For a little while tonight, I thought I was a normal human being again.

I’m not.

I hurt a friend – and possibly scared a few others – in my messiness. My skin is as thin as Benjamin’s was when he lay dead on my chest. Touch me too hard and it might come off in your hands.

Next Friday October 15th is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

I’d never heard of it before, which seems another indication that while the reality of this impossible situation is acknowledged, we are to grieve as quietly, as privately as possible. I’m feeling a little angry today that there is so much silence when it comes to pregnancy loss. I understand that point of view. I’d like to change it. I’d like the grief of baby loss to be acceptable outside the baby lost community.

Even if you’ve never lost a child yourself, if anything about the baby loss experience touches your heart, I invite you to participate in celebrating the too-brief lives of those who have died. Next Friday light a candle, say a prayer, write a baby’s name in chalk on a sidewalk, in the sand at the beach, with pebbles at the park.  You can even take a picture and send it to the parents. Knowing our children are remembered by others is one of the greatest gifts a grieving parent can receive.

For more information about the day, please click here.

May your life never be touched by such grief and may  your heart forever be opened by knowing it exists for others.

My mom had hip replacement surgery yesterday. Any time anyone I love has major surgery, it makes me nervous. Fear and I have been such close acquaintances lately.  She’s doing well except she has ridiculously low blood pressure. I’ve chosen to avoid the Google search and simply  hold the vision of her fully recovered. No sense in feeding the fear.

Speaking of fear…as I often do these days…Ada and I were climbing over rocks at the beach today and ran into a big mama Black Widow spider. She saw us watching her and scurried under her rock but we got a decent glimpse. When we came home we looked at pictures and talked again about what to do if she sees another one. I also realized – after she ran away from me in Target the other day – that we need to start talking specifically about what to do if she gets lost. Fear just ate that one for lunch.

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I remember after my first miscarriage seeing pregnant women everywhere. It’s happening again. There was a woman at the beach today with her daughter who looked to be about two. Before Ben, I might have struck up a conversation, asked when she was due, how she was feeling, talked about our daughters. When the impulse came today I froze inside. Why do I want to talk to this woman? So I can tell her I was pregnant too but my baby died? Yes. That’s what I want. As my belly (slowly) shrinks, the evidence of Ben’s life fades. I don’t want him to go. I don’t want him to be the invisible child he is. There’s a part of me that wants to scream at these women, My baby died and yours could too. But yours probably won’t. Because you’re not me. Because the odds are in your favor. Because even though 2000  babies are lost in the US every day through miscarriage, pregnancy and infant loss, the odds are still in your favor. And there’s a little part of me – such a tiny part – that hates you for that.

My grief is shifting again. There are times when I feel like I’m crumbling still. At other times there is a vagueness that is new. Putting Ada to sleep tonight I realized it was Thursday and I had to think for a minute about how many weeks I would have been. (Thirty-three).

A couple of times today I felt grief touch me gently, like I was standing waist-deep in water. The wave would knock me back, just a little. Not enough to lose my footing, but enough for me to pause and realize oh, that was grief, and there it goes…

It’s odd. Part of me thinks that I’m doing really well – which in certain ways, I am – then I realize how many areas of my life are not functioning the way they used to. I can’t seem to return a phone call or write a thank you note. My sisters-in-law have left messages, sent gifts and in the moment of listening to the message or receiving the gift I am touched and want to connect. Then another day goes by and I’ve let it slip. I hardly speak to my family – my parents, my brother. The phone still weighs a thousand pounds. Ada and I have a hard enough time getting through the day right now without having my attention further diverted by a conversation she wants no part of.

So, I will apologize in person, but if anyone reading this is wondering why I haven’t called, haven’t written…I’m sorry. Please don’t take it personally. I keep thinking the fog is lifting – maybe it is thinning some – but really, I’m so used to it I don’t see it anymore. One foot in front of the other is all I can do.

Right now, my feet are going to take me to the couch, where I will watch a movie – something I’ve been wanting to find time to do for weeks. I don’t often give myself permission to simply relax. I need want it tonight.

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On a side note, this is one of the most beautiful pieces I’ve ever read on baby loss. Read it. Please. Whether you know the pain intimately or not. (Thanks Leigh)