Today

I always have the best intentions when I start blogging.  Then I go almost five months without a post. 

I can say today is good.  I never thought I'd be able to say this or actually feel it, but some days are good. 

I felt this for the first time a few weeks ago.  We spent the morning drinking coffee and reading outside in the sun.  Her birds were singing and we were content and I turned to my husband and told him today I was happy for the first time in so long. 

I still laugh when people use the phrase 'still sad' to describe our grief.  We will always be sad.  What other way is there to feel about your dead daughter?  I think about her and feel love, pride, even joy sometimes that we have and will always have such a perfect, beautiful daughter, but there will always be sadness.  There is no way around that, but finally we feel other things that are equal to that.  I can feel sadness for the loss of my daughter, but also happiness in the present and hope for the future. 

People who haven't felt this type of loss think it's abnormal for sadness to be a part of the everyday, but besides my family, they have no idea the strides I've made since December 2013.  I'm out of bed.  I don't cry every single day.  I don't think about death all day.  I don't want to die anymore.  My anxiety attacks are gone.  The level of depression I felt the first year, what led me to seek therapy six months ago, has eased.  Today is a walk in the park compared to the early days.  I will take this sadness, this completely normal emotion, over those feelings any day. 

So today is good.  Today is sad.  Those two things have to coexist together, and that's ok.

To Ramona on her first birthday

I wrote and shared the following with my online support system, a group of women who have similar stories, similar lives. I've read it at least at least dozen times and each time I feel it lacking.  I have more to say, more feelings, more love, why does it feel like it's missing something, everything? I woke up this morning, not Christmas Eve anymore, but my daughter's birth and death day, and realized nothing I feel can be put into words adequately. I can write about my grief fairly well, sometimes I feel like I really put into words how the day to day feels.  The problems with friends, work, the feelings pregnancies and infants bring to the surface, but some things are beyond explaining.  There is no way to describe my love for her, the yearning that tears my heart apart, the regrets and guilt that claw their way to the front of my mind as I drift off to sleep, destroying any hope of resting my mind for just one night.

C.S. Lewis said this about his lost love:  "Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything."  That is Ramona.  She is not a tiny fragment I keep in the depths of my pocket, brought out to examine on occasion, at the 'right ' time, on the special, notable days. She is in me and about me at all times. She is like breathing, blinking, swallowing. All the things you do without thinking, that's how she lives with me. She is part of me, within me, always. There is no way to describe a love like that, it's too huge.  The best you can do is simply feel it.  I feel it today, tomorrow, infinity.  I love you, Ramona.

Dear Ramona,
Tomorrow you will be one. It is not the birthday I pictured for you. I imagined you surrounded by family and friends, laughing and squealing with your little mouth that looks just like your daddy's, unwrapping birthday and Christmas gifts. I dreamed about seeing The Nutcracker with your Aunt Jess and cousin Savannah in a few years. I smiled when I thought about your yearly daddy/daughter Christmas shopping trip and the drum kit your dad wanted to get you and your first ice skates and so much more.

This year will be silent, as silent as a year ago tomorrow at 7:51pm, when you slipped into this world without a cry.

That night a year ago, I was so afraid. Afraid to see you, afraid of my life without you in it, afraid of everything. When I saw your face, I was amazed. You were just as I pictured you, I knew you right away. Your dad and I created a beautiful, perfect little girl, death cannot change that. I cherish every precious second I was able to spend with you, forty weeks and 3 days of bliss and happiness and hopefulness. Now when I am afraid, I try to think about your face, the perfect calm I felt when I looked at you after hours of pain and sadness and fear, and you soothe me.

Tomorrow will be hard. Your family will be together, along with Aunt Jess and Uncle Lloyd and we will be missing you and Savannah, but we will also be celebrating you. You made me a mother and you made your dad a father. We will always be grateful. We will light a candle for you both, and for Wesley and all the other babies who should be here. If death is not the end, I hope you are with Savannah and others who love you. If death is not the end, I hope you are waiting for us. If death is not the end, I hope whatever comes after is where dreams come true. You are my dream, my heart, my life, my little bird.

