[While I’m on creative sabbatical through the end of the year, I’m pulling some of the most popular posts from the archives and sharing them again. With October being a month to honor and bring awareness to pregnancy and infant loss, I’ve chosen some of the writing from the first year after Benjamin’s stillbirth. These posts bring tears to my eyes, because of course, three years later, I’ve forgotten what those early days were like. This is why I blogged through my grief – I wanted to capture the moments that vanish into the fog of memory. I wanted to always remember how devastating it was to lose my son.]

It’s interesting to watch grief takes its toll. I am so happy to have my husband home for three weeks after eleven weeks of work on the road. (He was home for a few days every week but it was a long haul and we are grateful for all of it). Every day it seems we have a moment where I watch us miss each other. We’ll have a conversation where even though we are on the same side, it feels like we’re fighting. The unhappiness is palpable.

Today’s moment happened to be in a Verizon Wireless store. I know where it’s coming from, I know why it’s happening and it still feels awful. I felt the wave rising and I knew I could either fight the lump in my throat or leave and let it go. Thankfully he understood. As I sobbed in the car I thought about the secrets we all keep as we are out in the world. How many people are quietly grieving as they go about their day? How many end up in a car, a restroom, or a dark corner letting the wave wash over them so they can function again? How many of them fight to get through and end up yelling at their child, walking away from their spouse, or mistreating a customer? How many of us hold grief at arm’s length only to have it wreak havoc on our lives?

One of the questions I ask myself these days (when I remember) is what would compassion do here? Then I take a deep breath and turn in that direction. It’s not always the easiest choice, but without a doubt, its the one that feels the best.

*****

Ada and I had a long conversation about death tonight. It started as we talked about our good friends – family really – who recently separated. Ada wanted to know why they were sad. Then she talked about their dog that died earlier this year, then our dog that died a year before that. She wanted to know what happened to them after they died, then what happened to her little brother, and why they all died. She wanted to know Did the veterinarian make my brother alive again?

It’s so hard to know how much to say and how to say it. I don’t want to scare her. I also know how harmful lies and adult expressions can be. Children take everything literally. When I was in my Masters program I took a workshop on how to help children understand death and their experience of grief and they made it very clear – don’t lie. Don’t tell them Grandpa is up in the sky because then if they get on an airplane, they might look for him. Be careful when talking about sickness or they’ll be terrified if they, or Mommy, or Daddy gets sick. Whatever you do, don’t tell them the person who died went to sleep or they’ll never want to close their eyes again.

So we talked about the fact that their bodies stopped working. We talked about their spirits going to a place where they are loved and safe. We talked about bodies either returning to the earth, or to the air. I was as honest, as age appropriate and as positive as I knew how to be, while still wondering if I was saying too much. She had lots of questions. Then she thought about it for a while and said I don’t like it when they are in two. I wasn’t sure what she meant.

Like Buster and my baby brother, when they are in two pieces.

Ah, you mean when their bodies and their spirits are apart?

Yes. I don’t like that. She smiled. But Squirt and TC (the cats) are alive. Ella (the other dog) is alive. I’m alive. You and Daddy are alive.

Yes we are sweetheart.

May we be so for a good long while. Especially you, my sweet, especially you.

[While I’m on creative sabbatical through the end of the year, I’m pulling some of the most popular posts from the archives and sharing them again. With October being a month to honor and bring awareness to pregnancy and infant loss, I’ve chosen some of the writing from the first year after Benjamin’s stillbirth. These posts bring tears to my eyes, because of course, three years later, I’ve forgotten what those early days were like. This is why I blogged through my grief – I wanted to capture the moments that vanish into the fog of memory. I wanted to always remember how devastating it was to lose my son.]

Time heals all wounds.

You’ll feel better in time.

Eventually the pain will lessen.

The first 3 months…the first 6 months…the first year is the hardest.

These are all true to a degree, though they offer thin comfort. They add to the illusion that every day is better than the last, that every month is easier than its predecessor, that once you’re through the worst of it, the worst of it is gone. Which might be true but likely is not. Grief is not linear. It could be any other shape – a circle, a spiral, a wave, a triangle even but it is not a straight line.

I seem to feel a shift every few months. There was a lightening at 3 months, then again at 6, and at 9 months, I was feeling able to move forward in my life in a different way. But 2 months ago, I was thrown back to the beginning, to the intensity of daily, sometimes hourly, waves washing over me, demanding that I sob or rage or both. The news of a close friend’s pregnancy – her third child – with the same timing as mine with Ben, brought to the surface feelings that needed to see the light.  It has not been easy on either of us – joy dampened by sadness, a friendship strained as we struggle to understand each other.

I have felt through this entire journey that while I have been mourning my son, other hidden pain has shown up to be healed. There were times I would sob and wonder why the pain seemed old. I would get angry and as I took myself away to hurl rocks at the earth, it was as though a part of my brain closed since childhood was opening. I can’t tell you what I was angry about and I don’t care. I know that it needed – and found – release.

