More of the same

So, it's Sunday. I'm home. Alone. I did not go to the bachelorette party. She is indeed there with the baby, right now. You know, breast feeding amongst the shooters and penis-shaped ice cubes. I'd much rather be here, sitting in my den in emotional comfort. Did not need to put myself through that. Thanks to G. and Jen who chimed in on my last post. I think we will still go to the wedding; I heard through the grapevine that the baby may not be there. Even if she is there, I would hope that we can manage to avoid direct contact.

I've been wrapped up in work the last couple of days. The university semester starts this week and I'm trying to finalize my lectures. A whole bundle of ideas, floating around in my head and the organization is not coming, which is unusual for me. I can't say I'm really surprised. I can't organize a grocery list these days, let alone lecture notes.

To you other babylost mamas out there: Has anyone else completely lost their mind?

I don't mean running-through-the-streets-shouting-craziness, but general absentmindedness. I have no short-term memory anymore, I can't keep anything organized or neat, it's very hard to follow the plot line of anything but the simplest of books or television, and I'm generally confused about most things. I've starting making lists, but I forget I've made them. I really feel like I've lost it.

My husband laughs at me because he has to repeat everything three times before I really hear it. I tune out entire minutes of phone conversations until the person on the other end notices I missed everything they just said. I'm not preoccupied with something else; it's like my brain just decides to shut down for a minute. Blank.

And yes, ladies and gentlemen, I will be responsible for the higher learning of a group of undergrads and grad students starting next week.

Good luck to me!

The isolation factor

Last night M decided to forego the baptismal service but he did go to the post-christening party at the friends' house. I stayed home, was happy to do so. I encouraged him to go if he wanted to.

He was gone almost 2 hours. I figured it must be going well. When he got home he seemed saddened, spent. It was ok, he said. I only saw the baby from a distance. I only talked to K & K (the Babyland friends) at the very end when I was leaving. I talked to mom and dad all night; I hung out on the patio. It was uncomfortable. Awkward.

Our other couple friends were also in attendance, having been named god-parents. Good to see you, buddy. That was it from them. On his way out, the new mommy handed him an envelope saying You don't want to open this. It was a picture of the baby. Of course I opened it when he got home; it felt like a dare. See, I'm opening it. Ha ha. I can't believe she said that to you. Why would she give that to us and say that? Well, it's opened. There. I'm still alive. See. Ha.

I'm getting so angry. I hate it.

I feel for him. He feels rejected, left out. The circle has moved on without us.

We're friends with another couple who actually introduced us, and we're the godparents for their baby boy that's almost one now. They know the BabyLand friends through us, but now with babies in common, apparently they've been getting together more often and do things all the time. We haven't seen them in two months. I called her a couple of days ago and we had a long chat, with the underlying theme being you need to move on. That's a whole other blog entry.

We saw our psychologist on Tuesday. We talked about the monotony of it all; my analogy of my little fish moving rocks around his tank. She talked about a book she had read, written by a widow about the first year after losing her husband. How every day was a repeat of the day before, how each day was the same. That's exactly how I feel. Get up, eat, exercise, work, eat, tv, bed. On the rare days that the sequence changes the moods remain the same. Still nothing is different.

Is this it? Is this the new normal I've been promised?

So, the next dilemma is:

I was invited to a bachelorette party on Sunday for the future sister-in-law of the BabyLand friends. I replied yes, looking forward to seeing the girls sans baby, and anxious to have a night out. M overheard a conversation last night that implied that she is indeed bringing the baby to the bachelorette party. I assumed this would have been safe territory. I jumped the gun.

Then, of course, there's the wedding itself, which is next weekend. The invitations have been in play for months, long before this drama ensued. We replied yes, months ago. Now I'm not sure. I don't want to have an emotional breakdown in the midst of someone's wedding. I don't want to spend an entire day uncomfortable and worried about who I'm sitting with for dinner. I don't want to send in a last minute regret either, as I feel like that could be a last straw in the remaining threads of this friendship. But at the same time, I'm thinking, what do we really have to lose?

What would you do?

Strange parallels

Well, it turns out that C.'s fiance just wasn't ready to get married.

If he wasn't ready to get married, he shouldn't have given her the ring.

Anyway, that's that. Thanks to all of you for your comments on the matter.

