Sometimes I wonder who's still reading. I write for me. I write because at least for now, this form of therapy keeps me on the friendly side of sanity.
But I wonder, after all this time, who is still out there. I'm not fishing for reassurances or asking people to reveal themselves. If you're here, I'm glad. If you're not, that's okay too. Truly.
But sometimes I wonder. So many people have moved past the spot where I'm still standing. And I just wonder what possible relevance anything I have to say has for the lucky ones who are no longer walking this road with me.
While I know this is not true, I sometimes feel like I'm the only person in this sad little blogging community who is always standing still. Never moving anywhere. I've worn down a neat little trench from all the pacing, and spend all my time waving goodbye to people who were once in the trench with me. They've either gone on to birth or adopt a living child, or have made peace with the reality of never adding another child to their family. Either way, they've moved on.
And I'm still here. I know it's not a race or a competition or anything else equally distasteful. It's just life, and I'm ecstatic when it lurches forward positively for someone else - particularly after struggles and losses and ungodly sorrow.
But I wonder why I always seem to be standing in the same spot day after week after month after year. Just losing and grieving and not moving anywhere.
Don't get me wrong, seeing other people move on is healing. Seeing the dreams of shattered people finally realized and watching those people glue a tiny piece of their hearts back together in the process is wonderful. It makes me see that there is hope and justice and peace. Eventually.
Sometimes.
It's just that I'm still here in the trench. In no man's land. And it's lonely sometimes.
I need to make it very, very clear that I do not begrudge anyone this happiness. This is what I WANT for all the incredible friends I've made since my world shattered and I discovered this community of similarly wounded souls. I want it so much for each of them.
I just happen to want it for me too. One way or another.
And I'm tired of standing here by myself waiting.
I'm sick today, and feeling extremely sorry for myself (just in case you hadn't noticed).
41 comments:
I have felt the same way for over two years. I have lurked and always mean to start a blog so I can comment but still never seem to get to it. I finally realized I didn't need one. I am sorry for all of your grief and pain. I have been in this pit of losses and then infertility since Oct 05. It is hard to keep hope up over a period of years. Many people have a baby pretty quickly after their loss so they don't have the annual anniversaries while still in the same place. I had the two year anniversary last month and still cannot believe I do not have a living child. Catherine's post made me just sob yesterday because I feel like many of us cannot get to a better place until we bring a baby home. Please feel free to email me anytime.
I have never felt like you begrudge me anything, not even a tiny little bit.
I think I will visit your blog for as long as you keep at it. There is something so poignant about the way you write and then once in a while you are just plain funny (the laughing with you rather than at you kind of funny).
It's strange but I don't feel like I've moved on. I am endlessly thankful for my daughter (and son) but I haven't moved past still feeling that hugh sense of loss that came with each of the miscarriages. I'm still searching a little for where to put all that sorrow. I'm sure that no matter where you end up going, you will never move past Thomas and all of the others. They simply stay with you. Or maybe it's just me.
DinoD
I understand.
As reader, I'm definitely in the trench with you.
This is hard to admit but I have lost interest in the bloggers who have gone on to have live babies.
I can identify with losing a baby near birth, with the agony of pregnancy after a loss and with miscarriage.
But having a healthy, live baby?
Never happened to me and I'm starting to think it never will.
Yeah, I'm sick and self-pitying today, too.
But don't go - I'd miss your wit, your grace and the way, on better days, that you keep Thomas's memory and the flame of hope alive.
I'm here, though I rarely comment--honestly? I'm just not sure what to say.
Like Megan, I'm there with you, too. I stopped posting to my own blog for some of those very you mentioned. If it still helps you to get out certain feelings, then your blog is serving its purpose. And I guarantee you that there are many others walking a similar path who are comforted by reading your words, knowing that they are not alone.
I want it for you too. So much more than I can ever tell you. As I've said before, I don't want to cause you any unnecessary pain. So I read but don't comment often.
If it means anything...even now, having a new little one here with me, I feel your words in my heart...and I thank you for sharing them.
