Saturday, February 27, 2010

13 Weeks...

I know I write this all the time, but there are so, so many things always going through my head. Most days, I have about 5 or 6 different blogposts that I just can't choke out because I cry too much. So, they just swirl around in my head like little snowballs down a hill--building and building until they are just too big for me to do anything with save purposely will myself to STOP THINKING...just black out my mind.

That's not, nor has it ever been, something easy for me to do.

So...I ramble.

I just don't know where 13 weeks has gone, but still...I still have the silverware we used for Christmas dinner on the dining room table. I still haven't taken the tablecloths off, or really gone into the dining room much at all. It's sort of frozen to me--really just the tangible proof that I lived through days I don't remember much of and don't have the energy to clean up. It seems that long ago, and yet that yesterday. I got around to the much-needed chore of going through my bedroom/closet to weed through clothes and just couldn't get far. I don't feel like trying everything on to see if it fits or not any more (and odds are it doesn't), hence making it harder to get rid of it. My closet and several drawers still have my maternity clothes--and though I have put much in a container, the container still sits in my room. I don't even know what to do with them--put them up so they don't taunt me or keep them out because I hope and pray to be using them again in the next few weeks and months. Be glad that if I get pregnant this month or next I wouldn't have to buy much in the way of maternity because I have all my stuff from this*very*same*time*of*year* last year, or dread the thought of wearing the same things because I'll remember the kicks and hiccups and wiggles my little monkey made as I wore them? People try to rationalize this for me by telling me that I would have used the maternity clothes again and would have given his hand-me-downs to his little brother (if we had another boy) had he lived. Emphasis on the HAD~HE~LIVED part. He didn't. And so yes, most moms I am sure would not blink an eye at reusing maternity clothes or even *hoping* for another little boy so those clothes could be used again, but for me--the sorrow of them not even being used in the first place puts a whole new spin on it. Seriously, I have had people tell me that they hope I get pregnant and have a boy because then that boy will be all set. Like I should be GLAD that I have an entire, fully stocked nursery just waiting for some baby boy, any baby boy, to use it.

You just can't understand unless you're here, and I get that. I just wish more people who haven't been here realized they've never been here and didn't feel the need to tell me how I should/could/would act. Losing your grandma, best friend, mom, dad, sister, brother, husband,'s not the same. I realize it is mostly well-intentioned, but it really just isolates me even more and makes me question why I purposely even try to re-enter the 'normal' world in the first place.

I do go into his nursery now and then. I look, I cry, I leave. His diaper bag still sits at the door, packed with all the sweet little things I planned to hug and hold him in. Most days, the tears cloud anything I see in his room, much like they cloud the words I now type. My heart still just weeps. It seems like I may not have as many days where my heart sobs; now it just constantly weeps, softly but surely, even as I go out day to day and put on my happy face.

That's why I hate the term 'grieving process'. I think to put a name for a 'process' you are supposed to go through when your world crashes is just psycho-babble. Process means there's a beginning and an dies, you go through all the 'steps' and then you've worked through the process and you're back to yourself.

Seriously? There is NO back to yourself. How in the world do I go back to the time before my sweet boy was born and died? How do I go back to the woman I was when I was a mother waiting for her answered prayer to be born?

I don't. And so, the grieving process is simply what the rest of my life is. The 'process' is simply how I deal with missing Matthew each and every day. I can imagine there will be a day that I don't even think of Matthew for but a few minutes...and maybe not even those will happen until the end of the night, as I lay my head down and close my eyes...but that will be a day where my sorrow was just a little less. The very next day might bring an entire 24 hours of heartache.

THAT'S grieving. You may be able to categorize different days and times of your life as ones that fit a mold of anger or denial or bargaining or depression or what-have you, but honestly, I feel like I may live every day of my life in acceptance (I mean really, what choice is there? Matthew's dead. He's gone. Death is final on this earth.) while still mourning him in some way. Whether it takes 15 seconds of my day or the entire day, I can be 109 and I will still mourn him every single day. I think that one of the (many) nicest things Dr. Polko told me at my post-partum check-up was this: "You are strong. There's a difference between acting in sad and depressed ways and being depressed. You lost your son. You will be sad a long, long time." She gets it.

It is now 4:56. 13 weeks ago this very minute my precious little boy was born. My heart is heavy.

And yet...I have quite the week coming up. I went for my ultrasound and bloodwork for our transfer on Thursday and my nurse said all was 'perfect'. My uterine lining is 11.3 mm (they'd like 8 or higher) and my estrogen was 945. Tonight I add progesterone in oil to my menu of hormones added (as if I needed more!) to my system. All in preparation for our little Yellow Fish to make him or herself home for a while. Matthew and his little brother or sister embryo were Red Fish (I think Matthew was Red) and Blue Fish and Cindy said that the one little embryo we had left had to be Sam-I-Am.

Well, we have since added a new dog to the family--a 'foster' we took in for the rescue and with whom John fell in love. How do you tell a man who just lost his son, "No," when he says, "He makes me smile?" You don't. So, Sam Ennis entered the picture. His tag even says (at John's insistence) Sam-I-Am, so I can't likely have two of them. Amber aptly suggested Yellow Fish.