You are our love, pure and infinite.

Love forever and ever,
Momma

Trust

Trusting people with your grief and with your sadness is not easy.  Kyle and I have what we call our bubble.  These are the people we trust with Ramona's memory and the people who understand how much she means to us.  The people who don't question our sadness, our isolation, our anger, and all the other feelings that come when you lose your only child.

Our bubble is small, but supportive.  We are gradually bringing more people into the bubble, but in the beginning it was hard to let people in.  To let people in, you have to trust they will never question your love and your pain.  They will never question the validity of your child's life.  This is hard for people.  They want to comfort you, and they think that comfort means making it better and putting things in perspective.

There is no perspective when your child dies.  I can assure you.  It is not better that she died before we got to know her.  It did not happen for a reason.  Maybe we'll have more children, but maybe not.  Even if we do, we never get to parent Ramona.  Each day, week, month, eventually years, brings another bundle of firsts we will never experience, that she will never experience.

We go through each day with a smile plastered on our faces, because we know when people ask 'how are you' they don't want to hear 'really shitty.'  A friend asked me if I'd rather not have people ask how we're doing, and I said yes.  I'd rather they not ask.  Not unless they are willing to hear the real answer.  I'm not into small talk anymore.   

Sometimes I get home from work and my face hurts from forcing a smile for nine hours.  My heart hurts from the people who back away when they ask how the baby's doing and I tell them she died. My hands hurt from clenching to restrain myself from typing something I don't mean to people who text or email and don't mention Ramona's name. The one thing I told people brings us comfort when they asked what they can do for us, they can't do.

Her first birthday should be in two weeks.  Some days it looms in the distance, a dark volcano we're slowing moving towards with no way of turning back.  Part of me is nervous that no one will remember, that we'll get the usual cheery "Merry Christmas" messages without a mention of Ramona.  I hope people know better, I hope they remember her and say her name.  Trust is the hardest part about grief.  Trusting people will remember your child, trusting that there is something good on the horizon, trusting the world holds more than suffering. 

Left behind

I did something today I haven't done in a long time, so I thought today would be a good day to return to this blog.

We're doing a diaper drive at work, so I went into Ramona's room to get some packages to donate.  We received a lot as gifts, but they've been sitting in her room for almost a year now and I figured it's nice to donate some in her name. It's also better than going to the store and buying some. I hate the baby section.

While I was in there I straightened her things and threw some things away. We still have her stroller box and lots of gift bags I need to recycle.

It is bittersweet to be in her room. The yearning I feel for her is unbearable, but remembering how wonderful it felt to arrange her room and fold and hang her little clothes and the anticipation of meeting her is sweet. I'm glad I have those memories.  Cleaning and straightening today made me feel slightly normal for a few minutes. After that feeling fades I'm alone in the house again, missing her.

Good Things

This week I had a better conversation about Ramona with a six year old than I've had with most adults. 

Her name starts with an M, too, and she's been hanging out our desk talking our ears off.  She always looks thoughtful and constantly asks, "Why?" 

She saw that we were putting stickers on things and wanted to help.  While we were stickering, she told me her brother had died.  It was unclear as to how old he was or other details, I could tell that she loved him very much, though.  After a few minutes of talking she asked if I had any kids.

It's hard for me to know how to talk about Ramona with kids.  Some understand 'died' and take it in stride, others might not understand or become fearful.  It makes me sad, because I don't like to lie and say, "No, I don't have any kids."  It's not true, but what do you do?

At first I told her no.  She said, "My neighbor doesn't either, and she says I'm like her kid." 

I smiled, and thought for a second. 

"Remember when said I don't have any kids?" I asked.  "That's not true.  You know how you told me your brother passed away?  I have a daughter and she passed away, too.  So she doesn't live in my house, but she lives in my heart."