The pain of loss can be isolating...no matter where you started or where you end up. Even though our stories will never be "the same," I hope you know that you will never be alone. I'm so sorry for all that you have had to endure. And I wish for the realization of your dreams very very soon.
msfitzita, I'm so completely in no man's land it isn't even funny. I'm frozen in the place I'm in too. So, you're really not so completely alone--not that I wish anyone entry into this "limbo hell" I'm in.
And I read your blog because I like it and because you write so many things that I end up nodding my head in agreement to as I'm reading them. Really everyone in the coffee shop must think I'm insane--especially when your words make me laugh out loud.
That came out wrong...today's post isn't causing chuckles...it's just that a lot of your posts have a humour that I like.
I come here everyday to see if you have something to say even though I *talk* to you pretty much every day too. I come here because I love you and because I love the way you write and because I want to hear about how you feel inside, especially the deep feelings you might not want to say in another areana, so that if you are hurting a lot that day I might be able to say some small thing that would lift your spirits or let you know that you are loved or to tell you that Thomas is not forgotton, when you most need to hear it.
I am sorry you are sick, I really would love to come over and make you a bed on the sofa and bring you snacks and trashy magazines.
I've been reading along for about half a year or so; you write so eloquently about your grief, and even though the grief that I got stuck in was of a different nature and of less intensity, I can relate to that "stuck in one place" feeling. For some reason it has come to matter to me how you're doing.
I'm here. As long as you write, I'll read, and anytime you need me, I'm here.
I made a big pot of chicken soup tonight, and I wish we lived closer so I could bring you some.
I know it's not much, but I'm sending H&S and virtual chicken soup your way...
I'm out here too. I've tried to blog but most of the time I just don't have it in me. I've commented on your blog before but I feel that I am intruding since I don't keep up my own blog. I do read your blog a lot and I have cried with you and laughed with you. You have definitely helped me to realize that I (and you) are not alone in this.
I read your blog because everyone else wants to stop talking about it...because everyone wants to pretend it is okay. You speak the truth-healing a little bit each week but never losing the love you have for your beautiful son.
Katie
I'm here. And I'm stuck right along with you.
You write so movingly about your losses that I come here to help make sense of my feelings. Often, you soothe my soul. Someone out there not only understands but puts things into words so much more eloquently than I ever could.
I really, really hope that all your future dreams come true. I wish I could make your past ones have come true too. In the meantime, i promise you you're not alone. Please keep writing. And I hope you feel better soon.
Maybe we are each in our own trenches and it just takes a long time to find each other. I'll poke my head over the top and wave!
But by F*&K i hate this trench.
Lurker coming out...
I check your blog every day. Sometimes I check it two or more times in a day. I get worried about you when you haven't written for couple of days. I love your posts and you seem to be able to put your thoughts down in such a way that I feel like they are my thoughts...only better.
I am not where you are, but I don't think I ever was. Losing my son to stillbirth was and continues to be the most horrific experience of my life.
I come on this blog several times a day for one reason. The happy ending. I know it will happen. You see, I don't read novels that don't have happy endings. I refuse to do so. You have me hooked and I cannot put this book down until the happily ever after part.... (well...somewhat happily ever after)
I'm not going anywhere. That's a promise. And a sentence.
I'm around. I don't say much because I don't really think there IS anything I can say that will help.
I'm still here. I want it to happen for you as well, and I think of you often.
I am here.
I am not sure you can count me to be in the same trench as you, since I do have a living child. But you know that many times you have spoken the words that touched me deeply. I am here, and even if I get to bring a baby home one day I am not going anywhere. We never leave our own behind. Like the marines, don't you know?
I still read. I read because I want a happy ending for you.
I'm here too. It seems there are many of us still left in the trenches, hoping our dreams will come true.
Even though this rollercoaster sucks so much, it helps that there are others beside us who know the pain and heartache. It also helps when people like you are true and honest in sharing your experiences.
Oh, your post just hit me in the tummy. I am here in the trenches, too. There are still so many of us here, and I don't mean anything against anybody, but man, I would pay to get out of this trench. . . and then I would take you all with me. I hate the trench. I hate that we are stuck here.
But in the meantime, at least we have good company.
I'm here. Most of the time, I just don't have anything of wisdom or comfort to say.
