Tag Archives: grief

Nightmares

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I slept for about 3 hours last night. That’s one of my better nights I’ve had at home. But the nightmares keep coming. Every single night I dream that I’m back in that hospital room. Every single night I relive those horrible 16 hours but in the end I never get to hold her again. Not even for a second. All I need is one more minute. Not even my own subconscious can give me that.

Last night also I dreamed I went back to work. I have those nightmares a lot, that I’m forced to go back before I’m ready. I was in a seminar about something and started feeling completely overwhelmed and started breaking down into tears, so I excused myself to the washroom. When I got there a bunch of people I knew from various stages of my life were there – old teachers, ex boyfriends, high school classmates. They all started to verbally attack me. Each of them took turns pointing out all of the things I did wrong while I was pregnant.

“Why did you travel so much?! Don’t you know that’s what killed your baby?!”

“I saw you eat that turkey sandwich, didn’t you know sandwich meat would kill your baby?!”

“You shouldn’t have pushed yourself so hard, you killed your baby”

“You’re so fat! You killed your baby”

“You killed your baby”
“You killed your baby”
“You killed your baby”

Not even when I sleep can I get a moment to breathe. It’s no wonder why my mind doesn’t let me sleep if this is what it has to face.

Relearning How To Live

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These past few days I have felt alone. Not lonely. Alone. Constantly surrounded by love and support, but so very much alone inside my own head. There are a lot of thoughts in my head and things my body is going through and I go through them alone. I have to question everything my body is doing. I have to lose the weight. I have to think about the fertility treatments to come. And there’s no one that can lessen that stress. It’s all on me. I’m in it alone and all Darcy or anyone can do is cheer me on.

I feel like everyone I know has returned to the world of the living. Even Darcy has returned to work this week because he had to (not because he wanted to). I’m happy that he has a distraction in that. I still can’t even fathom returning to that part of my life right now. I have a hard enough time pulling myself out of bed in the morning. Showering is a chore most days and the thought of talking to most people makes my stomach churn. I’m still clinging hopelessly to the land of the dead.

I thought I knew what grief was before Everlee died. Overwhelming sadness, longing perhaps. I had no idea that grief is forgetfulness, self-centeredness, anger, moodiness, wanting to be alone when in a group and in a group when alone. Grief is hungry and desperate and pulling hair out from discomfort. It is fear. Times ten thousand. It is the feeling of shrinking and starving. Grief is obsession and living in the past.

I never manage to make my grief sound as ugly as it feels. Constantly, people tell me they cry when they read what I write. And it’s peculiar to me. I don’t feel like I’m capturing 1/100th of what I feel, and just that little piece of me is enough to send others to pieces. If only they knew. If only you knew. In person I try so hard to remain calm. Even gracious. When people ask me how I’m doing I respond with things like “As well as can be expected” or “I’m trying to take it one day at a time”. People tell me how strong I am. But inside I am yelling at myself, tearing myself apart “Oh my God. My baby is dead. I can’t believe my baby is dead. All of my hopes and dreams and my baby are dead”.

I’ve been trying to relearn how to live and find stable ground since my world came crashing down. I’ve been quiet. I’ve wailed. I’ve yelled, screamed and smashed things. I’ve lost my faith and trust. I written many words. Most of all I’ve wanted to die, and decided to live.

Weight of the World – Pt 2

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Every day since the 12th of February has been hard. Some have just been harder than others. This week has been full of the harder days. Monday was awful. After my doctors appointment and after the facebook fiasco I felt as though everything had happened yesterday. Any progress I had made forward was gone. I spent all of Monday night curled on the couch crying and and feeling sorry for myself. I hope with everything inside of me that that moment was my final rock bottom. I can’t possibly imagine going lower – but then again I’ve thought that several times over the past three months. I have been repeatedly kicked in the face. Broken and beaten. 

