Sleep, prayer and other elusive things

I think you know you've had an emotionally draining week when you finally rest your head on a Friday night, are instantly joined by your cat who proceeds to drool all over herself, your arm and your pillow; and instead of freaking out and getting up to wash your arm and change your pillowcase, you mutter a quiet expletive and nod off to sleep.

I guess it's because there was comfort in being sandwiched between my beloved and Lucy, even though one was snoring and the other drooling.

Oddly enough, when I woke up in the middle of the night I also found comfort in prayer. My prayers are still kind of confused and anguished since I'm still in the process of redefining my relationship with God (we're perfect candidates for couples counseling at the moment) but in that foggy, half awake, dreamy state I managed to put a few coherent thoughts together and shoot them up to heaven before falling back to sleep.

I really hope he was listening. I've been seriously doubting that lately. I know that when you pray for something and you don't get it, theoretically that means that God heard you but had other plans. That makes perfect sense, of course, but unfortunately it's much easier to feel abandoned and neglected instead.

I'm trying to get over that. I'm trying to remember all the prayers that DID get answered. And there are a lot of them. I'm married to one of them, for instance.

But it's still so hard to know that my prayers couldn't save my son. And five months later they couldn't save someone else's either. That's a bitter pill to swallow.

I know people have to die and I know some lives are only meant to be brief, but I still think it's unreasonably cruel to take a baby who is so loved and so wanted just hours after he takes his first breath. I don't believe God is cruel though, and that's why I'm so utterly confused by this. How can a benign, loving entity exact so much cruelty? It doesn't make any sense at all.

Clearly I'm missing something.

I know I should probably go talk to my Priest, but I'm kind of embarrassed by my current faith crisis. I've never had one before and I feel weak and ashamed that I do now. I can't bear the thought of going in and telling him that I've been mad at God for almost 6 months. I'm sure he'd understand and I'm sure he's heard that many times before (I can't be the only person to be shaken by life's cruelty) but I just don't have the courage to do it right now.

I realize the alternative is to stay mired in this confusing spiritual bog, but I've had to use my strength and courage for other things since Thomas died and I'm all tapped out.

One day, if God and I can't sort this on our own, I guess I will take us into couples counseling. But until then I'll just continue to hope that my middle of the night prayers will be answered and that one day I'll have faith in them again.

Well it WAS funny

I was poking through a brochure I picked up yesterday while we were at the cemetery and something kind of funny caught my eye. The brochure is put out by the Bereaved Families of Ontario and under the heading What is the infant loss program? they explain what the organization is all about. Apparently they are "an association of families who have lost a child through death."

Forgive me for finding this kind of funny and forgive me for asking, but exactly what other way do you lose a child? Why couldn't they have just come out and said, "We are an organization of families who had children that died."

I didn't lose Thomas. I know exactly where he is. In fact, he's the easiest child I know to keep track of.

Pardon my morbid humour, but I hate pussy-footing around death. Saying you've lost someone doesn't make never seeing that person again any easier. It's not like you're going to find that person again - at least not in this life.

I know I'm a huge hypocrite because I'm SURE somewhere in this blog I've talking about losing my son. And I'm almost certain I'll do it again, but for some reason I just find that an annoying thing to say today. I started off thinking it was funny and now I'm just irritated.

Welcome to my brain. Don't mind the mess, I haven't cleaned in ages.

Adding Peanut

We had hard decisions to make yesterday. Not nearly as difficult as the decision we had to make after Thomas was born of course, but difficult nonetheless. I wanted the wording to be perfect - I wanted everything as perfect as I could possibly make it for my little boy. Thomas' stone will last, so the literature says, for a minimum of 500 years and I want people 500 years from now to know how special that baby was to us and to our world. Unfortunately there's only a limited amount of space allowed and so choosing those words carefully is critical.

The thing is, my heart is so full of love for him that it felt close to impossible to decide just what to say in the few words we were able to have. I need volumes, not one 24" stone. It's just not enough space to say what an impact he had on my life, how blessed I was to know him for those 9 beautiful months and how much my heart aches without him. I feel like I need to stand on his grave night and day so that I can tell passersby all about my little Peanut because a stone just won't do him justice, no matter how hard we try.

But of course, I can't stand in the cemetery on his grave for the rest of my life. I have a life outside the gates of the beautiful green place where my baby lies. He will be with me in my heart for my entire life, but what I saw and touched, sweet little thing that he was, is gone. So instead I carry him with me, just like I did for 9 months.

In the end I was happy with what we chose, with one exception. I wanted to add "Peanut" to the very last line, but my beloved didn't. He said he didn't want him to be known as Peanut for all eternity. But I knew him as Peanut for longer than I knew him as Thomas and I really wanted that on his stone. My beloved gave him the name after my first ultrasound at 7 weeks 2 days because he thought that's what our tiny little Thomas looked like in the grainy image we were given - a peanut. And the name stuck. I only started calling him Thomas in late January when an ultrasound finally confirmed that he was, in fact, a boy.

I used to send my beloved e-mail updates at work every week. I subscribed to a service that sent me development updates so I'd pass them along to my beloved along with the heading This week in Peanutville or sometimes just Peanut!. I was always so excited to tell him how much our Peanut had grown in the last week and what new things he was now experiencing or doing. I got so used to calling him Peanut that calling him Thomas felt strange at first. I missed my Peanut.

I miss him still.

Anyway, this morning I talked to my beloved and asked again if we could include Peanut on the stone. I stated my case in a way I didn't feel free to in the tiny cemetery office with the strangely grumpy and not particularly patient clerk looking on.

He agreed, and so the last line of his stone will read: We will always love you Peanut, which now feels right. I'd need a million stones to tell his story properly, but I'm content. We did our best.

The stone

I'm worn out.

We chose Thomas' stone this morning. It's a beautiful, deep, reddish-pink granite and it will have a small angel cuddling with a lamb engraved in the bottom left corner. Before he was born my Mom bought Thomas a soft little praying lamb that played "Jesus Loves Me". It was a shower gift, actually. I used to wind it up and hold it against my belly so Thomas could hear it. I remember my Mom singing that little hymn to me when I was small, and I hoped hearing it would help Thomas find comfort in its familiar tune after he was born if he was ever scared or sad.

Now it's me finding comfort in a small engraved lamb and angel that will be on his grave marker.

I hate every single second of this.

I came home and cried. I cried until I thought my head was going to explode and the wall I was leaning it against was stained with mascara and tears. A very good friend told me she knew Thomas was with me today, so I held out my hand and told him to take it.

It should be the other way around. I should be looking after HIM - wiping HIS tears and soothing HIS cries. But instead I'm calling on him for strength to help me get through this life without him.

This is just so wrong. I feel like I'll be shaking my head in anguished awe for the rest of my life.

PLAYING IN GOD'S GARDEN
AND SLEEPING IN THE ARMS OF THE ANGELS.

THOMAS JOSEPH Z____
MARCH 9 - MARCH 10 2005
PRECIOUS SON OF S____ AND K______

WE WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU.

Twelve hours later...

So apparently I'm not 16 anymore. Or even 26. As it turns out I can't be awake for close to three hours in the middle of the night and be a functioning, coherent adult during the daylight hours that follow. Especially not when I finally fall back to sleep at 7:30am, only to be roused by a phone call from my dear sibling a half hour later.

In short, I've been in a fog all day. I WANT to do things but instead I just sit and stare. At the computer. At the television. Out the window. Whatever. If it can be stared at, I've stared at it today.

I think my biggest accomplishment was putting out the wasp trap to combat the alarmingly increasing numbers of wasps and bees floating about our back deck. I'm bothered by the idea of purposely trapping and drowning something, but I'm more bothered by the idea of someone getting stung. It's a dog eat dog world. Or a girl kill wasp world, as it were.

Oh my. I don't remember the last time I was this tired.

Oh no, wait. Yes it do. And I don't feel like thinking about that right now so I'm opting not to. My brain is so addled by fatigue I can trick it into not thinking today. I'm magic. Today, anyway.

The people next door had their concrete driveway poured today and it's very lovely, all smooth and milk chocolate coloured. And all I can think of is that since they've widened it right to the property line, in the winter they'll be dumping their now massive driveway's snow on our lawn instead of the little patch of grass that was theirs but is now concrete. I know it's a selfish thought, but I'm psychotically protective of our grass (not that you'd know it from our weed infested boulevard which suffered due to a crappy sprinkler which I finally replaced a few weeks ago). I'm glad they're up for neighbourhood beautification, but I just hope it doesn't come at the cost of my tiny patch of green.

This is a riveting entry.

Anyway, I really just wanted to say that...

You know? I don't even know what it is I want to say, so I'll just say goodbye - and hope that I sleep through the night tonight. We're going to arrange for Thomas' stone tomorrow and it'll be extremely dangerous for me to go in this current befuddled, loopy and ever so slightly crazy state of mind.

Hopefully Thomas will tell the angels to keep Lucy off my bed, or at least out of punching range, tonight so I can sleep in peace.

In the still of the night

It's 4:00am and I can't sleep. I WAS asleep but I woke up fast and completely when I punched Lucy (my sweet little feline) in the head. It was an accident - I was rearranging my pillows and suddenly there she was. I'm sure she took my stirring as a sign that I wanted to cuddle. Next to eating and chasing string around the house, Lucy LIVES to cuddle.

Anyway, I didn't see her but I certainly felt her after the punch. I got up to check on her (and go to the bathroom, since I was up anyway) and now I'm wiiiiiiide awake. I think the screwed up toilet roll is what did me in. It was a new roll and it took a LOT of concentration to find the end and get it to roll properly.

Lucy's just fine, by the way. Purring within minutes of impact and now curled up in the hall. A fuzzy meatloaf.

And here I am. Too awake to sleep.

It's quite interesting what goes through your mind in the middle of the night when you can't sleep because you've just punched your cat in the head. What's particularly interesting about it tonight is almost nothing seems to be going through my mind. I expected a bunch of deep, dark, middle-of-the-night scary thoughts when I first realized I was too awake to sleep, but...nuthin'.

