It can be a dull ache in my arms, a tightening of my rib cage that doesn't let me breathe, a sharp pain in my heart. When my fingertips go cold and sweaty and a sudden lightheadedness makes me take a seat, it is called grief. Grief, at times, is physical. And there is no pill for that. It exists and I can't pretend otherwise. I don't love it and I don't hate it, I simply live it. And it's not as bad to me as it sounds to you.
On the contrary, I find this physical grief is what makes me feel alive and see the beauty in the world. Sometimes people ask me when am I going to live again, that I should try to move on. Move on from where? Live what? If I didn't live, I'd be with my daughter, and I am not, so I live. Grief makes sure that I am acutely aware of being alive and of the time's passing. I never stopped living. My life changed and now I live a new life, but that doesn't mean I don't live.
The key to grief is accepting life for the lessons it brings.
Love & Light
Lilypie Angel and Memorial tickers
Showing posts with label stillbirth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stillbirth. Show all posts
15 Dec 2011
24 Oct 2011
The Week We Eat Cake
It is that time of the month. It is the week we eat chocolate cake. Feeling the dates creep up on us, it usually starts on the 21st, we go to our local grocery store for a specific cake: same one my mom bought seven months ago tomorrow for Amelia's birthday. We eat it every month. This is one of the little things we do to cope with the crushing pain in our hearts. Same way as we drink beer or wine, cry, etc.
Some people, upon hearing that we eat chocolate cake every month without any concern for our figures and diets, have expressed feelings of jealousy and called us lucky. I am always shocked to hear such a response. Does it really take a death of our own child to let us eat cake without guilt? Maybe for me it did. But I wouldn't call myself lucky for that. I'd rather have Amelia in my arms, and leave the cake at the grocery store for someone else to eat. But I can't, so instead I drown my sorrow with chocolate. So I wonder, don't these people realize it? Do they really think we are lucky because we let ourselves eat cake? I'm really trying to get my head around the way our life events shape our perceptions. I mean, would you really want to be me? Even if that means you can eat as much cake as you want? I doubt it. So why get jealous?
Argh! Time for me to get another slice :)
Some people, upon hearing that we eat chocolate cake every month without any concern for our figures and diets, have expressed feelings of jealousy and called us lucky. I am always shocked to hear such a response. Does it really take a death of our own child to let us eat cake without guilt? Maybe for me it did. But I wouldn't call myself lucky for that. I'd rather have Amelia in my arms, and leave the cake at the grocery store for someone else to eat. But I can't, so instead I drown my sorrow with chocolate. So I wonder, don't these people realize it? Do they really think we are lucky because we let ourselves eat cake? I'm really trying to get my head around the way our life events shape our perceptions. I mean, would you really want to be me? Even if that means you can eat as much cake as you want? I doubt it. So why get jealous?
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| Just saw this on failblog.org. How perfect is this! |
Argh! Time for me to get another slice :)
11 Oct 2011
Thankful for the Love
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| Amelia and I made a Love cake today. I made the hearts when I was 7-8 months pregnant and she stayed really quiet the whole time, which was very unusual! |
When I thought about the cemetery, I remembered how we had to pick out Amelia's spot the day after she was born; so beautiful, weighing almost eight pounds. I remembered our family and friends who hugged us as our baby's "treasure chest" was covered with earth, on the spot we picked a week earlier.
I realised I have a lot to be grateful for:
I am so grateful for every person who stood by us on that day and the many days that followed.
I am grateful for the meals, gifts, flowers, cards, walks in the park and everything else that so many people generously gave us. I remember a moment when I was looking around our home, seeing the tiniest details in the beautiful blooms, smelling the scents of the ripe fruit basket, smiling at Amelia's changing table that was overflowing with gentle and supportive cards; I realised that our home was full of love and support, we were not alone. I really mean it when I say Thank you to all of you who made it happen.
I am grateful for my family. I am grateful for my friends. I am grateful for my pets. I am grateful for my life. To me, this is all that really matters. A bereaved mom once said that you really value life only after you lose life. How true. Another bereaved mom said that losing your child is like receiving a "sick gift." It now makes sense. I am grateful for the way I appreciate life now. Little things don't matter anymore, and it feels good. It gives me more time to appreciate the big, the important moments, people, places.