Tuesday morning I crawled out of bed a rumpled mess, my eyes were swollen and my throat was sore from crying all night long. But I had a job to do. If I’m to make my little girlie a big sister I have to lose the weight. Even if I don’t agree with my doctor. I went back to Empowering You. The place that helped me do this in 2010

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Back then it wasn’t about a number. I have always struggled with my weight and my self image my entire life (much like every girl). After spending my teenaged years fluctuating my weight and losing weight in the most unhealthy ays possible, when I went to Empowering You in 2010 it wasn’t about the number on the scale anymore. It was about feeling better about myself. It was about feeling comfortable in my own skin and being able to walk into any store and be able to buy clothes at my will. And I got to that point.   Not with pills, or supplements or special foods. I never looked at the number on the scale. I had no idea how much I weighed. And I was happy. (And I need to thank the amazing Brenda Barry, the owner of EY for that, and for giving me some hope on Tuesday.)

My doctor has stolen that attitude from me because she’s made it about the archaic concept of BMI.    Despite the fact that I could lift my doctor over my head, my muscle mass seemingly plays no role in the equation. Height and weight. That’s all she cares about. You’d be shocked to know how much I weigh. I’m seemingly dense, imore ways than one. But she’s made it about a number on a scale. She’s made it my personal vendetta. As of Tuesday I had 47lbs to lose.  As of yesterday I have 43lbs to lose. 4lbs gone and 4lbs closer to shoving it in her face. 

And I hate that it’s not about how I feel anymore. I hate that it’s only about that number for me. But I have nothing else to focus on. My dead baby girl who I love more than anything on this earth. And a number on a damn scale. This is what my life has become. And it hurts more than anything. 

I don’t know how much more I can take

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I don’t even know where to start.

I apologize in advance. This entry will probably be long winded. Full of run on sentences . Disjointed. And absolutely full of self loathing. But today was a nightmare. People over use that word. But today was a true, honest nightmare I mean, I knew when I woke up this morning it would suck. But I had no idea I would feel this incredibly awful. I feel like any gain I’ve made in the past three months has been completely over shadowed.

We got the autopsy results back today.

Walking into the doctors office set the tone. I saw a coworker. She obviously had no idea what had happened (I have no idea how that’s possible). She came up and smiled and asked me how far along I was. I was so utterly dumbfounded that I just replied “I’m not pregnant”. She hugged me and said she was sorry and told me shed been through fertility issues and shed be happy to talk to me any time. She had no Clue. And I was too shocked to respond and tell her what had happened. She walked away and I broke down.

And then we waited in that awful little room. The one where I had all of my prenatal appointments. The one where I heard her heartbeat for the last time. And the silence was deafening. The anxiety thick in the air. The doctor walked in and I held my breath and braced for it.

My only comfort is that Everlee was perfect. She was completely fine. Until she died. There was nothing wrong with her. No chromosomal defect. No disease. She was flawless. Had she been delivered just a few hours earlier I would be holding her right now.

They officially confirmed that it was a placental abruption. My blood pressure issues were a result of problems with my placenta. That’s ultimately what caused it to detach. And kill my baby. We know what happened. It doesn’t make it any easier to know. I thought it might. But it doesn’t.

It hurts worse.

I then tried to start the conversation about when we could start fertility treatments. The answer was like a blow to the head.

Because this has happened I am now at a higher risk of it happening again. And there’s not much that can be done about that. Except lose weight. My doctor said that the only thing within my control is to get back to the point I was at before I got pregnant. The smallest I’ve ever been. She won’t even consider helping us until then. She said my weight likely played a role in what happened. Her resident tried to explain that this kind of thing can happen to anyone, no matter what their weight. But that this was a risk factor that we have some control over. But my doctor made it sound like because I am fat my baby died. I don’t care what else she said, that’s all I heard. I feel like, now more than ever, it’s my fault. And I can’t even start to fathom trying to have another child until I’m not so fat. She even went so far to say that I could get put on a list for gastric bypass. I didn’t know I was that big, I didn’t know I had let it get that far. I’ve never felt this awful about myself . Ever. Nothing about this has been easy. Nothing, but it seems as though I can’t ever catch my breath. I’m tired. As I keep getting kicked in the ribs while I’m down. I’m going to lose the weight. I’m going to fight harder than I’ve ever fought before to lose it.

But until I am actively working to get pregnant again I can’t possibly see myself moving forward (not moving on) mentally. I am stagnant. I am broken. Fat and broken.

So Darcy and I came home and tried to digest as best we could our latest defeat. We both posted something on Facebook that aptly described how we were feeling in the moment.

