I spoke to my friend today. Someone from the funeral home brought her son's ashes to her. I'm trying to do as my blog says--be the living art created to help others. I told her that she has to choose her path. At the time, I told her she has three choices, but after thinking a bit, I believe there are actually four paths that a grieving parent (person?) can choose.
The first is to live in grief. You can lock yourself up in your child's room with her belongings, trying to relive every memory. This can unfortunately mean that you will also live in the past, and with the dead rather than the living.
The second path is down the middle of the road. You live neither in grief nor do you move forward, but rather tread the line, unable to let go of the past and unable to open your eyes to the future. I would tend to think that many grieving parents choose this path. In most cases, you have no choice but to participate in some parts of life. You go to work, see your friends, raise your children, but live in the shadow of grief. It hangs over you, making everything dark and cold.
The third path is, I believe, the one I've chosen, the one I chose within days of losing my daughter. Someone around me said that everything would always be sad because I would always be missing my daughter, through every milestone and happy occasion. This upset me--I didn't want my daughter (and now my son) to ever feel the shadow that was weighing on me at the time. I decided then and there to do my best to never let the shadow cover her. Over the past two years, I think I've finally found my way out from under the shadow as well.
The fourth path is, surprisingly, the scariest to me. On this road, you run away from the shadow. You give away your child's clothing, toys, and anything else that might remind you of her. You stop talking about her, don't let yourself cry, and try to live as though nothing ever happened. I don't personally know anyone who's chosen this path, but I have heard that a lot of grandparents do some of these things. Maybe they think it's easier on their children if they pretend the grandchild never died? Maybe they're trying to be strong by not thinking about it? I don't know, but I would tend to believe that these people have serious problems later on, having never allowed themselves to grieve, and carrying all the bottled up feelings and memories around with them forever.
As I've said before, I do believe the path you walk is a choice. But what makes a person choose one path over another can vary. Who do you have around you? What's happened to you before now? When tragedy knocks you down, do you look up or do you sit there in shock? I personally feel that if I hadn't had people around me constantly telling me to get up, that I was strong and could get through this, I might have chosen the 2nd path.
The other thing I think has been helpful is realizing that life is messy, it's a series of opposites that live beside each other. Dark and light, happy and sad, good and evil are all with us. Some of us don't experience them in extremes, but we have to accept that life isn't just all one or the other.
If you are a grieving parent, know you're not alone. There are others walking on the path (whichever you choose) ahead of you and you can do it too. Sometimes it's just one step a day, sometimes it's two steps back, but if you stay on the path you will eventually move forward.
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Not again
A longtime friend of my dad's sent me a card after my daughter passed away. With it, he enclosed a story about a woman whose son dies. Enveloped in grief, she asks Buddha to bring him back. He tells her that if she can bring him a grain of rice from a household who has not lost a loved one, he will help her. She goes from house to house, but cannot find anyone who hasn't lost a loved one.
The story, like this blog, is, I assume, meant to reassure those of us who've lost loved ones that we're not alone. It's been running through my head for the past few days. On Wednesday evening, October 12, one of my best friends called to tell me her family had been in an accident and she'd lost her son. This woman was the 2nd one at my house (would've been first if she lived closer) and has been there for me every minute of every day since then.
Today, she is at the hospital where her daughter is recovering. I know when she comes home, she'll be hit with her son's death full force. I'm trying to be there for her as much as I can. After 5 days, I'm completely exhausted. I wonder if I'm more exhausted than the others who are here to help. Seeing her, talking to her does bring back lots of memories I wanted to leave behind. At times, I put myself back in time so I can remember how I felt and know what to say to her. I think that must be taking its toll, probably differently for me than for the others who are with us.
The one good thing I can say is that it's been enough time that I can be there. Until recently, I don't know that I could have gone to the hospital, sat with her daughter while she left the room for a while, held her hand while she cried, or even seen her tired, sad eyes. Somehow, I'm able to remember just enough and then stop.
I remember the pastor who performed my daughter's service saying it's not God's will that a child die, that God's will is in those who come to help. To my dear friend, I can only hope I'm carrying out God's will in some way that helps you.