Hope you all had a good Thanksgiving!
Love & Light
~A~
1 Oct 2011
Celebration of Life
As I went to bed tonight, memories of Amelia's funeral came flooding in. I am still trying to understand how we had to bury our little girl just seven days after she was born. Instead of a lifetime together, we got a lifetime apart. It hurts me how quickly her life ended, how cruel was this dream.
It often feels like a dream, a really scary, surreal dream. But on nights like this they become all too real. I'd say it hurts more now than it did before, because now I understand how "forever" it is. Nothing else is more permanent than death.
The flashbacks that I get are moments in time that my brain simply couldn't handle six months ago. These memories are safely stored in my head and usually come back around the same dates as the events. Like the feeling of leaving the hospital without my baby; the week leading up to her funeral, all the arrangements we had to make instead of staying in bed with our newborn; the day we laid her to rest.
For her, it was the end of her time here on Earth with us. For us, it was the beginning of our lives without her.
I would like to share some pictures with you, although they are not easy to look at. If you are wondering, it really does help me to go through these, look at them, see them, have them. This is just another angle of the same memories my brain throws at me at all times of day and night. This is also a memory of our physical time here with Amelia.
Pictures were kindly taken by Eugenia Filippova
It often feels like a dream, a really scary, surreal dream. But on nights like this they become all too real. I'd say it hurts more now than it did before, because now I understand how "forever" it is. Nothing else is more permanent than death.
The flashbacks that I get are moments in time that my brain simply couldn't handle six months ago. These memories are safely stored in my head and usually come back around the same dates as the events. Like the feeling of leaving the hospital without my baby; the week leading up to her funeral, all the arrangements we had to make instead of staying in bed with our newborn; the day we laid her to rest.
For her, it was the end of her time here on Earth with us. For us, it was the beginning of our lives without her.
I would like to share some pictures with you, although they are not easy to look at. If you are wondering, it really does help me to go through these, look at them, see them, have them. This is just another angle of the same memories my brain throws at me at all times of day and night. This is also a memory of our physical time here with Amelia.
16 Sept 2011
Days leading up to the Six Months
It is interesting to see how my posts become less frequent as time goes on. I wish I could say that it's because my grief gets easier with time, but I can't do that yet. For me, grief becomes different, it changes in taste and colour. All sorts of things, places, and people leave different impressions on my heart and mind, altering the way I see, feel, and deal with my loss.
I admit to turning a 360 and shutting out the world lately. Right from the beginning of my grief journey I was very open, hoping to help others see and understand what a bereaved parent goes through, at least my version of it. I wanted to find some good in my pain. Slowly, I started keeping more and more inside. I can't put a date on when it happened, it was a continuous process, but I can tell you why: Some People. The reason is that simple: random individuals.
If you were to ask me right after Amelia died what was the hardest thing about losing her, I'd say it was giving birth to my dead daughter, my perfect little angel, so wanted, so loved. If you ask me now, I'd say people. Please don't get me wrong, there are more good apples in the basket than the rotten ones, but the rotten ones really do stink out the whole orchard.
This post is dedicated to the bad apples.
How can people, from complete strangers to those close to me, hurt more than labouring with knowledge that my newborn has no heartbeat? Sadly, there are many ways. Mostly those are stupid words people choose. I've heard all sorts of things, from "You weren't ready yet," to "You are young, you'll have another one," to "how long are you going to wallow in your grief?" There are also actions: there is nothing worse than a cranky toddler screaming into my head at 8:30pm in an otherwise empty restaurant, because his parents decided that it was ok to sit right behind us instead of choosing ANY OTHER table in the medium-sized place. There also unintentional moments when a new mom would park her stroller right in front of us in the mall, she obviously never lost a child, otherwise she would have recognised the look of complete terror in my face. Hopefully when I have a living child I'll be more mindful of others. So the list goes on. This is not pointing fingers at anyone, I have no "beef" so to speak. It is just a sad reality that I'm facing.