Maybe that's a good thing. I have enough deep, dark thoughts, so I guess I'll just enjoy this 4:00am void.

I wish someone else was up to enjoy it with me though, but my beloved is asleep - as is everyone else I know who hasn't sucker-punched a cat tonight. So I guess it's just me and my empty head. And meatloaf.

A quick note and a thank you...

I just want to thank everyone who has ever made a comment here (with the exception of the spammers, of course) and I want you all to know that I read and cherish every single one. I'm constantly in awe of the support I have gotten and continue to get, and you need to know how much it means to me and how thankful I am. If I lived a thousand years I couldn't thank my family and friends enough for all their support and prayers.

I also wanted you to know that my beloved is coming with me to the cemetery later this week. I was going to go by myself tomorrow, but we've had a change of plans. He didn't know how much I wanted him there because I'd never told him, and once I did he said he'd come. It's a big thing for him - he's not a cemetery sort of person, and this is, I'm sure, the hardest visit he'll ever have to make. I love him more and more every day for reasons just like this.

Anyway, I know some of you mentioned you'd be thinking of me tomorrow and I wanted you to know that we'll be going later in the week and I'll have my beloved with me so it will be much easier to bear.

But thank you for the flurry of comments and e-mails, and the support you so willingly offered yet again.

I love you guys. Truly, I do.

My new little friend

I made friends with a little baby at Mass today. She's about three months old, I think. I'm not sure why, but today I was kind of hoping this particular family would sit in front of me so I could see the baby. I know it's crazy - particularly after my experience last Sunday at the grocery store (we're still trying to get through all that yogurt) - but I just wanted to see her. I wanted to be close to a baby today.

She started to fuss mid-way through the Mass so her Mom picked her up out of her carrier. We were almost eye level then, and that's when the smiling began. Either I'm ridiculously funny looking, or she knows something I don't, because she just kept laughing and smiling at me. I started to wonder if she really DID know something I don't. I've heard - and believe - that children have a sense that we, as adults, have long since lost. I believe they can see what we can't and have memories of heaven that we've forgotten we ever knew.

I'd like to think that she was smiling because she knew we're going to be blessed by another little one some day.

I realize it's far more plausible that she was smiling because that's what babies do, but I'm happier believing that she has a direct link to the heavens and knows that there's a wonderful blessing in store for us. Maybe she and Thomas even crossed paths and one of her smiles was meant as a gift from him to me. I'd like to think that too.

I'm probably insane for thinking, let alone believing, any of this, but it's a rare day that a baby brings me as much comfort as that little girl did today, so I'm opting to believe that anything is possible and that she did have a message from heaven that, today, I was finally receptive enough to hear.

And that's FINAL

I made an appointment with the cemetery to arrange for Thomas' grave marker today. I'm going on Monday morning, God help me. I know it's been almost 6 months, but it's a very hard thing to do. Putting the words down on a stone makes it very, very real. And very, very final.

I also wanted to wait until I was pretty sure I could do it without crying in front of strangers. I have to actually go into the cemetery and pass his grave to get to the office, so I needed to make sure I could do all that AND talk to the staff about his stone. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

I hate that I have to, I hate that I have to, I hate that I have to.

I just can't bear to have him lying in an unmarked grave any longer. That's now bothering me more than having to make the arrangements, so I know it's time. He's buried with my Grandparents (who have a stone of their own) so I know he's not alone, but no one knows he's there. No one passing by has any way to know that there's a sweet little soul tucked in there with his Great Grandparents, and that thought kills me. I want the world to know that a beautiful, beautiful boy named Thomas once lived and was loved so much by his Mommy and Daddy.

And once I've made the arrangements, that's all I can do for my sweet baby boy. It's the very last thing I can do as his Mother.

It's the little things

Sometimes the smallest things help you get through a day. One tiny little victory is all it takes to make the pendulum swing in your favour.

Today it was lip gloss.

I have a tiny tub of The Body Shop "Born Lippy" raspberry lip gloss that I bought a few months ago. It was yet another purchase designed to help me drown my sorrows in something other than a vat of chocolate. I just love The Body Shop lip gloss. It makes me feel young and happy even though I'm old and sad. Remarkably so.

Anyway, it's easy to get the gloss out of the little tub when it's full to the top, but the more you use it, the harder it is to scoop it out on the tip of your finger without gobs of it going under your fingernail. This might not be a problem for some people, but I hate having gunk of any kind under my fingernails. A few weeks ago I reached the point of under the fingernail gunk and it's been bothering me ever since.

But yesterday something magical happened; I sheared off a fingernail doing the laundry and reduced that nail to a mere shadow of its former self. It's down to the quick, as my Mom would say. As a result, I now have the perfect finger for scooping out lip gloss - there's no nail for any of the gunk to get under.

Victory is mine. This day has officially been saved.

My heart still aches with sorrow at every beat, but I can scoop out my Born Lippy lip gloss without suffering from under nail gunk.

Sometimes they're very, very little victories, but I'll take every single one.

TKO

Yesterday was kind of a hard day. I guess it's because I was still reeling from the news of another lost soul and hurting so much for the poor parents who I know, like us, have a lifetime of sorrow facing them now. I was also hurting for my beloved and me, and remembering too much...

Going to the Mass where they do baptisms didn't help at all. I didn't mean to, but I'd slept in and had no choice. In retrospect maybe I shouldn't have gone at all, but I live in hope that one day I'll be sitting in church and peace and complete understanding will hit me as a ray of light envelopes me and angels sing.

It didn't happen yesterday. I cried almost all the way home instead.

My beloved had lunch waiting for me, as well as a big hug that cheered me up. We ate and went out for the afternoon. We eventually ended up at the grocery store where I bumped into a friend from high school that I haven't seen in years and years. She had her 11 month old daughter with her. Her other 11 month old daughter was at home with her husband. Twins. She has two babies. Two sweet little girls. Two.

I don't know why God insists on kicking me when I'm down, but I'm getting really good at pretending my heart hasn't stopped and my stomach hasn't dropped to the floor. We chatted about her babies and I smiled and cooed at the little one in her cart while I gripped my own empty cart with hands of steel. I kept willing her to ask me if we had any children. I wanted so desperately to tell her about my beautiful son, but she never asked. I just couldn't think of a way to bring up my dead baby standing in the cheese section at Loblaws, so I didn't. And then I felt guilty - like I'd somehow betrayed him. He's not a secret, he's my child for God's sake! How can I not talk about him? How can I not bring him up? What's wrong with me??

After we parted I walked around the store in a fog, randomly grabbing this and that. As a result we have way more cheese and yogurt than we need. And hot dogs too.

Why does it always happen at the grocery store? The secret ambushes and heart crushing sightings, I mean. I guess the bigger question is when will it all stop feeling like a kick in the gut? When will life stop beating the shit out of me?

Mountains to climb

I found out last night that another Mother from my chat board has lost her son. Her little boy lived just one day longer than mine. From what I understand there was some hope, which I can only imagine made his few days here a nightmarish roller coaster ride for his Mommy and Daddy. It looked like he would survive with the help of surgery to repair his tiny heart, but in the end they had to make the same agonizing decision we did. They too held their tiny son as he died.

I hoped I'd never hear about another child lost like this. Not because I can't handle hearing about it, but because I never wanted anyone to have to go through the unbearable pain my beloved and I have. It's unfathomable that someone as kind as S is starting out on the long journey I did 5 months ago. It's all uphill and it's a miserable, long, lonely road to walk.

But there's no choice but to take those first heavy, slow steps.

I remember it so well. Lost in a whirlwind of sorrow, physical pain and weakness, praying desperately for it all to be some horrible bad dream. Those first steps were hard, but I needed to take them so they could carry me to where I am now - a place with, finally, a small amount of peace. I know there are still mountains of sorrow to climb, but at least there are now also small peaceful valleys in which to rest.

Oh S, I'm so sorry. I'm just so, so sorry.

It's crazy in there...

Okay, so last night I woke up in terror because I was dreaming I was being attacked by a wolf. The night before that I was Jessica Simpson's new maid/personal assistant.

What is going ON in my head at night?

I didn't really mind being Jessica Simpson's maid/personal assistant, but I didn't much like her mother, who was bossy and kind of nasty to the help. Plus I don't know WHO chose the colours for her kitchen, but I blame the bright fuschia, orange and yellow for confusing me and making me appear rather inept. I think I did manage to make her a grilled cheese sandwich though. Or maybe it was microwave popcorn. I can't remember.

I think I've had exactly two dreams about Thomas since he died. Once the morning after we got home from the hospital and once not that long ago. The first dream was horrible and I woke up crying for my beloved. I'd dreamt that Thomas had died, and woke up to find out, to my horror, that I was actually living that nightmare. It was real.

The second dream was of my beloved and I tickling Thomas on our bed. I woke up very happy from that one, even though I knew it was never going to come true.

So in 5 months there have been just two dreams about Thomas. I have no idea why my subconscious mind is opting to weave fantastical tales about me and a rag-tag band of celebrities as opposed to letting me deal quietly and logically with losing our baby. Unless this IS my mind's way of helping me cope. Maybe my brain wants a rest from the sorrow at night because it's been occupied with thoughts of Thomas all day. It decides to play at night - maybe that's it. Only I don't know why it was playing with wolves last night.

Anyway, there's no shortage of weird and amusing tales for me to tell my beloved so whatever's going on in my head at night, at least it's never dull and makes for excellent dinner conversation.

5 months

I can't believe Thomas would have been 5 months old today. In so many ways it seem like just yesterday that we were nervously timing those early, exciting contractions while I lay on the couch in the family room. When I look back it's like those are two people I barely recognize now. Silly kids, they didn't have a clue.

Unfortunately we know better now.

Ah, my poor sweet baby I wish with all my heart and soul that you were here. I had such plans - such dreams. We both did.

But you know what? We're doing okay. We're not those naively excited parents-to-be anymore, but what we are is two people who are in the middle of weathering life's greatest storm and who are still clinging to each other with a sometimes startling ferocity. I've read about couples who are torn apart by lesser things or who don't stand the test of a grief like ours, but we're okay. We're more than okay, actually.