August is almost gone, kids will be back to school in a week, and M and I are still plodding along, day by day. We're nearing the 5 month anniversary of Charlotte now. I can't say things are easier; if anything, more complicated, as we try to juggle what's expected of us in a normal life to what we're actually experiencing. It's hard. It sucks.

M thinks his relationship with his Babyland friends is pretty much over. We're trying, but since my disastrous attempt at visiting a month or so ago I haven't had the courage to try again. Neither has M. We heard the baby's christening is scheduled for Wednesday; we weren't invited (and I was glad). The mass email was sent out to the circle of friends, even my inlaws got it. Apparently word made it's way back to our friends that we knew that we had been left off the invite list, and we got the obligatory phone call last night, You're welcome to come if you like.... For a while M considered it. He doesn't want to lose them as friends. I encouraged him to go if he felt like he could. I can't. A baptismal service with 4 babies, with every member of the congregation there beaming with pride for the new addition to their family. No way. I can't go. After he thinks about it some more, I'm not sure if M will go either.

God, I feel like I'm back in Junior High and am dealing with cliques and popular kids and hurt feelings and all that drama. It's exhausting.

M and I ordered some movie channels, taking our already ridiculous cable bill to new highs. We're restless. A bit bored, maybe. The distraction of 24/7 movies is working, especially now that the Olympics is over. We're watching all kinds of things that we probably wouldn't bother to rent, but that are fun if they're already on TV. Any distraction from real life is welcome.

M has handled his grief in a very physical way up until now, like a lot of men do. We have, since Charlotte, a completely developed basement, a new fence around the perimeter of our property, new brick stairs and walkways, new trees, shrubs and flowers everywhere, a thriving vegetable garden, the list goes on. He's now out of projects. There is nothing left to do. Now he's starting to reorganize things just for the sake of doing it. He can't stop, can't sit down and let things sit. As soon as he started running out of things to do he ordered the movie channels. He can't take any quiet time just yet.

When I was in university I had a pet fish, Stan, who for entertainment in his little tank would relocate his rocks, one at a time, from one end of the tank to the other, until he had a mountain at one side. Then he'd move them back to the other side. To keep his sanity, I guess. I always felt so sorry for that poor little fish. He had eaten all the other fish so he was all alone in his tank, and he lived for years. Well past the lifespan for a little fish. Oh, and he finally died when I cleaned out his tank one day and the pH changed. I killed him.

Wow, our lives are just like Stan's. Pushing rocks around. Eating our friends. Dear God.

Tomorrow we're back to the psychologist. Topic of the day- I'm now comparing my life to a dead fish.

Is all pain the same?

Last night I did my regular email check to find an message from a dear friend in the US. She was a grad school friend, I haven't seen her in 5 years, but we've remained closely in touch.

Her wedding is Saturday coming.

The email read.... I apologize for sending a mass email but I needed to let you all know ASAP.... our wedding has been canceled.

She didn't say why. My initial thought was a death in the family, an accident, somebody must be sick. Upon closer inspection, I wondered why she said "canceled" instead of "postponed". Why is she talking about returning gifts?

I sent her a quick reply and then sent an inquiry to a mutual friend who is much closer to her her geographically. His reply was waiting for me this morning. It's bad, he wrote. The groom called it off. Call me.

I sat in front of my computer this morning in shock. My dear sweet friend, C., who only days ago had emailed me pictures of her wedding dress, was so excited about finally fulfilling her dream to be a wife and hopefully a mom someday. My heart broke for her. C is a beautiful person inside and out, any man would be lucky to call her his wife. Why has her fiance done this to her? Why 5 days before their lavish Southern wedding, with guests flying in from all over the world, with the band booked and the food ordered and gifts arriving everyday, why now? Why not a couple of months ago when she could have saved face?

I can just imagine her today, in the aftermath of it all. Aunts and cousins addressing proper wedding cancellation cards (is there a name for those?), people trying to hide wedding gifts and cheer her up by pretending that it is better now than later. The chaos of wedding prep without the wedding.

I want to call her. I want to give her a hug. I've never been where she is, I've never even suffered a really bad break-up. But I feel like I know where she is. I think I know what she's feeling today. Confusion, grief beyond words, sadness, despair, hopelessness. She has lost her planned future. So did I. I know what that feels like.

I still don't know the details. I don't know if he cheated on her, if he just got cold feet, what the situation is. All I know is that her heart must be broken. Poor, sweet C. No one deserves this.