Going back to the words people say, I'm so tired of hearing how I wasn't ready to have my daughter and that when I am, I'll get a living baby to hold and to love. Really??? I was 27 when we conceived Amelia, perfect age: not too young, not too old; have been happily married for a few years now, we own a home, we both have careers and are educated, we are healthy and at a point in life where there is nothing else we'd rather do but raise our daughter. I am more ready than Casey Anthony was, I'm more ready than that mom who dressed her toddler as a prostitute. Yet people who don't know me at all have the guts to say to my face that I wasn't ready yet. One day instead of quietly saying "yes, I was," I'll make them explain to me exactly what makes them say such a stupid thing.
Sadly, this is just a tip of the iceberg. About two months ago I went to a reproductive psychologist (pre- and -postnatal) to seek help. She didn't bother looking through my file before our meeting, so I had to go through the whole "OMG what happened?" thing. It's tough as is, now imagine trying to explain "cause of death unknown" to a so-called health professional. It is brutal. Either way, I walked out of her office 45min later with noting. No help, nothing. And that was not an isolated episode. At this point I am so tired of seeking "professional" help that I think I'm better off without it.
Since Amelia passed on, I have tried many things to help me deal with her physical death. From some obvious choices of red wine and walks in the park, to more exciting ones when I painted with oils, crayons, watercolours, you name it. I wrote, on this blog and in a journal that I started for Amelia when she was conceived. I tried jogging, had a private trainer, took kickboxing classes, did yoga, hiked, and am taking ice-skating lessons now. I sang my little heart out almost daily (even though I'm pretty bad :), played piano, and will take piano lessons in the fall, and I like drumming my djembe really loud. I power-sanded almost every surface in my house, filled-in tiniest imperfections and painted three coats of paint, even in the closets. I grew a memorial garden. I danced. I cried. I screamed. I laughed. I dressed up. I'm sure I'm forgetting something, but you get the idea. All these things helped, some in good, healing ways, others in ways that made me realise I had trauma I needed to deal with. Who wouldn't after what I've been through? Pardon the grim details, but when I pushed Amelia out, the skin on her arm came off. From the force of birth. Yep, I was so scared to hold her, I never got to really see her fingers, the shape of her nails. Every time I exercise, I get flashbacks of being in labour, of giving birth to her, of giving her away and leaving the hospital empty handed, having no other way out than though the fire. Needless to say, I don't push myself too much.
Yet, I wonder why is it that when I tell people that I can't or don't want to do something, like going to the mall or back to the hospital where I gave death (birth doesn't seem to be the right word) to my Amelia, why don't they just accept it as is and leave me alone? Why do people have to push their assumptions and opinions on me, when they have absolutely no clue? I come across it all the time, persistent advice of some sorts. Well meaning advice, but still... Oh, you Must do this, why don't you just try, you don't know until you do. Um, no. You don't know, because You have healthy living kids at home, or you have a dog, or not even that. I don't tell people what to do with their living children, because I don't have one of those and I don't really know what it's like. Why do they feel the need to tell me what to do with my dead one?
Is it because it will make it easier for everyone? I guess it would be a lot better if I just went back to life as it was, then no-one will have to feel awkward around me, and when they ask me how many kids I have I'd say what? None? Hell NO. It doesn't work that way. I have one daughter, she was born still, without a heartbeat. She was full term, seemingly healthy, absolutely beautiful. Do you know that about 30% of stillbirths have no known cause? Do you know that in 2008, in British Columbia alone, over 400 children were stillborn? That's more than one-a-day! At least one set of parents a day in our province goes through hell and back. And then there are those who lose kids in all other sick and horrible ways. These are rough stats and no, I'm not going to dig up their source right now, but it gives you a general idea why I won't say that I have no kids, why I can't go back to that hospital, why I can't jog, why I emotionally eat, and why I can't go back to how I was before. Because before I was probably as likely to say something stupid to a bereaved parent as anyone else. That's why it is time for a change.
That is why from now on, if someone hurts me with an insensitive comment, I will tell them politely that it hurts. After all, wouldn't you?