The story, like this blog, is, I assume, meant to reassure those of us who've lost loved ones that we're not alone. It's been running through my head for the past few days. On Wednesday evening, October 12, one of my best friends called to tell me her family had been in an accident and she'd lost her son. This woman was the 2nd one at my house (would've been first if she lived closer) and has been there for me every minute of every day since then.
Today, she is at the hospital where her daughter is recovering. I know when she comes home, she'll be hit with her son's death full force. I'm trying to be there for her as much as I can. After 5 days, I'm completely exhausted. I wonder if I'm more exhausted than the others who are here to help. Seeing her, talking to her does bring back lots of memories I wanted to leave behind. At times, I put myself back in time so I can remember how I felt and know what to say to her. I think that must be taking its toll, probably differently for me than for the others who are with us.
The one good thing I can say is that it's been enough time that I can be there. Until recently, I don't know that I could have gone to the hospital, sat with her daughter while she left the room for a while, held her hand while she cried, or even seen her tired, sad eyes. Somehow, I'm able to remember just enough and then stop.
I remember the pastor who performed my daughter's service saying it's not God's will that a child die, that God's will is in those who come to help. To my dear friend, I can only hope I'm carrying out God's will in some way that helps you.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Another Milestone
Tomorrow my girl will be one day older than her sister. Every day she lives after that is an age that her sister never got to be.
I've had this date on my mind for quite a while, but I didn't realize the nasty feeling it would create in the pit of my stomach. Anticipation again, wreaking havoc on my body.
I think about my daughter and realize once again that she saved me. I was lucky in some ways that I had a baby who needed me. I didn't wake up the day after my daughter died wondering whether I was still a mother, as I've heard some women do when they lose their only child. I didn't have an older child to explain things to, or console.
My baby girl literally gave me a reason to get out of bed day after day in those early weeks and months after her sister died. I've breastfed all three of my children, and while the oldest and youngest both took/take bottles, the middle one never did. She would rather not eat than take a bottle. And while I'm sure she wouldn't have starved herself if I'd been unable to nurse her, knowing how stubborn she was made me decide to try to keep nursing her. It gave me a reason to eat.
Also unlike my other two, my middle child slept 8 hours in a row consistently from about 8 weeks old until this very day. Today I sit here, sleepy, mildly confused, having woken up at midnight and 4 AM with my baby boy. And I realize that I probably would have broken down if I'd gotten this little sleep after losing my daughter. Somehow, her little sister was different in a way I needed her to be.
My daughter has also been unlucky, with a weight on her shoulders she probably doesn't even know exists. She had to get me through that time so I'd be here for her for years to come. I sometimes hovered over her, sometimes handed her off to friends for hours on end, compared her to her sister, and probably denied her some time and attention she would have gotten, had I been more mentally and emotionally stable in her first few months or life. My husband says she is very attached to me, sensitive to my moods. I tend to agree with him though I hate to think of that burden on my 2-year old.
Tomorrow will be a relief--she made it past that age. Not that I'm done worrying--just knowing what losing a child feels like has made me more sensitive to possible dangers, probably more so than most parents. But I'm not worried in the same way for my son. It's as if I feel he's safe because he wasn't around when his sister died. It's sad too, because she never saw him, and I honestly don't know if she knows he exists.
Think of me tomorrow, and my now-big girl, older than her sister forever onwards.
I've had this date on my mind for quite a while, but I didn't realize the nasty feeling it would create in the pit of my stomach. Anticipation again, wreaking havoc on my body.
I think about my daughter and realize once again that she saved me. I was lucky in some ways that I had a baby who needed me. I didn't wake up the day after my daughter died wondering whether I was still a mother, as I've heard some women do when they lose their only child. I didn't have an older child to explain things to, or console.
My baby girl literally gave me a reason to get out of bed day after day in those early weeks and months after her sister died. I've breastfed all three of my children, and while the oldest and youngest both took/take bottles, the middle one never did. She would rather not eat than take a bottle. And while I'm sure she wouldn't have starved herself if I'd been unable to nurse her, knowing how stubborn she was made me decide to try to keep nursing her. It gave me a reason to eat.
