Ready? Go!

We were also able to pick up the pictures from Christian’s birth. Just days ago I think they would have been too hard for me to look at, but because of how much better I’ve felt, I really enjoyed getting them. These were taken by Heather Ellis, who worked with us as part of Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.

One thing I’ve been grateful for is that I haven’t felt much anger. I know it’s a common part of grieving but it’s been nice feeling like everything went well as it could have, I wasn’t angry at God for the way things turned out, I didn’t have many regrets. Today I woke up feeling resentful, toward almost everyone and everything.

My sister-in-law and brother-in-law sent us a package with a book on grief that I picked up tonight, after hours of crying in agony. I was relieved to read from other parents who’d lost their baby that it’s normal to feel crazy, normal to be angry, normal to feel completely bewildered about how I feel, and that things will eventually get better. Someone described it as the emotional pain coming in slivers instead of in overwhelming waves. The book also talked about allowing yourself to grieve, and while I have tried to be honest in my recent posts, I’ve definitely toned my emotions down so as to not be too depressing or hopeless or heartbreaking.

I realized that I want to talk about this, I just don’t know how. If I’m crying I want to be alone, and if I’m with people, I can talk unemotionally – there’s no overlap where I cry in front of people and actually communicate how hard of a time I’m having. Writing, though, I can handle that.

So I made this list while I cried tonight of things I don’t want to say or feel. I’d like to think that “My baby just died” gives me license to be brutally honest, but let me also point out that because I’m grieving, and going through normal postpartum emotional wackiness, my feelings are not all rational. I acknowledge that. There’s my disclaimer that you should not be offended by anything on this list. Look for a post early next week that is much less self-centered and much more grateful. Disclaimer enough?

I don’t want to say these things or feel this way:

I wish I had been the one holding Christian when he died, not my father-in-law.

I wish everyone [my parents and in-laws] did not have their cameras out at the hospital. It seems selfish of them. I got a real photographer so I could have nice pictures, not so everyone could take blurry iPhone pictures.

I wish I’d had time alone with me and Jarom and Christian before Christian died. I couldn’t talk to Christian, I never said anything to him. At all. I never kissed him and I regret it. I didn’t tell him anything.

I wish I had gotten more sleep or been able to eat. I had nothing left to give by the time Christian was born and I feel like I let him down by not being more present.

I wish other people didn’t say that this was their loss too. It’s mine. I was pregnant, I felt Christian move, I had to deliver him, I had to deal with the physical pain of recovery, I made almost all the arrangements.

I wish I didn’t feel so resentful.

I wish my sister-in-law had been able to come to the burial.

I wish I’d hugged Christian tightly. I was afraid of holding him close and then having to let go.

I wish I was brave enough to actually ask for help. I’m so broken, I can’t function, but I have it in my head that everyone else has gone back to normal life and I don’t want to remind them that my baby died. I’m realizing I need to talk but I don’t want to make other people sad. When I cry I am screaming inside, I can’t do this – I need help – I need help – help help help please. But how can anyone help?

I wish I didn’t know so many people who are expecting healthy babies.

I feel guilty for something wishing I’d never decided to have a third baby. Then I wouldn’t have had to bury a son.

I don’t want to die, I just want to have Christian. I don’t want to die because it means leaving Jarom and Evan and June. But then I’d be with Christian.

I wish I’d made sure the photographer got a picture of just me holding Christian. I wish I’d had her take one from my perspective looking down at him in my arms. I’m afraid I’ll only remember that day from someone else’s point of view.

I wish Evan and June understood that I can’t handle them right now. I wish I could handle them. I feel inferior for not being able to keep up.

I wish I’d brought flowers to the burial.

I wish I were still pregnant and trying to talk Jarom into whatever boy’s name I liked at the moment. I wish I were designing birth announcements and debating whether or not to get an epidural and complaining about swollen calves and wondering why on earth I ever wanted to be pregnant.

I wish I knew how to say all this out loud.

I wish Christian hadn’t died.

Really, Jarom has always been the one to swaddle our babies. By the time we got around to June, I had to buy one of those velcro swaddle-sack things, because I just couldn’t figure out how to [properly] swaddle her.

So in the hospital with Christian, they gave him to me with this nice ready-to-swaddle blanket . . . and Jarom and I laughed through our tears as I handed swaddling duty over yet again.

Some things never change.

Christian was born at 25 weeks and weighed 1 lb 13.5 oz. He was 12.5 inches long. Tiny!

On Saturday we went to lunch at a mostly-decent Mexican restaurant and I really, truly meant for us to go to the dinosaur park and then see Iron Man 3 after that. But by the time we were done eating, all I wanted to do was go home and sob. I felt bad using up our vacation to cry; Jarom told me to go ahead anyway, so I did. And I had a long nap afterwards. When I woke up, the first Back to the Future movie was just starting, and we watched all three. Cable, I love you.

I also ate a lot of donuts . . . and tortilla chips . . . we’d gone to dinner at a steakhouse Friday night, courtesy of a giftcard from my brother (matched by the owner – we have been getting a lot of free stuff lately). Even the leftovers were amazing. Medium rare steak with bacon and a fried egg on top? Yes, I will eat that for many meals in a row.

