I wasn't surprised at all to see this post recently. The universe sends crazy things your way at crazy times.
My mom gave me the Betsy-Tacy books for Christmas one year, probably when I was seven or eight. She loved those books and when she found the newer editions back in the eighties, she knew she had to give them to me. I loved those books, too. I still do. I have all my original books, plus the new editions from a few years ago. I identified as a Betsy, so did my mom, and the minute I found out I was having a little girl I knew she would be a Betsy. She would have been a Betsy, but she turned out to be a Bee.
As soon as I got up the courage I went into Ramona's room to get my copy of The Betsy-Tacy Treasury. I had put it on her bookshelf along with her books, toys, piggy banks, and other carefully chosen gifts from family and friends. It was my contribution, my gift to her, a hopeful love of reading. I read her the first book while she was still alive, safe inside me. I skipped the Bee part, though. I read it to myself and I thought, what a terrible thing it must be to lose a child so small and young. To lose all that potential. How do live the rest of your life without that child? Reading that part as a little girl wasn't nearly as shocking to me as it is to adults reading it for the first time. I've read so many reviews of Betsy-Tacy that warn readers of the death of a baby. I wasn't traumatized by that passage. I just always felt sad for Tacy because her baby sister died. I read that passage again days after Ramona's birth and instead of feeling sad for Tacy, I grieved for Mrs. Kelly. I'd never given her feelings much thought before. The story is told from a child's point of view, the one line you get about Mrs. Kelly is something along the lines of "Mama feels awful bad."
Now I have my Bee. And I feel awful bad. Now I'm beginning to learn how to live without her. The 'new normal,' baby loss mom's call it. I don't like to look back, to think about what ifs, but I do my fair share of magical thinking. I imagine my life with her to the point where it almost feels real, like an alternate universe where she lived and she's two months old now. I dress her in tiny clothes and marvel over her perfect lips that are an exact copy of Kyle's. I smooth down her wavy brown hair and slide on the hairbows I made for her. I finish knitting the blanket that I thought I had all the time in the world to complete after she was born. My mother and I take her on a trip to Mankato, the real Deep Valley, to show her all the wonderful places from the books we've read together.
That isn't real, though. The reality is empty arms, sleepless nights, and a room full of brightly colored dresses, toys, and blankets, hoping the birds will bring my baby girl a message: I love you, I love you, I love you.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Our old life
I'm a reader, so when we got home from the hospital the first thing I needed to do was read about other people's experience with stillbirths. I found message boards, blogs, books. I read and read and read, but no matter what I still feel so alone sometimes. The crazy thing is my best friend lost her newborn daughter on the same day.
Yes, my best friend's daughter died. The same day. On Christmas Eve.
Two completely different circumstances, but we both experienced the worst day of our lives on the same day. And we both feel very alone.
The thing is I know the stats. I look them up every day. I know that about 30,000 babies are stillborn every year in the United States. Stillbirths occurs ten times more than SIDS. I know there are more of me out there. I read the stories. I still feel alone.
I read An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken. My experience is almost identical to hers. When she first found out what had happened, she had the feeling that everyone would be mad at her. I lay in bed that night in the hospital, doped up on my first of many doses of xanax thinking, "Everyone is going to blame me for this. Everyone is going to think this is my fault." Obviously no one (that I know of) blamed me or thought that I did something wrong, but I had myself convinced that I must have done something. I'd never heard of this happening outside of stories about my grandmother's stillborn babies in the thirties and forties and the old-fashioned books I'd read as a girl. This did not happen in 2013.
Of course I know better now. The pathology reports came back with nothing. My whole pregnancy was uneventful. I was completely prepared to bring Ramona home, but instead her carseat is hidden away at the in-laws and her nursery door is shut and I'm back at work early because I have no baby to take care of. I have a baby I think about every minute of the day and a baby I cry over daily, but I don't have a baby in my arms.
“For us what was killing was how nothing had changed. We'd been waiting
to be transformed, and now here we were, back in our old life.”
― Elizabeth McCracken, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
We've been to a support group, I know the stats, my best friend is walking this road with me, but I everywhere I go I see women with children and all I can think about is how their child didn't die. That no matter how many people I meet and know, I still feel like a pariah, a freak, the woman no one wants near them while they're pregnant. Even in this space I feel isolated and strange, my words going out digitally into the void.
Everything and nothing changed, everything and nothing is the same.
Yes, my best friend's daughter died. The same day. On Christmas Eve.
Two completely different circumstances, but we both experienced the worst day of our lives on the same day. And we both feel very alone.
The thing is I know the stats. I look them up every day. I know that about 30,000 babies are stillborn every year in the United States. Stillbirths occurs ten times more than SIDS. I know there are more of me out there. I read the stories. I still feel alone.
I read An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken. My experience is almost identical to hers. When she first found out what had happened, she had the feeling that everyone would be mad at her. I lay in bed that night in the hospital, doped up on my first of many doses of xanax thinking, "Everyone is going to blame me for this. Everyone is going to think this is my fault." Obviously no one (that I know of) blamed me or thought that I did something wrong, but I had myself convinced that I must have done something. I'd never heard of this happening outside of stories about my grandmother's stillborn babies in the thirties and forties and the old-fashioned books I'd read as a girl. This did not happen in 2013.
