Contradiction

Grieving confuses me.  It makes me contradict myself.  I want to be happy and me again, but I don't want to be the me without her.  I don't want to dwell on my loss because it's so easy to marinate in it, but I don't want to move on.  Her images haunt me, but as much as it hurts, I don't want them to leave.  And though I ache, I don't want to stop thinking about her.  Grieving is strange. 

Evolution

I was walking across the street from the bus stop when I realized loss evolves.  The anger I once had and the way I rationalized last year's events no longer exist.  It isn't about what happened to me any more.

In the beginning, I carried the feeling of loss and of being victimized.  And I tried to understand why I lost my daughter.  I justified it, saying it had to happen to make me a better mother, which sounds ridiculous now.  This event appropriated the importance of things by showing what is not worth sacrificing.  Looking back on this, I feel guilty.

I only feel loss now.  I walk around empty and deflated without trying to stamp a reason for it.  No matter why or how, she is gone.  I frequently wonder if I made the right decision.  It's something that happens when I catch the date and calculate how old she would be.  There is no right answer when it comes to TFMR.  It's a decision made for the welfare of your child, but it does not have defined wrong/right boundaries.  It's your best choice made from the worst circumstance and you mourn your decision and you grieve for your loss because you lost your baby.

I used to think having another baby would help relieve my pain and though I still believe it will help, it will not make up for my loss.  I have been TTC since the return of my cycle and a part of me gets sad thinking about conceiving a healthy baby because that child will have the life my daughter deserved.  She will never experience a life with her parents.  She will never learn what sounds or tastes make her smile.  She'll never know what it's like to wait on Christmas day for presents or what snow feels like when it falls on her face.  And so TTC is a painful process because as much as I want another baby, I think about the little person who should be with me now waiting impatiently for a brother or sister.

I try to keep these feelings from peaking, but it's difficult.  I can only keep my momentum forward, hoping to maneuver physically what cannot be done emotionally.        

Mother's Day

It is difficult and it remains so.  I have good days and bad.  My sleep is still poor.  It has affected my menstrual cycle and my GI functions are weak.  But I wake up every day and I kiss my baby's little head.  Her toes.  And I lean over and kiss her little tin box.  I talk to her.  Every day I tell her how much I love her.

The 5 Stages of Grief

In my experience, these stages aren't always one directional.  You can be pinballed between two, move to the third stage only to return to the second.  Grief does not abide by order or timetables.  

Helping Hands

I don't know if I mentioned it before, but I follow my basal body temperature (BBT) throughout my cycle to pinpoint ovulation.  I did the same when conceiving Nahuatl and it's a method I have confidence in.  There are many online and phone applications that help log and store waking temperatures to use as future predictions for when ovulation may occur again.  Because my temperatures are post pregnancy loss, I share my monthly cycles with communities so that others can compare and see how it may affect BBT in the beginning and later on. When I was waiting for my menses to return, I didn't know what to expect.  But I noticed my temperatures were uncharacteristic of past measurements and I wished I had examples to confirm what I was experiencing was normal. So I hope my early charts can give insight to others.

But now that my hormones have balanced, I still share my cycles so that others can see how long I've been TTC.  It's my way of providing statistics to demonstrate the time it may take someone who lost a baby to conceive again.  There are many factors to consider.  We're dealing with hormone fluctuations, grief, and sometimes depression.  All of which affect fertility.  So I share my cycles to indicate that it can take a while.   But I also share for the support I can't find elsewhere, especially since I no longer see a therapist. And I needed a lot of it this month.

I had been crying for days at the start of this cycle and could barely get up from the couch where I brought all my blankets and a pillow to.  My husband can only provide so much assurance because he experienced my pregnancy through me.  He didn't establish a bond with Nahuatl like I did.  He didn't feel her kicks or her presence that came from physical ailments and a protruding belly.  My husband didn't feel or see how different it was once she was gone.  So when sharing my chart, I asked for positive comments from others. And I received them.  They didn't try to console me, which is what I think many people try to do without realizing there are no direct words that can accomplish this. Instead, many women left notes letting me know they were traveling the same journey. And others who haven't experienced the same loss were still there saying they were glad I was a part of their community and they gave me warm wishes. One woman who lost one of her twins 2 years ago said her daughter showed her how precious it is to live. And even though my daughter's life has made it so that I sometimes want to join her, it touched me that a woman would share herself and her daughter like that.

