It’s been almost two months. Sometimes it feels like we received the news yesterday. Sometimes it feels like more time has passed. No matter which it happens to be on a particular day, all I know is, it hurts. I find it hard to explain how I feel. It’s a hollow sadness deep inside me that even Webster can’t define. I don’t cry all day. I don’t know if it’s because sometimes the “well is dry,” so-to-speak, or because enough time has elapsed that I can be sad without sobbing every hour. It’s not like I feel any better about what has happened. Time just keeps moving ahead whether we’re ready to move with it or not. Shouldn’t the world stop to acknowledge when traumatic things happen to us? I wish it was as easy as pressing the pause button on some oversized remote for life. Maybe all of those technology guru’s can put their brains together for good and create an app for that… yeah, I know, I won’t hold my breath. Some say that life is full of disappointment, but this goes beyond that. I think that losing your baby is the most traumatic thing that can happen to someone in their lifetime. When you find out that you’re having a child you begin making plans and setting expectations for your future, almost immediately–some are small, some large. Nine to ten months is a long time. It’s full of changes, adjustments, and preparation both physically and mentally for both mom- and dad-to-be. And the same goes for the people in your circle. I feel like we we’re all driving down the road together with my husband in the passenger seat and me at the wheel–with everyone following behind us. We saw our future ahead and within reach. All of the sudden, without warning, I lost control. The car did a complete 180 and began to drive on its own. The brakes don’t work and I can’t turn around no matter how much I pull at the wheel. Our expected future fades in the rearview every day. I know it’s a horrible metaphor, that I’m even stretching a bit, but it does sum up how I feel about our loss. I thought we were going to have our baby that night and start our new journey together as a family for years to come. I thought that we were in control to a point–that as long as we had appreciation for what we were given, if we had faith in our future, the family we wanted was attainable.
I tried to be a good wife and mom–to protect our future. I followed the doctor’s rules. I never missed an appointment. I ate the right things to keep him strong, to keep me healthy. I took those crazy, big vitamins. I even choked down yogurt for the first few months (bleh). I tried to be prepared. We made a nice room. I read up on the latest crib, stroller, and car seat safety before tagging items for our registry. I washed his clothes in special detergent in case he might have allergies like his daddy. I made sure that we had two kinds of bottles and formula in our cupboard in case he didn’t take to breastfeeding. Diapers were ready and waiting next to at least three kinds of rash cream. All of the preparation in the world could never have prepared me for where we stand now. How do you go from picking out the perfect crib and bedding one day to choosing your baby’s final resting place the next? How am I suppose to accept my empty belly now that our baby is not here in my arms to hold? How am I suppose to reassure my husband that things are going to be okay when I’m on shaky ground? I want to act out like a child sometimes, kicking and screaming with my fists to the floor, hoping that someone will “give me my way.” That someone will give us back our son. Our future. I wanted so many things for us, to do so many things together. I want to see my baby’s eyes looking up at me while I hold him. I want to hear him cry. To hear him breathe. I want to dress him in that blue surf sweatshirt his daddy picked out for him. I want to rock him to sleep. I want to smell his baby face while I kiss his forehead. To teach him how to swim. To read him books at bedtime. To see him laugh and smile. To watch him clap along to his daddy’s guitar. To play with him as he splashes around at bath time. To introduce him to the feeling of cool sand between his tiny toes at the beach. I want to tell him I love him when I know he’s listening. I want to watch him play in the backyard with Sam and Nacho, and most of all with his dad. I want to draw and color with him. I want to hear his voice one day–for him to call us “mom” and “dad”. I want to watch and help him grow into a good man.
I wish we would have had the chance to save Rylan. I wish we could have changed our fate. I have to live every day knowing that I was the only one who could’ve known that something was wrong and didn’t pick up on it. It kills me to know that my baby could have been hurting or struggling and I never even knew. Even worse, it’s hard to know that my body could be responsible in some way for his death. I often feel like I failed Rylan and my husband. Even our family, sometimes. I have to keep telling myself that thoughts like that are irrational–because I know that I would have done anything to protect Ry and Chris had I known–but it’s not always easy to be rational when you’re sad. All I know is that I would have given my own life to save his–and to save Chris from this experience. I hope that means that I am a good mom and wife in some way.
Most days I feel lazy, or, just plain crazy. I don’t know which way is up and I definitely need someone to mark me with a big “fragile” sticker before shipping me out to my next social event. But, I keep getting up every morning and try to stay busy. Maybe I just try to stay distracted. Mostly I look forward to when my husband isn’t working so we can hang out. Our time together has been my saving grace. I gain such comfort by being in his presence. Part of that is because we have endured a similar experience, that we’ve shared a loss that only one another can understand. But, it’s also because we love each other so much. We have our moments like anyone else, but at the end of the day we truly care about each other. It feels good to be so sure of something in such uncertain times. I’m so glad that I listened years ago when my parents said that I should marry my best friend. I still get that excited feeling inside when we hold hands or he leans in for a kiss. When we get into those giddy moods together he makes me laugh so hard that my cheeks hurt. I’ve cherished those moments over the years. Now, I live for those moments. I guess that’s what makes this situation even more frustrating. In my heart I always knew that we would be good parents. I looked forward to sharing the great love that we have for each other with our child. I hoped that we could be a good example so that someday, hopefully, he could meet some lucky girl and have a relationship as good as ours. I don’t know how much babies retain while in the womb, but I hope that he got to know his mom and dad a little during our time together. I hope that he felt the love we have for each other and for him. I hope that it surrounded him and protected him when he passed away–the way that his daddy’s love surrounded me that night to get me through. The way it continues to light my way.
5 thoughts on “What if I don’t want to pick myself up today?”
I relate to so much of what you wrote. I lost my first son about 2 months ago too. I’m sorry you are having to feel this awful hurt too. Thanks for sharing your thoughts.
It’s really nice to hear that, thank you for taking the time to reply. I started writing this blog with the hope that I could give other people struggling with the loss of a child something to relate to – and I’d like to think that at some point, even if far off from today, my life will be in a better place where I can give people just starting this journey some hope for their future. It’s also nice to connect with people going through similar experiences – it gives me a chance to read their stories too. (Thank you for sharing, I did have the chance to visit your blog, as well)
I lost my twin boys a month ago. This is my second loss. I lost my daughter in Feb. of 2012. I have no living children. I relate to so much of this blog. with the way I feel down to needing that time with my husband. So sorry for your loss. my heart is just breaking. For anyone to go through this it just kills me.
I’m glad that I’ve given you something to relate to…this blog is a way to give myself and my family a voice but I also take away a great deal in knowing if I’ve touched someone else’s life. It makes me feel like I’m turning some of my pain into good. What we’re going through can make you feel so alone in the world. Losing a child this way can make it hard to relate to other people-even those who were close to you before your loss(es)-even the people you love. It’s nice to find others who have been through something similar-even if your heart aches for them-even if their story makes you sad. I’m sorry that you have had to endure this pain more than once in your life (and at all). My husband and I want so badly to have a family that I know that we will want to try and have children again-but I know I’ll be terrified when the time comes. For now I’m just trying to work through the harsh reality that my first son is gone. I wish it didn’t have to be this way for us… for anyone. My heart goes out to you and your husband. I’d like to say you’re strong but it drives me nuts when people say that to me. I know that you have no choice but to keep going.
Amen. I’d do anything just for a chance at a chance, even though I know it won’t happen now.