Also unlike my other two, my middle child slept 8 hours in a row consistently from about 8 weeks old until this very day. Today I sit here, sleepy, mildly confused, having woken up at midnight and 4 AM with my baby boy. And I realize that I probably would have broken down if I'd gotten this little sleep after losing my daughter. Somehow, her little sister was different in a way I needed her to be.
My daughter has also been unlucky, with a weight on her shoulders she probably doesn't even know exists. She had to get me through that time so I'd be here for her for years to come. I sometimes hovered over her, sometimes handed her off to friends for hours on end, compared her to her sister, and probably denied her some time and attention she would have gotten, had I been more mentally and emotionally stable in her first few months or life. My husband says she is very attached to me, sensitive to my moods. I tend to agree with him though I hate to think of that burden on my 2-year old.
Tomorrow will be a relief--she made it past that age. Not that I'm done worrying--just knowing what losing a child feels like has made me more sensitive to possible dangers, probably more so than most parents. But I'm not worried in the same way for my son. It's as if I feel he's safe because he wasn't around when his sister died. It's sad too, because she never saw him, and I honestly don't know if she knows he exists.
Think of me tomorrow, and my now-big girl, older than her sister forever onwards.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
One Day at a Time
My baby boy is 12 weeks old today. That means my maternity leave has come to an end and tomorrow I return to work. I can't believe how quickly the time has passed. It's such a contrast to the two years before, when I couldn't believe I'd gone one day, one week, a month, and then 2 years without my daughter. I kept looking back at yesterday, the big yesterday I wished I could live over again. I feared tomorrow, the months and years without her. The phrase "one day at a time" has taken on new meaning for me in the past few weeks.
Soon after my daughter died, I found myself reliving that day over and over again, the parts I'd actually experienced, and the parts (events leading up to her death) that I never saw and have no confirmation of. I felt as though I could either make it more real or unreal if I played the film in my head enough times. Then the day came where I tried to stop the movie from playing. The deep shock passed, and when I remembered anything, I had horrible flashbacks that left me sobbing, screaming, scared, and then exhausted. The only way I could make them stop was to focus on the immediate present--I would recite facts such as the date, my name, address, and run my fingers along the fabric of my pants or chair to have a physical sensation to focus on.
This lurching back and forth from dwelling in the past and worrying about the future had the odd effect of making the present go by without my ever really experiencing it. There are events, feelings, so many things that I can't remember. I'm sure the shock made it so I couldn't fully feel, but even things that I thought I was present for are tough to recall.
A few weeks ago, I found myself back in that week, remembering something about my daughter's memorial service. Rather than letting myself think about it, I forcefully dragged myself back to the present. I didn't want to remember, to be taken back to that period. I realize in some way I have compartmentalized my memories of my daughter. The good memories are allowed to come up and relived as fully as possible, while the bad ones (mostly her actual death and the week after) I make a conscious effort to avoid.
I don't think this is unhealthy--I don't try to pretend she's still alive, I don't live in the past, and if I feel sad, then I go ahead and cry. But I'm not dwelling in that past anymore. I also find that I'm not looking at the future as often either. I'm not worrying about what will happen on the day my children realize what happened to their big sister. I don't try to figure out how I'll get through the rest of this life without her.
A friend told me recently that I sound better now than I have in the past two years. My only explanation for this is my son. I told her my baby girl saved me--she forced me to fight--and my baby boy has brought me peace. Maybe I've stopped running--running away from the past and the future--and am finally sitting right here on today.
I've posted this before, but it bears repeating. Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow is a nice little verse that I think most people can relate to. Thinking only about today may be the sanest way to live (why worry about things we can't change or even imagine?) but it certainly doesn't come easy. My dreaded tomorrow right now involves going back to work. I just don't want to. I'm not saying I don't want to work, I just don't feel like going back to the same job I've had for nearly 8 years. But that's literally only tomorrow I'm thinking of, not next week, month, or year. I've come a long way in controlling my future-tripping tendencies. It is definitely something that requires effort.
