I had a moment this weekend when I thought it would be ok to post a link to my blog on Facebook. So, I did. For less than 24 hours. And then I took the link down. I don't know why I thought that I was ready to put the blog up, but I guess, in the end, I just wasn't ready.
I guess, for lack of a better way to say it, I am not entirely ready for my land of the living to be invited into my land of the dead. And, reality is that some "friends" might actually be referred to as people who didn't exactly shine when Shannon died. On the other hand, some other "friends" showed me immense love and support. But, I don't know if the casual reader, the person who is looking to find out what I've been up to the "x" years since we last chatted, is looking for more than a place where I express my feelings about loss and life and life without my little girl. The people who might live and/or be more comfortable full-time in the land of the living might not get it.
There is a great book I read in high school, can't remember the title, but it contains the following: Why am I afraid to tell you who I am? I am afraid to tell you who I am because you may not like who I am, and it is all that I have. All of my Shannon world, while stronger than it was just a few months ago, is too new, too fragile, too fresh to me. I'm just not ready. While my world without Shannon is a big part of who I am, I can't write worrying about whether I am going to offend someone who *might* read my blog, figuring that I am going to critique bad tv or write about my love of thin mints, and instead reads something else. Because, those are also parts of who I am. And I caveat that by saying that I don't worry about offending the casual reader who might stumble upon my blog when searching for information about certain "D" list celebrities who *might* share my daughter's name. They are on their on (mostly because I don't know anyone who might actually search for such information)
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Memories of a life lost
http://www.newsweek.com/id/182572/page/1
A Vast and Sudden Sadness
--This article appears in this week's Newsweek. It is about stillbirth and the use of photography to remember our lost babies. Shannon was technically a week and a few days short of being a stillbirth, but it is all the same, regardless of the name you use. The photographs and memories which we made of her help to sustain me through some of the harder days. I am glad, despite the enormous sadness depicted in those photos, that we have them. I will treasure them forever as the visual record of her.
When mom's first find out that their babies died, and that they'll actually have to go to the hospital and go through labor and delivery, they often ask what they should do. I am forever grateful that there were moms out there who told me to bring a camera. Some hospitals actually have a "care package" of sorts for parents like us, which contains a disposable camera. Mine didn't. Some hospitals will take photos for you. Mine did, but lost them and found them months later. But we had our camera, and we have photos of our little girl. They aren't always easy to look at, because the day was so overwhelmingly sad, but they are part of our life, her life, and our memories and short time with our little girl. And they helped.
A Vast and Sudden Sadness
--This article appears in this week's Newsweek. It is about stillbirth and the use of photography to remember our lost babies. Shannon was technically a week and a few days short of being a stillbirth, but it is all the same, regardless of the name you use. The photographs and memories which we made of her help to sustain me through some of the harder days. I am glad, despite the enormous sadness depicted in those photos, that we have them. I will treasure them forever as the visual record of her.
When mom's first find out that their babies died, and that they'll actually have to go to the hospital and go through labor and delivery, they often ask what they should do. I am forever grateful that there were moms out there who told me to bring a camera. Some hospitals actually have a "care package" of sorts for parents like us, which contains a disposable camera. Mine didn't. Some hospitals will take photos for you. Mine did, but lost them and found them months later. But we had our camera, and we have photos of our little girl. They aren't always easy to look at, because the day was so overwhelmingly sad, but they are part of our life, her life, and our memories and short time with our little girl. And they helped.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
One year ago
One year ago, my little girl was born. That day really sucked. Seriously. One year later, it still sucks, but only because I miss her and I still don't understand how it is that such a terrible thing could happen to an innocent creature that had everything ahead of her. I don't get it.
I don't get how some stupid people have 14 kids because they are dumber than a bag of dirt and think that they are some kind of "parenting" expert who will be able to support 14 kids on giving other people advice. Here's some advice - don't listen to stupid women who get 8 babies through IVF and think that is ok. So many of us just want one. The one we lost. The one that broke our heart. The one we didn't get to keep.
I don't get how there are so many moms and dads who don't want the kids they have, who treat them so terribly, who just don't care, who do unspeakably bad things to them. All the while, so many of us mourn what we lost and feel the sadness of the universe bearing down on us. I weep for more than my loss, I weep for the losses of my friends, and the losses of people I don't even know. Because I know what loss feels like.
We did a balloon release for Shannon's birthday yesterday. We set two balloons free - one yellow and one pink. And, because nothing is easy, they went right into a tree. The yellow one worked its way free first, and ran right into another tree. Eventually the yellow one got free of the second tree and went on its way, hopefully to brighten the evening of my evening star. The pink one - well, it got free of the first tree and went right for the second tree. One bounce, two bounces, three bounces, POP!, no more pink balloon. So, being the anal retentive tree-hugger that I am, I trotted off into the street to pick up the carcass of the pink balloon and brought it home. I'll put it in Shannon's memory box as just another pathetic reminder of a rather pathetic year. Then, my husband said, I don't like pink anyway. I said, neither do I. I'd like to think that Shannon let that balloon pop because, being my child, she just wouldn't have been that into pink either. At least the yellow one flew free. Frankly, I'd have rather have just had her here instead. Oh well.