If it weren't for the support of others, I don't know where I would be right now.  I don't know why, but it's a lonely place to lose a child.  The lack of understanding and empathy from others angers me, though I can't explain why.  The loss festers and overwhelms without helping hands and I sometimes feel like I'm drowning.  It's harder because I can't identify what I'm feeling or discern why I respond the way I do.  And it's difficult finding others that can help or are willing.  But I've noticed that the support exists. Not always where you expect it.  But it's there.  And it helps pull you out of the abyss.  

December and Dealing with the Holidays

I started this entry so long ago, but didn't have the energy at the time to finish or post it.  I have never experienced a loss like this before.  It affects my commitment and intention.  Writing often feels like a task and I have little volition to push forward.  I recognize how much I've given up, but today's goal is to get through one post no matter how unfinished it is ...

As expected, December was a very difficult time for me.  I love Christmas, but looked forward to it more when I found out I was pregnant.  A tree with baby gifts underneath.  A cozy family spending a happy day watching holiday films.  That is what I imagined when my doctor confirmed my due date. A December baby having a December baby, I was thrilled.  But instead, we were a sad family reminded of our loss at every turn.  That is why this year's holidays weren't festive and made my own birthday heartbreaking.  Friends and family only added to it.

They littered my mailbox with holiday cards of their children.  The older children were more favorable compared to the photos of toddlers and babies I received.  The latter brought me to hysterics, but both made me angry because I couldn't understand why friends and family would think it was appropriate to give a grieving mother difficult reminders so near her own baby's birthday and so close to her loss. Their insensitivity dismissed my daughter, which hurt and offended me.  But it also made me feel uncared for.

As the days from December accumulated and put more space between it and me, I noticed I was experiencing more better days than none.  I could speak to my daughter without overwhelming sadness and I started believing she would return to me.  Renewed confidence and optimism didn't help me heal, but it enabled me to look beyond the missing piece lost in August.   My bad days revolved around the end of my cycle when my body confirmed I wasn't pregnant, but I quickly recovered finding hope in my next cycle.  I thought her soul would somehow come home to me.

This cycle has been different though and I don't know why.  It has been almost a year since conceiving Nahuatl and it has been almost 6 cycles since trying to conceive another baby. I'm sure the weight of both are contributing to how hopeless and lost I feel today, though I can't assert that either reason yielded my relapse.  Right now I need to hear positive comments from mothers who lost their children late in pregnancy.  I really need to hear words that will support me.

Cocoon

These last few months I've had very little desire to write or talk to anyone, which is why I haven't posted anything in a while.  Even though the isolation exacerbates my loneliness and the pain I've accumulated by going through my loss alone, living inside a cocoon is safer than the alternative. When I talk to people, it seems as if no one can say anything right or what they say is timed poorly.  I end up getting offended or become so overwhelmed with sadness and grief I can't function. And with my daughter's due date approaching combined with not having conceived yet, I can't return to certain relationships or every day life as if my experiences and losses didn't happen or matter.

So right now I'm not a good friend, wife, or daughter.  And I don't want to be.  I am so tired of being accommodating that I've given up on things that don't center on what I am enduring.  My therapist told me it's normal to feel like that and it was good to hear someone say it.  In fact, I got a lot out of this morning's session compared to previous ones because it was very reassuring to have someone tell me my reactions and emotions are expected.  Having someone understand why I would be upset over specific and general situations was a relief because someone finally understood why losing a child is tragic in nature and devastating to the mother.  Most of the people in my life have treated my daughter and I with very little care or concern and it hurts.  But I'm also angry, which has shaped how I see people.  It's made me step back from relationships.

My therapist said my loss is still too new and that things are going to be difficult, especially with it being December.  But that it's okay.  It's okay that I haven't moved on.  It's okay that I'm focusing on me.  It's okay that I have new perspectives and expectations of people.  It's okay.