My beloved has become a part of me in a way I can't explain. It's like I don't know where I end and he begins.

I miss Thomas with every fibre of my being, but when I curl up next to my beloved at night I know I'm going to make it. I can bear the loss as long as I can feel him breathing softly behind me as I drift off to sleep, and as long as I can reach out and touch him when a bad dream wakes me.

And when I wake up in the night being pulled close, I know he needs me too.

It's all in my head

I just finished cutting and trimming the lawn, hosing out the garage and watering the front garden. There's nothing quite as satisfying as being dirty and hot from working hard. For one thing, you can justify that piece of chocolate you ate after breakfast.

Maybe tonight I'll dream about lush green landscaping or running through meadows of sweet summer flowers instead of dreaming of being told I have tuberculosis and have a 10% chance of survival. Actually 7% if you ask my Dad who, in my dream, thought honesty was better than the sugar coating policy my Mom had adopted. Although I'm not sure rounding up to 10 is all that sweet.

Does anyone even die from tuberculosis anymore? I mean in Canada? I mean your average, suburban, almost-middle-aged housewife - does she die from tuberculosis in 2005? I'm not worried (I don't even have a cough), I'm just asking.

I guess I'm just preoccupied with my body and what it has and hasn't done and will and won't seem to do. I just hope one day it decides it will get and stay pregnant.

I've been thinking a lot about having a little girl lately. I would be equally thrilled to have another little boy (since I know we make very, very cute little boys) but I can't get the idea of a baby girl out of my head for some reason. We even have a name for her. It came to me a few weeks after Thomas died, and even my beloved liked it (and the reason why I chose it).

Right now she's just a dream, but maybe one day she'll come true. Or he'll come true. Either way we'll be blissfully happy. And maybe then I'll stop dreaming of tuberculosis, euthanasia, and being a paraplegic with Barbara Streisand.

As always, time will tell.

Church and other accessories

I can't believe I was sitting in church coveting the outfit of a 12-year old girl sitting in front of me. Even if it had come in my size it would have looked ridiculous on me, but I still coveted it nonetheless - and in church too. She was just so put together. She had a beautiful, breezy poncho style top over flared black pants, a purple necklace, cute little dangly flower earrings with a purple stone centre that matched the purple in her top and a funky little lilac purse. Geez, even the ponytail elastic matched. And there wasn't one single gray hair on that chestnut head of hers.

Youth really is wasted on the young.

She obviously knew she was lookin' good, but I'm sure she had to put precious little effort into it. She doesn't know how much of an effort lookin' good is when you're sliding rapidly into middle age, desperately clinging to bushes, street lamps, small children - anything to slow down the frightening plunge into old ladydom.

I distracted myself from her perfection by trying to figure out what on earth a 12-year old needs to carry in a purse for an hour at Mass. Kleenex, maybe? Aspirin? Except that's what your Mom's purse is for, so I just don't know.

Man, I wish the purse hadn't matched.

But I had a pretty good accessory with me today. My Dad. My beloved isn't Catholic so he opts out of church on Sundays. That's totally fine with me - I've never wanted him to do anything that isn't "him" just to please me. But being a singleton at church can be lonely sometimes, especially as I watch family after happy family file into the church.

So today I had company for the first time since Thomas' funeral. In fact, as I sat there trying not to covet that wonderful purpley outfit, I realized that the last time my Dad and I sat together at Mass was on that beautiful, sunny day in March when we buried Thomas.

I remember hearing my Dad trying desperately to sing the parts of the Mass that day, his velvety, perfect voice cracking in sorrow. I was glad that my beloved and I were sitting alone in the front row so I didn't have to see the pain on the faces of everyone sitting behind us. I'm so glad I don't have those faces etched in my memory.

But today was different. We laughed, chatted (yes, in church) and sang together, our voices strong and confident.

It's amazing what time can do. Yes, it drags you kicking and screaming into old age, but it also heals you just enough to give you the strength you need to carry on.

Did you know?

Did you know I drank a half a bottle of raspberry wine at dinner?

Did you know it was deliciously decadent and long overdue?

Did you know our neighbors (behind us) invited us to their street party but we just lay on the couch all night instead?

Did you know I wouldn't have minded making a brief appearance at the party but after the half bottle of wine I was also perfectly content to lay on the couch all evening?

Did you know the neighbour's wife is expecting her second baby next month?

Did you know she's been avoiding us like the plague and it would have been awkward seeing her tonight?

Did you know we haven't talked to her and have actually barely even SEEN her since Thomas died?

Did you know I'm not sure I would have had the mental energy to deal with her feeling weird and to do all the reassuring I would have had to do?

Did you know I'm low on mental energy?

Did you know she was pregnant with her first when I miscarried MY first and she was convinced that I thought she somehow had something to do with it?

Did you know I still can't figure that one out, but that's how I knew she'd need a lot of reassuring if we saw her tonight?

Did you know this afternoon I was watching (or spying on, depending on how you view it) our other neighbours who had a baby a month ago?

Did you know I was just watching them happily go about their Saturday business?

Did you know every time I see them (with or without the baby) I wonder what it's like to be them?

Did you know I wonder a lot about what it's like to have a baby and to be able to bring it home?

Did you know I've also seen both of them naked?

Did you know I don't think they understand that when it's dark out and your lights are on people can actually see right into your house if you haven't put your curtains up?

Did you know I think it's hilarious that I've seen them both naked but my beloved has forbidden me to tell any of the other neighbours?

Did you know my beloved flooded the toilet in my birthing suite at the hospital?

Did you know it was in the middle of the night, post-epidural, and I was trying to sleep?

Did you know he stood there watching water and poo tumble out of the toilet all the while trying desperately to think of a way to pin it on me?

Did you know at that point I was hooked up to an IV, had a catheter in and could barely move my legs because they were so numb from the epidural and it would have been physically impossible for me to even GET to the bathroom?

Did you know they had to move us to a new room because he'd fouled up the old one?

Did you know it was actually a much bigger and better room and I was kind of glad?

Did you know now I thank God he flooded the toilet because at least we can look back and have something to laugh at?

Did you know it's kind of weird to have a flooded toilet be the thing that makes you smile when you think back to the day you gave birth?

Did you know life IS weird?

Did you know, R & K, this post's for you?

Origamigina

My beloved just pulled an origami vagina out of his wallet to show me. He made it by accident while he was standing talking to a co-worker yesterday (a male one, thank goodness). He didn't realize it until he took a good look at it, so evidently he's an idiot savant whose talent is creating female genitalia sculptures out of paper.

He saved it to show me. He said "you keep that". For what purpose I don't know, except that every time I look at it I laugh.

Oh, maybe that's why.

Clever boy.

Just relax

Oooooh so THAT'S all I have to do - "just relax".

It sounds so easy when it's coming out of someone else's mouth - someone who hasn't lay stunned and drugged in a recovery room while being told their perfect little baby boy has 1% chance of survival. Someone who didn't lose two other babies before that through miscarriage. Someone who doesn't have a murderous body that, in addition to not being able to protect the lives it carries, doesn't seem to know how to work properly at all anymore.

Just relax. Excellent advice. Thank you, doctor.

I don't doubt that stress is throwing off my body and causing it to do odd things (or not do anything at all, as the case may be), but I'm not entirely sure how I can possibly avoid stress. Just waking up is stressful sometimes.

You try it. Imagine that every child you've ever conceived has died - the last one at 38 weeks - and then imagine that your body seems to have forgotten how to do what a woman's body should be able to do without any trouble at all. Now "relax". Can't do it, can you?

So how am I supposed to? I'm not imagining any of this. This is my life.

Hmmm, I feel a pity party coming on. Someone open a bottle of champagne, cut the cake and gimme a party hat - I'm in the mood to whine.

I know my doctor means well and I know she's probably right. I guess I'm just mad because I wanted a magic pill that would make everything okay. A pill that would make my body work properly so at least I wouldn't have to stress out about THAT. But apparently I'm actually going to have to work at this too. Just like I have to work at living - at surviving in the midst of the worst sorrow imaginable.

My sibling pointed out that might be my problem - I equate "relaxing" to work. She's got a point, clever girl. But unfortunately my brain doesn't work like hers. I wish it did - now more than ever.

I've been trying to think of ways to "relax" for 37 hours now. Here's what I've come up with:

1. Leave a chat board (filled with women I've known since I started trying to get pregnant two years ago) because all those women have had their babies and the board is filled with chatter about breastfeeding, Dr. Ferber's sleep methods, first teeth, first steps and first words - all things I'll never experience with Thomas.

2. Stop charting my cycles, thus leaving me almost completely in the dark, relying on my own intuition and often confusing physical signs to confirm ovulation.

3. Book a spa getaway for my beloved and me.

And that's it. Only the third option gives me any sense of pleasure. I'm very conflicted about the first two options. Actually I'm really just conflicted about the first option. I'm kind of happy to give up charting for the three months my doctor has ordered. I'm sick of having an otherwise perfectly good day ruined by a low temperature before my feet even hit the slippers.

But giving up a board full of incredible women who have seen me through hell? I don't know if I can do it.

But I think I should, at least for a little while. Sometimes, as I'm reading their posts, I notice how deafeningly quiet my house is. I know their houses are filled with the sounds of babies - gurgles, coos, laughter and cries - and mine is so silent. It's like the lead vest they make you wear at the dentist when you're having x-rays. Heavy and scary.

They leave the boards because their babies are crying, need changing or have to be fed. I leave, sometimes, because I can't bear to be on it anymore.

But then other days it's like a life-line. They've taken me in, even though I really don't belong, and have made me one of their own. They listen to me, laugh with me, cry with me and talk to me like I'm a normal person. They make me feel normal, which is a feat at the best of times. And these are far from the best of times.

Does it make sense to leave all that behind?

I'm not totally sure, but sadly I think the benefits outweigh the loss right now. So I'm taking a break.