Shannon - we miss you lots and love you more. I don't think Happy Birthday is right, because there was nothing happy about the day that we said hello and goodbye for the first and last time. You'll never be forgotten, my little one... I love you. --mommy
I don't get how some stupid people have 14 kids because they are dumber than a bag of dirt and think that they are some kind of "parenting" expert who will be able to support 14 kids on giving other people advice. Here's some advice - don't listen to stupid women who get 8 babies through IVF and think that is ok. So many of us just want one. The one we lost. The one that broke our heart. The one we didn't get to keep.
I don't get how there are so many moms and dads who don't want the kids they have, who treat them so terribly, who just don't care, who do unspeakably bad things to them. All the while, so many of us mourn what we lost and feel the sadness of the universe bearing down on us. I weep for more than my loss, I weep for the losses of my friends, and the losses of people I don't even know. Because I know what loss feels like.
We did a balloon release for Shannon's birthday yesterday. We set two balloons free - one yellow and one pink. And, because nothing is easy, they went right into a tree. The yellow one worked its way free first, and ran right into another tree. Eventually the yellow one got free of the second tree and went on its way, hopefully to brighten the evening of my evening star. The pink one - well, it got free of the first tree and went right for the second tree. One bounce, two bounces, three bounces, POP!, no more pink balloon. So, being the anal retentive tree-hugger that I am, I trotted off into the street to pick up the carcass of the pink balloon and brought it home. I'll put it in Shannon's memory box as just another pathetic reminder of a rather pathetic year. Then, my husband said, I don't like pink anyway. I said, neither do I. I'd like to think that Shannon let that balloon pop because, being my child, she just wouldn't have been that into pink either. At least the yellow one flew free. Frankly, I'd have rather have just had her here instead. Oh well.
Shannon - we miss you lots and love you more. I don't think Happy Birthday is right, because there was nothing happy about the day that we said hello and goodbye for the first and last time. You'll never be forgotten, my little one... I love you. --mommy
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The day before....
The day before Shannon died. Wednesday, February 6, 2008. I was so sick Monday that I stayed home Tuesday. On wednesday, we had a workman coming to install ceiling fans, so I went to work and took Sean to school.
I remember using my doppler that morning and listening to my baby, never realizing that I'd never hear that sound again. I remember lying there, with the doppler, just listening for what seemed like a long time that day. Who knew that it really was such a short time?
On the way home that day, I remember being so very angry at my son for telling a lie. I was really angry. Who knew how stupid that was at the time?
I remember having so much trouble going to sleep that night because of my stuff nose. I remember taking a sudafed and sleeping all night. Who knew that I wouldn't wake up from the nightmare that awaited me when I opened my eyes that next day?
That was the day before. Who knew that it was going to be the last day of my old life? Who knew that was the last day I'd still believe that happiness was really attainable? Who knew that my life now seems more appropriately among the dead and grieving, instead of in life?
Things really do change in a heartbeat (or the lack thereof). Who knew?
I remember using my doppler that morning and listening to my baby, never realizing that I'd never hear that sound again. I remember lying there, with the doppler, just listening for what seemed like a long time that day. Who knew that it really was such a short time?
On the way home that day, I remember being so very angry at my son for telling a lie. I was really angry. Who knew how stupid that was at the time?
I remember having so much trouble going to sleep that night because of my stuff nose. I remember taking a sudafed and sleeping all night. Who knew that I wouldn't wake up from the nightmare that awaited me when I opened my eyes that next day?
That was the day before. Who knew that it was going to be the last day of my old life? Who knew that was the last day I'd still believe that happiness was really attainable? Who knew that my life now seems more appropriately among the dead and grieving, instead of in life?
Things really do change in a heartbeat (or the lack thereof). Who knew?
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Stuck in a moment at 4 am
Sometimes grief is a weird thing. It is like running around in a dark room that you are completely familiar with, except that this time someone moved a wall. And you run right into that wall, unexpectedly and painfully and find yourself gasping for breath in your bed at 4 am, when you have to go to work in a few hours, crying uncontrollably and wondering what the hell just happened to you.
After I looked at the clock, I realized it was 4 am, which was the time when Shannon was born. So, was the time significant? I don't think so, the grief I felt was not about her birth, it was about what happened next. It was about the time we spent with her after she was born. The end of the time we spent with her. Knowing that we would never see her again, when is it the right time to let go, to give your baby (your dead baby) to someone who is going to walk away with her and take her somewhere where you will not see her again until you pick up the urn at the funeral home. The person who is going to take your daughter somewhere (where?) into parts of the hospital that regular people don't get to go.
When do you, when can you, let go? How do you decide that it's time? How do you get to the point where you'd rather leave the hospital than stay there with the body of your child, to get away from the hushed voices and the people who walk past your door with the butterfly on it and the doctor who keeps coming in to say he's sorry. How long is too long to stay? When it is better to leave your dead child to return to your living child? The one who doesn't know that his sister is dead, the one who only knows that mommy didn't come home the night before.
