The Process

I've been thinking a lot lately about this grieving process. The word process implies that it's heading somewhere, that eventually I'll end up in a different place after moving through the motions. I'm not sure about that.

I wonder if I'll ever get to the point where I can look back on this, on Charlotte, and feel anything but sadness, anger and helplessness. I don't know. Right now, it's pretty much all I have left of my baby. The anger, the tears, the breathlessness. When/if that fades, what do I have then? Really nothing. Absolutely nothing.

We'll hit six months this weekend. People are treating us as "normal" again. The Thinking of You cards and emails stopped long ago. I've started a new job. There are entire groups of people in my life right now that know nothing of Charlotte or the horror of last spring. They look at me as though I'm normal. I'm functioning. I manage. I do my work, and I do it well. Probably even better than I ever did actually. In some ways I'm more confident, with my new mean streak blazing, quick to defend and attack and at the same time slap a smile on my face and pretend that all's well with the world. I'm professional. Life goes on.

But it's all so, so fake. What people ignore, or don't realize, is that death goes on too.

I go to bed my baby is dead. I get up and she's still dead. I go to the university and lecture and go to church and blast out hymns on the organ and my baby is still dead. Nothing changes.

So, I'm wondering where this is all going.

I've been thinking about a future baby. We're not planning on TTC for quite a while yet, but IF I am blessed enough to take home said future baby, where will I be then? My Charlotte will still be dead.

I'm so confused.

We finally chose her monument. My dad manages a granite company, and he's been patiently waiting for instructions on what we wanted. For months and months I didn't want to think about it. M and I would have a quick glance at epitaphs and last a minute or two, then immediately put it away to be dealt with another day. With winter looming we wanted to get something done, so I bit the bullet and chose the epitaph.

Every life is a gift that will live in our hearts forever.

So that's it. Chapter closed?

Hardly.

Changes

M and I went to see our psychologist again yesterday. To be honest I'm not sure how much it helps us. I figure it can't hurt, and it's a dedicated hour every two weeks that we spend talking about our lives post-Charlotte.

Things are difficult for us lately. We're both extremely irritable and tense. There are minor fights all the time. Nothing serious; I'll get mad because he didn't hang up his coat again, he'll get mad because I forgot to call someone, again. We clean the house to have it turned upside down again almost instantly. Everything feels very up-in-the-air, very chaotic. Neither one of us is comfortable in this time.

So, every two weeks we sit on a brown couch in Dr N's office and blab away for an hour.

I wonder what she sees, through her eyes. Yesterday M was talking how he visited the BabyLand friends a couple of weeks ago for a family bbq they were having (I didn't have the nerve to go), and how he felt he was there, but not really there. People didn't really talk to me; I thought for sure I'd have a good chat with K but he only said about three words to me the whole night....

Dr N asked him how he felt... was M acting differently than pre-Charlotte? Did he think that his behaviour had changed?

M wasn't sure. I'm not sure either.

She then talked about the first couple of times she met us, how we were so nice, so understanding, extremely understanding. How now we seem more agressive, more angry, different.

That's normal, she said. It's healthy to have those changes after something like this.

Am I unlocking the inner bitch as a result of my baby's death?

Probably. I don't feel the same. I hardly remember what I ever felt, before this. I know I was a "nice" person. I know I would go out of my way to help someone and not cause conflict. I know I was anti-confrontational. Probably somewhat of a pushover. I think I'm still a lot of these things, but rougher around the edges. Quicker to defend myself. Less likely to care what anyone thinks. What do they matter anyway? They don't know.

There are some obvious changes. I no longer like talking to anyone on the phone. I don't like talking in general, actually. My interests are completely different. I'm annoyed with everyone, all the time. They don't know. They don't have a clue. I push them away, because they can't help. No one can help.

Just leave me alone. Leave me alone. That's the vibe I give off, I know it. Because it's true. Unless you've held your dead baby you don't have a clue what I'm going through, so go away. I don't want to hear about your crashed computer or your crappy job or the stain on your brand new sofa, all that is crap. You don't know.

Yeah, I've changed. It's been a long almost-six months. Another long six months to go before the calendar will be turned, and the "firsts" will be over. Will I change even more? Probably. I'm apathetic about pretty much everything nowadays, nothing matters much. There's nothing to look forward to, nothing that is enticing, nothing appealing. No one offers anything.

I miss my girl. That just sums it up.

An unexpected evil

Ok, that's it. I'm quitting.