But I'll be back. Friends like these are nearly impossible to find, and I've found a whole virtual community filled with them. With the luck I've had I'd be pretty stupid to let them go for good. Especially since I was so very lucky to find them in the first place.

Like father, like son

We were out late last night. We got an invitation to dinner from our neighbours who, as it turns out, are a really nice couple to hang out with. We had a really great time. When you reach a certain age it becomes rare to find new people to tell all your old stories to, and we all took full advantage of the fresh audience last night. As a result, we ended up staying at their house until almost 1:00am. For those under 30 this might seem early, but to four 30 somethings it was quite a feat. The yawns started at about 11:30pm, but we staved off the good-byes until 12:45am.

As a result, my beloved and I are happily drowsy today. He actually just crashed an hour ago. I've been waiting for it all day (I've said before, if it were legal to marry a cookie I wouldn't have waited 29 years to find my beloved - with him it's naps. He loves them, I swear, almost as much as me).

I saw the nap approaching. When you really know someone, you can see all their signs. I know when I've ticked him off, I know when he's about to tell me a funny story, I know when he needs a hug and I know when he's dangerously close to nodding off on the couch. He'd assumed the napping position. He was on his back with a pillow on his head and his hands tucked up under his chin. I started laughing and told him I knew he was on the verge of dozing off.

Then I remembered.

Because mine was a high-risk pregnancy I had a lot of ultrasounds. I loved them. There's nothing in the world like catching those beautiful, albeit fleeting, glimpses of your child before he's born, all tucked up safe and sound. Until I saw my beloved this afternoon I'd forgotten that one of those glimpses was of Thomas with his hand tucked up underneath his chin, just like his Daddy. I remember feeling my body flood with love for both my men when I saw Thomas doing something I've seen his Daddy do a million times.

I was always so preoccupied with telling my beloved all the nitty gritty details of the appointments that he couldn't make it to that I guess I forgot to tell him that Thomas had already mastered his Daddy's napping style. So I told him today. I think we both wanted to cry, but we smiled instead. We don't have many memories of our son and I think maybe we both wanted to share one without showing the pain that always comes with them.

I don't care that the happiness was a little bit of a lie, it still felt good to act like normal parents for one brief moment and smile at our son.

Too sad for a Saturday night

I had a great day. The sun was shining, it wasn't too hot, my beloved made me a wonderful breakfast (there's nothing like pancakes and steaming hot, fresh coffee on a sunny Saturday morning!) and I finally dragged out the cross stitch Christmas lap quilt I've been meaning to start since April. We didn't do much of anything today, and it was WONDERFUL just being here together and being lazy little slugs.

But now it's night. At night you can see into the windows of the houses behind ours when they have their lights on and their curtains open. The family with the new baby have chosen to do just that. I know I was stupid for looking, but I did. I saw the new Grandma tenderly leaning over the crib, fussing with her new granddaughter, and I knew she was doing what I wish, with all my heart, my Mom had been able to do. She was loving her grandchild - changing her and making her all comfy cozy.

I kept looking. It was like a train wreck.

After the grandma was finished, the new mommy stepped in, picked up her baby girl and gently tucked her up into her neck for a cuddle.

It was at that point that I managed to tear myself away. I came upstairs, looking for a little comfort from my beloved. I didn't tell him what happened - I just wanted to be near him. He doesn't need to know I'm sad in order to give me comfort. I find it in his face, his smile, his humour and in his love for me. And I'm greedy - I'll take every bit of comfort I can, even when he doesn't even know he's giving it.

I popped onto the computer for further distraction. Scanning my chat board I noticed that someone had posted about a loss on another board and asked the members of our board to pray for this poor, devastated family. I didn't want to, but I had to know.

They think their son died as a result of SIDS. He was 6 months old and just adorable. I looked at the pictures, stunned and in utter shock that another beautiful boy could be gone. It doesn't make sense and it isn't fair. My beloved saw me reading it - saw me looking at the pictures - and told me to stop. I know he worries about me and thinks I can't handle sorrow on top of sorrow, but I couldn't not read this poor woman's story. I know her pain, so how could I ignore it, streaming from every agonizing word in her blog?

I did all I could. I prayed to Thomas and asked him to help me help her. Then I left her a message. I hope it somehow gives her comfort and shows her that she DOES have the strength to carry on without her son. I don't know we survive, but I know somehow we do.

If anyone is reading this, please pray for her. She'll need the kind of prayers I know must have been said for me in those early days. Those are the ones that carried me through, as if on angel's wings, and brought me safely here to another Saturday night.

I just wish it wasn't such a sad one.

Impulse

I feel like putting my fist through a wall.

A note for next time

Just a quick reminder to myself...

Self, do NOT, under any circumstances, sign up for any free baby newsletters or products if/when you get pregnant again. It might seem like a good idea at the time - it might even help you think positively about your pregnancy - but just remember how horrible it was getting diaper coupons and formula samples in the mail four months after Thomas died.

I know it's going to suck, self, but pregnancy will never, ever be what it once was for you and what it is for most women. You've lost faith in your body and you don't trust your prayers anymore, so believing is going to be hard. In fact, believing is going to take all your energy so don't waste any of it signing up for baby freebies until that baby is home safely in your arms.

Trust me, self.

All you have to do is dream

I had yet another bizarre dream last night. I have no idea why I'm dreaming such strange, vivid dreams, but they're coming fast and furious. A few weeks ago it was Luke Perry with a crush on me, then the next night Barbara Streisand and I hanging out together, but both of us paraplegic and in wheelchairs.

This time I was wandering around the train station in a short nightgown with a severe case of bed head and no underpants on. I suddenly became aware that I shouldn't be dressed like that in public (or undressed, as the case may be) but it was too late. I tried to get back to my car, but just kept wandering through the parking lot and eventually finding myself back in the train station. At one point I dropped my wallet and when I went to pick it up I found a photo of me and a little boy. The little boy had his back to the camera, but he had a head of big, sandy curls (just like I imagine Thomas would have had at that age). Every time I looked at the picture it changed - I would have somehow moved, but I think the boy stayed the same.

I guess it's because I am moving on and Thomas will forever be a little boy.

I remember it terrified me that the picture kept changing and I was sure I was going insane. The fact that I was half naked and wandering around that way was also pretty compelling evidence. I eventually forced myself to wake up and was very happy to find myself in bed - and appropriately dressed for it.

I've had a number of crazy dreams lately, but I also had a sweet dream that my beloved and I were tickling Thomas on our bed. He was dressed in a little red t-shirt and blue pants and he was laughing and squealing with delight. His little face was just beaming with happiness. He looked to be about 18 months old, but he didn't look at all like what I would expect him to look like at that age.

I woke up so happy from that dream. I know it'll never happen, of course, but for some reason it made me so happy. I'd like to think it was Thomas' way of telling me he's okay - that he's happy, blissfully so - and that he hopes we will be too.

I'm trying, Thomas, I really am. Mommy misses you.

Smiles and screams

I showed my best friend pictures of Thomas today - ones she hadn't seen before. She looked at the first one, a shot of him not long after he was born, and she started to cry. I understand completely, but it still made me so sad. I know it's not an easy thing to do. Looking at a picture of a tiny little boy hooked up to a million machines with wires running from virtually every part of him is difficult, and even more so when you know it's one of just a handful of photos of him alive, but it still made me sad.

I wish, so much, that thinking about him and looking at photos of him didn't make people sad. It's just another one of the horrible side-effects of this kind of loss, I suppose. No one can think of him without sadness.

I can, when I try hard enough. I can remember him poking and kicking and rolling and hiccuping, and I can smile. He used to get the hiccups all the time and I'd feel so helpless because all I could do was rub my belly and talk softly to him. I don't know if ever helped, but it was all I could do. Who knew that was just the smallest fraction of the helplessness I'd feel as a Mother?

I remember those times so well - like it was yesterday. I used to love to lay awake at night after getting up to go to the bathroom (for the 9 millionth time) and feel him moving. It was just the two of us, awake and together in a quiet, dark world that it seemed only he and I were aware of. I was so content because with each movement he showed me he was alive and well and strong, and I could relax, sink into the bed and just be with him.

I miss that. I miss him so much. I feel so alone sometimes - so literally alone and empty. I know he's missing, my body knows he's missing and sometimes that emptiness is like feeling every single part of me screaming out in agony. Sometimes I put my hand on my stomach and just go numb. It all feels so unreal. It's like it was another person who carried that precious boy - sometimes I think it MUST have been another person because if it was me he'd be here in my arms.

But I know it was me. And I know I'm empty.

And I also know I have to carry on. I'm not alone. I have my beloved, who loves me more than I ever thought anyone could. He watches me, helps me and pulls me out of harm's way when he senses the sorrow is about to devour me. He lost what I did and we are united in our grief. No one understands me the way he does because he lost Thomas too. His heart broke the same day mine did.

So I understand why my friend cried. Clearly I can't think or talk about Thomas without being engulfed in sorrow either, but I live in hope that one day it won't hurt this much. I live in hope that one day my heart will stop breaking over and over and over again.

Thank you, stranger

I was all set to write about Lumphead and Loni (which, according to a friend's two-year old son, is what my beloved and I are named), but that will have to wait for another time. Today I have to thank a stranger instead.

With the exception of a few friends who have told me they check my blog regularly, I have no idea who reads my words or, for that matter, what they think of them. I always assume I must depress the hell out of anyone brave enough to wander over here to see what might be on my mind, but the words keep coming nonetheless. I can't stop them. I need to keep writing to survive, you see.

I know that a lot of my survival is also due to the prayers of countless friends, both real and virtual, who have prayed for me, my beloved and our Thomas since his death. I know because there's no other way to explain how I've been able wake up every morning, get out of bed and live each day without my beautiful baby boy. There's no other way to explain how I can possibly have the hope that I do for our future or how I can even conceive of a future without Thomas.

What I didn't know is that there is a stranger who prays for me everyday too. It means so much to me because I've been having a hard time praying for myself and have been relying on others more than I'm sure they realize. It's been hard for me to talk to God and ask him for help. I pleaded with him while I was still in surgery, half out of my mind with terror because I knew something had gone horribly wrong, but God had already made his decision. If he couldn't help me then, the time I needed him most, how can I be sure he'll help me now?