Barry Manilow says, "letting go is just another way to say I'll always love you so..." Kate Winslet, in the sappy end to the sappy Titanic, tells her doomed love "I'll never let go." It's all crap.
You never let go, it all keeps coming back. No matter whether you are a day or a week or a year away from that terrible day. Even if you wanted to let go, you can't. And I don't know if I want to. Because I think it is always supposed to hurt on some level.
After I looked at the clock, I realized it was 4 am, which was the time when Shannon was born. So, was the time significant? I don't think so, the grief I felt was not about her birth, it was about what happened next. It was about the time we spent with her after she was born. The end of the time we spent with her. Knowing that we would never see her again, when is it the right time to let go, to give your baby (your dead baby) to someone who is going to walk away with her and take her somewhere where you will not see her again until you pick up the urn at the funeral home. The person who is going to take your daughter somewhere (where?) into parts of the hospital that regular people don't get to go.
When do you, when can you, let go? How do you decide that it's time? How do you get to the point where you'd rather leave the hospital than stay there with the body of your child, to get away from the hushed voices and the people who walk past your door with the butterfly on it and the doctor who keeps coming in to say he's sorry. How long is too long to stay? When it is better to leave your dead child to return to your living child? The one who doesn't know that his sister is dead, the one who only knows that mommy didn't come home the night before.
Barry Manilow says, "letting go is just another way to say I'll always love you so..." Kate Winslet, in the sappy end to the sappy Titanic, tells her doomed love "I'll never let go." It's all crap.
You never let go, it all keeps coming back. No matter whether you are a day or a week or a year away from that terrible day. Even if you wanted to let go, you can't. And I don't know if I want to. Because I think it is always supposed to hurt on some level.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
11 months, and counting
Shannon was born 11 months and 9 days ago. That seems like a ridiculously long period of time to me right now. In just a few weeks, she'll have been gone a year. And I don't know what to say about that. My husband is about to leave the country for two weeks, and he gets back on Shannon's birthday. I wish I could go back to a time when February didn't fill me with dread and deep, deep sadness, but I lost two pregnancies, one year apart, within one day of each other. That really does make February suck, big time.
I feel like I've made good progess on healing this year. I will always miss my daughter, I will never get to see if she would have turned out to be some super awesome kid, (I suspect that she would have, despite her mom), but I am a stronger person now. I am a more compassionate person now. I understand the unspeakable now. I care a lot less about the unimportant things in life. On the good side that isn't so good, I have a lot less patience for stupidity and shallowness now. Why is that bad, well, only because there is so much of it around me - in the misplaced priorities of others, in the people who'd rather complain about the fact that they got a *X* when they wanted a *Y* (when all they should want is a living baby), in the people who poop on others just to get what they want first, in the list of others who I deal with regularly who just don't have a clue. I'm a lot more tired than I have ever been. And I still wonder if I will get my happy ending at the end of all this loss drama.
This past week, I had my yearly review at work. It was fine, but they mentioned that I had some "health issues" last year. Yes, Shannon is apparently a "health issue" when you work in a law firm and you are being reviewed by a room full of men. I don't even know if they knew what they were saying or what they had been told about my loss, or if they were just told that I was in the hospital or something. I suspect that they were told that I had a loss, but beyond that, who knows. And they said they were sorry and that they hoped everything was ok now. I wonder what "ok now" means, but I am not going to try to go there with a room full of men, so I dug my nails into my hand, said yes and thank you... Some discussions just aren't worth having.
And, on some level, I guess I am "ok now," if only I really knew what ok means...
I feel like I've made good progess on healing this year. I will always miss my daughter, I will never get to see if she would have turned out to be some super awesome kid, (I suspect that she would have, despite her mom), but I am a stronger person now. I am a more compassionate person now. I understand the unspeakable now. I care a lot less about the unimportant things in life. On the good side that isn't so good, I have a lot less patience for stupidity and shallowness now. Why is that bad, well, only because there is so much of it around me - in the misplaced priorities of others, in the people who'd rather complain about the fact that they got a *X* when they wanted a *Y* (when all they should want is a living baby), in the people who poop on others just to get what they want first, in the list of others who I deal with regularly who just don't have a clue. I'm a lot more tired than I have ever been. And I still wonder if I will get my happy ending at the end of all this loss drama.
This past week, I had my yearly review at work. It was fine, but they mentioned that I had some "health issues" last year. Yes, Shannon is apparently a "health issue" when you work in a law firm and you are being reviewed by a room full of men. I don't even know if they knew what they were saying or what they had been told about my loss, or if they were just told that I was in the hospital or something. I suspect that they were told that I had a loss, but beyond that, who knows. And they said they were sorry and that they hoped everything was ok now. I wonder what "ok now" means, but I am not going to try to go there with a room full of men, so I dug my nails into my hand, said yes and thank you... Some discussions just aren't worth having.
And, on some level, I guess I am "ok now," if only I really knew what ok means...
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