Then an acquaintance of Darcy, who is pregnant, updated her status. Apparently she’s sick of hearing about dead babies because she’s trying to have a positive pregnancy. I hope you’re reading this. I really hope you are because I want you to know how incredibly sorry I am that the death of my child makes you feel mildly uncomfortable. Good news is that you can log off of your Facebook and go on about your day and dream about your perfect little baby, much like I used to. But I have to sit here and live in this hell without my child. I’m sorry that you are ‘forced’ to read our status updates and see us trying our best to remember a little girl who brought us so much joy for a much too short period of time. But most of all I am so sorry that you are so completely oblivious and insensitive. I hope you never have to feel like this. i hope you never have to wake up and think for a split second that you hear your dead baby crying or forget for that instant that you’re still pregnant only to realize how empty you are. Luckily you won’t have to look at your updates anymore, because we did something you should have done if you were so bothered by the loss of our child.

I’ve discovered that I’m much more bothered by pregnant people than I am by babies. I’ve spent some time over the last two weeks with various friends with brand new babies. And they bring me a sour sort of happiness. I love them all. But they remind me sorely of how much I miss my Everlee. Pregnant people make me nauseous. I feel like they see me as the grime reaper when they know what’s happened, and when they don’t know I feel like I want to yell at them and tell them what could happen. I told my psychologist about this today and she assures me that it’s normal with post traumatic stress. It doesn’t feel normal. It feels awful.

I’m just beaten down. Worn out. I’m tired. I need to catch my breath. But the blows keep coming. Left and right. I don’t know how much more I can take. I’ve always been down oneself about my weight. I’ve always hated by body. But now I feel more and more that I’m starting to hate myself too. I just wish I could wake up from this nightmare.

Mother’s Day.

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To be honest, when I booked this trip I hadn’t really thought about the fact that it would be ending on Mother’s Day. I’m sitting in an airport in Ottawa right now awaiting our final flight home. It’s kind of fitting I guess that I would return on the day of all days that would remind me that I am a childless mother.

Don’t get me wrong. It doesn’t matter what day it is (Mother’s Day, Christmas, Easter, Tuesday.. ), I never forget that, I always remember what I have lost. But I guess my greatest fear is that those around me will try to forget it’s Mother’s Day so that they won’t upset me. And I don’t fault anyone who tries to do that. How could I? How could anyone possibly know what to do. From society’s perspective (and mine) I have gone through the worse thing that anyone could go through – losing a child. I guess all I can ask is that people acknowledge the fact that I am a mother. I don’t ever stop thinking about it, so you bringing it up isn’t stirring up any emotion that I’m not already feeling. In fact knowing you remember my precious little girl is even more comforting to me than you could possibly know. She is my everything and hearing you say her name makes her feel even closer to me.

I don’t ever get the opportunity to feel like a normal mother. Ever. I have tried to sit and talk to people about my experience in pregnancy and childbirth and people look away as if its something that shouldn’t be discussed. Do you want to forget the birth of your child? Neither do I. Ever. Every kick, every craving, every flutter, every moment of being pregnant brought me the greatest joy I could have ever thought possible. Being pregnant with Everlee was literally a dream come true for me. Please don’t deny me that. Let me share my moments of pregnancy and childbirth. They’re the only moments of motherhood I was ever given. Don’t rob me of that by pretending they didn’t exist. Motherhood is more than contractions, it’s a state of mind. From the moment we know that life is inside of us we feel the responsibility to protect and defend that human being with every fibre of our soul. But that wasn’t a promise my body could keep. But I’m not any less a mother. The longer I live without her, the more convinced I am that surviving this has changed me. All of the anger, the bitterness, the guilt, the despair..I look at it differently now.

So on Mother’s Day, help me not feel like what I feel like all of the time. I carried her. I felt her move. I gave birth to her. She is my everything. Because she isn’t here I don’t get treated like other moms. I need to be remembered too. I get why you might not want to say anything. I really do. But I already feel this huge void because I don’t have my daughter here to celebrate with me. Every time you pretend it didn’t happen it takes away some of the few moments if motherhood I have. She was still born. I am still a mother.

In the meantime, a lot of my friends are celebrating their very first Mother’s Day. So happy Mother’s Day ladies. Thank you for being amazing friends to me and amazing mothers to your children, thank you for being exactly the support I need in this saddest time of my life, while you are in the happiest of yours.