I've struggled so much with this, and have all but given up. I can easily pray for others because I have no evidence to suggest that those prayers will go unanswered, but for me? It's a little harder. I hope one day I'll find my way back to the trusting relationship I always had with God (I'm trying, I really am) but for now I'm wary and, for the most part, just pray for my friends instead.

That's why I'm so grateful to know that a total stranger is praying for me. I'm grateful that your relationship with God is a stronger one than mine right now, and I'm grateful that you were both kind enough and thoughtful enough to tell me that I'm in your prayers.

Thank you so much, stranger, for letting me know. I promise I'll pray for you too.

Lettuce and a tomato

I had to run out for lettuce and a tomato. I did what I could to avoid it because I'm feeling so lazy today, but the dinner I need the lettuce and tomato for is painfully simple and I couldn't really justify not making a quick run to the store. So I did.

I wasn't too bothered by the fact that somehow I managed to trail a pregnant woman throughout the store, as if she was on the same lettuce and tomato mission as me, but my breaking point came when I reached the checkout line. I know I've written about this before, but it happened again. The shortest and most logical line had a newborn baby in it and if I chose that line I'd have to stand right behind a new Mom gently cradling a baby in her arms.

I looked frantically for another line and tried to mentally count what was buried in my basket to see if I qualified for the express checkout, but I would have looked foolish opting to go to a line that was packed and I was pretty sure I had more than 11 items. So I slowly inched into the newborn baby line.

Oh God, she was so beautiful. I was so close that I could see her little peach fuzz hair catching the light streaming through the windows. I know just how that tiny head felt because I can still feel the way Thomas' felt under my hand. Warm and soft and alive.

It's hard to describe how useless, empty and broken I feel when I'm confronted by a newborn. I was holding a basket of food and that serene, content new Mom was holding a child. I know strangers can't see - can't tell that I lost my son - but I still feel like there's a giant neon sign above my head screaming "BROKEN" and pointing at me.

I'm sure I must have looked like an idiot because I couldn't take my eyes off that little bundle. When the Mom turned towards me to walk around her baby carriage I smiled at her - a weak, unreal smile - but she didn't see me. I wanted, in my smile, to tell her that I had a baby once too and he was beautiful and soft and sweet just like hers. I wanted my smile to somehow convey to her that I was also a mother - that we had that in common - even though I was holding a basket of food instead of my child. I don't know why I cared so much what she did or didn't think of me, but it didn't matter anyway because she only had eyes for her daughter.

Sometimes I hate going out for lettuce and a tomato.

We are three

I woke up thinking about my little boy this morning. He was just there, sitting in my head waiting to say "hi!". It was quiet and peaceful laying there thinking about him - one of the rare times that it didn't feel like a kick in the gut. I love those moments, but they're still too few and far between.

I often think about him in a quiet, peaceful way when my beloved and I are out for a walk at night. As the street lights cast our shadows ahead of us on the sidewalk I pretend I can see a small shadow dancing between our two larger ones. I picture the little shadow skipping along just behind us or, sometimes, holding each of our hands.

I know it sounds like a sad thought (and in fact it's making me cry right now) but when we're out walking together, holding hands and really connecting, I feel Thomas with us. And then I feel like we're a family. Those evening walks are when I'm most aware that there's not just the two of us but, in fact, that we're a family of three.

It's been too hot out to walk the last week or so, so I wonder if that's why Thomas was with me when I woke up this morning. It's not like I don't think about him each and every day, but I haven't connected with him in that quiet way in a while. Maybe he missed me as much as I missed him.

I'd like to think so.

A peek at the end

I had an awful nightmare last night. To make a long (and sad and confusing) story short, everyone decided that I was too sad to live now. No one wanted to be my friend and they decided that I should be "put to sleep." My Grandma (who has been dead for 15 years and presumably knows how it feels when you die) told me what the doctors would do and how it would feel. I didn't want to know (actually, I didn't want to DIE) so I ran around the corner to escape the sound of her voice.

Running around the corner turned into me turning to the last page of a book (which happened to be the book of my life). On the last page I discovered that I had, in fact, been euthanized. Horrified, I ran back around the corner hoping to turn back time and escape my fate. But I knew I couldn't - I'd peeked an knew what was coming.

Then I woke up, almost as horrified as I'd been in my dream. Not, as one might presume, at the fact that I'd been handed a death sentence, but because no one wanted to be around me and they all figured I was better off dead.

I'm fairly certain that no one in my real, waking life thinks I'm better of dead (and if you do, please don't tell me) but I hope that I'm not too sad to be around now. I know I'm different - I know sometimes I'm quieter than I used to be and even I catch myself lost in thought, 1000 miles away, pondering what could have been - what should have been. But I don't think I'm broken beyond repair...am I?

One year and one day

It was a year ago yesterday that we first saw those two, beautiful blue lines. It was Thomas waving hello. I kept very, very busy yesterday cleaning, doing laundry, e-mailing friends and just generally trying to keep my mind off of the fact that we had to say goodbye far too soon.

I can't believe I can love someone I hardly knew with all my heart.

But I do.

Six, seven, eight...

I need to do a little more blessing counting. It's another bad day...

6. I just got a really nice e-mail from my cousin who is 14 years older than me and has memories of the two grandparents I never knew (they died before I was born). I'd asked her to tell me about them, and she did. Her e-mail warmed my heart and made me feel closer to both her and our grandparents. It made me cry too, but in a good way.

7. My beloved is taking me out this afternoon "to buy stuff" (A.K.A. shopping therapy). We may be in the poor house soon (we've been sad for four months now and practicing our brand of retail therapy quite regularly) but it will take my mind off my stupid body and the tricks it's been playing on me, and I know we'll have fun spending the afternoon together.

8. I'm going to eat chocolate today. I don't know when or in what form, but I'm having it. Maybe a lot of it.

9. I can see and walk and hear (things I often take for granted, especially when I'm feeling particularly sorry for myself).

10. I'm having a good hair day.

One, two, three...

I feel like writing, but I can't think of anything to write that isn't desperately sad. Maybe it didn't help that we just finished watching a really depressing 60 minutes episode about a murdered New York financial analyst. Maybe that was a stupid thing to watch (hindsight really is 20/20, as it turns out). We have a enough to be sad about without watching other people's despair on TV.

And the worst thing is, I know their pain.

Our son wasn't murdered (and I can't even begin to understand what that feels like) but we do know the pain of losing a child. I watched the woman's father literally stagger into the church for his daughter's funeral and I saw him standing, stunned and pained, watching the priest incense her coffin. And I know the unfathomable pain he was experiencing at that very moment. I know because I remember it all too well.

It's horrific to think that there are two people in the world who know that pain. It's even more horrific to know there are thousands of us out there. It just shouldn't be.

It shouldn't be.

See? I can't find a happy thought anywhere at the moment. I know there has to be one in me somewhere, but I can't find it. That nasty pool of sorrow I mentioned yesterday has me in its icy grip.

But I can swim, and so I'm going to try very hard to think of 5 really happy things and write them down.

1. I'm a grown-up and I if I want to eat a bowl full of icing, I can. And I did - just the other day. I made a bowl of vanilla icing and sat down and ate the whole thing. Because I could.

2. I'm in love with the world's most perfect man. Okay, the most perfect man in the world for me.

3. That perfect man is in love with me too. And there's no doubt in my mind that he always will be, and so will I.

4. It was really hot out today and when it got too hot in our house we were able to put the air conditioning on and cool off. We're so lucky that we're able to have that luxury.

5. I have some very good friends, both in real life and on my chat board, who support me and care about me and are always there for me no matter how depressing I happen to be at any given moment.

Hey, this is working - I feel a little happier. I still wish we hadn't watched the show about the murdered financial analyst, but counting your blessings really does seem to work. Who knew?

Maybe I should do this a lot more often - especially when the waves are at their most threatening and the pool is at its darkest and deepest.

I just hope that no matter what, I can remember to keep counting.

Just a little jolt

I just looked at Thomas' pictures again (for the millionth time). I still shake my head in wonder, awe and agony when I see his perfect, tiny face - and when I let it really sink in. He was born. He was ours. And he's gone.

Healing is such a delicate balancing act. I want to feel better - happier - but I don't want to forget him. The thing is, his birth is tied up in such horror and sorrow that it's hard to remember him without remembering all the pain. It's harder still to look at that beautiful little face without it literally breaking my heart in two.

So what do I do? Forget? Remember? Which one is easier to do? Which one hurts less?

I don't cry every time I see the pictures, not anymore. But on the days when I let myself really study them and really think about it I get a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach - a sort of fluttering horror. It's sorrow, longing and desperation that I know is never really going to go away.

Can you ever really heal after something like this? Can I ever really be happy again? I mean REALLY happy?

I wish I knew. I've been happy since he died - I've smiled and laughed and meant it - but just underneath the surface there's a deep pool of sorrow that's just sitting there. It's always waiting for me to dive in and it's always waiting to drown my happiness.

I hate that. I hate the sorrow, but I love my son. I can't wait for the day when the two aren't inextricably linked. I worry that day will never come, but I live in hope.

We live in hope.

Dirty but free

I finally liberated the ivy I've had rooting in an old milk bottle for the last...um....two years. They're cuttings from ivy that we had on the tables at our wedding. I don't know how they've managed to survive, but they have. Today I transplanted them into a pot (with actual dirt) and put it on our kitchen windowsill where I hope they will grow and flourish for many more years.

It's nice to be able to nurture something. It's really, really nice.

And here's the apology I promised

I'm sorry.

I'm not sorry for how I feel (thanks to K for pointing out that doesn't really make sense) I'm just sorry that my anger makes me say things that make other people feel sad and uncomfortable. One of the million and one terrible things about my baby dying is that it has made other people so sad and it's made them feel so uncomfortable around me.

