Neat picture-can you see the baby?

Thank you!!!

We just went over the 1000 mark on the number of hits my blog has gotten. It has been less than a month since I started it. I just wanted to say thank you to all my friends who care enough to keep up with what’s going on, and thank you to those I don’t know for visiting and writing to me. The only thing that makes this road any easier is knowing that I don’t have to walk down it alone. Thank you everyone! =) Deanna

No Second Chances

My wish list started growing at a crazy rate since Eliana died. It’s full of things that I wish I had done differently, or done better, or not done, or known. There are things I wish I had asked, or said, or thought about. There are things I wish I could understand, and things I wish I had never learned. And there are plenty of things I just plain wish were not as they were. But we all know that wishes don’t always come true, and unfortunately for me, my wishes will never be granted.

I wish I had grown a healthy baby, one whose own body had not betrayed us both. I wish she was as perfect on the inside as she was on the outside. I wish I had never taken her to the hospital. I wish I had taken her to the hospital sooner. I wish I had not agreed to the surgery. I wish the surgery had worked. I wish I had never put her down even for a second. I wish I had taken videos of her instead of just pictures. I wish I had put off the surgery for a couple weeks so I would have had more time with her. I wish I had never handed her over to them at all. I wish I had read less, watched TV less, and just paid even more attention to her. I wish I had listened to my gut instinct about what was going to happen, so I could have taken that into account in our decision making. I wish I had broken the rules more often and slept with her next to me. I wish I had taken more time before taking her off the machines. I wish I had taken more time after taking her off the machines. I wish that no matter what we decided, that it would have had a better outcome. Above all else, I wish that I could have my baby back.

I wish that I did not know first-hand that sometimes babies die. I wish that I did not know what it feels like to have my child take her last breath in my arms. I wish the pain was not eating me up inside. I wish I didn’t wish that I could follow her. I wish that wishes came true. And I wish I didn’t know that sometimes there are no second chances.

Verse from a poem:

I saw part of Four Weddings and a Funeral a couple days ago. The poem that was read had me in tears. I wanted to share the last verse with you. I think it really gets across the feeling of despair caused by losing someone you love. If you want to read the whole poem online it’s called Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Invisible Wounds

I was out yesterday and there was a woman walking around with her baby girl asleep in a sling. The baby was probably about three months old, and was chubby and pink and beautiful. I had to force myself to not stare at them the whole time we were there. My eyes kept being drawn to this woman’s baby and I was hoping that she wouldn’t notice. Every time I looked I’d tell myself that I had to stop or I was going to end up crying and really freaking the lady out.

I was so jealous of this woman with her perfect baby. What about my baby? I want my baby back. I want my baby to get chubby. I want to take my baby out and know that strangers are admiring her. I want to walk around with my baby in a sling. I want to glance down at my baby’s sweet sleeping face. I want to be able to whine about how difficult it is to get anything done while taking care of my baby.

I was terrified this lady would see my desperate hunger each time I looked at her child. I am so consumed by my grief that it feels like it must be radiating out of me. It seems that it is so huge and monstrous that other people must be able to see the pain that is oozing out of my every pore. It must show on my face that my heart is broken and bleeding. It must be obvious to everyone that my precious Eliana has died.

But it’s not. It’s not obvious at all. I’m just the creepy woman who wouldn’t stop staring at the baby, the woman silently screaming over invisible wounds.

Lessons From Lilly

Running around our house is a cat named Lilly. Sadly enough for him, he’s male. You can blame the discrepancy between the cat’s name and it’s gender on my foo foo 4 year old. In Elisabeth’s world, all things good are female. If it can’t wear pink, what good is it?? She tells me she does not like boys. Well, except Daddy…. And her friend Adam…. And her friend Michael…. And…. well, you get the point. Soooo, despite my best efforts to convince her otherwise, she continues to insist that Lilly is a girl. I’m not quite ready to show her the physical proof just yet, so for better or worse, Lilly he will remain.

But back to the point of this post. Eliana and Lilly spent part of their babyhood together. When I put Eliana in the bouncy, he would climb in there, curl up next to Eliana, and start purring. It seemed to comfort both of them, and they would usually fall asleep like that. It was one of the sweetest things I think I’ve ever seen. As a matter of fact, Eliana would not sleep in the bouncy unless Lilly was lying in there with her.

