November 16, 2007

I'm 36 weeks today, and I am happy and miserable and nervous and excited and anxious and crabby all at the same time. Today I just wanted to hold my little baby so bad, I can't wait.

Brandon's in the dog house because he laughed (with a weird sort of triumph) when I told him I thought that I could be getting stretch marks under my bellybutton, my tummy is still free of stretch marks. Then, we're laying in bed and he says, "I can't believe you're getting so big." I'm like, jeez thanks, and he says, "Well you were just so skinny, who knew you could get so big." Yeah, seriously, he said this. His excuse is he's just proud his boy's getting big. It's irritating. I'm not reveling in my girth goddamnit, why should he get to?! I can't be too mad though, he acts as if the bigger I get, the more accomplished we are as parents. It's almost (but not quite) cute. I wonder if he were the one this gigantic if he would feel near so proud?

I look over the past year and compare it to last. So many changes have happened, and I just want to go back, back, back and I just keep moving forward. But not forward really; sideways, up, down (down, down, down). My hearts still lost somewhere back there. I wish my son were here with me this Thanksgiving, I feel like there is some alternate reality out there somewhere where he is. And we're all together as a family and happy like it was supposed to be. I can see it so clearly. I pretend to hold my son in my arms, it's so hard not having him here I like to pretend he is. And I know not everything would be better or perfect if he were here, but my heart would be so much bigger. The daily joys of a child? Oh, little children are so much fun. I could use some of that kind of life. That fun, some of those frustrations, and silly worries. Part of me wants to be oblivious to the harshness of this life, but part of me couldn't trade in the knowledge I have now, at how precious this life is. I just want my son.

Countdown: two weeks

I've really fallen apart recently. One of my favorite movies is Donnie Darko (morbid I know) but I've just felt like what happened to him is happening to me. The past, present, and future, are all unrealized alternate realities due to some weird blip in the space time continuum, and yet there is this countdown, to the second, that will lead to self destruction. But for the better?

I was describing how I felt at Thanksgiving last year to my therapist. Oh, how I longed for my Turkey, Myles. I would make jokes about him as a turkey in the oven keeping him in there to get good and cooked (he wanted to come early), and how he was going to be an 8 pound holiday turkey, and I'd sing him the Adam Sandler thanksgiving song and my daughter would laugh with glee and Myles would kick at the rucus.

I remember being so thankful and happy. I had made it through many weeks of bedrest, and on the Friday after Thanksgiving, I would be 37 weeks. TERM!!! A term pregnancy. My daughter was born at 35 weeks, so making it even further, that was such an accomplishment. I thought the worse had come and past. I was counting my chickens before they hatched (a really sad platitude if you think about it). As Elizabeth mcCracken put it, i thought he was a sure thing. I tempted fate, not aloud, but i was certainly cavalier.

Could I wait for 40 weeks?! NO! I wanted him then, that suited me. That friday, November 23rd. I couldn't wait. So I did everything I could to make the contractions that had accompanied me for those long weeks of bedrest work to finally get him HERE, in my arms, my holiday baby that I imagined falling in love with so many times.

It sounds so silly, and romantic isn't the word for it, but I had the weeks after his birth planned like you would have a romantic vacation planned. I didn't want to leave the bed for the first week (YES, AFTER 9 weeks of bed rest!!!). We were going to nurse and sleep and play and bond, attachment parenting heaven.

I was so thankful that week, but for the wrong things. I was thankful that bed rest was over. I was thankful to get up and cook and clean and impress, my first thanksgiving in my own home. I was thankful that my son would be here soon. I was not thankful that he was still in my womb. I wanted him out of my body. I was not thankful (never was thankful) for being pregnant. I was not thankful for that wonderful Thanksgiving day with him inside me, myself completely oblivious to the fact he had likely already passed. That night we watched the movie 'Knocked up' eerily when I first began to wonder when i last felt him.