Yesterday I was at my sister's school for the afternoon. Obviously everyone there knows the whole story, and it became obvious when I caught a pregnant teacher staring at me with a mix of horror and morbid curiosity. She quickly looked away when I looked over at her. She practically gave herself whiplash. I wanted to dig a hole in the library floor and bury myself.

I said to my beloved the other day that we're now the people that others look at and say, "Thank God we're not them!"
It's lonely being those people - I never knew until we became them.

But back to my apology. Which isn't such a good one, I guess, but I'm trying.

I really am sorry. And I should also say that I do have a lot of happy days and good times and my life isn't as continually bleak as these blogs may portray. That's mostly because I tend to blog when I'm sad or mad. I keep telling myself I should blog when I'm happy, but I'm too busy being happy to blog. Happiness is a rare and wonderful thing for me these days and I just let myself experience it - I soak it all in. And I forget to write about it.

But the sadness is so overwhelming and the rage so strong that writing is the only thing that helps get it out of me sometimes. Well, that and flipping off slow drivers.

Believe me, I wish this wasn't what I had the urge to write about. I wish I was writing about what wonderful new thing our little Thomas did today or how he kept me up all night or how his little smile makes everything okay or how I'm so excited about seeing him walk.

But I can't. So I rage.

But I also often laugh, smile, sigh contentedly and sleep peacefully. I'm struggling, but I'm okay.

Time

The other night I lay in bed and prayed for God to turn back time. I prayed so hard. I know it was a selfish prayer - I know if he had turned back time millions of good things that have happened to other people would be taken away. But if it had worked the precious thing that was taken from us would be given back. That's all I cared about. I'm not even that ashamed that I was so selfish, to be honest.

I'm tired of not being selfish and I'm tired of trying to see all the good that my baby's death has brought about. It's utterly exhausting. I'm so sick of looking for the silver lining on this massive black shroud I could scream.

I wanted God to take us back to 1:25 pm on March 9th when I started pushing. Instead of it resulting in our son being born via C-section without vital signs four hours later, I wanted it to end with me giving birth to our beautiful, healthy boy. Our live boy. I wanted to hear him cry, I wanted to hold him and know he was fine. I wanted to be able to show him to our families - not in the special care nursery moments before we took him off life support, but in my room, surrounded by flowers and baby things and happy, smiling faces.

I wanted - I WANT - what everyone else seems to get.

I know we're not the only ones who've ever struggled with miscarriages and, now, infant loss. I know that the happy pregnant women on my street and the street behind us may very well have gone through horrific times too. I've been told to think that way and I have - and it helps.

But not always. Not when I keep seeing bulging belly after bulging belly turn into tiny bundles with, it seems, virtually no effort at all.

I know, I know. I'm being horribly unfair and selfish and miserable.

But you know what? Today I don't care. I'll apologize tomorrow - and mean it - but today I'm sad for what I've lost and sick with jealousy at everyone else who has it.

God won't turn back time.

An unnatural affection for a bear

I just realized it the other night - I have an unnatural affection for a bear. It’s a cheap, not overly good-looking stuffed bear, but I love him. He sits on our bed every day and at night I gently take him over to the chair in the corner where he sits for the night. How do I know I love him? Because, well, other than the fact that I’m pretty sure I’ve kissed him once or twice (have I mentioned I’m 35?) a few nights ago he fell over when I sat him on the chair and I hurried back to sit him back up. The idea of him lying kind of haphazardly on his side all night was too upsetting. I had to fix him.

So that’s how I know.

But why do I love him so? Because he’s the bear who appears in the precious few pictures I have of our sweet little son. 29 pictures. That’s all we have of him – that’s all we’ll ever have of him. But I have the bear.

I didn’t want him at first through. The nurses brought him to me, along with a lock of Thomas’ hair, his hand and footprints, the onesie he was wearing, the blanket they wrapped him in, the knitted bonnet and sweater my Mom made and some pamphlets on infant bereavement. A nurse quietly and gently brought these precious treasures to me just after Thomas died. I’ve been clinging to them ever since.

But not at first. I didn’t want the bear – I’d never seen it before and it was foreign to me. It didn’t belong to Thomas or to me – the nurses had bought it for him, just like the onesie and the blanket. Of course we had clothes for Thomas, but in our sorrow and confusion and shock, they stayed tucked away in the hospital bag I’d so happily packed just days before. All we thought to give them was the bonnet and sweater my Mom knitted. Mint green, lacy and so sweet on my little boy.

I told my beloved to put it all up on the shelf at the end of my hospital bed – away from me. And so there it sat, but only for a while. It wasn’t long before I needed the bear. The horror seemed easier to bear with him tucked under my arm. It was like I was a child – that familiar feeling of snuggling down to sleep with a love-worn stuffed toy tucked in beside me was too hard to resist, even though I didn’t really know this bear. But I knew enough – he’d been with my son.

And so, like everything else that belong to Thomas for the few precious hours he was alive, I’ll cherish that bear – yes, and love him – forever.

I don’t think that’s so wrong. And to be honest, I don’t care if it is.

Well isn't this interesting...

Yesterday my beloved told me that a girl he works with is 3.5 months pregnant with twins. She just told everyone yesterday -- and she burst out into tears when she told him. Her two little ones would have been conceived right about the same time Thomas was born. Or, as my beloved put it, right about the time we were going through our own private hurricane.

The interesting thing is, I'm happy for her. Really happy. They're the nicest couple and have been trying for a long time (unbeknownst to everyone, as is often the case). That's not to say I haven't been happy for the 101 other people who seem to have gotten pregnant since Thomas died, but this time the happiness for them came with hardly any sadness for me. Very, very, interesting.

This feels good.

Finally.

Lost and found

The microscopic screw just fell out of one of the nose pads on my glasses. I discovered it had gone AWOL when I picked up my glasses to put them on and the right nose pad fell to the floor. It bounced along the plastic chair mat and came to rest dangerously close to the vent cover. Naturally, the screw was nowhere in sight.

Sighing, I got down on my hands and knees to search for the screw. Fighting with lint, dust, crumbs and enough toe jam to knit a whole new sock (seriously, how long has it been since I vacuumed under this desk??) I started to get discouraged. As a hunk of hair (which needs washing -- my next task) fell across my face and blocked my view of the crap on the floor I started asking no one in particular how many more things I have to lose. And then I started getting mad. Haven't I lost enough? Aren't the gods finished with me YET? It's just a screw, dammit, but come ON. I've just about had it, is what I thought to myself.

So I gave up looking. And that's when I found it, sitting quietly and quite peacefully on a piece of unopened mail on top of the desk. Is this some sort of message from said gods? I have no idea. But I am glad that at least they decided not to screw me today.

Anger Management

My beloved and I have discovered an interesting way to blow off steam and satisfy the urge to kick the crap out of something. We punch toilet paper. Okay, we've only actually done it once, but it was fun and I may very well do it the next time I buy an 8-pack.

He started it. I tossed two packs of Cottonelle on the bed when I came home from shopping one day. I guess he had a little pent-up rage in him and I guess the toilet paper looked really inviting because he slugged it good and hard. Several times, right in the middle of the pack on the Cottonelle lady's face. At first I kind of just looked on in horror (I hate new things -- even toilet paper -- to be damaged in any way). But as I watched him pounding the crap out of the Cottonelle and saw the pleasure it seemed to give him, my horror gave way to curiosity. I started thinking I'd like to take a whack at the other, still pristine pack sitting beside the one he'd just finished pumelling.

He looked at me and smiled. "Go on," he said, "try it."

I did. And it was WONDERFUL. Because I opted for the two fist approach I accidentally whacked my own knuckles together (which ended my session in a blaze of pain) but it was still wonderful. It was exhilarating standing there panting, watching the toilet paper slowly spring back to life. I have to admit it, part of me was still worried about the state of the paper, but it stood up reasonably well and eventually served its intended purpose just perfectly.

Both my beloved and I are peace-loving people. We've never hit each other, nor do we hit other people (and we certainly don't intend to start) but we both have a lot of anger and pain still left inside of us. Talking helps, but punching toilet paper, as we've discovered, helps even more sometimes.

Maybe I'll do it again and maybe I won't, but I'll always remember the day we ambushed the smiling Cottonelle lady and laid her flat. Twice.

Rage and other unpleasant things

I'm a fool. I should have thought more about the people who might be reading my blogs, specifically pregnant people. I can't explain it, but my rage isn't directed at you, even though it might appear to be. I'm just angry that life has dealt me a blow that's very difficult to recover from. I'm angry that instead of changing diapers I'm changing my mindset --
trying to get used to life as a mommy without her child. I'm angry that I'm now forced to make decisions and choices that I never dreamed I'd have to make (like trying again when it terrifies me, or finding just the right wording for my baby's grave marker). I'm angry that on days when I'm feeling a fragile happiness, it's so easy for something to make me sad. I'm angry that I have to be sad at all. But I am. I'm in a little bit of turmoil, and rage is an unpleasant side effect.

But I'm not angry at you. I've learned what a blessing a baby is in a way that I hope no other woman ever has to find out. So I'm happy that you are so blessed. I really, truly am. I wish you and your little ones all the goodness and joy life has to offer and I hope you never, ever have to know even a fraction of the pain I've known. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy and so it goes without saying (I hope) that I'd never, EVER wish it on my friends.

However, I might still need to rant and rave. My cradle is empty and there's a hole in my heart. I hope you understand.

Empty

Is everyone in the whole f*@&ing WORLD pregnant??? Do the 972 women pushing strollers past my house every day really NEED to take this route??? Is too much to ask parents getting their babies baptized to do it at a Mass other than the one I'm attending so I don't have to stand their applauding, my heart breaking into a million pieces as I remember the day that very same priest now holding up beautiful babies all dressed in white incensed my son's coffin????

Is it terrible that I have an unbearable desire to take my chair and hurl it through the window as I scream obscenities at the world at large?

(I wondered how long it would take. Apparently I'm now entering the angry, bitter stage of grief. It's ugly. You've been warned...)

