there is a little Jonny at home. His ashes at least. My little Jonny (Evel) died inside me.”

:::::

Holy shit lady, you managed to turn a shitty day into the worst day possible. Thanks for trying to make small talk with your customers. I wish our conversation could have went better.

Only in Dreams

I keep having really f-ed up dreams.

This morning I woke up from this dream:

I was laying in a bed being spooned by my killer. I told him I understood he had to kill me, but was trying to convince him to kill everyone else first (there were four other people in my dream.) Instead the killer laid next to me and repeatedly stabbed me in the back. I felt the blood inching down my back and physically felt it becoming harder to breathe. With squinted eyes I watched the killer get up off the bed to start killing the rest. I laid in a puddle of my own blood with a smile on my face. I was enjoying the pain. I reached to my back for tangible proof of my own blood. I rubbed it on my face. When I heard the screams of the others being killed, I got up and somehow found help downstairs. The lady who answered the door was holding a baby.

To me, that was a pleasant dream.

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Now, let me share a nightmare with you. A nightmare I had the night before last:

I was pregnant with a huge tummy and grin on my face. I was rubbing my tummy. My big fat pregnant tummy.

I woke up crying. I physically tried to grab the tummy that was in my dream wishing and hoping it was real. When I shook the nightmare, I cried more. It’s sad when you consider being pregnant a nightmare. But that’s where I’m at now.

:::::

My period still hasn’t shown up. Nine weeks now. I had a brief chat with a fellow babyloss mama and she said EXACTLY what I have been afraid to admit. I wanted to be pregnant by now. And it’s so true. My dreams of blood and pain, those are all I have left of my good memories. The being pregnant and wanting to be happy is a nightmare. A nightmare because I have no idea if I will be able to ever enjoy being pregnant and happy again. I will always worry that the nightmare that is my every day life will happen again. I understand completely that being pregnant again will not “fix me” but when you consider it to be a nightmare, well, it makes me wonder if it will EVER happen again.

Only in dreams…

Rollercoaster

The other day someone asked me an interesting question. They asked me where I was in the stages of grief. I had to laugh because no one has ever asked me that before, and it’s not exactly an easy question to answer.

To me, grief is a rollercoaster and if you know me personally you know I HATE rollercoasters. I also happen to hate grief. One second I am on a slow incline. Things seem to be looking up and I feel like I can take a deep breathe and exhale with ease. Then all of a sudden I am plummeted down in record speed holding on for dear life. What worked on the incline certainly doesn’t apply to the decline and I feel like I have to hold my breathe. Then the sudden turns come in and soon I find myself being flipped upside down, still holding my breathe AND holding on for dear life. Sometimes I feel like I just want to let go. Let myself fall face first into the unknown, but I’m to chicken. I have to hold on. I tell myself there has to be some sort of grand finale for me. Something to make all this shit worthwhile.

In the middle of a particular bad downward spiral, a hand grabbed mine. And all of a sudden I didn’t feel so scared. I let out a huge sigh of relief and for the first time let myself enjoy the thrill. And as more twist and turns came, the hand stayed rested on top of mine. That knowing feeling that everything will be okay and that sometimes the ups and downs of life can be something to enjoy, together. I realize going on a ’scary ride’ alone is stupid. Who does that anyways?

I don’t hate rollercoasters anymore. I have accepted that all the ups and downs and twist and turns is exactly what makes any rollercoaster good. The bigger the thrill, the better it is. And before you know it you are standing in line to ride it again (and again and again.)

Enjoy the ride, folks!