And to the two mothers in my life, my mom and mother in law, Everlee’s nanny and grandma: thank you for teaching me how to be a mom, even if my baby isn’t here with me. Thank you for understanding and supporting me through this hell and all of the other ups and downs life has brought me. And thank you for being amazing grandmothers to our angel.

Happy Mother’s Day everyone.

Reality

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It’s another sleepless night. The anxiety that our vacation time alone is coming to a close is kicking in. Being away from everyone and everything we know has been an escape from the harsh and hellish reality that has become our lives. The constant reminders aren’t everywhere here. And as much as I am looking forward to being with our Ontario family, the thought of landing face first into the brick wall of reality on Wednesday is weighing on me like a corpse.

I wrote on twitter last night that despite being in the happiest place on earth I still overwhelmingly heart sick. I am broken. I got a bunch of lovely and much appreciated replies that I am not broken and that time will heal all wounds. With all due respect to those people (whom I love and appreciate dearly), you have never lost a child. And I hope you never do. I hope no one ever has to feel this amount of pain and anguish. But until you know this pain you can’t possibly understand how broken I am. I really, truly am broken. No passage of time will ever make me hurt less. I may learn to live with it, but I will never ever hurt less for my daughter. She was, and remains, everything I ever wanted out of life. I am broken without her. Even a brother or sister will never replace her, nor will it ever heal my hurt for her loss.

As skeptical as I was (and remain) about this trip, the sunshine and anonymity has been good for me. The reminders are Constantly there, Everlee is always on my mind (just last night we went to Hooters, of all places, for dinner and our waitress was pregnant. I was anxious for her the entire time, wondering if she was ok being on her feet serving us. I hope her and her baby are happy and healthy). I’ve been able to breathe for awhile. Ive laughed without hating myself instantly, Ive gotten some sleep. But it can’t last forever. One last day awaits in the magic kingdom today, then tomorrow we head back north and back to our awaiting future, without Everlee.

The Happiest Place on Earth

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These last two and a half months have been absolute and utter hell. No one should ever have to lose a child. No one. And I’m not going to pretend that being here in the happiest place on earth has eased that pain even the tiniest bit. But if we had to learn to start over again, I’m glad we chose to do it here. There’s magic and hope at the turn of every corner and it gives me a little bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, I will be able to be happy again some day. They say this is the place where wishes come true, and all I wish for is to find peace again.

Set Adrift

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There’s something to be said about being cut off from the world completely for a week. This post will be scattered and disjointed, much like my brain. So please try to keep up.

The cruise was really great. A new adventure every day and something exciting always right around the corner. Waking up in a new place every morning. It was a week of much needed distraction, sunshine and adventure. I had fun. I even slept a little. But it wasn’t without its challenges. There were over 700 children on the ship. A lot of small babies. It made my heart ache. The first night in the dining room we got seated with a couple who were MAJOR religious folks, and when we told them about Everlee (they asked if we had kids) they told us they too had lost a baby they droned on and on about how it was God’s will and that we might not understand, but god does. Then the other couple we were with were 20 weeks pregnant. It was just not a good night. We moved tables the next day and got seated with two lovely couples around our age. It was a rough start.

There wasn’t a moment I didn’t think of my darling little girl. Every moment. Every experience. I just wanted her there so badly it ached. I vowed to myself that I would live life to the absolute fullest, because she could only live through me now. I want her to experience the world through me, so I have to try new things and go on adventures for her. It’s a thought that’s working for now, but I still can’t shake the guilt in being here. I still feel mad at myself for smiling. I posted a picture of myself on Facebook on our formal night on the ship:

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The comments about how nice I looked and how great it was to see me smile made me feel awful. I have no idea why. I guess I just feel like I’m betraying Everlee somehow. Like I shouldn’t be allowed to smile yet. I miss her so much. But it’s nice to have the anonymity here. The anxiety has eased a little around crowds knowing that not everyone sees my dead little girl when they look at me here, but now thinking of going back makes me ill.

In Jamaica I found a tanzanite necklace and earrings set that I absolutely loved. Darcy bought them for me for Mother’s Day, from Everlee. I cried so hard. I will cherish them forever.