After Saturday, I mostly did okay emotionally. Monday was fine too – and today, until I got tired of my attempts to only eat desserts/sweets on our date night (don’t worry, I haven’t caved yet!), and the kids got wild(er), and I needed dinner but didn’t feel like eating. Then I snuck off to the bathroom and cried.

When I feel like this, I have a million things to say. I want to scream them and shout them. But the idea of actually letting them out – I can’t do that. I’m not brave enough to tell anyone how broken I feel.

That being said, I’m glad that when I do get around to talking, Jarom listens to whatever’s on my mind. Even if it’s just that I wish today was Thursday (date night) so I could have a donut. Or two.

*I swear to you that is a real show and it’s impossible to stop watching once you start. It was horrifically mesmerizing.

There is absolutely no way I could have pictured then the way our lives would turn out. I’m sure whatever teenage ideas I had about romance and marriage and love involved a lot of swooning and candlelight dinners and serenades. It’s been so perfect to discover that I hate romantic crap like that, and what I really love is my best friend.

We have beautiful kids. I adore them – and I love how much Jarom adores them. I hate to be grieving the loss of one of them, but it’s so much better to be going through it with Jarom. He hurts with me. He brings me donuts. He laughs with me. Everyone suffers uniquely, but his feelings are the closest to mine of anyone in the world, which makes it so much easier to talk and complain and cry and remember together.

At 16 years old, I felt like Jarom was steady and constant and he understood me. Our friendship just seemed to fit. I’m glad I can say the same things after 6 years of marriage, but also add that he’s patient, hilarious, generous, selfless, quirky, and just what I need. He’s still my best friend.

At least you have two healthy kids. It’s precisely because I already have two kids I adore that I wanted to have another one. I know what I’m missing out on by not getting to see Christian grow up. Plus, although Evan understands that I’m sad, it doesn’t stop him (or June) from needing me to be involved in everyday life. Most days I feel like shouting, “If you ask me to get out of bed to make you ANOTHER peanut butter sandwich I am going to SCREAM!” (And peanut butter sandwiches are pretty easy, guys.) Having two kids means I have to put my grief on hold a lot of the time.

Isn’t it a miracle that any babies are born healthy? Imagine that someone lost their husband in a car accident. Would you tell them, “When you think about how dangerous cars are, it’s amazing that most people aren’t killed in car accidents!” Of course not, because hopefully you’d recognize how NOT COMFORTING that statement is. It feels like rubbing it in my face to tell me I should just be grateful for the miracle of life. It didn’t work out this time – and that sucks.

Do you think you’ll have another? When? Again with the husband-died-in-a-car-accident comparison – can you imagine asking that person if they’d considered getting remarried? And how soon? I think the mentality is that one baby could replace another. Not even a little bit.

He was just too perfect to stay here. I don’t care. I want him back.

God must have needed him more. I don’t care. I want him back.

Now you have an angel watching over you. I don’t care. I want him back.

You’ll get over it eventually. Not a chance. I doubt I’ll always experience the loss the same way, but it will always be a part of my life.

I suppose now I should tell you some helpful things to say . . . how about:

I’m so sorry. Me too.

I wish I could make it better. Me too.

I’m so glad you got to hold him. Me too.

I’m trying to get used to the emotional ups and downs. Tuesday was horrible and I cried almost all day; Wednesday was great; today has been both good and bad. I’m tired and grouchy and lonely and so sad. I don’t want to deal with Evan and June – which makes me feel guilty for being a bad mom, which makes me (irrationally) think maybe that’s why I lost my baby. Then I’m so drained that I can’t deal with Evan and June, leading to more guilt and sadness until I shut down.

This is exhausting. And so much harder than I could have ever prepared for.

P.S. I should point out, before you go overboard and start buying anything you find with a dragonfly on it, that I started yesterday’s post by saying I’m picky.

But I have a thing for dragonflies now.

When we were in the hospital, the bereavement counselor (Amy) brought several different outfits for us to choose from to dress Christian in. She also had little hats. The hat I picked just had a small ribbon across the bottom that said “It’s a boy!” – the others all had little animals or sports-related images. The “It’s a boy!” hat turned out to be too small, so Amy put a different hat on him. It had a dragonfly button on it. I didn’t notice at first, but she also put a tiny bracelet on his wrist – and it also had a dragonfly.

For some reason, the fact that we didn’t actively choose the matching dragonflies made it meaningful, maybe because it seems like it just fell into place. We kept the bracelet and the hat along with the other mementos in our box, and I had the thought a few days after Christian’s day that we could incorporate a dragonfly into his headstone. The design we had already chosen (which, again, was much more cutesy than I would usually care for) had two butterflies on it, so we had the monument company swap them out for dragonflies.

We also have some silver dragonflies for our wall that we bought several years ago, when I was expecting June[bug]. We’ll put them up in the living room as a nice reminder. I’m trying not to go overboard now – a dragonfly brooch for me? Cuff links for Jarom? A necklace for June? A tie for Evan? Just small things that we could wear to remember.

I thought about finding a rug to go under our someday-coffee table, but there are definitely NOT dragonfly rugs I like – with this exception (in many colors!). Of course, the website doesn’t list a price, which I’m pretty sure means I can’t afford it.