Today I went to the doctor. I’ve been sick since Sunday; fever, achy, the whole nine yards. I’ve also had lower back pain since Monday morning. I was diagnosed with a massive (or I believe the word she used was impressive) sinus infection, the flu (not the bacon type) and I’ve pinched my sciatic nerve. Oh, and I’m not pregnant.
Yeah.
For two and a half weeks, I thought I might be. But I’m not.
I’m angry. I am so angry right now. Angry at the world. Angry at my body for making me sick and late at the same time, so I confused the two. Angry that it just isn’t easier. Angry that my fucktard of a cousin can keep having kids (each with a different dad, each one dumber and less employable than the last) that she doesn’t want, mostly neglects and lets the government pay for, but that it isn’t easy for me. I am angry at myself for how much I believed in something, just because I want it to be true. Angry.
Mostly though, I’m sad. Very, very sad. Because I wanted to be pregnant, very much so. I wanted it so bad and it hurts. I felt my heart shatter into pieces when my doctor told me. I wanted a baby. I want a baby. I want to be pregnant right now. I would have done anything to change her answer. I cried when I called my husband. I cried when I called my mother. I cried as I called my best friend. I am crying as I write this.
It’s more than just this time though. It’s not that easy. I should be complaining to you all right now about the end of my pregnancy. I should be planning into my holidays the very likelihood of going into labor on Christmas. I should be buying a little stocking and baby’s first Christmas ornament, just in case the baby came a bit early. If I’d not miscarried in April, I’d be so close right now. But it wasn’t meant to be.
It doesn’t matter how many kids you have or don’t have. When you want a baby, when you want to add to your family and you can’t seem to be able too, it’s a horribly empty feeling. When you think you are pregnant for a few weeks and you are so thrilled, only to find out you are not, it is so sad. In fact, it is heartbreaking.
I am heartbroken tonight. Sick and broken.
He was eight years old when they finally made it to Ellis Island. It had taken them nearly a year to get there. Their journey started in Poland. I believe Krakow, but I’m not 100% sure.**
His grandfather had been talking about leaving for months, years even. Trying to convince the family to come with him. He had money, he could pay everyone’s way. Old crazy man is what they said to him. The German’s won’t come here. If they do, we’ll pay them. Not sure why they believed that would work, but they did.***
The boy was not yet seven when his father was killed. Killed is the nice word. Murdered is more accurate. They were Jews. In Poland. In the late 30′s. He was shot coming out of the temple. He’d been talking to the Rabbi about performing a Bris on his newborn son.
The next week, was when they left. They left at night. Hidden by a friend. A non-Jewish friend. The boy, his mother, his new baby brother and his grandfather, were the only one’s who left. The grandfather had convinced his daughter to leave it all behind. To leave with him, to save her sons.
The friend drove all night. He took them to another friend. After a few more days, they were taken, again at night, to another friend. Sometimes they stayed places weeks, sometimes days. It just depended on where the Germans were in the moment.
When they arrived in France, the grandfather “lost” his passport. A man his age wasn’t allowed passage to America, so he pretended to be his dead son-in-law. It took them a few months to get new papers and then a few more months to get on a ship to America. This was before Internet, hell even before television. The grandfather had tons of money, all on his person (he was a loom builder and a weaver. He wove the money into the lining of all of their clothes) but he wasn’t able to speed up the process.
Upon arriving on Ellis Island, the grandfather once again “lost” his papers. He claimed entry in his own name. Being that he’d already made the trip and was perfectly healthy, he was allowed to stay. They weren’t happy with his age, but they let it go. (whatever. The man lived to be 105 years old.) He changed their last name, left their religion behind and became Americans.
Eight years old. The little boy was eight years old. All innocence he’d previously had was completely gone by then. He’d watched his father get shot and subsequently buried. He’d helped his grandfather and his mother with his baby brother. His baby brother is a whole other story. He was well…now we’d say disabled. Brain damaged is the reality. The doctor who had delivered him and used too much force with the forceps is the story. No idea how valid it is. He was emotionally stuck at three years old, until the day he died at 27.