The milestones I was afraid of, most of them have now passed and I haven't worried about any of them in a while. The two that remain are the day my daughter moves out of her crib and into her bed (actually, her big sister's former bed) and September 28, the day my baby girl will finally be older than her big sister ever was. Just reading that sentence makes my stomach turn over.
So tomorrow, I will be back at work, doing my best to stay in the present, and live just one day at a time.
Soon after my daughter died, I found myself reliving that day over and over again, the parts I'd actually experienced, and the parts (events leading up to her death) that I never saw and have no confirmation of. I felt as though I could either make it more real or unreal if I played the film in my head enough times. Then the day came where I tried to stop the movie from playing. The deep shock passed, and when I remembered anything, I had horrible flashbacks that left me sobbing, screaming, scared, and then exhausted. The only way I could make them stop was to focus on the immediate present--I would recite facts such as the date, my name, address, and run my fingers along the fabric of my pants or chair to have a physical sensation to focus on.
This lurching back and forth from dwelling in the past and worrying about the future had the odd effect of making the present go by without my ever really experiencing it. There are events, feelings, so many things that I can't remember. I'm sure the shock made it so I couldn't fully feel, but even things that I thought I was present for are tough to recall.
A few weeks ago, I found myself back in that week, remembering something about my daughter's memorial service. Rather than letting myself think about it, I forcefully dragged myself back to the present. I didn't want to remember, to be taken back to that period. I realize in some way I have compartmentalized my memories of my daughter. The good memories are allowed to come up and relived as fully as possible, while the bad ones (mostly her actual death and the week after) I make a conscious effort to avoid.
I don't think this is unhealthy--I don't try to pretend she's still alive, I don't live in the past, and if I feel sad, then I go ahead and cry. But I'm not dwelling in that past anymore. I also find that I'm not looking at the future as often either. I'm not worrying about what will happen on the day my children realize what happened to their big sister. I don't try to figure out how I'll get through the rest of this life without her.
A friend told me recently that I sound better now than I have in the past two years. My only explanation for this is my son. I told her my baby girl saved me--she forced me to fight--and my baby boy has brought me peace. Maybe I've stopped running--running away from the past and the future--and am finally sitting right here on today.
I've posted this before, but it bears repeating. Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow is a nice little verse that I think most people can relate to. Thinking only about today may be the sanest way to live (why worry about things we can't change or even imagine?) but it certainly doesn't come easy. My dreaded tomorrow right now involves going back to work. I just don't want to. I'm not saying I don't want to work, I just don't feel like going back to the same job I've had for nearly 8 years. But that's literally only tomorrow I'm thinking of, not next week, month, or year. I've come a long way in controlling my future-tripping tendencies. It is definitely something that requires effort.
The milestones I was afraid of, most of them have now passed and I haven't worried about any of them in a while. The two that remain are the day my daughter moves out of her crib and into her bed (actually, her big sister's former bed) and September 28, the day my baby girl will finally be older than her big sister ever was. Just reading that sentence makes my stomach turn over.
So tomorrow, I will be back at work, doing my best to stay in the present, and live just one day at a time.
Monday, August 8, 2011
An Open Heart
A couple of weeks ago, during one of my many late-night risings with my now 8-week old baby boy, I sat holding him and thinking about how much I loved him. And then of course I thought of my daughters, and thinking of my oldest brought the usual tears to my eyes. The tears this time were due to the idea that I was loving her sister and brother with a broken heart. How awful! Is that all they get? I swore after her death to never give them only part of myself, to never let losing her steal me away from them. I've tried as hard as I can to live fully with them as I did with her. But my broken heart, is that all I have to offer?
Then I remembered a book a read recently. I've read many, many books and magazines thanks to my time in the hospital after my c-section and time spent with a breastpump. The book wasn't great, I can't even remember the title. But in it a character describes having a door in your heart open each time you love someone new. I like that idea--that each person opens a door to a room that I have never before visited. I think we sometimes lock doors, but that's up to us, not anyone else. I'm sure I have some locked doors--old loves, old friends who've betrayed me, mostly people who weren't meant to have my love. I don't think I've locked the door that belonged to my firstborn. And losing my daughter doesn't mean that the door has closed or the room is gone. It's all there, just maybe redecorated. Or maybe I sit there by myself, rather than with her, but I can still go in, still open the door and visit the room whenever I want. It's harder some days than others but I can't imagine not loving her.