Life in the fast lane, taking everything and everyone for granted. Thinking I deserved my son. Feeling so entitled and bitter for those weeks of bed rest, broken down into seconds ticking in my mind each day of worry and frustration and of complete vulnerability. It was, nevertheless, hopeful worry as in my mind it was completely assured he'd arrive safe and healthy. He was my light at the end of a long dark tunnel, my reward for what I perceived to be my own self sacrifice, when really it feels like I was punished for caprice and ungratefulness.

That clock ticking away then is as loud and clear today as it was this exact day last november. But everything is the opposite. There is no hope this time, only a deep sense of loss, shame, and failure. But the ticking is there, in the back of my mind, like the crocodile searching for Captain Hook.

Not yet morning in America

You will all have to forgive me, but I’m not celebrating yet. You see, he is President elect Obama. We have two months until he becomes President. And that scares the shit out of me. The negative campaign that capitalized on division and hatred has it’s true believers seething mad. Racist fascist right-wing fundamentalist assholes are waking up pissed off all over America and all over the world. So excuse me if I wait to cry and dance until inauguration day. I don’t think this President will make it. But that’s my life experience talking; calamity is around every corner in my world. I thought there was room in my heart for hope when it came to Obama, but I guess not. I’m just afraid this morning, and that makes me sad. No joy, not even in this.

Living liminally

The other day, I got an email from an editor wanting me to review a book on my blog (my semi-pseudonymous blog). They sent me a free copy, and Brandon was so proud of me. He knows I could be a book reviewer (generally speaking) in a heartbeat, but I was less excited because I knew exactly what this book was, and why they wanted ME to review it on MY blog. Of course, I had to get the book on Oct. 15th, Pregnancy and Infant loss awareness day (not Pregnancy loss, stillbirth, and infant loss you'll notice).

The book is called, "An exact replica of a figment of my imagination." It's about a woman's stillbirth and the subsequent pregnancy and birth of her 'rainbow baby' (the term us forsaken mums use to refer to a living child after a stillbirth).

So, you'd think I'd gobble it up like every study on preterm labor and stillbirth I've consumed in the last year. It's short, and beautifully bound in baby boy blue, a book the old me could've read it in a matter of hours. She was a voracious reader. But, instead, I read the first page and put it down. It hit too close to home, that day, this Fall, that dark humor. This woman is me. And, godsdamnit, I don't like me. I don't need to read me. I don't want to read me. I need to read about politics. I need to read about the weather. I live this book every day. How can I possibly read it?

So, my friend called me today, so excited, totally ignorant to the memoir that has been sitting on my table torturing me since I received it on Oct. 15th. She had to tell me they were reviewing a book on stillbirth on NPR (god(s) love her, lol). Here it is if you'd all like to hear the review (5min), it's good:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=96171637

So I don't know why I'm writing this blog. Mostly, because I've always liked the word liminal, and that's what this reviewer ended with, a ponderance on the word liminal. In the 11 months since I lost Myles, and really the months of bed rest before then, I didn't realize that I WAS fucking liminal. So I guess maybe now I've decided to finally pick up the baby blue book, this book about the full term stillbirth of a woman's beloved son, 'puddin', and just read the damn thing. Because as much as I know, I have lived, what's in it, if I can glean an insight from it, even a little one, maybe it's worth it. And I like the word liminal too.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness day

We Miss You Myles 11/24/07

Though I believe that stillbirth should be in the title, Oct. 15th is a huge day to raise awareness about stillbirth. Too often, it's glossed over, forgotten or overshadowed as it is in the title. I'm feeling very sad today. There are just a lot of reminders, and I'll tell you, this time last year, I did not take note of this day. I couldn't have. How could I have known? I also just received my copy of "An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination," which I plan on writing about here. Anyway, if anyone is reading it and wants to have a 'book club' with it where we can read and discuss, let me know in the comments. I started to read it, and I put it down until this evening, because it was too real. Especially the use of dark humor. I think I'm really going to like this book.