On this lovely note, I say good night.
Love and Light to you all
I admit to turning a 360 and shutting out the world lately. Right from the beginning of my grief journey I was very open, hoping to help others see and understand what a bereaved parent goes through, at least my version of it. I wanted to find some good in my pain. Slowly, I started keeping more and more inside. I can't put a date on when it happened, it was a continuous process, but I can tell you why: Some People. The reason is that simple: random individuals.
If you were to ask me right after Amelia died what was the hardest thing about losing her, I'd say it was giving birth to my dead daughter, my perfect little angel, so wanted, so loved. If you ask me now, I'd say people. Please don't get me wrong, there are more good apples in the basket than the rotten ones, but the rotten ones really do stink out the whole orchard.
This post is dedicated to the bad apples.
How can people, from complete strangers to those close to me, hurt more than labouring with knowledge that my newborn has no heartbeat? Sadly, there are many ways. Mostly those are stupid words people choose. I've heard all sorts of things, from "You weren't ready yet," to "You are young, you'll have another one," to "how long are you going to wallow in your grief?" There are also actions: there is nothing worse than a cranky toddler screaming into my head at 8:30pm in an otherwise empty restaurant, because his parents decided that it was ok to sit right behind us instead of choosing ANY OTHER table in the medium-sized place. There also unintentional moments when a new mom would park her stroller right in front of us in the mall, she obviously never lost a child, otherwise she would have recognised the look of complete terror in my face. Hopefully when I have a living child I'll be more mindful of others. So the list goes on. This is not pointing fingers at anyone, I have no "beef" so to speak. It is just a sad reality that I'm facing.
Going back to the words people say, I'm so tired of hearing how I wasn't ready to have my daughter and that when I am, I'll get a living baby to hold and to love. Really??? I was 27 when we conceived Amelia, perfect age: not too young, not too old; have been happily married for a few years now, we own a home, we both have careers and are educated, we are healthy and at a point in life where there is nothing else we'd rather do but raise our daughter. I am more ready than Casey Anthony was, I'm more ready than that mom who dressed her toddler as a prostitute. Yet people who don't know me at all have the guts to say to my face that I wasn't ready yet. One day instead of quietly saying "yes, I was," I'll make them explain to me exactly what makes them say such a stupid thing.
Sadly, this is just a tip of the iceberg. About two months ago I went to a reproductive psychologist (pre- and -postnatal) to seek help. She didn't bother looking through my file before our meeting, so I had to go through the whole "OMG what happened?" thing. It's tough as is, now imagine trying to explain "cause of death unknown" to a so-called health professional. It is brutal. Either way, I walked out of her office 45min later with noting. No help, nothing. And that was not an isolated episode. At this point I am so tired of seeking "professional" help that I think I'm better off without it.
Since Amelia passed on, I have tried many things to help me deal with her physical death. From some obvious choices of red wine and walks in the park, to more exciting ones when I painted with oils, crayons, watercolours, you name it. I wrote, on this blog and in a journal that I started for Amelia when she was conceived. I tried jogging, had a private trainer, took kickboxing classes, did yoga, hiked, and am taking ice-skating lessons now. I sang my little heart out almost daily (even though I'm pretty bad :), played piano, and will take piano lessons in the fall, and I like drumming my djembe really loud. I power-sanded almost every surface in my house, filled-in tiniest imperfections and painted three coats of paint, even in the closets. I grew a memorial garden. I danced. I cried. I screamed. I laughed. I dressed up. I'm sure I'm forgetting something, but you get the idea. All these things helped, some in good, healing ways, others in ways that made me realise I had trauma I needed to deal with. Who wouldn't after what I've been through? Pardon the grim details, but when I pushed Amelia out, the skin on her arm came off. From the force of birth. Yep, I was so scared to hold her, I never got to really see her fingers, the shape of her nails. Every time I exercise, I get flashbacks of being in labour, of giving birth to her, of giving her away and leaving the hospital empty handed, having no other way out than though the fire. Needless to say, I don't push myself too much.