I wonder if she's looking at couples today, wondering how it is ever possible that someone gets (and stays) happily married. For weeks after Charlotte I thought, every time I saw anyone, how amazing it is that that person was once a baby. That I was even one, once. And they grew. I grew. And lived.

I wonder if she's able to look beyond the next couple of days to a new future ahead; I wonder if seeing wedding cakes and dresses and happy couples will cause her the same pain that seeing pregnant women and babies causes me. I wonder when she'll feel ready to go to another wedding.

And, this all leads to the title of my post; Is all pain the same?

I really believe that losing a child must be one of the most painful things in the world. Having your adored fiance cancel your wedding 5 days ahead? Definitely pretty bad too.

While working through my grief I've always had in the back of my mind that should I ever have a friend lose their baby, I might be able to help them. I might, by then, be able to have words as someone who's "been there" and lived to tell about it. I never thought that another situation would arise where my experience in "pain management" would apply. I think it does here.

I don't have her number; she's at her parents' house for wedding week. I emailed and asked her to send me the contact info b/c I'd like to call her. I need to talk to her.

I hope I can help her.

Slump.

According to our psychologist, M and I are in somewhat of a slump.

I feel like I'm in a slump. We're heading into the normalcy of fall and I think that's what's doing it for me. Soon summer will be over, all the faraway friends will return home to their lives, and we'll still be here.... waiting for nothing.

More and more invitations arrive that we turn down. Yesterday it was the invitation to our godson's first birthday party. I mean, no way. There is no way I can go to that. When I was pregnant one of the first people I told was his mommy, my good friend, and she was so excited that she cried. We anticipated this party, thinking of all the little ones that would be arrived by then, how full her house would be of babies. The rest of them are now here. Charlotte's not.

Babyland is a really gross place to be when your baby is dead.

For anyone who's been here/is here/may be here, how do you handle this? What do you do when your whole social circle is baby-obsessed and not only do you not fit in, but it is physically painful to participate? How far should I be pushing myself with this?

A good friend from high school is in town; I haven't seen her in almost 10 years. I'd love to see her, but, she's toting her six month old baby girl with her. I don't know if I can do that. I've been avoiding the Facebook plans for a high school reunion of us girls, I haven't participated in the comments of when and where we should meet because I don't know if I can. I read everyone else's exclamation of Can't wait to see that baby! and I think, no, not me. How can I sit a barbeque with these 4 or 5 girls and pass around that baby and not be reduced to tears?

Yesterday, our psychologist said it sounds to her like we've been locked out of our lives. It feels that way. As I graciously turn down invite after invite, I wonder when they'll stop coming.

The summer has been somewhat of a relief. My single girlfriends have all been in town- there've been drinks at martini bars, shopping expeditions, that sort of thing. It's been distracting, and fun. As summer ends so will that, then the only social events will be in Babyland, and I'm dreading it.

Sometimes I think, ok, you won't die. Just go. Do it. Move in with them for a week if that's what it takes to get over this hurdle. But in the first few moments of "trying", when the tears start coming and that ache starts in my chest, I have to get out. I can't do it.

Any advice, wisdom or experience welcome please. I need assistance here.

Physical Evidence

Yesterday, M and I were doing some "spring" cleaning.

Of course, we're pushing into late summer/fall now, but the events of this spring made the task impossible, so we're tackling it now. Yesterday the room of choice was M's office, which was supposed to be Charlotte's room.

We were just getting ready to empty it out before I was hospitalized. The paint was chosen, the bedding decided, the furniture researched. All ready to go, although none of it actually purchased quite yet. M had already started complaining about having to repaint the room- the current dark navy paint not suitable for a baby of either gender, although great as an office.

Of course, we never made it that far.

Even though the room was never officially Charlotte's, even though the pastel paint never made it to the walls and the office clutter remained intact, I still find that room hard. It held so many possibilities. When I was pregnant I would wander in there from time to time, imagine the desk replaced by a crib, imagine the rocking chair in the corner, and think of all the magical moments I would share with my baby in that room. Last night as we finished shredding documents and filling files, I found it hard to leave. M turned off the lights as he left and I just sat on the twin bed, thinking.