The little boy was a bit of a schmoozer. He’d learned some tricks on the boat. He’d found his way to get by in life. The bullshit. He was great at it. He could sell you your own mother if he wanted too. Even if he’d never met her. He was hardened by life. By the circumstances beyond his control. Nothing could change that. Not the little house in New Jersey that his mother and grandfather bought. Not the man who came into their lives a year later. The man was a great man, but the little boy was already hardened. He’d seen too much.
He wasn’t a bad person. He didn’t grow up to be a bad man. Just one who was constantly looking for the easy way. The easy money.
He worked so many different jobs and had so many different careers that I couldn’t even begin to name them all. I know he was in the Air Force during Korea. I know he once was a radio jockey for a few years. The rest is hazy. In his early twenties, he met a woman who was a bit older and eventually married her, once he got her pregnant. He left her after seven years of marriage and right after their forth child was born. He was at times a bit abusive. He was a womanizer. He was an occasional drunk. He was the guy who would call his kids, tell them he was coming and leave them sitting on the front porch.
Then I was born. See, that man…the little boy, the man he became; he was my grandfather. My father was his first born and I was his first born grandchild.
With me, he became a new man. A man who made promises and kept them. An involved participant in someone else’s life. A baby-sitter, a playmate, a soft spoken disciplinarian. He was patient and kind and willing to do anything for me. He was open with his love. For me. For my brothers. He took the term grandfather very seriously.
My grandfather had a hard life. When he came to this country he was a boy. But a boy who’d lost all innocence. In me and my brothers (and later, my cousins) I believe he found it again. His innocence. He took us to parks and zoos, he bought us toys and art supplies, he made special desserts just for us, he took us to double feature movies and restaurants where you could color on the table cloth. He always colored and played with us.
Others would tell you another story. His children for one. My grandmother, before she died. They weren’t all able to forgive. I understand that. You make your bed and you have to sleep in it. It is the way of the world. But sometimes a man, a scarred damaged man, gets a chance in a small little girl. And he took it. He took his chance. Every day, I’ll remember him. I know the things other people say about him. But I also know the man he was when he died. A good man. A honorable man. A man who regretted and tried to make amens for his prior life.
One thing he always said to me is this: you have to own up to your mistakes. Apologize and then move on. It’s the only way to live. He was right.
I could tell you only the good things about him. I considered it. In my life, he was a good man. I could tell you a million stories that involve him. I could share all the wonderful things and gloss over the rest. I don’t want to though. Each of us have things in our life we regret, things that make us who we are. I know I do.
If I just told you the wonderful things, I’d leave out the important things that made my grandfather who he was. A piece of him would be missing. That wouldn’t really be honoring him. He always looked at all sides of things and in sharing about him, he’d want me to tell you the whole thing.
Tomorrow my grandfather will have been gone six years. It is partially why I don’t like Halloween anymore. It was forever ruined by one phone call. The initial phone call had come earlier, nine days to be precise. But the day before Halloween, six years ago, I lost one of the most important men in my life.
Grandpa Elliot, I will never forget you. I miss you every day. Love you. -Melissa.
**Getting any details out of any of them was not easy. They didn’t like to talk about it. Any of it.
***My grandpa, his brother, mom and grandfather, were the only family that survived. There wasn’t a ton of family, but the remaining few died in the camps.
Shocking, no? Sometimes it still shocks me. It always comes back to that though.
The Internet is just like real life.
Some people are awesome, some aren’t, some you have the probability of becoming life long friends with and others not. Some people you just dislike right away, some you know to be leery of. You get disappointed just as easy as you would if you saw someone ever day. You can be made to feel like a fool for trusting too much just as easily.
In real life and online, I am a very trusting person. To a fault sometimes. I see the good in people. Always. I look for the good in people, even when others don’t see it. Sometimes I end up hurt. It’s what happens when you wear your heart on your sleeve. I’d say I’ll change. Every time I get hurt, get taken advantage of, I swear never again. But you can’t undo your personality after 30 years of life and I really don’t want too. It’s part of me. I am a great caring friend. Until I’m not. I’m trusting, until I’m not. Once that trust is gone, it’s likely not going to come back. I am a Taurus after all.