I don't smoke, if you're wondering. Or drink. I'm speaking of a far greater evil in the world, at least for me, at this time.

Face.book.

I like it for some reasons. I like keeping in touch with my out-of-province friends. I like seeing so-and-so's pictures from their wedding, pics from vacation.

It's the baby pics that are doing me in right now.

Each and everytime I log on, when it takes me to "home", there is a picture there of a newborn. Newborn and mommie, newborn in crib, etc. Always with some comment attached by someone on my friend list, Oh congratulations! She's beautiful! Glad you had no problems!

I can't help myself. I click on the picture to see it larger, then flip through the rest of the album, always chronicalling the first day or so of life. Proud smiles. A mommy that's already back into street clothes. Babies without tubes or 24/7 care and a no-holds-barred outlook on a long happy life.

So, that's what it's like for the rest of the world.

I can take this torture every couple of weeks, every month or so. Lately it's been daily. Really. For the last couple of weeks I have (masochistically) observed a dozen or so happy beginnings, each one driving home how unfair life really is.

So, I'm quitting. Good bye, Face.book! You're only for happy people.

Change of pace

Up until now, my blog entries have been about Charlotte. Grief for Charlotte, frustrations with our new babylost life, so on.

Today I'm writing about weight loss.

I've struggled with my weight my entire life. I was a heavy child and teen, heavy right through university and grad school (with the occasional 20-30 lb loss here or there, with immediate regain), and finally, about 3 years ago, I lost it all. For good, or so I thought.

There were no pills, no gimmicks. I cut out processed food. I went for walks. That was it, and it worked.

Well, this year, it all came back. The day Charlotte was born I weighed in at somewhere around 218 lbs. A week later when I came home from the hospital I was 204. Another 7 dropped quickly. I was 197 for awhile. I modified my nutrition which wasn't hard as I had lost all my interest in food.

In May I rejoined my gym, beginning with a mere 3 or 4 mins at a time on the treadmill in a slow walk. The months of bedrest and the extra weight had taken a toll on my ankles- they could no longer support me very well. Slowly I worked myself up to longer walks, then started the elliptical machine and gentle weight training. I stalled a month or two later between 188-190 lbs. I stayed there for 6 or 8 weeks. The scale finally started moving again the beginning of August.

Well, now I'm at about 179 lbs, give or take a pound depending on the day. My MFM suggested a BMI of 25, which means I have 24 lbs to go. I've been lighter than that in my adult life, so I know that's not unreasonable for me. It's just going so so slowly, I feel like I'll never get there.

I obviously have metabolic issues. I would imagine anyone would after months of bedrest, then emergency surgeries, etc. The emotional side is that I have no appetite and rarely get hungry, although I'm eating textbook perfect these days- all whole, unprocessed foods- lots of lean protein, fruits and veggies, whole grains. I go to the gym 4 or 5 days a week, although I've been lazy lately, and really have to force myself. When I get there I like it. It's a true "adult" space; no children or babies in sight. I lace up my shoes and pound the treadmill. I'm up to running for 20 minutes straight now, with walks for warmup and cool-down. I alternate a minute of jogging with a minute of sprinting and I love how the sprint feels- heavy, solid, rhythmic and punishing, with the slow burn in my chest getting stronger by the end of the 60 seconds. I slow back to the jog, then rinse and repeat, minute after minute.

I follow that run with some intense circuits of free-weights, and I can see myself getting stronger. I'm mastering the plank, the squat, dumbell presses. I'm learning burpees and the bosu ball and all kinds of things I never ever thought I would do.

The doctors told me to exercise. So I'm exercising.

I can't say I hate it. I like the feeling of being tired, of being proud of what I accomplished that day. While I'm in the middle of the workout I'm looking forward to the end, when I can hobble back to my car and go home.

In the past exercise has revitalized me, allowed me to face the remainder of the day with new focus. Not anymore. I'm tired, drained, and lethargic when I'm done. It drains me rather than gives me new energy. Another side effect of being babylost.

But I'm glad I can go. As I run I imagine having a baby that makes it, and I run harder. Sometimes I imagine losing another, and I run even harder. The physical exertion feels good. There are times when I want to hit things, and there are things in the gym that are designed to be hit, which feels good. Release of energy. Whatever works.