Today began another ten days in Orlando. We went to Island of Adventure in Universal. It was fun. I went on my first big girl roller coaster and survived, and drank some butter beer at Hogwarts in the wizard inn world of Harry Potter.

I’m trying very hard to put one foot in front of the other each day bravely, but I still wake up every morning not wanting to get out of bed, and cry myself to sleep every night. I’m having moments of happiness during the day, but more than anything I’d give up this entire trip for just one half a second to hold Everlee again.

Greetings from the South

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It’s amazing to me how each minute without Everlee has continued to drag on and feel like an eternity, but the days and months have flown by. Today, she would have been two months old. Instead of snuggling her late at night, I’m sitting on a sunny balcony in Florida relaxing after a morning of shopping (postpartum shopping is depressing). I’ve had a great week. Not happy, but peaceful. Rejuvenating. I’ve been able to relax and not worry about judging eyes, but there is never a second she’s not on my mind. We went to the Kennedy Space Centre yesterday and I just wish Darcy was able to share his excitement for the place with her. Everything I see and do I just wish more and more that she was here with me so that I could show her the world and experience things through her eyes.

I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to see families with their little girls here. But I wasn’t thinking about that when we booked this trip. It’s bearable, but it’s just one more reminder.

We went down to the hot tub last night and met a number of different people and I was asked for the first time if we had kids. I was instantly sick to my stomach. I knew I’d get the question eventually. I was preparing myself for it. But the instant knot in my stomach. I don’t think I could ever describe it. I simply answered (choked) that we had one daughter, but she passed away. The woman said she was sorry for our loss and that was that. But it hung in the air over my head for a long time afterwards. This will be my answer to that question for a long time to come. I wonder if it will ever get any easier?

We leave on our cruise tomorrow morning, so I will be in radio silence for the next week. I’m hoping that the new experience will bring some happiness and some genuine smiles, big at the very least I hope I will continue to relax and maybe get a little more sleep if I’m lucky.

In the meantime, happy two month birthday to my beautiful baby girl. I live very moment for you now. Mommy loves you, Everlee.

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Every place I go, I think of you

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II’m sitting up in bed with knots in my stomach. My bags are packed and double checked. Extra outfits in my carry on and all idevices are charged and ready to go. But I still have that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach like I’m forgetting something.

I’m not a nervous traveller by any stretch. I’m not stranger to airports and long flights, nor is Darcy, but this feels so different. All I’ve wanted is for this vacation (I still hate that word) to be is an escape for me and Darcy to be able to start to put our lives back together. All I want is to be able to walk into a room, for just a little while, and not have people look at me and think “there’s the girl with the dead baby”. I want for us to have time for ourselves to rediscover what life is all about for us now.

But then there’s the pressure. That nagging voice in the back of my head. I’m starting to feel like people are expecting it to be a magic potion to fix everything. Maybe that’s an expectation that my mind has fabricated (as it tends to do), but it’s one I feel, none the less. I’m not going to come back and be “fixed”. This is who I am now. I am a childless mother. And for the rest of my life I will think of Everlee every single day and miss her, and grieve for her. I just need to learn how to live with that, and I hope this will be the beginning of this process.

The anger is starting to slowly seep in. Not in the way I expected it. In glancing through my Facebook feed tonight I was sorely reminded of how some people simply don’t appreciate all that has come to them so easily. A lot of people take for granted what I so desperately wanted and lost. Everlee was everything I ever wanted and never thought I would ever get to have, and I only got to keep her for an instant. Please, cherish every moment with your children while you can, don’t take for granted the gift you’ve been given. I’d gladly and without a hesitation give every day of this trip for just one second with my little girl again.

I know what I feel l Ike I’m forgetting. I’ve known for weeks in preparing for this trip. It breaks my heart that I’m leaving my little baby girl behind. Even if she isn’t still here, the mother in me, the mother that I am, feels like I am leaving my baby for the first time. The knot in my stomach is a mother’s anguish. A mother’s guilt. But I guess that will never go away.

Bon voyage for now. I don’t know if I’ll update this blog from my travels. Part of me wants to completely disconnect for awhile. The other part of me knows that this blog has become my release and my only true outlet to rawly articulate myself in the most honest way I know how. I guess, like everything in my life, I’ll just take it one day at a time.