On Friday, I heard a story that made me cry. A story that made me hurt for someone who I thought was a friend. A story that angered me for this person. A person who was my friend, who I had trusted with some deep secrets of my own. I fought for her. I spread the word, I attacked trolls and I tried to be a good friend.
As most of you know by now, it was just that; a story. Maybe there is a bit of truth mingled with the story. Maybe she believed every word of it. I really don’t know. In truth it no longer matters. I’ve seen the truth. I saw other truths as well as the big one.
I am hurt. I feel like I’ve been used. I feel like a fool. I trusted someone and got burned.
Sadly, it’s not the first time, nor the last time this will happen.
I initially started blogging almost four years ago. It’s changed a lot. The outlets, the connection, the speed in which we communicate, has changed so much. Now there is Facebook, iPhones, Blackberry Messenger and Twitter, instead of just email and blogs. Back then Gchat was new and almost no one used it. Now a lot of people do. We talk all day on Twitter and Facebook. We not only know the bigger stories that are shared on blogs, we also hear the small day to day details of each others lives.
It used to be much simpler. Easier. You commented, maybe you got a return comment. Occasionally an email. It took months to feel like you really were friends with someone. Now it’s so fast, it seems to happen in days.
It’s not that it bothers me. It’s not that I want to go back to the way it used to be. I adore getting to know so many people, so quickly. I met my best friend because of Twitter. And yes, even after only knowing her for 8 months, I do consider her my best friend. Without a question of a doubt.
But it is very fast. And I forget that it’s real. That I’m only seeing the things people want me to see. All of you live all over the world. I have readers from all over the world. That’s cool. Really cool. Most of you I’ll never meet and I have no problem with that. I’ve met a ton of great people. I’m sure I will meet more. We all share what we want online. We share our best stories. Some of us share the worst of ourselves. Just as many never will. Either way, it’s okay.
This is the real world though. You can get hurt just as easy, maybe even more, because sometimes without being able to see someone, we share more than we normally would. The written word can be easier than the spoken word.
I am not writing this, just because of this one incident. I just went to DM someone on Twitter, someone who I thought was following me and realized they aren’t any more. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. Or this is what I try to tell myself. In reality though, it stings a bit. Just like the moms at the school who all go out for coffee, but won’t invite me. Oh they’ll gladly have my girls over for play dates with their kids, but I get the cold shoulder. I don’t fit in. I’m an outsider.
I’m an outsider in the online world as well. I flitter in and out of groups of friends. It’s the way I’ve lived my life, so I’m used to it. I’ve always been the girl who could hang out with anyone and get along. I’ve always had a few close friends. (However I’ve known them forever, so it’s more like we are siblings.) I don’t know where I fit.
What I do know is right now, I’m hurt. I trusted someone and I’m sad with the way things happened.
This world we’ve created, this online world…it’s just like life. It’s something I need to remember a bit more.
Six months. Maddie has been gone six months. It doesn’t seem possible. Every single day, I see something, whether on the Internet or out in the world that makes me think of Maddie. Sometimes a purple balloon floating to the clouds, sometimes a bright yellow flower in a store window. Yesterday, it was a little girl at my daughter’s school, playing with a wig. It made me think of Maddie and this picture. Click that link if you have a chance, it’s the cutest picture of Maddie. For some reason it’s one of my favorites.
I’ll never ever forget her.
Today, if you get a moment, please go tell Heather and Mike that you are thinking about them and Maddie.
Friends of Maddie was created in memory of the beautiful, amazing Madeline Alice Spohr. If you have anything to give, please, please think of donating to Friends of Maddie.
There are moments where breathing in and out seems like a lot of work. I hyperventilate sometimes until I remember that I do know how to breath deeply. In an out, in and out. Two, three, four times before I feel like I will make it.
I have to be constantly reminded that I am doing okay. That I’ve come far in two weeks. That I’ve continued to move forward. That baby steps are better than no steps at all. I sometimes have to be reminded to breath.