In the end though it doesn't feel like me, the real me. I'll go to the gym. I'll work hard until I'm sweating and my heart rate is high. I'll eat the prescribed bland diet and go from there. I'll do what I'm told. Eventually I'll be back into a single-digit size and my BMI will be considered "normal" and this project will take the backburner. For now, the motivation of seeing the scale dip another number or seeing a smaller result with the measuring tape is enough to get me through some days.

Whatever works, I guess.

Any other babylost mamas struggling with weight stuff? What's your method?

Sunday

Earlier this week I got a call from the minister at my church, wondering if M and I were available to attend church today. As the organist, I'm usually there, but today was my scheduled Sunday off. She wanted us there because the little plate the church donated in memory of Charlotte was ready; there was a baptism today, they wanted to present it and use it.

I had forgotten the church was doing this. It was mentioned to me mere days post-Charlotte, while I was still in the hospital and the world had crashed down around my ears. I heard, but did not really hear, and like so many other things right now, I forgot.

I heard the voicemail on Tuesday. I mentioned it to M. He thought it would be really sad, what do we have to do? I don't want to go up or anything.

I called back the minister to ask what she had in mind. Whatever we were comfortable with. There was no standard protocol.

We were uncertain about the accompanying baptism. As we told our psychologist on Thursday, we expected that to really suck. I mean, here's the little plate. Charlotte's name is on it. Here's a living healthy baby. She gets the baptism. With Charlotte's plate.

Guess what? It did suck.

We sat in the balcony to have a bit more distance, more breathing room. The presentation was near the beginning of the service. The minister presented the little plate, explained how it would hold the oil, dedicated in memory of Heather and M's daughter, Charlotte Molly. The word daughter still sounds unnatural to me. I call her my baby. My baby girl.

In a moment the prayer was over, and on we moved to the living baby, in her white christening gown. And M and sat hand-in-hand through the baptism (it's so much easier when I'm behind the organ). I wiped away the scattered tear and sat there, moving from one breath to the next. They sang the requisite little song we sing for every baptism. The one we sang at Charlotte's funeral.

In an hour we were home again. Drained. Struck by the unfairness and injustice once again.

Our baby has a plate. Babies should have a life.

We're everywhere

The wedding was lovely. It turned out, well, not as I expected. The loveliness I expected. The weather was great, the bride's dress was gorgeous, the meal delicious. There were also a few surprises that threw me off balance a bit.

M and I arrived for the ceremony at 3:00, and found a inconspicuous seat by the wall. The venue was an odd shape, not a traditional church layout, so I could only see about half of the congregation on the other side. No baby in sight. No baby mama in sight.

Then, I saw the stroller being wheeled in, right to the front row of chairs. The carrier lifted out. I could see K., the mommy, out of the corner of my eye, rocking the carrier on the floor in front of her with her foot. A friend in front of us turned around, Doesn't K look fabulous? Gosh, you'd never know she just had a baby....

It's little things like that that sting when I wish they wouldn't. I wish I wasn't jealous. I still have 20 lbs to go, and no baby to show for it.

I asked M to switch seats with me. He was against the wall and couldn't see them. I managed ok after that.

We were one of the last to leave the hall, hoping that baby and mama would be gone ahead. No such luck. Baby was of course the center of attention, and there was no avoiding. I walked by, caught K's eye and said hi. Your hair looks great, she said, in between descriptions to baby admirers of sleeping and feeding patterns.

Yeah, that was me and my fabulous hair on Friday. (You know, I don't actually own a camera? That is the funny thing about me. And my inlaws own a professional camera store, so I have no excuse. Family gatherings are like the papparazzi around here. Quite funny actually. I'll have to get one just for the purpose of keeping my blog entertaining!)

We returned at 6:30 for the reception. K. was in the lobby, we made small talk as we found our table. I was eternally grateful to the bride, for seating us with M.'s engineering friends instead of the babyland crew. We actually had a nice meal, great conversation, no baby talk. I assumed the baby wasn't there, although I was proven wrong after dinner. I saw the mother of the groom carrying around a little dark haired person, and I though, yup, there she is. Then her dad was carrying her, showing her off to every table.


They never came to our side of the room, thank God.


After dinner we heard they were leaving to drop off the baby at K's parents. Whew. Crisis averted. I can now relax.

We headed to the lobby again while the venue was transformed from dinner to dance, and we chatted with the newlyweds, who seemed genuinely glad to have us there. We ran into other acquaintances and chatted some more. We got a drink from the bar. The mother of the bride came over, beautiful in an emerald green gown; I had never met her before. She took both my hands in hers and looked at us, I heard about your misfortune this year, she started. I wanted to say how sorry I am, and I know, because I had a baby boy, full term, that died after 11 hours....