When I heard the news of my friend’s pregnancy, I felt as though I’d been hurtled back into time, back to those first months. I found myself wondering why, even as I knew the answer – grief is not linear. The worst has passed, for now, but I am not sure what will pull me under again. As long as I stop fighting and let myself float, I trust that I will resurface, a little less sad, a little more whole.

[While I’m on creative sabbatical through the end of the year, I’m pulling some of the most popular posts from the archives and sharing them again. With October being a month to honor and bring awareness to pregnancy and infant loss, I’ve chosen some of the writing from the first year after Benjamin’s stillbirth. These posts bring tears to my eyes, because of course, three years later, I’ve forgotten what those early days were like. This is why I blogged through my grief – I wanted to capture the moments that vanish into the fog of memory. I wanted to always remember how devastating it was to lose my son.]

Ada and I have been having these lovely conversations before bed the last few nights. We talk about all sorts of things. She usually says something about the baby or her brother. Last night she wanted to be reminded of his name.

His name is Benjamin, sweetheart. Or you could call him Ben, or Benji.

She smiles. Where is he now Mama?

His body died my sweet, but his spirit, the part inside each of us that makes us who we are, his spirit is watching over us, taking care of us.

She smiles again. He’s in our hearts Mama.

Yes, he is. He’s in our hearts forever.

An angel. She knows this from the book the hospital gave us for her.

I nod. An angel. You can talk to him if you want to.

I don’t want to.

Okay sweetheart, you don’t have to.

Mama, what’s my brother’s name again?

Benjamin, I smile. Or you can call him Ben or Benji.

P.S. Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. If you’d like, you can light a candle at 7pm wherever you are in the world, to add to the wave of light honoring the sweet souls that could only touch life for a moment before leaving again.

[While I’m on creative sabbatical through the end of the year, I’m pulling some of the most popular posts from the archives and sharing them again. With October being a month to honor and bring awareness to pregnancy and infant loss, I’ve chosen some of the writing from the first year after Benjamin’s stillbirth. These posts bring tears to my eyes, because of course, three years later, I’ve forgotten what those early days were like. This is why I blogged through my grief – I wanted to capture the moments that vanish into the fog of memory. I wanted to always remember how devastating it was to lose my son. (Note: These posts are very raw)]

Benjamin died a month ago today. I am not ready to be bleeding again, but I am.

Last night as I was getting ready for bed, I found myself staring at another toilet bowl full of blood. My post-partum bleeding stopped just over a week ago. I didn’t know if it was too early for me to get my period. I didn’t know what was happening. My body trembling, images of those other nights flashing through my mind, I once again called my doctor’s exchange.

I explained my situation, asking her to excuse my tears. The operator put me through to Labor and Delivery at the hospital. I wondered if I’d get Sally, the Irish nurse who was there my second and third visits. The one who told me the IV was the size they would need for a blood transfusion and had me sign the papers for the emergency surgery, just in case. Another nurse answered, I explained my situation again. I’m sorry, let me get the doctor. I waited, trying to hold back the sobs.

The doctor came to the phone. It was the same one who saw me the night before I lost Benjamin. I really liked her. She was calm, reassuring. She gave me hope. I don’t know if you’ll remember me, I was in a month ago with heavy bleeding at 23 weeks. She remembered. Yes, you were Dr. C’s patient and he did the surgery. I’m so sorry. She must have asked about me. She was gone by the time I was wheeled into the operating room. Maybe she saw the flowers I sent.

I explained what was happening, asking if I needed to be concerned. She said no, they don’t call it a period until after 6 weeks because the hormones aren’t regulated until then but the bleeding wasn’t abnormal and could last four or five days. She shared the danger signs and reassured me that if I’d reopened my incision, I’d be in too much pain to move. I thanked her, hung up the phone and lost it.

I cried until I gagged, stopped, cried again and again and again. Images of my bleeding, the fear, the trips to the hospital, the letting go, the nurses, the doctors, the operating room, the news that he was gone, stillborn, no signs of life – all of it a disjointed movie in my mind’s eye. Steve held me as I sobbed that I missed him, missed Benjamin. I would have given anything to feel his little weight on my chest again, to see my son and trace the lines of his tiny limbs lightly with my finger, careful not to pull his paper thin skin. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. Then I went to bed and lay awake, waiting to see what the bleeding would do. Finally at 3am I took some ibuprofen to dull the cramps and fell asleep.

I am not ready to be bleeding again. I wanted some time for my body and my soul to stitch themselves back together before another toll was exacted. I am exhausted from grief and the sight of bright red, the feel of it. I keep having to remind myself there is no baby to be lost and that I will be fine.

Living life after Benjamin is by far the hardest thing I have ever done.

I miss you my son. I love you, always.

Mama