I keep reading because I want to see your happy ending. I know it's coming.
I come back to your blog for many reasons: because of your honesty; because of your writing; because I remember being where you are and feeling the way you do. I am touched by the way you honor your children and your readers by sharing your experiences so eloquently.
You wrote that so many people have moved past the spot where you are still standing. That's true, but please remember that others are just starting down the road, and your words will ease their loneliness.
And there are people like me, who stand with one foot on one path, and one foot on the other. I will always be a part of two worlds: bereaved mother and mother. When I struggled with infertility and then lost my daughter, those experiences shaped me in a way that remains permanent, that doesn't change even though my son is here.
I'm sorry things are so rough for you. It isn't fair.
I'm here too, hoping you are feeling a tiny bit better today.
The others who have posted before me have said it so well, you move me with your words (sometimes to tears). Though I've not walked the path you have I learn from you every day.
Hang in there CK!
I care too much to somehow leave you behind. I also marvel at you and so many aspects of your spirit. I honestly think of you every day and I feel as if we are good friends, though we have never met. I hope that this feeling of stagnancy is short lived, and I hope it is because something happens in your life to move you in a direction that leaves you refreshed. Perhaps these virtual messages of love can be of some small help in that way.
Much, much love.
I'm here too.
I don't comment all the time because you say things so well there's nothing to add. I've cried with you, laughed with you and prayed for you...and will continue to as long as you post.
I hope you feel better.
I check your blog every day. I don't blog, I just lurk on deadbaby blogs.
I'm here. I check in on you almost every day.
I hope today is a good day.
I am here... everyday... usually multiple times per day. While I am not in your situation I feel like I have been with you from the beginning and will always be here, wondering how you are doing and hoping and praying for your happy ending.
-- JPup
I am in a different trench somewhere to your right (lol). I have the greatest respect for you, that you can see others move on and be happy. Often I avoid places where I will run into others who have beaten the demons I still struggle to overcome. I just don't have the strength to feel happy for them, I just feel jealous. That little green monster is my constant companion these days.
Feel better soon neighbour.
I am here. Not in your situation, but here, checking in, thinking about you & Thomas, most every single day.
I'm still here, still reading (even though late sometime)
I'm amazed that one person can still have so much hope after so much heartache.
I don't comment because I often don't know what to say, but I'm thinking of you often.
Sometimes i wonder what i can say to you that would be helpful at this point... I understand what you are saying in this post, and am often wishing that you were 'moving forward' in a more obvious way... It's incredibly hard to combine losses with difficulty getting pregnant. Anything you are feeling is warranted. But as you can see many people are still reading. Many hugs to you.
Still reading ;) and also still waiting for you to get out f that trench...it will happen, in one way or another.
I'm sorry you are sick, and hope it goes away quickly.
Hi from a lurker, not sure if I commented before. Anyway, I'm so sorry you are stuck in "no man's land." I read because I think you're interesting and that something interesting will happen to you sometime in the future - I like to follow people's journeys and you've certainly had one. No one can know what it's like in your shoes. The only thing I can say is that it's helping me to focus on the things I can control and not the things I can't....it probably rings really empty to say that and it's not meant as advice, it's just what's working for me.
I'll continue to read.
Wishing you the best,
Sarah
I'm here. I have been reading your blog for over 2 years. I found your sister on a teacher site and our students wrote to each other one year as pen pals. I believe she originally wanted me to see some pictures from your site and thats how I found your blog.
I am not in the same position as you, but I love your sense of humor and your writing style. That's why I keep coming back. I want you and your beloved to have a happy ending.
I think of you often even though we've never met.
i'm still here...reading, weeping, laughing...
I know I am coming to this late, but feel the need to comment.
First of all, I know you weren't fishing for comments, but the response to this post makes it very clear to me that you are far from alone.
I am still here. It is hard for me that the amount of time I have to write my blog and to read/comment on the blogs I follow is so minimal since my move. But I do check in on you whenever I get the chance. Without meaning to sound creepy, I think of you as a friend. I care deeply about how you are and what happens to you. I'll be here no matter what the future holds.
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