Of course I know better now. The pathology reports came back with nothing. My whole pregnancy was uneventful. I was completely prepared to bring Ramona home, but instead her carseat is hidden away at the in-laws and her nursery door is shut and I'm back at work early because I have no baby to take care of. I have a baby I think about every minute of the day and a baby I cry over daily, but I don't have a baby in my arms.
― Elizabeth McCracken, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
We've been to a support group, I know the stats, my best friend is walking this road with me, but I everywhere I go I see women with children and all I can think about is how their child didn't die. That no matter how many people I meet and know, I still feel like a pariah, a freak, the woman no one wants near them while they're pregnant. Even in this space I feel isolated and strange, my words going out digitally into the void.
Everything and nothing changed, everything and nothing is the same.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Sunday
If I facebooked and instagrammed my life right now it would be the saddest display of social media of all times.
New necklaces! With my dead daughter's name and initials on them.
What I'm reading... An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination.
Feeling: fucking miserable. Grief stricken. Are there fucking emojis for that?
Valentine's day! I don't even remember, I was just thankful Kyle and I have been able to make it through the past two months and become closer than ever. I love him so much.
I want the hopeless days to even out with the hopeful days. Right now our life is leaning heavier on the hopeless, but we do have hope. We're scared and sad and the waves of grief knock us over hard some days, but we have hope.
New necklaces! With my dead daughter's name and initials on them.
What I'm reading... An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination.
Feeling: fucking miserable. Grief stricken. Are there fucking emojis for that?
Valentine's day! I don't even remember, I was just thankful Kyle and I have been able to make it through the past two months and become closer than ever. I love him so much.
I want the hopeless days to even out with the hopeful days. Right now our life is leaning heavier on the hopeless, but we do have hope. We're scared and sad and the waves of grief knock us over hard some days, but we have hope.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Yesterday
Yesterday was a hard day. I almost typed 'bad' day, but I don't want
to refer to days where my grief for our daughter overwhelming as
'bad.' Hard, yes, but grief is not bad. It's hard, but it's not bad.
Last year we also lost our beautiful cat Precious. She was amazing and we had looked forward to Precious and Ramona becoming friends but Precious was a senior cat and we had to make the hard decision in September to say good-bye. We planned on adopting another cat when Ramona turned about 6 months old. I wanted her to grow up with an animal companion and I believe pets teach compassion. None of that was meant to be, so Friday we visited the local animal shelter and adopted a one year old cat we named Chet Lemon.
Chet is wonderful. He is just what we need to help heal, he is affectionate and smart and it's wonderful having more life in our home. The only problem is I looked at him yesterday and felt such extreme anguish because he should not be here.
I should be cuddling on the couch with Ramona, not Chet. I should be feeding Ramona, not Chet. I should be playing with Ramona, not Chet. I should be waking in the middle of the night checking on Ramona, not Chet. I love him already, but yesterday all my shock and grief and pain collided and I lost it.
I played some sad bastard music and cried and screamed. Chet just watched and when I was done he jumped back on the couch with me. He sat in the bathroom with me while I showered. He laid on the bed while I got dressed. This cat we'd only known for two days comforted me and watched over me.
I don't really believe things happen for a reason. I don't believe our daughter died so we could make room for a cat who needed a home, but after I released that pain I felt grateful for Chet and happy we made room for him in our home and hearts. Some days I imagine Ramona and Precious somewhere together, playing and cuddling, two destined friends. I'm slowly starting to imagine Chet and another child, a similar scene but different players. It gives me hope.
Last year we also lost our beautiful cat Precious. She was amazing and we had looked forward to Precious and Ramona becoming friends but Precious was a senior cat and we had to make the hard decision in September to say good-bye. We planned on adopting another cat when Ramona turned about 6 months old. I wanted her to grow up with an animal companion and I believe pets teach compassion. None of that was meant to be, so Friday we visited the local animal shelter and adopted a one year old cat we named Chet Lemon.
Chet is wonderful. He is just what we need to help heal, he is affectionate and smart and it's wonderful having more life in our home. The only problem is I looked at him yesterday and felt such extreme anguish because he should not be here.
I should be cuddling on the couch with Ramona, not Chet. I should be feeding Ramona, not Chet. I should be playing with Ramona, not Chet. I should be waking in the middle of the night checking on Ramona, not Chet. I love him already, but yesterday all my shock and grief and pain collided and I lost it.
I played some sad bastard music and cried and screamed. Chet just watched and when I was done he jumped back on the couch with me. He sat in the bathroom with me while I showered. He laid on the bed while I got dressed. This cat we'd only known for two days comforted me and watched over me.
I don't really believe things happen for a reason. I don't believe our daughter died so we could make room for a cat who needed a home, but after I released that pain I felt grateful for Chet and happy we made room for him in our home and hearts. Some days I imagine Ramona and Precious somewhere together, playing and cuddling, two destined friends. I'm slowly starting to imagine Chet and another child, a similar scene but different players. It gives me hope.
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