This weekend was good. Fun even. Family time, spent in the mountains. Time spent watching silly movies and playing Wii championship games of bowling.
I can’t seem to hang onto it. I can’t seem to stay positive.
This is an improvement, I know. After two solid weeks of barely making it each day. Of crying more than one should cry, of falling more than I thought I could fall. I know two days of peace and fun, was good. An improvement. For two days straight I didn’t think about the things in my face. Two days of eating entire meals, of not throwing away 98% of it; is good. Three solid nights of sleep is good. Thank you Ambien.
But I can’t hold onto it.
Am I doing better than I was last week? Yes. Last week was….the only words I can come up with are soul crushing. Not sure that is right. But that’s how it felt then.
I know I am doing better. I feel a little better than I did. I will continue going to therapy twice a week, until I don’t have to be reminded to breath. To eat. To sleep.
However, it doesn’t feel like enough. I should feel better. I know that is silly, but it’s how I feel. I feel like an over dramatic spaz. I know I’m not. I know what I’m going through, even the feeling like I should get over it, is completely normal.
Problem is, my brain knows it; my heart just isn’t so sure.
I feel broken. I feel unfixable. I feel battered. This feels too big. Too hard. Too much for me to deal with.
I’m scared.
I count little white pills. That’s how I know when I’m not doing so great; when I count pills. Six left. Now five left. Five little tiny pills left. I make a mental note to call in my refill on Friday.
I didn’t think it would be like this two years later. PPD is what they said, in July two years ago. Post Partum Depression. Even though I had no baby to show for it. Just a broken heart and a half filled drawer of silly onesies. I thought as time went by, it would go away. PPD does. Or so I’ve been told.
Here I sit though, two years and two months later, counting little pills. I count them, when I’m having a shitty time. I count them so I know when to get more. I count them, because the new ones will be a bit stronger. I count them, because they are my security blanket.
I see women all pregnant right now and I have to not pay attention. I walked into kids stores this past weekend with Liz and tried not to cringe as I looked over all the baby stuff. Right now, I should know what my baby was going to be. I should be buying little onesies and socks. I should be telling Harrison about his baby brother or sister and watching him laugh at me, like a loony, because what does a nearly one year old child understand about new babies anyway? I should be preparing for my Christmas baby, arguring with my husband over names. But I’m not.
It’s not as bad this time. A five week misscarriage is not as bad as a fourteen week one. But what’s bad? How do you characterize bad? In some ways, I’ve done better. In others I feel worse. Two babies lost forever is harder than one baby lost forever. I dream about them, but even in my dreams, I never get to touch them.
It’s not all sad, my life. I have weeks that are great. I adore my children. They make me smile, even on my worst days. I get out of bed every day. I take care of my family. My heart has healed in a lot of ways. My mind and emotions have healed in a lot of ways. But some weeks are rough. This one happens to be one. A week where getting out of bed is a chore. A week where making dinner seems as challenging as running a marathon. A week where I just want to hide. Part of it right now, is vacation-itis. I have that big time right now. The week after a great vacation is always sad and depressing. Reality sits in.I know this, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
I watch my husband get up and leave each morning. He comes home late and then we go to bed. I haven’t spent any real time with him in over two weeks. I roll over and look at him each morning and I miss him before he even gets up to shower. It won’t always be like this, but it is right now. Yesterday I cried as he showered. I cried on the way home from taking the girls to school on Monday and Tuesday. I cried on Sunday, after Liz borded her plane.
Today is a better day, I know this, because I haven’t cried. Tomorrow maybe I won’t even count little white pills.
I’m sure I shouldn’t post this. I needed to write though. I need you all to know why I’m not really present this week, even though I’m technically here. I’d not open comments, but I honestly don’t know how to turn them off. Plus, I just told Stacey yesterday, that she shouldn’t ever close comments again, so I’d be a meany to do it myself. Just know, I really am okay. I really will be okay in a few days. I’m just having a week.