So my heart is open, open to new loves, to new doors and rooms for each new person. And I love my baby, his older sisters, friends and family with my open heart.
Then I remembered a book a read recently. I've read many, many books and magazines thanks to my time in the hospital after my c-section and time spent with a breastpump. The book wasn't great, I can't even remember the title. But in it a character describes having a door in your heart open each time you love someone new. I like that idea--that each person opens a door to a room that I have never before visited. I think we sometimes lock doors, but that's up to us, not anyone else. I'm sure I have some locked doors--old loves, old friends who've betrayed me, mostly people who weren't meant to have my love. I don't think I've locked the door that belonged to my firstborn. And losing my daughter doesn't mean that the door has closed or the room is gone. It's all there, just maybe redecorated. Or maybe I sit there by myself, rather than with her, but I can still go in, still open the door and visit the room whenever I want. It's harder some days than others but I can't imagine not loving her.
So my heart is open, open to new loves, to new doors and rooms for each new person. And I love my baby, his older sisters, friends and family with my open heart.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Milestones
I made it, made it through the week that resembled that other week. I was so relieved, and then I took a deep breath, looked around, and realized I'm surrounded by my own self-made milestones. I find myself sometimes thinking, only X weeks until...but there is nothing to count down to, I hope. I didn't know when my daughter was born that I was counting down to her older sister's death.
My little man is 5 weeks old today. When my daughter was 5 weeks and 4 days old, her sister died. The day after that was my postpartum checkup. I was going to have my checkup at 4 weeks this time but had to reschedule. Next Thursday will be 6 weeks and 2 days after the baby was born and that's when I'm having my checkup. I think once I get through that, I'll breathe another sigh of relief.
My daughter is still sleeping in a crib, and the baby sleeps in our room. After my daughter died, her sister stayed in our room rather than going to the crib at 2 months as we'd planned. And she stayed in a portable crib until she was about 9 months old. In our old house, she was right beside me and honestly it made me crazy. All the little baby noises and fearing that I would wake her if I got up to go to the bathroom made me frustrated and exhausted. Once we moved to this house, she slept just outside our door in a little loft area. It was insane--we didn't yet have a new baby monitor and I couldn't see her, but somehow I felt she was safe there.
I've already bought a second video monitor like the one I finally found for my daughter's room. And my daughter has new furniture in the bedroom that until now was mostly unused. Her sister's remaining clothing and toys are in the closet. The closet was once filled with plastic bins filled with my daughter's things. Now we're down to about 5 boxes, two of them very small. It makes me a bit sad that there's so little left, but also makes me feel a bit better that her sister has been able to use so many of her things.
Moving my daughter to her new room will be a milestone reached, but before that I have to be able to move her sister's remaining items out of that closet. Those bins will probably go into my home office. Another milestone there--admitting that instead of being a museum or shrine of sorts, the room will actually be used as a bedroom.
When will I finally get past all these milestones? Losing my firstborn was like having time stop and restart. I have to get my daughter past those same ages and stages. Will I feel this way as my son gets older? I want to stop feeling like every time I kiss her it's closer to the end, to some horrible end I'm envisioning.
In mid-September, my second child will be older than her older sister. In my mind, that's the last milestone, but realistically, I don't know. I've already thought about (and sort of dread) my daughter's birthday in December. She would have been 5, an age I was really looking forward to. Can I stop creating milestones? Maybe that's what's really happening here.
On a positive note, a friend of mine told me this weekend that I finally sound better, more like myself. I asked her how I sounded before, and she couldn't really say, but something about having to turn my attention to a new baby has changed. All I can think is that now I'm truly focusing on life rather than being dragged along by death.
My little man is 5 weeks old today. When my daughter was 5 weeks and 4 days old, her sister died. The day after that was my postpartum checkup. I was going to have my checkup at 4 weeks this time but had to reschedule. Next Thursday will be 6 weeks and 2 days after the baby was born and that's when I'm having my checkup. I think once I get through that, I'll breathe another sigh of relief.