I know how hard it is for you. You don't know if you are a mother or not, you feel like your body betrayed you. And of course, you're at the age where everyone is having babies and that makes it even more difficult. People stay away, avoid seeing you. It's not because they don't want to see you, they just don't know what to say, how to handle it. Do you have pictures? They'll mean a lot to you in years to come. M's mom told us it was a terrible, terrible day. I'm so sorry.

I nodded, and agreed. She asked M how he was doing; he said it was really hard. What else is there to say, really?

The conversation went on for some time. I felt out-of-body; the words coming out of my mouth in response to her questions, but not really being processed by my brain. Autopilot reactions.

I wrote about it, she said. Five or six years later I sat and wrote about it, and that was tremendously healing.

I said nothing. No one knows about my blog. This is my space IRL; not even M knows about this. She was right, of course: writing is tremendously healing.

She talked about how she had gone through nine pregnancies in all, resulting in three girls. 2 miscarriages before the lost baby boy who was her first, more after.

I didn't think I'd end up with the three I have now, she said, motioning to the bride and her two sisters. Good luck to you. Good luck to you.

When she left I broke down. M and I went outside for some air, and to avoid the curious eyes of strangers wondering what was wrong with me. I took my time, breathed.

When I felt ready we headed back inside, in time to watch the bride and groom's first dance. A couple of dances later the lyrics to a sappy song "Child of Mine" set me off again. Back out on the patio. Rinse and repeat.

We left really early. It wasn't even 10 o'clock. The babyland friends had not yet returned. We said goodbye to the bride and groom, who didn't seem surprised we were dipping out so early. I gave her a hug, told her how beautiful she was. I'm so glad you came, she said. I really miss hanging out with you guys. I was glad she said that.

So, home it was, to a busy house with mom and dad visiting and everything seeming too loud. I tried to sleep. I was up half the night. M was too.

On Saturday I was exhausted, both emotionally and from not sleeping. I struggled through the funeral (sad), and the wedding (tiring) that I was playing for. I fell asleep really early and got up feeling slightly better on Sunday.

And now it's back to "normal", where everyday feels the same. Detached, mundane, bleak.

I keep thinking about the bride's mother. Her little boy from 30+ years ago. The five miscarriages apart from that. How, on such a happy day in her life, the wedding of her oldest daughter, she gave comfort and hope to another babylost mama. How we're the same. We're all the same.

And I'm so so saddened, because after all that, she never did get to raise a little boy.

Wedding Day

I sit here with two hours to go before I head to this wedding. I just got back from the hairdresser, and my hair is fabulous. I usually don't care too much about such things, but damn it, if I may be in for a torturous day surrounded by babies and friends who ignore us, I'm going to do it with fabulous hair.

I'm probably being way too harsh. This wedding could end up being tons of fun. We'll see; I hope so.

I finished up my first week of classes. I am somewhat organized. Forgetful, yes. But the materials themselves have finally started to make sense, and the class is small this year, making names and faces easier to remember. A dear dear friend from undergrad is home from an almost-completed PhD, and is also doing some adjunct teaching. It was absolutely wonderful to have an old, pre-baby friend to spend time with. It's been years since I've seen him, but this week was great. I'm really glad to have a buddy on campus this year.

All in all, this weekend is turning out to be busy, over-stimulating. The wedding today. Tonight my parents show up to spend the weekend, tomorrow I'm organist at another wedding and a funeral. The funeral will be my first since Charlotte's. I don't know the family, and the service is very standard, so I'm hoping I will get through unscathed. I'll be relieved on Sunday when everything calms down. I'm not much for busyness nowadays.

M came home last night sad and defeated. He had accompanied his parents to the wake of long-time neighbour who had passed away. What he did not know was that it was at the same funeral home where Charlotte's service was, and when he got there, it was in the same room. He found that really hard. I could only stay 5 minutes, he said. I had to get out of there.

I know the feeling, all too well.

I have officially lost the week count since Charlotte. For months, every Friday I would relive that day hour by hour, thinking ten weeks ago right now...., sixteen weeks ago, etc. I lost count a couple of weeks ago, and I was glad. I'm counting months now, which is slightly less neurotic and a little more manageable. It was 5 months yesterday. I'm dreading six.

Any progress is good, I figure. I count "losing the count" as progress.

My hair and I are in for an interesting day. I will report later.