Only in the past few weeks have I started looking at his picture in the hallway. It’s right outside of the hallway/girls bathroom and hard to miss. His big smile looking back at me, hasn’t been something I’ve been willing to look at until just recently. Before then, when it happened to catch my eye, he never failed to make me cry. There was just something about that picture. It was too real. Maybe I was still grieving too much. I don’t really know. Now I look at it and grin. Not because it hurts any less today, just because I miss looking at him.
He had a great smile, my Grandpa did. A smile that could light up a room. He didn’t smile often, he was a serious man. However, when he did, his smile was infectious. The picture on my family wall, is of him and my Grandma, taken when I was about 14 years old. I’m not sure why I have that one up. No, I take that back, I do know why. It’s that smile. He didn’t always smile like that in pictures, in fact he normally didn’t. Grandma once told me that the man taking their photo that day, had told Grandpa a joke.
We talked about him a lot this past weekend, my mom and I. As much as I miss him, she misses him a million times more. He was her father after all. This coming Saturday it will be a year. On Saturday, the man who I adored, the man who I saw as the strongest man in my life, will have been dead an entire year.
My first real memories of my childhood are from a trip when I was three years old. I remember my brothers being born and visiting them in the hospital and I was only two then. But my real solid memories are of this trip. My dad and Grandpa helped move my Aunt and Cousins to Texas from California. My dad drove the moving truck, my Aunt her car and my grandpa drove his car with my Grandma, my mom, my brothers and I. I sat on the hump. Can you imagine letting your three year old sit in the front seat, much less the hump in between the drivers and passengers seats? Me neither. It did have a seat belt though.
I sat on the hump and sang with Grandpa for 1300 miles. Truly, I did. Until the day he stopped talking, which was about a year before he died, he told me this story ever time I saw him. From then on, he and I had a great relationship.
I miss him. I miss him more than I can even tell you. He was a major player in my life. He had more influence than my dad ever did, on my life. It hurts to think about him most days. It still doesn’t seem real. He’s been gone, a few weeks longer that Harrison has been alive. He never met Harrison. As sick as he was, as bad off as he was in that last year, I’m not even sure it registered that there was going to be a Harrison. That makes me sad. Grandpa loved all the babies. He loved kids. Heck, he had six of them. He adored his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren. He’d of adored Harrison. In a lot of ways, Harrison is a lot like him. Very serious little dude, he is.
I nearly named Harrison after him. I would have if he’d been born a few months later. At the time, I just couldn’t see saying Grandpa’s name every single day. Plus, H’s name really fits him.
A year has passed. Now he’s gone. But he’s not forgotten. He and my Grandma’s death, left a hole in this family. Our grief is still huge. My girls still tell me on a regular basis, I’m sad because I miss my great grandma and great grandpa. Me too, my babies, me too.
To you Grandpa, loved and never forgotten. Love, me
Two days from now, there will be a beautiful wedding on the tip top of a mountain. A small wedding; only 50 invited guests. There will be dresses, new shoes and tons of flowers. A photographer has been hired, a DJ given an obscene amount of money and there will be more food than 50 people could possibly consume in 6 hours of partying. There will be cake; beautiful, tasty cake.
Two people, one of whom is my sister in law, will vow their love for each other, in front of family, friends, god and whatever animals live at 14,000 feet elevation. After four years of dating, they are ready for this major step. They share a love that most people will hope they find one day. One that I’m lucky enough to have as well.
It will be a gorgeous ceremony, a beautiful start to their new life together. We’ve all been looking forward to this for over a year. Planning, organizing and dreaming about this day.
There’s just one catch. It’s not legal. To them, they will be married. To us, their family and friends, they will be married. The courts and our government disagree.
My sister in law, Audrey is marrying her soul mate. But Lexi is a woman. They are lesbians. Proud to be lesbians. Committed to each other, soul mate type peiople. However, they are lesbians. Which means, this beautiful union of two of my favorite people, isn’t legal.
If something happened to Audrey and a medical decision needed to be made, the hospital would have to turn to her parents for the decision, instead of her wife. Because it’s not legal.