My daughter is still sleeping in a crib, and the baby sleeps in our room. After my daughter died, her sister stayed in our room rather than going to the crib at 2 months as we'd planned. And she stayed in a portable crib until she was about 9 months old. In our old house, she was right beside me and honestly it made me crazy. All the little baby noises and fearing that I would wake her if I got up to go to the bathroom made me frustrated and exhausted. Once we moved to this house, she slept just outside our door in a little loft area. It was insane--we didn't yet have a new baby monitor and I couldn't see her, but somehow I felt she was safe there.
I've already bought a second video monitor like the one I finally found for my daughter's room. And my daughter has new furniture in the bedroom that until now was mostly unused. Her sister's remaining clothing and toys are in the closet. The closet was once filled with plastic bins filled with my daughter's things. Now we're down to about 5 boxes, two of them very small. It makes me a bit sad that there's so little left, but also makes me feel a bit better that her sister has been able to use so many of her things.
Moving my daughter to her new room will be a milestone reached, but before that I have to be able to move her sister's remaining items out of that closet. Those bins will probably go into my home office. Another milestone there--admitting that instead of being a museum or shrine of sorts, the room will actually be used as a bedroom.
When will I finally get past all these milestones? Losing my firstborn was like having time stop and restart. I have to get my daughter past those same ages and stages. Will I feel this way as my son gets older? I want to stop feeling like every time I kiss her it's closer to the end, to some horrible end I'm envisioning.
In mid-September, my second child will be older than her older sister. In my mind, that's the last milestone, but realistically, I don't know. I've already thought about (and sort of dread) my daughter's birthday in December. She would have been 5, an age I was really looking forward to. Can I stop creating milestones? Maybe that's what's really happening here.
On a positive note, a friend of mine told me this weekend that I finally sound better, more like myself. I asked her how I sounded before, and she couldn't really say, but something about having to turn my attention to a new baby has changed. All I can think is that now I'm truly focusing on life rather than being dragged along by death.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Deja Vu
No, I didn't fall off the face of the earth. Nor did I decide to stop blogging. I made it through The Month, which I've decided now to think of as half good half bad, like many things in life. First half of May--Mother's Day and my birthday. Second half--my daughter's death and my time to tell the story of her death. Made it through both intact. Learned about a new kind of tired then, which I'll briefly explain.
Stress has always messed with my stomach. I do sometimes have trouble sleeping, but for the most part, stress exhausts me and makes me lose weight like crazy. In the days after my daughter died, I lost around 5 lbs. in two days (while breastfeeding, no less) but slept like a log, at least 8 hours a night. I welcomed that tiredness, because it allowed me to escape.
The week I told my daughter's story, my husband and I both got sick. Nothing major, just colds, but since I was very pregnant at the time, all I could do was take some mild decongestants and cough syrup, so I was pretty miserable. And between the cold and having to relive her death via the retelling, I was utterly exhausted. For the first time in ages, I hated it. I didn't want to be exhausted. Like last year, I feared the anniversary somehow bringing some sort of other tragedy and wanted to be as rested and alert as possible. I would spend my days trying to figure out how to feel better--what could I overcome first? The cold? Pregnancy fatigue? Or the exhaustion of her death annivesary?
Eventually I got better. Then suddenly on June 14, I got up from my desk to get my lunch and felt a tiny trickle of fluid. I went to the bathroom and saw a bigger trickle. Called my doctor's office and was told to go to the hospital. With my other two pregnancies, my water broke at 39.5 weeks and that was that. On June 14, I was only 35 weeks along. But I know what amniotic fluid looks like and what it feels like when your water breaks. So that night, Baby Boy was born, about 6 hours after I left for the hospital.
Like my daughters, he was delivered via emergency c-section. So much for planning ahead! I hadn't packed anything, pulled out baby clothes, assembled a bassinet...obviously I wasn't prepared. But my husband and nanny pulled together everything we needed and took care of my daughter. Baby Boy spent 10 days in the neonatal intensive care unit because initially he had some trouble breathing and couldn't feed well. Fortunately, he was one of the biggest, healthiest NICU babies and was never hooked up to anything to help him breathe, never needed treatment for jaundice or any other condition.