The empty chair

I'm watching the dying woman across the street as she watches her child. Her little one is not even two, and in a year she won't have a Mommy. What is it like for this woman, knowing that this is the last time that she'll ever lay eyes on her child on a Saturday in May? How can she possibly pack a lifetime of mothering into these final few months as her health steadily declines? She is a pillar of strength. She is still sitting on the porch watching her child, her floppy, fuzzy dog laying protectively at her feet. In just months that chair will be empty, and she knows it. Oh my God, she knows it.

I watch her closely, trying to figure out what could possibly be going through her mind and willing this not to be the end she's destined for.

It's not fair. No one deserves this kind of pain. No one should be separated from their child like this.

Her husband is vacuumming out the car. He likes to pretend everything is okay. That's what I'm told. I guess it protects his heart from breaking in two before it absolutely has to. Before the chair is empty.

Breaking and entering

Would it be wrong of me to break into the house behind us and take the brand new, sparkly ultrasound pictures off the fridge so that I don't have to stare at them while I'm washing my dishes? Would that be wrong? Would it??

I need to know.

So, did I pass?

I suppose it serves me right for feeling all happy - actually feeling uplifted and somehow blessed by what's happened to us.

Okay, let me start from the beginning. I'm driving to the grocery store listening to my very favourite Ben Folds song, The Luckiest. I've got it up loud and I'm singing along, marveling at how the words are making me feel. I'm actually feeling lucky, as crazy as that may sound. I play it twice. I'm driving and thinking that we've been so blessed by our little man, despite the fact that we don't have him with us. We've been blessed because he's changed us and so many other people for the better.

I'm telling you, I'm nearly having a spiritual epiphany in the car. I can almost hear the angels singing. It's not that I haven't been toying with this notion before, it's just that, I suppose, I never had the soundtrack to go with it.

Anyway, I get to the plaza and head into the drug store for a couple of mailing boxes. I decide not to wait in the post office line to pay and opt to go to the front of the store. I arrive seconds before a woman carrying a baby carrier. I resolve not to look in the carrier because all of a sudden I'm not feeling so lucky anymore. I'm trying to pay attention to the transaction, trying to buy my boxes. And then I hear the tiny mewling of a newborn. It's a newborn. I have to sneak a peek, all the while wondering whether or not the tiny sounds it's making are going to make my breasts start leaking again.

I jam my wallet into my purse. It sticks. It won't go in. I can't close my purse. She hands me the receipt and I jam that in too. I stuff it down by the wallet that's still sticking part way out of my purse and grab my boxes. I don't know if she was going to give me a bag for them or not, but I take them and leave as fast as I can. As I'm heading out the door I hear the conversation between the clerk and the new mommy trailing away... "Oooh, it's a newborn! Is it a he or a she? How old is she?"

It's a little girl and she's three weeks old.

As I walk to the grocery store I try to figure out what I was doing three weeks after Thomas was born. We buried him a week and a day after he was born, so two weeks after that was March 31st. I don't know what I was doing other than beginning the long, slow healing process.

So I'm now no longer feeling particularly lucky, but at least I've escaped. I'm outside and there are no baby carriers in sight. I get my cart and head into the grocery store. There smack dab in front of me is a pregnant woman, her gray t-shirt stretched tight by the tiny little person inside of her. I turn to the right. I'm buying vegetables. We need collard greens and potatoes. I'm just here getting my vegetables.

I lose sight of the pregnant woman and there are still no baby carriers in sight. This is starting to feel like the running of the gauntlet. I make it all the way around the store and actually start to forget, getting absorbed in my list. Allspice, corn syrup, smoked almonds.

I head to the checkout. It's all clear. Not only are there no babies or pregnant women, there are no line ups. Fate is smiling on me once again. I settle into lane 8 and instantly remember I've forgotten to get my fish. The fish monger wasn't at the counter when I stopped there the first time so I'd decided to do the rest of my shopping and come back at the end. I head over. It takes forever. The woman in front of me wants 12 cooked shrimp. They're on sale, $1.76 per dozen. They ring up at $2.88 per dozen. Her total is $2.08. Apparently the 32 cents difference is going to bankrupt her because she complains, albeit politely. The somewhat elderly fishmonger is confused. And slow. It takes forever and a line has started to form. He eventually overrides the till and we're all set. I get my salmon and head back to the checkout.

There's the shortest line. Yes, there it is...the one with the baby carrier. Reluctantly I pull up behind it. I can't take my eyes of this tiny boy who, I think, is about the age Thomas would be if here were alive. So that's what he'd look like. That's what he'd be doing. That's what he'd be wearing. Damn the shrimp woman to hell! I'd have beaten this baby carrier to the lane if she hadn't quibbled over 32 cents.

At this point I'm beginning to wonder if I'm being tested, if someone's trying to find out just how sincere I was when I started thinking, "We're actually lucky. We've been blessed." I'm realizing I'm only able to think that way when I'm not confronted by painful visible reminders of what we've lost. I can easily think it when I'm driving in the car listening to one of my favourite songs, but it's not so easy when I'm just a few feet away from someone else's newborn daughter.

So I don't know if I passed the test or not, but I do know I nearly leaped across the counter and kissed the clerk when he called me "miss" instead of "ma'am" because in addition to that, he opened up the lane beside the one with the baby carrier, sparing me another 3 minutes of agony.

It wasn't much consolation, but it was some. And I think that's all I can ask for these days.

With love from Grandma

A few weeks ago when I was moving some stuff around in our colossal mess of a storage room, I unearthed a tiny book my Grandmother gave me on my 17th birthday (which now seems like a hundred years ago). It's called Hope For Tough Times by Robert Schuller. I can't imagine now what "tough times" I was having at 17 that inspired my Grandmother to make this purchase, but I'm now so grateful that she did. Now is when I need help. Now is when I'm experiencing a truly tough time.

I remembered that she'd written a cute little poem inside the front cover and I opened it up to read it again, even though I know it off by heart. I love seeing where her pen touched the paper and running my fingers over the words. I can feel the impressions and in some strange way it's almost like I'm touching her again.

"A little fish swims in the well, so in my heart does Kristin dwell."

It has made me smile for 18 years.

I put the book on my bedside table to read later that night. I thought maybe there might be a message inside that would help heal my heart just a little bit - maybe a message I missed when I was a teenager with problems and sorrows no where near as big as the ones I have now. Little did I know what I'd find when I opened the book again.

There was a second message from Grandma - one I'm almost positive I've never seen before. I have to admit it, I probably didn't read the book when she gave it to me. In fact, I vaguely recall thinking it was an odd choice - irrelevant to me and my life, in fact. Maybe that's why I missed the second note she penned on the page after the poem.

It read:

"Stand up to the things no so pleasant in your life but enjoy to the fullest the joys."

I was stunned. It was something I so needed to hear - a reminder to see the joy despite the pain. And not just to see the joy, but to feel it too. The message came at a time when I was struggling with my joys - when I was feeling guilty for experiencing them just weeks after my sweet baby boy died. But the message came from someone who had more than her fair share of sorrow throughout her life too. Her father died when she was 5 and they buried her mother on her 16th birthday. She knew sorrow intimately and she knew how to fight back against its awesome power. I saw the sorrow in her eyes, as I see it in my own now, but I also saw her experience the joys and make the most of every sweet thing her life had to offer. She loved ferociously and she spent her life giving all she had to the people who meant the most to her. It was her joy.

And 15 years after she died she somehow managed to tell me to try to do the same - to live and love and let the sweetness of happiness back into my life. Her sorrows were always part of her, but so was her joy.

Thanks Grandma. I love you.

Strange Days Indeed

I visited our Thomas' grave for the first time today. I took flowers and a tiny blue stained glass cross with the words "Watch Over My Son" on it. It was so hard -- I can't even describe what it's like to stand at your child's grave -- but it was just something I had to do today. It was time.

Foolishly I thought I wouldn't cry (I'm not a big fan of crying in public. I save it for when I'm alone or for when my beloved's shoulder is around) but as soon as I reached the stone the tears started to fall. I knelt down and put my hands on the warm, damp grass above where he's laying and just cried. I wanted to lay right down and get as close to him as I could, but good sense prevailed. That's a crazy-lady thing to do and I'm not a crazy-lady just yet. I may be one day -- maybe one day soon -- but I'm not yet.

I didn't stay long. I told him I loved him, put the cross and flowers on his grave and left. The funny thing is, it feels like part of me is still there -- like I've left an arm or a leg there. It's hard to explain. But I'm still glad I went. Now I don't have to do it for the first time anymore.

On the way home I stopped at Baskin & Robbins and bought an ice cream cake. My Grandma LOVED ice cream cakes and I haven't had one since she died almost 15 years ago. The last time we had one was on her birthday just a few weeks before she died. Thomas is buried with her and my Grandpa and I think she put the idea in my head -- the idea of the ice cream cake. It's something she'd think of and it's something she'd think would make me feel better. To my Grandma, ice cream cake and Vicks Vapo Rub could cure just about anything.

I decided to do some puttering in the garden after indulging in a huge slice of cake (which didn't cure my broken heart, but helped it some) and that's when this very strange day got even stranger. I was just about finished when the guy across the street came outside in a Darth Vader mask and a thong. Seriously. It's very odd to see your neighbour's bum -- and it's even odder to see it on the same day you visited your baby's grave for the first time. He did it to make all the ladies laugh (there was a gaggle of women - including his wife - out talking on their front lawn) and he succeeded. He made me smile too.

Strange days indeed. But thank God I can still smile.

Another Saturday

Another Saturday without my son. When will I stop counting the days since he left us? It's torture, and yet I just can't stop doing it. Every sunrise is a sunrise without him and every evening marks the end of another day that he wasn't here with us. He would have been 9 weeks and three days old today. I don't even know what a 9-week old would be doing.

I've still never even changed a diaper.