She nodded very seriously and said, "My brother who died talks to me and tells me to do good things.  My other brother doesn't believe me, but it's true.  He tells my head and my heart to do good things."

She made my head and my heart feel good that day.

It would be nice

It would be nice if Target didn't constantly post baby shit to their 'pins you love' board. And if my friends and family didn't post baby shit on pinterest.  It would be nice if no one got pregnant ever again. It would be nice if I could figure out what to do about our infant car seat recall.

Difficult week.

Kindness of strangers

Yesterday I had an encounter with someone who didn't know what happened to Ramona.  I explained, the woman was sad and shocked, but for some reason it set me off.  I ended up at a Coney Island crying my eyes out.

She wasn't rude, but she didn't ask what her name was and I was left just kind of standing there while she talked nervously.  She tried her best, but it was so hard to stand there and make small talk. 

All I've been thinking lately is WHY?  Why my daughter, why me, why my husband, why our family?  While I was pregnant I knew eight other pregnant women.  Two of us have lost our children, one gave birth to a healthy baby boy, and the other six are waiting.  I know they must be scared by what happened to my child and my friend's child, but I also get a feeling there is an air of certainty around them.  That since this happened to me, to Jessica, to Ramona and Savannah, that they should be in the clear.  And I hate them for it. 

These women are friends, one a best friend, and right now in this moment I hate them with every ounce of my being.  I don't WANT them to go through what we're going through, but WHY?  They will most likely bring their children home.  Two of those children will be girls.  I don't know if I will ever be able to look at them without hating them.  In an irrational way, I blame them.  I blame them for taking the place of my Ramona.  I know it's crazy.  I don't care. 

I ended up at the Coney Island after the gym and all this came pouring out of me.  When the waitress came to take my order instead of telling her I wanted two eggs over medium I started crying and choked out, "I'm having a really bad day, I'm sorry."  This woman I've never met before in my life grabbed me and hugged me.  She didn't know what I was going through, but she hugged me and showed me a smiley face on her receipt pad.  "You keep thinking about this right here," she said.

I'm trying.  I'm trying to move forward, I'm trying to push through the anger and the hate.  I'm trying to be a good person, but it is damn hard.  It is damn hard to live without your child when so many others don't have to.

Pre-

There's an unopened email in my inbox.  It's from my mother, sent Christmas Eve morning.  She didn't know we'd been in the hospital overnight.  I didn't have the heart to call her after we got the news.  I wanted our family to have one last night free of grief. 

I haven't had the guts to open or delete it.  Thanks to gmail I know what it says.  She just wanted to know if I was awake and to call her if I was.  As far as my mother knew we'd be over that afternoon, preparing our Christmas smorgasbord and celebrating together.  Or she'd be with me in the hospital, which is what we'd been expecting the night before.  Instead she would get a phone call that her first and only grandchild had died. 

It's my last, small connection to my old life.  I remember about a week earlier thinking how happy and lucky I was.  Pre-emptiness, pre-sorrow.  My life before feels like fiction, like a sitcom that occasionally touches on a serious subject in a humorous light.  I look at pictures of myself from when I was pregnant and I try conjure those feelings of joy and anticipation, because I know I'll never have them again.  That part of my life is over.

Baby Bee

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.

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. 

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.

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.

It's not personal

We live a digital life.  It's hard to believe a month ago I actually thought people cared what I was doing at 4pm on a Wednesday or how my work day was or what I ate for dinner.

I was one of those women who posted bump pics on Instagram.  I wasn't entirely in your face about my pregnancy anywhere else, but I posted about it occasionally on facebook and twitter.  I announced it at 15 weeks and used hashtags.  I started a baby board on pinterest.  It never occured to me that pregnancy is not a promise.  I read that somewhere on the web while searching for baby loss websites.  Pregnancy is not a promise.  I had a normal, healthy pregnancy with an active baby but I went home with empty arms.