I'll skip the gory details (most of which involve very little sleep) and fast forward to today. Baby Boy will be 3 weeks old 3 days from today. I'm tired still, that newborn up all night kind of tired. Which is OK. But now I come to the title of this post.
The day my daughter died, my husband was in class, my nanny was on vacation, and I was supposed to finally spend some time with my big girl. This morning, the nanny left on vacation. Tuesday my husband goes back to class for the first time since baby boy arrived. My mother-in-law is here helping out, whereas last time my grandma was here. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid of how much this week will resemble that day. It was a Thursday, so I'm specifically dreading Thursday.
What's getting me through is focusing on the differences. We're in a different house, my daughter still sleeps in a crib (her sister was in a bed and therefore free to move around), I am stronger now than I was 3 weeks after my previous delivery (thanks to conscious attempts at getting stronger), and I have one of the best video baby monitors money can buy. OK, there's nothing here that's necessarily completely reassuring, but I have to start somewhere.
Think of me this week. As I've told my daughter since just after her sister died, "Mommy strong!" I convinced her and to some extent myself, and hopefully that belief holds up this week.
Stress has always messed with my stomach. I do sometimes have trouble sleeping, but for the most part, stress exhausts me and makes me lose weight like crazy. In the days after my daughter died, I lost around 5 lbs. in two days (while breastfeeding, no less) but slept like a log, at least 8 hours a night. I welcomed that tiredness, because it allowed me to escape.
The week I told my daughter's story, my husband and I both got sick. Nothing major, just colds, but since I was very pregnant at the time, all I could do was take some mild decongestants and cough syrup, so I was pretty miserable. And between the cold and having to relive her death via the retelling, I was utterly exhausted. For the first time in ages, I hated it. I didn't want to be exhausted. Like last year, I feared the anniversary somehow bringing some sort of other tragedy and wanted to be as rested and alert as possible. I would spend my days trying to figure out how to feel better--what could I overcome first? The cold? Pregnancy fatigue? Or the exhaustion of her death annivesary?
Eventually I got better. Then suddenly on June 14, I got up from my desk to get my lunch and felt a tiny trickle of fluid. I went to the bathroom and saw a bigger trickle. Called my doctor's office and was told to go to the hospital. With my other two pregnancies, my water broke at 39.5 weeks and that was that. On June 14, I was only 35 weeks along. But I know what amniotic fluid looks like and what it feels like when your water breaks. So that night, Baby Boy was born, about 6 hours after I left for the hospital.
Like my daughters, he was delivered via emergency c-section. So much for planning ahead! I hadn't packed anything, pulled out baby clothes, assembled a bassinet...obviously I wasn't prepared. But my husband and nanny pulled together everything we needed and took care of my daughter. Baby Boy spent 10 days in the neonatal intensive care unit because initially he had some trouble breathing and couldn't feed well. Fortunately, he was one of the biggest, healthiest NICU babies and was never hooked up to anything to help him breathe, never needed treatment for jaundice or any other condition.
I'll skip the gory details (most of which involve very little sleep) and fast forward to today. Baby Boy will be 3 weeks old 3 days from today. I'm tired still, that newborn up all night kind of tired. Which is OK. But now I come to the title of this post.
The day my daughter died, my husband was in class, my nanny was on vacation, and I was supposed to finally spend some time with my big girl. This morning, the nanny left on vacation. Tuesday my husband goes back to class for the first time since baby boy arrived. My mother-in-law is here helping out, whereas last time my grandma was here. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid of how much this week will resemble that day. It was a Thursday, so I'm specifically dreading Thursday.
What's getting me through is focusing on the differences. We're in a different house, my daughter still sleeps in a crib (her sister was in a bed and therefore free to move around), I am stronger now than I was 3 weeks after my previous delivery (thanks to conscious attempts at getting stronger), and I have one of the best video baby monitors money can buy. OK, there's nothing here that's necessarily completely reassuring, but I have to start somewhere.
Think of me this week. As I've told my daughter since just after her sister died, "Mommy strong!" I convinced her and to some extent myself, and hopefully that belief holds up this week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)