In many many ways I am glad the room wasn't baby-ready. That would have been much much harder. That said, it would have made Charlotte more real. To have a physical place prepared in our home would have at least given me a place to grieve, especially in those early days. When I first came home from the hospital I found the house so hard- nothing reflected a baby. The few purchases we had made had been put away by well-meaning family during my hospital stay. There was no physical evidence, aside from the heparin bruises and the purple scar on my tummy, that there ever had been a Charlotte. I remember the most intense feelings of loss and disorientation in my own home, wandering around from room to room thinking What now? That, I believe, was the worst of all.

Oh, I miss her. Sweet baby girl.

A couple of nights ago M was puttering through some digital photos on a memory card, displaying them on our TV. They were winter shots; huge piles of snow in most of them. Suddenly an inside pic shot up, my profile, side on, quite pregnant. I was adamant that no pictures be taken of me when I was pregnant, so I didn't think there were any.

The picture was taken at my parents' house, less than two weeks before Charlotte was born. So, I was 22 weeks or so. I looked really pregnant. I looked further along than I actually was, the effects of how much weight I had gained. I didn't realize how pregnant I actually was.

M was surprised by the picture as well; he had forgotted he had taken it. He rushed to turn off the settings before the picture rolled around in sequence again, but actually managed to get the shot stuck on the screen, so for ten or fifteen long seconds, my pregnant belly was displayed on our TV.

It made me sad; yet at the same time I'm glad it's there. Charlotte was alive in that picture. I was still in babybliss. The picture was probably prefaced by conversations of showers and cribs and breast vs. bottle. In that picture I was normal, and I had no idea of what the next two weeks would bring.

I told M to print it for Charlotte's memory box. One more piece of physical evidence that I had a baby and she was real.

Home again

We got back from San Francisco last night. Good trip, went by way too fast.

I think we both needed the change of scenery more than we realized. It felt, so free to be away. I could stop worrying about friends in BabyLand, I didn't check my email, I didn't have to cook or clean or buy groceries or any of those things. It was nice. We could slip into an easier mode, pretend our life was not really our life, and blend in with the throngs of tourists fighting to get on a cable car. It was refreshing.

M had to work, of course, the reason for our trip. But even that was a refuge for me- having those solitary hours to wander around a new city, take in coffee shops and bookstores at my own pace. Sometimes I just sat and thought, staring off into space. There was room to think in that crowded city.

I did not want to come back. Each leg of yesterday's flight brought us closer to our home, and with each leg I felt the sadness and heaviness returning. I'm tired today, from the timezone shifts, the travelling fatigue, and the emotional toll of coming home. Here is where all the sadness is.

I'm getting mixed reactions from family and friends concerning our recent prognosis from the doctor. It's not the reaction I was expecting. I was genuinely expecting everyone to "look on the bright side", to play up the fact that we do have a 2/3 chance of walking away with a living baby next time. No one has done that. Not even the most optimistic of acquaintances. After hearing the statistics, everyone has grown quiet, and mumbled something about supporting us through whatever decisions we make.

I know there are options. None of them are good. We can gamble, make the most of what we have to work with. "Try again". I think we will, but I'm dreading it. The anxiety will be overwhelming. Should we end up with another dead baby, I have no idea how I will handle that. No idea. But, I didn't know this time either. Does anyone ever know? Does a high-risk lostbabymama ever get to a point where she can visualize repeating the scenario and picture herself coming out on the other side? I'm not sure.

We could look at adoption. We could look at a surrogate. We could look at living child-free. I don't know about any of these things.

I know our next step will be to "try again". See how that goes. Knowing what we know now I hope we'll be able to put our best foot forward, give ourselves whatever chances we have. I'm not in a rush though. Next year sometime, maybe.

When we started seeing our psychologist she gave us a list of "typical characteristics of grief". Listed in months 2-4 was Obsession to get pregnant again. We passed the 4-month mark while in San Francisco. Immediately after Charlotte's death I definitely fell into the obsessive category- the raging hormones and the intense grief all begged for a baby, yesterday, now. The mandatory wait-time seemed endless. I couldn't fathom waiting that long for a baby. I remember saying to a friend, If we wait a year before we even start trying, it'll be 2010 before we have a baby. Too long, way too long.

It still feels like forever, but I can honestly say I'm not ready to be pregnant right now. This is Charlotte's time. I need to give her this time. As things stand right now we're thinking February or March we may begin TTC. Then the horror will begin.

I know I'm not ready for that horror just yet.

For you other babylostmamas out there, when did you think about trying again? Did you ever feel you could handle another loss? Or did you just hope for the best?