I find myself, at the end of the day, looking back to see if I cried, how much I cried. There hasn’t been a day where tears haven’t flooded my eyes and yet, sometimes, I can’t remember if that’s true. I often can’t remember what happened thirty seconds ago.

I am not ready for there to be a day when I don’t cry. I am not ready for my eyes to be dry when my heart is overflowing.

I love you Ben. I miss you.

Incision update: I feel minimally better today. Will be calling the doctor at 9am sharp tomorrow. I really think I just overdid it somehow.

*****

We went to a birthday party today and I spoke with several people who didn’t know what happened. The last they knew I was pregnant – and I still look it. It was hard to tell the story. It was good to tell the story.

One of the people I talked with is a photographer who works with Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, a national organization of volunteer photographers who go to hospitals to take pictures of dead babies and their families. I didn’t know anything about them, other than the fact that someone called a photographer to take pictures of Benjamin. At the time, being just out of surgery, suffering from grief, shock and blood loss, I didn’t want to be anywhere near a camera. Now I wish I’d made a different decision. I imagine the feeling of his weight on my chest will fade over time.

Oh you should have called me to take pictures, she said. If only I had known. I told her someone had been called but I didn’t know who. She mentioned a name and that this woman was the organizer for the local chapter. She does about one a week, she said. She what? What? She takes pictures of a dead baby about once a week in a town of 103,000 people? Then take into account the parents who don’t know, or refuse. Those numbers are incredible to me. More than fifty dead babies a year in one small city – from second trimester losses to babies who die sometime shortly after birth. There are thousands upon thousands of us grieving our children in this country and NO ONE TALKS ABOUT IT except those who’ve been through it, mostly in our own little community. Society leads us to believe that if you make it through the first trimester, you’re home free. It’s just a matter of getting through labor.

Even I, who knew several women who had babies die, thought pregnancy loss was an anomaly. Yet here I am and now I know. I grieve for all of us who have suffered this loss, many of whom have been through it more than once. I hold space in my heart for all of our healing. My doctor’s voice rings in my head, an impossible situation.

In all the blogs I have read, with all the mamas I have spoken to, I have yet to hear one say I wish I hadn’t gotten pregnant. We all wish there was a different ending to the story. We all desperately wanted our babies to live. Some of us have live children, some of us do not, but we are all mothers and fathers who love our babies dearly. Society doesn’t want us to talk about them, but we need to acknowledge their existence. So if, one day, you happen to ask a pregnant woman if this is her first, or a woman with a child how many she has, and she turns to you and says, I had another but he died, please don’t change the subject, or walk away. Take in the gift you’ve been given and give one in return. I’m so sorry, you must miss him terribly, or I’m so sorry, that must have been devastating, or even I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say but my heart aches for you. Whatever. Say something honest, say something genuine, just say something. And if you know someone whose baby died, when you see them for the first time afterward, acknowledge what they’ve been through. Ask how they’re doing or tell them you’ve been thinking of them. Don’t worry that you’ll make them feel bad – they already do. Talking about it won’t make it worse.

If you are reading this and are pregnant, remember that the odds are in favor of you having a healthy, beautiful baby. If you are a baby loss mama (or papa), my greatest wish for you is that a rainbow baby will come into your life when you are ready. And for all of us experiencing this life on this earth, I pray we find peace with whatever life hands us – that we grow through our challenges, heal from our losses and find joy wherever we can.

Amen.
Ubuntu.
Namaste.

Each day, we’re given many opportunities to open up or shut down. The most precious opportunity presents itself when we come to the place where we think we can’t handle whatever is happening. It’s too much. It’s gone too far. – Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart

Fear has wrapped itself around my heart again in the last 24 hours. I lived with it off and on for the five and a half months of my pregnancy and it’s been a frequent companion since then.