Anyway, earlier today, I decided to post something on my myspace page and on here, and looked for videos on pregnancy and infant loss. Needless to say, they were all religious and/or had country music. Now, I feel like an asshole for complaining about it, mostly because I'm ignorant as to even how to make a video such as these (and I would love to do one for Myles), let alone know how to post that video online. I just thought that I would find a video, like a nice secular PSA, to post to my friends. So, because I could find absolutely nothing, I've posted the best video I could find, CSPAN, 20 years ago, 1988. Enjoy:

We will be lighting a candle at 7pm in honor of Myles and all of the beautiful babies gone too soon.

Saying goodbye to complacency

They say there is no wrong way to grieve, we all do what we have to do to survive, but I can tell you that I was doing it wrong. I began using alcohol, "responsibly", at first, but had it spiral out of control over the many months, slowly breaking my little rules that I set up to convince myself drinking wasn't a problem. By summer I was abusing alcohol, period. I managed to shield Simone from the brunt of it for a long time, but in the end, I was not being a good parent. I think that was the hardest part, and still is the hardest part now that I look back. She deserved better.

I'm happy to say that I've said goobye to alcohol for awhile and I don't think I've felt better for a very very long time. I realized that all I was doing was trying to escape from the pain. Whether it was my alcohol, my ipod, or my computer; I did not want to feel what I was feeling. After hitting rock bottom and almost committing suicide (I had convinced myself I was a terrible mother and Simone would be better without me, 'crazy' I know), I checked myself into the Psych ward at the hospital. It was my daughter's 5th birthday, and i think it will always be the single best gift I've ever given her.

Being there, where everything is done for you, where there are no responsibilities except getting better; I had to figure out very quickly what to do with myself without my distractions. No phone, no computer, no housework, no work, no childcare. It was soooooo hard. It's like I had to start all over and really question everything. But I learned that I can cope with the pain, it is bearable . . . barely.

. . .

So, here I am. I clawed my way out of the bottom of the pit. For months and months, I thought it was a bottomless pit, but I was wrong. I've stood at the bottom, it's the worst place you can be. I can't say I wish I had never been there, however. I think that knowing there is a bottom, having stood in the darkness, seeing no light above me, but knowing I could sink no further, grounded me in a way I never expected. One thing I came to realize there is how alienated my dh and I have gotten from each other. I realized during my four days at the hospital, that I would not be able to heal if I did not address the problems in our lives. I was wonder woman for so many years, I didn't even realize that i was trying to be everything to everyone. I needed boundaries, space, and a room of my own. Hence, the separation.
We haven't been happy for a long time, and I realize now that I was putting too much pressure on Myles. In the first few months, I would always cry for the longest time about how he was my 'savior', oh how my life needed that baby. In the pit, and over the last few weeks, I've really thought about what I was saying. How could I have so much riding on him, this tiny little innocent baby? He wouldn't have been my savior, everything would not be miraculously perfect if he were here. I see this realization as a gift from him, he WAS perfect, will always be perfect, but nothing else in this life is. I am so grateful to have had him in my life, he has given me the most precious gift in this world. He has helped me to realize that I do not have this life figured out, that it is much tougher than I ever realized, and that I can make mistakes but be better for them if I work hard enough? I will be forever indebted to my son.
. . .

Brandon and I started counseling a few weeks ago, and it has already started to help us reconnect. He has had chronic back pain for many years, and the separation and counseling has helped both of us realize that what I was doing with alcohol he has been doing with painkillers. Now that he has had no painkillers for over a week, he realizes he was not just numbing his back pain.

It's almost like we took turns bottoming out. It's so hard seeing him standing at the bottom of that pit this week. One of us has to be here for my daughter, and it's hard to think that for awhile, we might have been meeting her needs, but we weren't really 'there' for her. We were just getting by. Today, I am 'there' for her, and for him, and that feels really good.It's been overwhelming to see him crying everyday, I've never seen him cry like this. For the first time ever, having him say to me, "I need you. Please, help me." My Brandon never asks for help. And I've been staying the night back at our house to take care of him. I see our separation as short term because I still love him and I do not want a divorce. I may even want more children together someday. But I am committed to it through November and maybe longer, and I fully realize that it may end in divorce, and that divorce does not necessarily mean failure. I think an unhappy marriage is a bigger failure than any divorce. Complacency is the root of all evil. Anyway, even after only a month, I can already thank our separation for a new level of awareness in our marriage and in our parenting. It seemed like forever that we were just trading off babysitting, going through the motions, and now we are being more concerted in our effort to heal, not just ourselves, but our family.
. . .