Yet, I wonder why is it that when I tell people that I can't or don't want to do something, like going to the mall or back to the hospital where I gave death (birth doesn't seem to be the right word) to my Amelia, why don't they just accept it as is and leave me alone? Why do people have to push their assumptions and opinions on me, when they have absolutely no clue? I come across it all the time, persistent advice of some sorts. Well meaning advice, but still... Oh, you Must do this, why don't you just try, you don't know until you do. Um, no. You don't know, because You have healthy living kids at home, or you have a dog, or not even that. I don't tell people what to do with their living children, because I don't have one of those and I don't really know what it's like. Why do they feel the need to tell me what to do with my dead one?
Is it because it will make it easier for everyone? I guess it would be a lot better if I just went back to life as it was, then no-one will have to feel awkward around me, and when they ask me how many kids I have I'd say what? None? Hell NO. It doesn't work that way. I have one daughter, she was born still, without a heartbeat. She was full term, seemingly healthy, absolutely beautiful. Do you know that about 30% of stillbirths have no known cause? Do you know that in 2008, in British Columbia alone, over 400 children were stillborn? That's more than one-a-day! At least one set of parents a day in our province goes through hell and back. And then there are those who lose kids in all other sick and horrible ways. These are rough stats and no, I'm not going to dig up their source right now, but it gives you a general idea why I won't say that I have no kids, why I can't go back to that hospital, why I can't jog, why I emotionally eat, and why I can't go back to how I was before. Because before I was probably as likely to say something stupid to a bereaved parent as anyone else. That's why it is time for a change.
That is why from now on, if someone hurts me with an insensitive comment, I will tell them politely that it hurts. After all, wouldn't you?
On this lovely note, I say good night.
Love and Light to you all
24 Aug 2011
Kids do grow up fast...
Here it is. Five months since you passed away. I still don't know what to call it: died, became and angel, or a cloud? You should be learning to sit and stand, instead I wonder how close to going back to the Earth are you? I don't think it's morbid, just a fact of life. The "present" reality. Makes me kind of scared of the future. But since we are, I believe, programmed by evolution to hope and carry on, so shall I.
I don't understand how my grief can be getting better and harder as time goes on. Every emotion has its own wavelength, different feelings come at different times. Moments of intense grief are now alternated with good, even beautiful emotions. When I feel good, I see the tiniest changes in shades of colour, the harmony of sounds around me. The wind touches my shoulders and I think of Amelia, what if it's her little hand, gently caressing my shoulder. I smile as I love my daughter more and more...
But on moments like right now, like today, all I feel is shattered dreams on the edges of what should have been. I can't look back, it feels like I'm in a triangle, where looking back and looking forward still gets me nowhere. Sadly, being "in the moment" really sucks.
Since I'm a fighter, I'm looking for a way to relieve stress that works. None of my former methods of exercising or meditating work. Argh!!! Any advice? Please :)
I don't understand how my grief can be getting better and harder as time goes on. Every emotion has its own wavelength, different feelings come at different times. Moments of intense grief are now alternated with good, even beautiful emotions. When I feel good, I see the tiniest changes in shades of colour, the harmony of sounds around me. The wind touches my shoulders and I think of Amelia, what if it's her little hand, gently caressing my shoulder. I smile as I love my daughter more and more...
But on moments like right now, like today, all I feel is shattered dreams on the edges of what should have been. I can't look back, it feels like I'm in a triangle, where looking back and looking forward still gets me nowhere. Sadly, being "in the moment" really sucks.
Since I'm a fighter, I'm looking for a way to relieve stress that works. None of my former methods of exercising or meditating work. Argh!!! Any advice? Please :)
14 Jul 2011
Can I take a shortcut?
About two weeks ago I decided to see what what happens if I am withdrawn from the world of bereaved parenthood, so I tried going along with what used to be "normal" life. These two weeks felt very long, painfully low. I realised that there is no way of going around the pain. Instead of letting feelings out throughout the day, in waves of highs and lows, I gathered them all up into one big lump of pain for my brain to sort through during the night.