I am afraid because my incision hurts. I feel like I’ve been thrown back weeks in my healing process – the one thing that seemed to be going smoothly. Unfortunately the new glasses I’ve been given through which to see the world don’t include x-ray vision and it’s a holiday weekend. I called the doctor’s exchange. They tried to put me through to Labor and Delivery, to the doctor on call. It rang and rang and rang until I hung up, feeling too embarrassed to have a harried nurse answer or to try again.

I called the midwife who has been such a kind, gentle, helpful resource over the last months. She had me lie down and check my pain level in three different areas. It’s tender but it didn’t make me want to jump off the bed. She suggested rest, fluids and leaving a message for my doctor on his exchange.

The operator refused to take it. I didn’t have the strength to push it. So I am doing my best to take care of myself. It would be odd – I think – to have an infection show up so late in the healing process. I’m hoping it’s just inflamed from me stressing it and a few days of rest will put me back on track. Still, I will call the doctor first thing Tuesday. I want to feel confident getting on the plane Wednesday that I’m not going to have to rush to another hospital somewhere.

Talk about pushing me to my limit. I want to be well, want to feel healthy and strong. I want the physical reminders of this tragedy to fade into distant memory. I want to stop being scared.

Which means I need to sit and cry, hard, and soon. As I was putting Ada to bed I was repeatedly squeezed by the fear that she would be taken from me too. I want to throw up just thinking it. It terrifies me. I know that when that terror is present, it’s because I am not allowing myself to fully experience my grief. The dance between the two feels like more than I can handle some days.

So I’m going to state for the record, just in case anyone who has any control over these things is paying attention – I am doing the best I can to heal my body, my heart, my soul; to allow the grief and find the joy; to be loving and compassionate with myself and those I share my life with. I will make friends with my fear as best I know how. I will honor my grief. Just please, please take care of my little girl. Let her live a long, full life. Let me watch her grow up, skin her knee, fall in love. Let me hold her hand when I am old, loving her more than I ever believed possible. I don’t get to do that with my son, please let me have that with my girl.

My incision hurts today. More than it has in a couple of weeks. I don’t know if I’ve done something to strain it or if I’m just less numb.

*****

I feel as though Benjamin’s death has grabbed me by the ankles, turned me upside down and shaken everything loose. Then it put me down and gave me new glasses with which to see the world. At the edge of my vision everything is foggy but right now, right here, things are clear. I see old habits more quickly. I watch the ebb and flow of my emotions and while I experience them, I am less attached to them. When my mind starts to make noise, wanting me to cry harder, to feel sorry for myself, I am often able to laugh in the midst of my tears and tell it thank you but I don’t need you to make this worse.

This grief feels like an opportunity to grow, to reach outward and dive inward, to listen to my deepest knowing and live as close to my truth as I know how. I was talking to a friend about this recently – how grief gives us permission to say no without reasons and yes without reservations. For a while now I’ve been searching for what – who? – I want to be when I grow up. For who I am. And somehow that always seems to move toward what do I want to do with my life? which morphs into what do I want to do for a living? I’ve had many jobs and the beginnings of a couple of careers but nothing, other than being a mama, has been a full throttle yes. That’s what I’m looking for. That’s what I want. I think that’s where Benjamin’s brief life and death are taking me. There have been signs lately – through the pregnancy and now, afterward – pointing me in a direction but, because it is not one of those here-now moments, it’s not clear. I have a vague sense of direction but little clarity. I don’t want to distract myself from grief with this quest. I want to use grief to go deeper and uncover what has been hidden for too long. It’s unsettling, this place that I’m living in. I wish I had answers to questions. I wish for the big reveal in a dream, or a disembodied voice to speak, or an angel to suddenly appear in front of me. I want my own deus ex machina – although I want it long before the play is to end. I want better vision.

It looks like I’m stuck with these glasses for a while. This is the shape of my new life. So I breathe, I trust, I answer questions as best I can and I listen to my heart more quickly. For now, while surfing this ocean of tears, that is all I can do.