Tag Archives: love

What’s keeping you?

It’s 2:00 am. Another night where I’ve kept my husband up with me watching bad TV until almost midnight. I feel even worse about that knowing that he has to work in the morning. For the past two hours I’ve surfed the web for random sources of entertainment, searched new books on my kindle, read two “stillborn stories,” and played a silly game on my phone. Then I turned off the electronic devices and placed them on my nightstand. Our counselor says it’s not good to increase your brain activity with those things before bedtime but I just don’t know what else to do. When I lay down in bed my mind just goes haywire. I slowly feel my anxiety increase as the minutes count down to sunrise. Watching the hours inch toward daylight adds to the pressure in my head that I should be asleep. That just leads to more restlessness. The real kicker is that I need a sleep aid of some kind every night. I hate taking medicine. I don’t want to take something that encourages me to sleep my day away. But I know that I can’t get to sleep without one. That sucks. Most days I try to get to bed before midnight so I can take a Benadryl–which does a pretty good job of helping me get to and stay asleep through the night. I feel it’s better than other meds which can have long term effects on your body over time–like stomach bleeding–and that’s the last thing I need right now. Initially, I tried Tylenol PM. I still take it occasionally–usually a half of a pill just to help me fall asleep. That’s what I did tonight. As you can see, it was a failed attempt.

So, what keeps me up? A lot of things. Work. Money. Vacation. The seasons. Holidays. Then there’s the one that hangs over all of the others–that my precious baby is gone.

Work. I have to go back. It scares the hell out of me. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to handle the stress and pressure of my job anymore. I consider myself a diligent worker. Someone who cares about the quality of work I produce. I want to do a good job for me, my co-workers, and my family. I think that my current state may hold me back from the capacity of work I normally do. I have a very demanding job. I wish I could say that I’m a doctor who saves lives every day, but I don’t. I work in advertising and the hours and deadlines are challenging. I’ve always struggled to find a balance between personal and work life. I drive 45 minutes each way to work and typically end my work day between 6 and 8:00 pm. I spend my evenings trying to jam in as much quality time as possible with my husband, dogs, and family, when our schedules align. I don’t know that I will be able to keep those hours anymore. I’m mentally tired these days. I’m afraid of being far away from Chris–far enough that if I need him, or if he needs me, we won’t be there for each other. My husband works from home on most days and I’m afraid he’ll have too much time to think when it’s not busy. I don’t want him to feel alone and sad as a result. I don’t want us to feel abandoned by each other. If he calls and I’m in a meeting I may not be able to answer and talk when he needs me. That sucks, because in my heart he is my true priority. If I’m busy on a deadline with no time for breaks, how will I take pause when I need to get away and just be sad? I’m afraid that I won’t care about our unappreciative clients and their crazy requests. I’m worried that work “emergencies” will feel so trivial compared to the enormous tragedy that has occurred in my life. How can I keep those feelings a secret? I work in a very open environment. The layout is basically one room lined with short-walled cubicles. It’s hard to escape the noise and chaos on a busy day. I’m worried how I will react when hearing other people’s conversations–about their families, mostly. I just found out that a new girl started in my absence and just had a baby boy. The girl who sits diagonal to me recently announced her pregnancy to the agency and is around 4 months along. It’s easy to be happy for them and want to wish them congratulations, but I know there is a part of me who will be crying inside–and maybe even on the outside. I just want my baby boy. I worry that I will think of my own pregnancy when people ask her how she’s feeling. I’ll have to attend her shower and hold back the tears. How will I escape the feeling that everyone is looking at me as they give her gifts and well wishes? I wouldn’t want to make anyone else feel bad–after all, they should be able to enjoy it the way I did. I’m as afraid of the people who approach me with kind thoughts and sad eyes as I am of the people who act like nothing has happened. It’s easier to care for yourself and avoid tough experiences when you have the freedom to do what you want. I’m afraid of the limitations that being at work will add to an already difficult situation. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to leave work early enough to make our counseling sessions, which is far from my job. I feel those sessions, along with the evening walks my husband and I take, are so important to my healing. I really don’t want to compromise them. I wanted to go back to work gradually. I asked my boss if I could do three days a week through the rest of the year, knowing it was a long shot. She said it’s not possible, that they need the staff and I would, obviously, take a pay cut. Although a 3-day schedule may prove good for my head, I don’t think I’d be able to swing it financially. So, I’ll be thinking of a new plan to throw in front of my boss this week. All I know is that I should be returning in the first week of August. I’m sure that in some ways it will be good for me. I also want to plan something special–a small vacation, perhaps–for our 5th wedding anniversary. I’m not sure how that will go over with work now that I’ve been gone so long.