I'm trying so hard to be happy -- to count the many, many blessings I have -- but it's so hard sometimes. I think I'm fine and then "BLAM" -- a sneak attack. Like last night at the video store; We were hunting for a movie and suddenly I was engulfed by a raggedy looking gang of pre-teen boys. They looked like hooligans in the making -- scraggly long hair, ill-fitting clothes and that "up to no good" gleam in most of their eyes. And I almost started to cry. All I could think was, "Thomas will never be that old. He'll never be wandering aimlessly through a video store trying to decide whether to get a funny or scary movie with his friends on a rainy Friday night in May."

I wanted to hug those boys -- those probably smelly, unkempt, silly boys. The dark, curly-haired fellow seemed to be the one trying to keep the rest in line and focused, continuously asking the group, "So, what are we getting? Are we getting a funny movie or a scary one?" He also chastised one boy for spending all his money (presumably renting the video was going to be a group effort). In the end the rag-tag band left the store without anything to watch. Who knows what they were going to get up to -- or in to -- after leaving Blockbuster.

Boys. I had one too. Mine is wearing a lacy, light green sweater and bonnet his Grandma knitted for him and a ducky sleeper his Auntie bought for him. He's resting with his Great-grandparents in a cemetery not far from my old home with a Thomas the Tank Engine toy from Daddy and a tiny cross that says "God Bless Baby" from Mommy.

Oh God this is so wrong. Why isn't my boy going to have the chance to wander around a video store with his friends, snickering at video covers with pretty girls on them and searching his pockets for loose change to add to the pot? Why didn't he have the chance to grow up? Why? Why did our boy die?

Blessings -- I have so many blessings. But once upon a time I had one of the sweetest blessing of all.

Mother's Day 2005

My arms feel so empty.

Head Space

I'm feeling better about God these days. I had an epiphany a few days ago and a lot of the anger I was harbouring towards him is gone. (I'm betting he likes me a lot more now too.)

I'd kind of hoped that when the anger faded some of the sorrow would go along with it, but it seems the lack of anger has just left more room for pain. Without the anger to focus on (and the relentless "Why, God?? Why??" loop that was playing over and over in my mind) there's more space in my head for me to simply miss my son like crazy.

I just wish I could cuddle him one last time -- now, now that I'm healthy and lucid. I would stare at him and memorize every feature. I'd smell him -- I'd drink in his scent so I'd never forget it. I'd look at his tiny, perfect hands and feet and kiss every finger and toe. I'd touch his face, feeling the downy softness of the little man my beloved and I made.

I wish I could have him back for just one sweet moment. Mostly I wish that somehow I could have protected him so that we could have had him for a whole lifetime.

Missing in action

I miss being pregnant and I miss my little boy so much it's almost unbearable sometimes. I guess I'll ache for him for the rest of my life. And to be honest, I wouldn't have it any other way. The dull ache of my sorrow is all I have left of him.

Oh my God I miss him.

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to (or not)

I turned 35 today. Aside from the fact that I can't believe I'm this old (seriously, HOW did this happen??) I can't believe I spent this day without my son. I thought a lot about it towards the end of my pregnancy. I thought about the fact that I would have my baby in my arms on my 35th birthday -- that I would finally be a Mommy. I knew I wouldn't care what presents I got or what festivities anyone did or didn't have planned because my beloved and I would have our son. That's all I wanted. Just my little family around me as I rang in a new year.

Well we all know that didn't happen. And I single-handedly made this one of the most depressing birthdays ever. About two weeks after Thomas died my beloved asked me what I wanted for my birthday while we were out for a drive, trying desperately to distract ourselves from the unending pain of our grief. I told him I didn't want anything because the only thing I wanted I couldn't have. Eventually my Mom and my sister also asked what I'd like for my birthday. I told them the same thing. I wanted to be with them to mark the occasion, but I didn't want gifts.

Somehow this turned into "She doesn't want to have a birthday at all". That's never what I had in mind. In fact, my feelings about this day had changed over the ensuing four weeks and I was starting to feel that it might be nice, maybe even uplifting, to have a present or two. But the damage was done. I'd successfully put a pall over the day. My Mom called to wish me a happy birthday, but prefaced it with "I know you don't want to hear this, but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday." Granted, I knew it wasn't going to be the very happiest birthday ever, but who doesn't want to hear their Mom wish them a happy birthday? I'd have been crushed if she hadn't called today.

I'm an idiot. A depressing and, now, depressed idiot. The sun is setting on my 35th birthday and I made it a miserable one. If it hadn't been for my beloved (who bought me a beautiful necklace and some gardening books, made me breakfast, took me out for lunch and asked me all day long what I wanted to do next in a vain attempt to help me have a good day) I'm sure I'd have spent the day in a pool of my own tears and snot.

By some miracle I haven't cried today. I'm not really sure why. Maybe, at 35, I just don't have the energy or maybe the love of a good man has kept my spirits above the sobbing point. Or maybe, like a very good friend's 3-year old said, Thomas "is in heaven helping God" and they've spent the day working to get me through one of the hardest birthdays ever.

So thank you my beloved, my sweet Thomas and God. What would I do without you?

"Thanks For Trying"

I picked up an orange pop today. I didn't notice the "check under the cap -- you could be a winner" message on the label until I was in the car. It went on to say that I had a 1 in 5 chance of winning a Pepsi and a slim chance of winning a mini iPod. Foolishly believing that after everything we've been through we deserve to win something (anything -- even a friggin' can of Pepsi) I pick, pick, picked away at the plastic cap liner until it finally came loose.

"Thanks for trying". That's what it said in screaming white letters on a happy blue background.

"Thanks for trying". Well isn't that just fan-freakin-tastic. And if that doesn't just sum up my life these days. "Thanks for trying".

Why does it feel like the world is laughing at me today?

Losing your son isn't funny...

...so why am I laughing?

Okay, obviously I'm not laughing at that, but I AM laughing -- at my beloved, at funny stuff on TV, at the book I'm currently reading -- at all kinds of things. The thing of it is, I'm laughing but all the while I'm wondering how I can possibly find anything funny when my little boy is gone.

Sometimes I'll find myself laughing that gut-busting kind of laugh that makes you feel so incredibly good, only to have it replaced by crushing guilt when I remember that it hasn't even been six weeks. How can I betray my son by laughing -- by moving on?

I asked my beloved if he feels the same guilt. He looked confused, and then said no. He has come to terms with what I'm still stuggling with. He knows that we have no choice BUT to go on -- that Thomas would want us to go on. He knows that to stay mired in the unbearable grief we felt as we held our dying son is a waste of our lives. He knows that we have a lifetime to go, a lifetime that may very well be filled with happiness as incredible as this current sadness is horrible, and to squander the opportunity to be happy just doesn't make sense.

He's right. Of course he's right. So why do I still feel guilty when I laugh?

Still no answer

My beloved suggested that perhaps God was asleep at the wheel. After stepping far, far away from him to avoid being hit by the bolt of lightning, I laughed. It wasn't a jolly belly laugh though. It was more of a knowing chuckle paired with an eye roll. I know God had a reason, I just can't for the life of me figure out what it was.

And he still hasn't answered my question. I still don't know where I go from here. Maybe I'm not listening hard enough (God's whisper is awfully quiet sometimes), or maybe he hasn't gotten around to telling me yet, but I still don't know where I'm headed.

I know I'm not ready to consider getting pregnant again just yet. I've been pregnant on and off since 2003 and I have nothing to show for it except a slightly purple scar, a slight incontinence issue, a very fragile psyche, and some gut-wrenching pictures of the world's most beautiful and perfect baby boy. After two miscarriages and then losing Thomas, I don't know if or when I'll be ready to travel down that road again.

But the thing is, if don't make that journey, I'll never again have the chance to look into the face of my own child and see bits of me and bits of my beloved and know that our love created a life.

Poor, sweet Thomas. It was horrific seeing him hooked up to so much machinery and even more horrific knowing he wasn't really there at all -- but I can still feel the warmth of his little head under my hand as I touched him and stared, with awe, at the tiny person we'd made.

God, if that's you, whisper a little louder, okay?

Um, God?

Where do I go from here?

How do I make it feel real?

When your son only lives for 20 hours and you spend most of that time in a morphine induced slumber, how do you make it feel real after the fact? It’s been almost 5 weeks since my little man came and went, and when I look at pictures of my beautiful son it’s like I’m looking at a child I don’t know. I mean, he has my nose, plain as day, and he has my beloved’s chin and body shape – he obviously belongs to us – but I don’t know him. I never got to hear him cry or coo, I never rocked him to sleep, I never changed his diaper - the poor little thing never even opened his eyes.

We had no bonding time. I was in recovery for four hours after the birth – slipping in and out of said morphine induced slumber – and when I did see him for a precious few moments before being taken to my room, I feel asleep. I feel asleep while my son struggled for life. He lay in his little incubator hooked up to every piece of machinery imaginable and I lay on a stretcher beside him…and fell asleep.

I slept through the night and didn’t see him again until about 12:30pm the next day, by which time we knew there was no hope. No brain activity. That’s what they told us. The only activity in his brain was producing seizures that were wracking his tiny, perfect body. And so we decided to let him go. And I held him, for the first time, as he died.

But even then I couldn’t stay awake. The loss of blood, shock and morphine once again stole time from me and my son that I’ll never get back. When they told us it could take two hours for him to die I asked if they could take him back and call us when the time was close. I wanted to hold my son while he slipped away but I was too weak to wait it out in the tiny, cluttered office they let us use. I needed to rest. I couldn’t stay awake.

In the end, he went without us there. It happened faster than they thought and our little boy died in the special care nursery without us. It breaks my heart – but what I almost can’t bear is the fact that he never knew we were there at all. He was brain dead. I held him and he never felt my arms. I kissed him and he never felt my lips. I loved him and he never knew it. I love him still – with all my heart.

I know that now, finally, he knows. But now I don’t know him. I remember him inside me, kicking and rolling and poking, and I remember the grainy images on the countless ultrasounds I had. That’s the boy I know.

So how do I make it real? How do I connect the boy I know to the heartbreakingly beautiful boy in the pictures? Will I ever make the connection? Will I go crazy trying? Will it all fall into place and somehow make sense one day? I guess all I can do is hope and pray that it will, one blissful day.