The strangest thing about coming home from the hospital after delivering your baby, but without your baby, is learning to live your life the exact same way you were living it all over again.  I had no baby.  I had a daughter, but I had no baby and now I had all the time in the world to look at facebook and pinterest and instagram.  This is what you find on facebook, pinterest, and instagram after baby loss:  pregnancy posts, complaining parents, cute baby photos, and adorable baby clothes.

It's hard not to feel assaulted, to feel hurt by all these happy people and their hopefulness and joy.  On the other hand, it's even harder to not want to punch the people who take if for granted and complain about late night feedings and tantrums.  I know better than to take any of these posts or photos personally, but grief makes that difficult.  Grief can make it impossible if it catches you on a bad day.

Trying to figure out how to navigate a digital life while experiencing intense grief involves a lot of odd effort.  I spent almost an entire year being pregnant and my internet habits reflected that.  This first month I've spent my time unfollowing all pregnant women, new mothers, baby boards, blogs, anything that triggered me.  I unsubscribed from all the stupid weekly pregnancy update emails.  I googled baby loss and found bloggers who'd gone through the same thing as me, replacing all the women who were happily home with their babies.  I read support boards, I couldn't get enough of other mother's stories.  I learned the term 'rainbow baby' and spent hours finding stories of 'take home babies' after full term losses.

I've realized that as much as I love living in a digital age, I don't want to be as wrapped up in it as before.  Every time I see someone's healthy living baby, I think about every time I posted a bump pic and wonder who I hurt with my happiness.  It's not that I don't want people to be happy, but now I question the importance and kindness of sharing these things.  It's no revelation that social media is for navel-gazing, but in the wake of our loss we've really come to appreciate living an analog life.  I don't want to share the minutiae of my life anymore and I don't want other people to feel the way I feel at this point in my life.  I would like to think that if she had come home with us, I would be focusing on our joy and not what pictures to post to facebook and instagram or status updates about how tired I am.  The sad thing is I probably wouldn't have changed much.

The sad thing is grief tends to teach us more than joy.

Our daughter taught us pure love.  Our families have been brought together to create one family and they have each been here for us every step of the way.  These are the people I want to spend my time on, not an old co-worker I haven't seen in person in three years.

We hope to give Ramona a brother or sister one day, but if and when we do he or she will be our private joy.  The people in our lives who want to share in our joy will have to do so face to face, not through a computer screen.

The Grief Shelf

This morning when K left for work I left too.  I've been trying to get out more and get used to the millions of babies that seem to be everywhere now.  I went to Target and saw a mother with an infant.  I cried and I didn't care.  I feel better letting it out than trying to go about my day like it didn't happen.  Like I shouldn't be doing the same thing, like I shouldn't be carrying my daughter in a wrap and feeding her and kissing her.  I just looked away and cried.

Afterwards I headed to Barnes and Noble.  I don't buy books anymore since I'm a librarian and have access to free books, but obviously I don't want to be at work right now.  I wandered around and looked for books about baby loss and grief and I found one shelf.  One damn shelf.  It was the bottom shelf at that.

I guess the book business doesn't want to burden shoppers with us sad bastards and our grief.

I bought one of those books.  Healing After Loss:  Daily Mediations for Working Through Grief.  I opened to today's date and found this quote by Elie Wiesel:

Whoever survives a test, whatever it may be, must tell the story. That is his duty. 

So here is my story today.  I am sad, I am angry, I want my daughter.

Ramona Alice

Our whole world has changed since I wrote that first foolish post.  Our beautiful daughter Ramona Alice was born sleeping on December 24, 2013.  It's been three weeks and we still can't believe this happened to our sweet, sweet little girl.  She was the most perfect baby girl I've ever seen.

I don't know how much I'll share here or how often, but I've been journaling again almost every day and it helps.  If writing here helps, I'll keep it up. If it doesn't, I'll drop it.

I can't believe this is our life now.