Vacation and money. Shortly after we lost Rylan I wanted to run. Immediately. Anywhere. Mostly to my favorite place, Maui. I also threw around the idea of going somewhere special for our anniversary which is on September 6th. I’ve looked at everything from Sedona spas and the Grand Canyon to Hawaii and Delaware. I don’t know if I can go in September since I’ll just be getting back to work, but I at least need to ask for a day or two. I don’t know if I’ll have the money to go anywhere right now, anyway. We’ve had a lot to take care of in the financial department in the past few months. I just want to do something to mark our marriage. After all, our love is what’s getting us through every day.

Seasons and holidays. I’m afraid of the seasons changing. I believe that the summer months have helped me through these tough days, even if just a little. To be honest, I’m allergic to winter time. At least, it feels that way. Once the weather is cold and it’s time to trade flip-flops for down jackets a part of my body shuts down. My hair is limp and staticky. My skin is pale and dry. My heart eventually feels like it slumps into some kind of sad state that only blue skies and sun can cure. I feel that way even in a normal year–a year when I’m not dealing with a huge loss. I am terrified that once the leaves blow off of the trees and we’re left with dead branches it will be harder to fight off depression. When we’re cooped up indoors day after day the hurt in my heart will linger more at the surface. It’s nice having sunshine, evening walks, and butterflies. I’m not sure where winter will leave me this time. I don’t want to be stuck inside with my devastation. And, of course we can’t forget the holidays. I pictured this year as being our first Christmas as parents, laying with our son on the couch listening to music and watching the tree lights twinkle as a family. Buying that cheesy “Babies First Christmas” ornament. Dressing Ry up in a sweet holiday outfit and showing off our beautiful son to relatives and friends. Without him, I’m not sure I’ll feel okay to be with family and friends. It will be hard to watch all of the other families with their children and not reflect on our loss. If I sit here with tears in my eyes as I think ahead, how will I be when the real festivities arrive?

My sweet baby boy. Some days I just can’t handle his absence. It breaks my heart. I can only describe it as a type of “separation anxiety.” It’s just so unnatural that he’s not here with Chris and I. I don’t want to go along with the hand we’ve been dealt anymore. I want to swim against the tide that’s pushing us further and further from the life we came so close to having. As painful as it was, I want to go back to the hospital room–the time when I held him in my arms. Even if he wasn’t completely there, he was still there. More importantly, we were there–together. The way it’s suppose to be. Not like this. I just want to go back there and stay for eternity. I don’t spend much time in the nursery these days. What brought me comfort before feels different now. It’s not like I can’t open the door or go in there without shedding tears, because I can. I just don’t want to go in there now. Most of the time it just feels like I’m throwing salt in a wound. For awhile I placed flowers from our garden in a vase on his dresser on a weekly basis. Not so much anymore. As much as I did those things for Ry, a big part of me did those things for me, too. The marker for his grave is now in place. It has a flower and butterfly design on it and includes a vase for flowers. His final resting place is right under a tree and is beside my sisters grave. I hope that she’s watching over him for us. I think about him every day. I hope that he knows that. I hope he can see and hear his dad and I when we tell him we love him. I hope he can feel love when we think of him too.

I hate it when I feel the way I did tonight. And, it always happens in the middle of the night–when I can’t sleep and the rest of the world is in a silent slumber. Here I am. It’s 4:30 am now and I’m still typing away. I was hoping the bright light of the monitor would be enough to make my eyes drowsy. No such luck. I think I’m going to take the other half of that pill now. I thank you for stopping by to hear the string of thoughts balling up in my head. If you’d like to get anything off of your chest, I’d be glad to hear what’s keeping you, too.


What if I don’t want to pick myself up today?

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.