The night I came home from the hospital without Eliana I started to walk in the front door, and the first thing I saw was this cat. I lost it. I couldn’t even walk in the house. I ran back out into the front yard sobbing. I had a really hard time even looking at Lilly for a while afterwards. It seemed so unfair. The stupid cat got to live, but my baby didn’t. He will get to grow up, but my baby never will.

As the days passed, the cat became kind of a comfort to me. I would look at him, and know that Eliana had, in some vague sort of way, loved him. He gave her warmth and contact and companionship during those few times I actually put her down. They were buddies. It’s very important to me to try to hold onto anything and everything that Eliana ever touched. He both hurts me and helps me, and I will never be able to part with him.

A couple days ago, I sat down for a few minutes, and Lilly was stretched out there. I picked him up, something I haven’t done very often since losing Eliana. Being Elisabeth’s cat, he is well-trained in the ability to lie in your arms belly up, just like a baby, and look perfectly happy while doing so. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, trying to pretend, trying to remember what it felt like to have her in my arms.

I lost it again. I started crying, couldn’t stop, and ended up in the bathroom for a while. It wouldn’t have been so bad, if not for the fact that we had quite a few people over at the time. They, unfortunately, have experienced the same kind of loss that I have, so I guess it wasn’t hugely shocking for them when I came back out all tear-stained and hoarse. They understand just how horrible this feels. Most people, thankfully, never will.

This is what I mean by the “others”. My world is divided into two types of people now. There are those who have experienced the loss of a child, and those who have not. As much as someone may love me, as much as they may want to try to comfort me, as much as they want to say the right thing, have the right words, the others will always be hindered by their complete lack of knowledge of what this really feels like.

When I was in the hospital, I thought a lot about how I would feel if Eliana died. I thought I knew. I thought I had answers. I thought I went through all the scenarios. But the truth is, that absolutely nothing, no amount of thinking or planning or wondering, could have prepared me for the brutal reality of what this actually feels like. Nothing. And there is absolutely no way that the others could possibly understand what I am going through, no matter how sincerely they try to imagine what it would feel like if it happened to them.

The others are able to forget Eliana for a few minutes, hours, or days at a time. I can’t. She is like a filter that I see the world through now, and she colors everything I see. The others are able enjoy their children, and not feel conflicted by joy and jealousy. I love my girls, but why can’t Eliana grow up to do the things they’re doing right now? The others are able to live their lives without hurting so bad death seems like a better alternative. How can anyone survive this much pain? And my guess is that the others are able to hold their cats without crying all over them. I, apparently, cannot.

I wish the others would just stop, and close their mouths back up, before they tell me that they understand how I feel. Because they don’t. And I hope they never do. I really hope for their sakes that they get to remain as clueless about this endless aching as Lilly is. But at least Lilly doesn’t try to tell me he knows how I feel. He just sits with me and lets me cry. Why can’t the others figure out how to do this?

More Than I Can Handle

Warning-bitter post ahead:

I can’t begin to tell you how maddening it is when someone comes at me with “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.” This inevitably rolls off the tongue of someone who has never lost a child. I’m sure there are some people who have lost a child who truly believe this, but at least they have the good sense not to say it to me less than 2 months after my baby died.

I sit and think on these sorts of comments, made by people who are still whole, and who get to tuck all their children in at night. I have lots of time to think about it, since I don’t have a baby to take care of now. And I wonder why I got to be the lucky one. Oh, boy, thank goodness I’m strong enough that God thought I could handle it if He killed my baby. I guess I should be grateful He had that much confidence in me, right?

Well, who knows. Maybe I am strong enough to handle it. But what about all the people who aren’t? What about the people who become alcoholics in their desperation to numb some of the pain? Or who get addicted to sleeping pills because they can’t sleep at night anymore and are exhausted? Or who take their own lives in a last ditch attempt to escape the unbearable? Or those who go completely crazy and end up in a mental hospital? Or who just never recover from the loss and spend the rest of their lives as empty shells of their former selves? What about them?