How very, very sad is it that I am hesitant to use the boy or girl name we will give to Matthew's brother or sister because I know that even when your pregnancy brings you to the point you are OVERDUE, that doesn't mean you are bringing your baby home?

I don't know when we'll feel comfortable using a name.


  1. Lori,

    You're right. There is no other pain than losing a child. I am so, so, so sorry.


  2. Lori, I wish I could say something that would ease the pain. Grief is hardly a process, I never thought of it that way until now, but you're right - there is NO end. Thinking of you. xx

  3. ((HUGS)) Lori. I was thinking of you this morning.

    I like the name Yellow Fish. Yellow is a hopeful bright color and I have a good feeling about that embryo.

  4. Lori, Thank you for sharing your heart. I think Yellow Fish is a splendid name to use right now... and I trust that the Lord knows what the future holds and is holding that precious baby embryo in His hands, calling him or her by name. Hugs to you!

  5. I completely understand how it can feel so long ago, yet just yesterday. I fight with this feeling all the time. I also agree that losing a child is something that other people just don't quite understand. It is a pain like no other. People try to force themselves to understand by comparing it to losing another family member... but it is so different. We not only lost Ethan and Jacob, we lost all of our dreams for them. We lost our family that we had dreamed about with them. There are so many different losses that people that have never been there do not think about. I am sorry, I remember how hard it was/is to deal with people who think they are helping.

    I am glad your FET is looking good hun. I am feeling so positive about this for you guys. I am sending my prayers and thoughts that is cycle is a huge sucess, and we both get our take home babies this time around. They will both have beautiful angels watching over them.

  6. Oh, how I see myself in this post.
    My heart hurts for you....

    Thinking of you...

  7. Lori,
    I am just now getting to my blog comments and I noticed you had a comment about Picasa. I found this link and don't know if it will help:

    If it doesn't, please let me know (if you want). I have a friend that may help. I have given up on Picasa myself =).

    Blessings and have been thinking of you and your story after Thursday's meeting. My heart goes out to you...

  8. You describe this so perfectly - grief is NOT a process at all! Just when I think I'm doing better, it all comes back, and in those days, the pain is just as strong as it was in those initial weeks.

    I went to grief counseling a few times, and she said grief is like a lightning bolt, than when you fall back down, it's not to the point of the origination of the bolt. But I disagree with that so much. Grief is not a lightning bolt. It's more like the Alps. Getting to a good place is such an uphill battle, but happiness can still be found. But then it seems not long after the force of the valley is so strong, I go sliding down the mountain at a 100 mph, unable to catch my breath. That is grief to me. If only it WERE a lightning bolt...


  9. Lori,

    Early on, I struggled with many of the things you are struggeling with. I couldn't stay focused or finish a task, things were 1/2 done and I lived my life in "pieces", literal pieces. So, I relate.

    My dear BL friend Nan struggled with wearing the "girls" maternity clothes with the now "grasshopper" and it was too trying. I told her that if it was too emotional to re-live the pain, then a new wardrobe was in the making. She packed away the clothes that she wore with the "girls". Same with the clothing that was bought for the "girls"...and yes, the grasshopper is another girl. You just have to do what feels best for you in this moment, find comfort, and know your decision was the right one.

    Know that I am praying for today and in the days ahead. I'm praying for "yellow fish" :) I'm also sending you hugs as those P in Oil shots are no fun.

    On a lighter note, I'm happy you all adopted "Sam-I-Am". Those furry little hugs are often the best medicine.

    xoxo and much love my sweet friend

  10. Sweet Lori.... my heart aches for you. I am thinking of you and holding your hand right now! xoxo

  11. I had to throw away the maternity shirt I was wearing when I found out my baby died... I knew I would only ever think of that day when I wore it or even saw it. The rest of it though, I'll be ok with wearing.

    Using the next baby's clothes is a tough one, but I realized... having them NEVER used is worse than letting someone else wear HER clothes, even her own sister. I've already given a few things away to some of her "friends" to wear in her honor and I've made a nice memorial album out of it... all the mommies were honored to put their daughters in some of Kathlyn's clothing... I know I could never sell them... and I dont think I could give them away without ever using them... so I'm hoping for a girl though I'm not picky... I just want one that cries next time.

  12. You are so right in your description of grief. And yes, you are forever changed. There is a hardened part of my heart now...the part that knows the pain of the ultimate love & loss.

    On the clothes...I got rid of all mine except one pair of yoga pants from the twins. I didn't want to wear them again. Anything that had any attachment to them was off limits for anyone else, myself included when it came to clothing. I'm not sure how'd I deal w/Matthew's clothes as far as hand me downs...I had no clothes for them except socks, which are tucked away with the few other things I have of them.

    I will be thinking of you in the coming weeks as you prepare for Yellow Fish's transfer. (hugs)

  13. Lori - I wish things were easier for you, but on the bad days (or hours), keep writing. It seems like your writing is an outlet for you and helps you work through some of your pain. I am hoping with all my heart that you have brighter days ahead. - J