I’m conflicted. I’m thrilled beyond belief that this day has finally come. Logan and I knew they were perfect for each other the day Audrey introduced us to Lexi. I’m also sad, because they are not given the same common courtesies in this country that my husband and I are. The rights that Logan and I have, as a married couple, don’t exist for gay couples right now.
It’s bittersweet. We thought it would be legal in California, but that boat sank in November. Which is why the wedding is here, instead of California. They always wanted to get married on some god for saken mountain top, but they would have married in California, the state where they live, if it was going to be legal.
On Sunday, I will go celebrate a joyfull occasion with my family. I’ll drink and be merry. I’ll cry, because I always cry at weddings. They just may be tears of sadness mixed with those of happyness.
My first bittersweet post is HERE, if you care to read it.
That is a few lines from one of my favorite songs in the world. These days it runs through my often. Maybe too often. In a way, it’s my theme song right now. All I do is think.
Logan and I have babies on the brain. We talk about having more kids all the time. At night when we can’t sleep (or should be sleeping), we discuss what our baby would possibly look like. How cool it would be to have one with my blue eyes, instead of his brown eyes. The thought that this will never happen, as his eyes seem to be dominant. We discuss where the baby would sleep, how much we’d like Harrison to get to be a big brother and in some moments, we discuss how sad we’d both be if we were done having babies. We are kind of at a point, where we need to decide to have more or start the process to adopt, because we both know we want to be done with babies in the next five years. Seems like a weird conversation, I know, given what happened six weeks ago, but still…it’s where we are right now in our lives. We are young, everyone tells us this. You have kids; is most commonly heard. You have the next ten years to have kids, is my least favorite line. While it may be true, there are reasons we had our kids as young as we did. Plus? In ten years I will have teenagers. I don’t want to have a baby when Morgan is in High School. That is just weird to me. However, we know there are more kids in our future.
I go back and forth on wanting to try again soon, or hold off for a bit. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to fail again. Emotionally, it is hard to lose a baby, much less two. As hard as it is, as much as it has wrecked me, I don’t know if I’m ready to throw in the towel. In this moment it is too soon. Tomorrow will be six weeks. But when is the right moment going to be?
Was it easier this time around? Well yes, in a way. As easy as losing a pregnancy ever is I guess. I didn’t fall of the deep end, so I guess that is a plus. 14 weeks was way harder than 5 weeks. In a way though, this time was just as hard. Because I cared for and wanted this baby, just as much as the last time. I will say something that I never thought I’d say out loud: I didn’t think it would happen to me twice. (Amy, (POW) if you see this, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry to have thought that, sorry to say it.) I knew it happened, have had friends who it has happened to. My aunt had five miscarriages in between her two kids. Still, I didn’t think it’d happen to me. But here we are.
Part of me thinks we should just forget about it and adopt. We’ve always talked about adoption. It’s something we are sure we will do at some point.
Then I think about never being pregnant again and I cry.
I think about my pregnancy with Harrison and I regret not savoring every second of it. I wonder if I damaged him in some way, by not being sure I wanted to be pregnant at that time. I think, what if that was it. What if he was it. Because of how
I look at the four little newborny jammies that I bought at Kohls mid-April and I consider giving them away, but I can’t physically even take them out of the closet that they are hanging in.
I spend Saturday cuddling this:
and I wonder if Harrison is the last newborn I will cuddle at night. (Picture of my cousins 3wk old, Savannah.) The thought of that pains me.
The signs at Disney for Space Mountain say, this ride can be harmful to pregnant women. I stare at it for minutes before my cousin takes my hand and makes me stop.
I say in passing to Instamom on Sunday that if I’d still been pregnant, I’d have a Christmas due date and I cringe inside. Because it’s true. It took everything in my power to not sob in that moment.
I want to have another baby. Maybe even a few more babies. I am not done. I have room in my heart, in my home and in my family for more babies. But I’m scared. It’s supposed to be easier than this. It’s not supposed to hurt so much.
I dream about babies. Little girl babies for some reason. (Doesn’t mean anything, I dreamt about Harrison being a girl too. I just think all of mine as girls, until proven otherwise.) We have names picked out for future kids. We are, as my MIL says, baby obsessed. She gets it though. They tried for ten years to have a forth kid and never managed to even get pregnant again.