I haven't slept well since I stopped going on MISS Foundation, a wonderful support forum for bereaved parents. I have been feeling lost in my thoughts since I stopped writing here. I became confused, to the point of sometimes "snapping out of it" to realise all over again that Amelia died. It stopped me in my tracks, sending me into cold shivers.
The feeling of isolation was asso overwhelming. While I have lots of great and supportive people around me, there are only a few who really know what it's like to be here. I actually think it would be a good idea to have a meetup group for bereaved moms and dads, just like they have pregnancy and new mommy groups. It helped me so much during my pregnancy when I got together with women pretty much walking in my shoes, that I can only imagine how helpful it would be to have a group like that. Can you imagine registering a DBMs (dead baby mamas :) group on meetup!? Oh, the new found morbid sense of humour :)
Seriously though, this is what it feels like sometimes. When we joke about taking Amelia out to give her a big hug, is when we realise how horrid the event is.
I guess it's time to paint Amelia's room a pretty green colour. Somehow I know that green and lilac would have been her thing...
Lots of love.
Here is a link to MISS Foundation:
http://www.missfoundation.org/
I haven't slept well since I stopped going on MISS Foundation, a wonderful support forum for bereaved parents. I have been feeling lost in my thoughts since I stopped writing here. I became confused, to the point of sometimes "snapping out of it" to realise all over again that Amelia died. It stopped me in my tracks, sending me into cold shivers.
The feeling of isolation was asso overwhelming. While I have lots of great and supportive people around me, there are only a few who really know what it's like to be here. I actually think it would be a good idea to have a meetup group for bereaved moms and dads, just like they have pregnancy and new mommy groups. It helped me so much during my pregnancy when I got together with women pretty much walking in my shoes, that I can only imagine how helpful it would be to have a group like that. Can you imagine registering a DBMs (dead baby mamas :) group on meetup!? Oh, the new found morbid sense of humour :)
Seriously though, this is what it feels like sometimes. When we joke about taking Amelia out to give her a big hug, is when we realise how horrid the event is.
I guess it's time to paint Amelia's room a pretty green colour. Somehow I know that green and lilac would have been her thing...
Lots of love.
Here is a link to MISS Foundation:
http://www.missfoundation.org/
24 Jun 2011
Sequence of Events
Yesterday, the 23rd, was three months since Amelia was alive. Today, the 24th, is three months since she died. Tomorrow, the 25th, will be three months since she was born.
I am struggling with acceptance of the sequence of these events. How can my child be dead before she is born? How can I bury my newborn?
Nothing makes sense anymore, life and everything in it is up for an evaluation, a scrutinizing one. What mattered before, has no meaning, what had no meaning before is now the way of life.
What remains a constant is missing my girl.
I am struggling with acceptance of the sequence of these events. How can my child be dead before she is born? How can I bury my newborn?
Nothing makes sense anymore, life and everything in it is up for an evaluation, a scrutinizing one. What mattered before, has no meaning, what had no meaning before is now the way of life.
What remains a constant is missing my girl.
15 Jun 2011
Meeting at the Lawn
I bought some beautiful Irises for Amelia and I to share. A bunch of blue and and yellow ones, so bright and pretty. Keeping half of them at home, so that I can look at them and smile, I took the other half to the Lawn this morning.
There I met a very interesting and inspiring father, just in time for Father's day. His son, Tony, died 33 years ago. What a long time... In between our childrens' graves, he told me a heart-wrenching story of his life, as well as a story of his inner strength.
My new friend's words of wisdom are going to stay with me for the rest of my life. You see, there are two kinds of strength, physical and inner. Grief and stress are very physical, you would be surprised. Once your outer shell is broken, your core is all you have to stand on. It's the inner strength that holds us up when life gets rough.
So, how do you build up your inner strength? Well, Tony's dad told me how loosing his son lifted his insecurities and helped him become a better person. I know it sounds very cliche :) Still, it was very inspiring to hear how he believed in himself, and found the strength to grow from his experience. He and his wife have been married for over 33 years, they have grown stronger and tighter together. They have a long-awaited and much loved daughter. It was good to know there is hope...