Did God make a mistake? Whoops, maybe that person couldn’t handle it after all. Oh well, guess He’ll have to find someone else to snatch a baby from. I mean, does anyone really think about what they are saying before they say it? Has anyone thought out the implications of this phrase they so flippantly toss out at me?

I can already hear the argument coming back. Well, maybe those people weren’t Christians. Maybe their faith was weak. Maybe they were faking it. Fine, maybe that’s true. But if it is, then it invalidates the whole concept. It would mean that He did in fact give them more than they could handle. You would think He would know, being God and all, that those who don’t believe in Him are less able to handle it. Or are all bets off if they’re not Godly enough? For unbelievers it’s random bad luck, but for Christians it’s a test anyone should be honored to take?

People keep telling me how strong I am, that I’m doing such a great job getting through this. I guess if that’s true then I have a lot of work ahead of me. I’d better get started right away trying to make myself weaker so He doesn’t come and take my other kids too. ‘Cause you know He wouldn’t give me more than I could handle.

Sea of Grief

I’m drowning again. That’s the horrible thing about living in these uncharted waters. They are totally unpredictable. The surface will be calm for a couple days. I’ll bob along, thinking I’m handling everything pretty well. I might even venture to take a little swim, try to move away from this spot where I seem to be permanently tethered, like some sort of pitiful human buoy.

Then BOOM. The thunder crack is so loud it feels like my head is going to split open. I know what’s coming and I cringe. The storm is building inside my mind, inside my heart, but no one else can see it or feel it but me.

The lightning strikes, electrifying everything around me-my relationship with my husband, my friends, my daughters, strangers. My body feels like it’s on fire, burning with all the raw emotion that losing a child brings. The current racing through me doesn’t hurt just me. It’s ready to leap to anyone I come in contact with. I’m charged with pain and couldn’t contain it even if I tried.

The clouds start rolling in, covering any light I thought I was starting to see. They build and build until I can’t see anything else, only my anger and sorrow and grief.

The rain starts, if you can dare to call this downpour by so gentle a word. It stings at first, thousands of tiny pinpricks of pain, all the memories of her life and death. It starts raining harder, all the despair pouring out, burning my eyes, but freezing my soul. It seems it couldn’t possibly get worse, but it does. The tears won’t stop. The flood is covering everything, washing away all the broken scraps from the shipwreck of my old life, my old self. I have nothing left to cling to.

The waves begin to crash. I struggle to stay afloat, but they keep pulling me under. They toss me back and forth, pulling me, pushing me. I gasp for air, and am only choked by the sea for my efforts. I can’t breathe, can’t think. I’m drowning, and there is no one around who can save me.

I begin to think how much easier it would be to give in to this sea, to just quit fighting it and let it take me. Would I float down, down, peacefully to the bottom? Would I be able to see her face again, there in the depths, far away from the storm raging on the surface? Would she be there waiting for me?

But, for better or worse, the human body, the human spirit, won’t give up without a fight. The primitive takes over and drags me back up to the air. The storm has once again exhausted itself and the waters have calmed. A single, tiny, blinding shaft of light forces its way through the clouds. It hurts. I don’t want to look. The thought of living once again in the light makes me ache almost as much as trying to live through the storms. Why should I get to experience the sunshine when she never will?

My battered body once again bobs gently in the waters. I know that someday, somehow, a long time from now, the sea will finally be done with me. It will wash me up onto the shore, and I will have to learn to walk again on the land.

I will have to deal with the people who live there, the ones who have never been tossed into the ocean, never lived through its furies. They are as foreign to me now as I am to them. How could they possibly understand when they’ve only watched from the water’s edge? How will they help but recoil from this broken figure dripping with anguish and regret? Will we even be able to understand each other’s language anymore, when they speak of hope, and I speak of hopelessness?

Maybe someday I will be able to sit in the sand again and watch the storm without it crushing my soul in the waves. Maybe someday the rains will fall softly again, and I’ll be able to think of her with a smile. Maybe someday I’ll be able to see the beauty again, when I’m not swallowed up by the suffocating grayness of the clouds. Maybe someday I will be able to take the wreckage of my loss, and build it into something new, something worthwhile, something meaningful. Maybe. Someday. But for now I must go on, swimming in my sea of grief.