But timing is everything and really it’s all chance. I think about there being one more baby, sooner than later. I tell myself that I can do it, I can try once more. I tell myself not to be afraid, that I am strong enough to try this again. At least give it one more shot. I want to be pregnant once more, give birth once more. Then any we have after that, will most likely come to us through adoption. Logan still wants six and as time goes on, I want six too. Five at least.
So, I think about it.
I knew right away. Some women don’t know for weeks, a few for months, but I knew the very next day. Weeks before a test would ever show me a plus sign. The tell tale nausea, the kind that lasts all day. Morning sickness my ass. The sore boobs, the dizziness, the inability to eat anything besides bread, pineapple and ginger ale. I was pregnant.
There are next to no pictures of our vacation in Hawaii; no funny stories or great date adventures. There is none of that because I (well we) spent our entire vacation in the hotel room. And not in the fun way. (Trust me, there has been no fun in that way lately.) I have been sick for a month. Just waiting for the day that I could take a test, post a picture of it and tell the world. Because I was beyond thrilled. I told more people than I should have, because the excitement was overwhelming. I also thought it good to mention to a few people why I was never around, why I never posted anymore, why I rarely made any mention of being around. So people didn’t forget about me I guess. That day, was Tuesday of last week. I peed on the little stick and it confirmed what I knew, what I had known for a month; I was pregnant. Excited, I told everyone I came across.
Late Wednesday night, I lost it. The baby, my baby. Gone as quickly as I told people. Just gone. One day after confirmation that it was true, it was all over.
I went on vacation anyway, this past weekend, because I needed a distraction. I slept a total of an hour and a half Wednesday night, but I went to California anyway. In the moment, it seemed like the best option. Maybe it was. But now I’m home. And I hurt. There are no more distractions now. There are no more family members to act fine around. No more places to go. Nothing, except me and my head for company.
I am writing this, because I can’t speak. Not past the: please don’t hit your sister or the, yes, sure have another piece of candy, I don’t care; type of speaking. I am here, going through the motions. Changing diapers, doing dishes, playing along on Twitter; but I don’t feel it. It’s not real, it’s fake. I am pretending. Pretending I am not crushed. Pretending I want to do anything besides get in bed and pull my comforter over my head for a week. I feel like a shadow of myself. Like I am watching myself do these things, but not really doing them. I am not sure I can explain it, not sure I need too. I will be forced to speak tomorrow, to my shrink. But I am not ready. I just want time to grieve. However to appease my husband I will at least go to the appointment.
Every time I open my mouth, I feel like I offend people. And it’s true, because I have offended a few people. I am spewing on others, my lovely friend told me today. She is right and there are very few people I’d let say that to me when I feel like this. But I am, spewing and making asshat statements. So, now….I am not talking.
I hurt. I am sad. I want my baby back. I can write this, but I can’t speak it.
I am not crazy, despite my jokes about it. I am just a woman who lost a baby. A sad, depressed woman who lost a baby. A baby that made me sick like a dog for a month. I would be sick for the next eight months, if I could have my baby back at the end.
Right now, my heart hurts. It hurts so bad that I feel it cracking. It hurts to breath, it hurts to smile. I have to make myself eat. If you don’t believe me, ask Maura how little cake I ate when I met her on Saturday night. I know in a few days, I will feel better. I know in a few weeks, I will feel even better than that. I know one day soon, I will laugh at a joke, tell a joke even; it will feel good and natural. I will one day find myself smiling, drinking wine, or enjoying a moment. I have felt this way before, I know how it goes. Truly it’s not as bad as last time around. But today I pretend.
I wrote this so you all know why I haven’t been around, why I may not be around or be very pleasant for a bit. I wrote this for me, because I had to get some of it out. I had to say what I can’t say, if that makes any sense. I had to write that I am crushed, because I am. Because it hurts to breath and it hurts even more to think. Because one day I won’t feel like this, but I need to own it right now. To honor it; my grief and loss. To share my love for a baby I will never meet. My baby.
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