But for those of you who say: "See, everything will be good!" Here is what I have to say:
Tony's father also talked about the fire of grief. That's where I am right now, right in the pit. There is no other way out of it, but through the thick of the flame. You can't avoid, pretend, or bargain with grief. You will have to face it, sooner or later. It is better to face it and deal with it right away, than try to hide it and have to deal with it later on, which is, according to Tony's dad, tougher.
As I walk on my new path, I am starting to meet Earth Angels. These are people who I believe are sent to us for encouragement, strength, a shoulder to cry on. The ones who help us take the next step. For that, I am grateful.
So the thought of the day is: never do tomorrow, what you can do today.
(As a reminder: nothing here is personal. I am only sharing my deep feelings to help myself and others understand the process of stillbirth grief a bit better. This is somewhat of a journal for research purposes. Of course, all copyright laws apply).
My new friend's words of wisdom are going to stay with me for the rest of my life. You see, there are two kinds of strength, physical and inner. Grief and stress are very physical, you would be surprised. Once your outer shell is broken, your core is all you have to stand on. It's the inner strength that holds us up when life gets rough.
So, how do you build up your inner strength? Well, Tony's dad told me how loosing his son lifted his insecurities and helped him become a better person. I know it sounds very cliche :) Still, it was very inspiring to hear how he believed in himself, and found the strength to grow from his experience. He and his wife have been married for over 33 years, they have grown stronger and tighter together. They have a long-awaited and much loved daughter. It was good to know there is hope...
But for those of you who say: "See, everything will be good!" Here is what I have to say:
Tony's father also talked about the fire of grief. That's where I am right now, right in the pit. There is no other way out of it, but through the thick of the flame. You can't avoid, pretend, or bargain with grief. You will have to face it, sooner or later. It is better to face it and deal with it right away, than try to hide it and have to deal with it later on, which is, according to Tony's dad, tougher.
As I walk on my new path, I am starting to meet Earth Angels. These are people who I believe are sent to us for encouragement, strength, a shoulder to cry on. The ones who help us take the next step. For that, I am grateful.
So the thought of the day is: never do tomorrow, what you can do today.
(As a reminder: nothing here is personal. I am only sharing my deep feelings to help myself and others understand the process of stillbirth grief a bit better. This is somewhat of a journal for research purposes. Of course, all copyright laws apply).
24 May 2011
Hate this day.
I really really hate number 24. Sorry if it's your lucky number, but it's the worst one for me.
Exactly two months ago, on March 24, just before 11am, my world came crushing down. The ceiling was spinning, the ground turned into a black hole. I was lying on a hospital bed, looking into the eyes of a woman I've never met before, begging to wake up. Dan was beside me, crumbling, crying... Our midwifes suddenly appeared in the doorway, their faces pale and full of sorrow. That was when "I'm sorry, there is no heartbeat" became so very real. That was when my hopes and dreams died.
For the last two months this memory haunted me day and night. Every night, my dreams start with that spinning ceiling. I feel that hospital bed beneath me when I see moms and their babies on the streets, hear children play in the park outside our windows...
Tomorrow, I am going to be happy. After all, Amelia will be two month old. I wonder how is she, where is she. I still worry about her all the time, hope that she is safe, that she feels our love.
Hope. Hope is what I lost, and hope is all I have.
Exactly two months ago, on March 24, just before 11am, my world came crushing down. The ceiling was spinning, the ground turned into a black hole. I was lying on a hospital bed, looking into the eyes of a woman I've never met before, begging to wake up. Dan was beside me, crumbling, crying... Our midwifes suddenly appeared in the doorway, their faces pale and full of sorrow. That was when "I'm sorry, there is no heartbeat" became so very real. That was when my hopes and dreams died.
For the last two months this memory haunted me day and night. Every night, my dreams start with that spinning ceiling. I feel that hospital bed beneath me when I see moms and their babies on the streets, hear children play in the park outside our windows...
Tomorrow, I am going to be happy. After all, Amelia will be two month old. I wonder how is she, where is she. I still worry about her all the time, hope that she is safe, that she feels our love.
Hope. Hope is what I lost, and hope is all I have.
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