Last night, I asked DH, where would we be if Myles had lived? And we both, for the first time acknowledged together that WE might be no better. We would have our darling son, and there is no doubt he would've brought so much joy to our world, anyone who knows us knows we both looooove babies sooooo much. But we wouldn't have this opportunity to stand back from our lives and truly question everything, to be able to really ask, "am I happy?" and to be strong enough to answer, "no", and take that knowledge and have the courage to change our lives for the better. Moving out was the hardest thing I've done, it's still not easy today, but I've realized anything worth doing is not going to be easy.

So here I am, a day away from 10 months without my Myles, exactly a year from the day i began my preterm labor and the long weeks of bed rest that did not culminate happily as I was so certain they would. The countdown has begun, and I have no doubt the next few months will be hard. But I do not think they will be my hardest. I can look back now and clearly see the worst months behind me, and that gives me hope that no matter how many good and bad days await in my future, that they will never be as bad as they have been.

I will survive.

Sorry I've been gone

I can't say no news is good news. However, I have stopped drinking and have never had a more clear objective view of my life. It's terrifying and liberating.

Tonight, I was invited to go to a dinner for an organization that does work to improve maternal fetal health. The focus of the dinner was prematurity. Now, I had my daughter at 35 weeks, and I went into preterm labor with my son at 28 weeks, and proceeded to be on bed rest until I lost him for no reason at 37 weeks at Thanksgiving. He had always been wonderful, I'd always, always say, "I never worry about Myles, he's a fighter," because he kicked me soooo much. I thought I had made it when I lost him. All those weeks worrying, sacrificing, putting up with mom, mil rotating to come help and stay with us. I thought it was the worst thing in the world, bed rest, the fear of him coming early and being in the NICU.

So I had to listen to a panel of parents whose children were sick and in the NICU, pretty freaking terrifying. But I could not, just could not bear to hear there stories, as amazing as I know they would've been to me 18 months ago. They were talking about family support, and care packages, and all this stuff they gave them. They only made cursory mention of bereavement, none of the parents on the panel had lost an infant, and there book had one page on infant loss. But on that one page, they talked about helping plan funeral services. And the packages they got were beautiful. (Which makes me all the more made when I see that they would turn away bags from anyone for anything!!! ).

Nobody would say the word death. They'd just allude to it, and then they would cry about how close their children came. All I could think about was Myles. It was torture. And I couldn't help but being angry with them. I've said to myself many times, if Myles had come early, he'd likely be here. But then I look at the statistics for a 28 weeker, and they have a worst chance of neonatal death (5%) than anyone has risk of stillbirth (1%). So I can't say the statistics were in our favor if he had come on Sept. 23rd.

So I actually envied them. And while I was doing it, I was thinking how awful I was. I almost had to get up and leave. Then, they had speakers on about infant loss. I'm thankful for the work they do. But why wasn't anyone talking about stillbirth?! They were more afraid to utter it, than the word death. Sigh. Why is fetal death so taboo?!

I've been gone for awhile. It's good to be back. This fall has been hard, Myles seems to always be on my mind lately. I was walking in Walgreens, and I looked up, and I saw Halloween stuff!!! And my mind transported me instantly back, and for a millisecond I felt like it was a year ago. How can minutes seem like hours, but the time has gone by in a blink of an eye? I've lost almost a whole year now.

One thing I can remember with such utter happiness, is that my mom was down before Halloween and we decided to paint a pumpkin on my big pregnant belly. And it fills me with such sadness that he is not here with us to go trick or treating. But I'm so thankful that I thought of doing that then (I was on bed rest already, but with hope, as I'd made it through October). I'm so grateful I have those memories of his first halloween, when he was my little pumpkin.MISSing Myles and all our precious little ones this Fall