Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Five years

Five years ago today my water broke and my life changed forever.

It's been almost a year since I've posted, though I've been wanting to. Things have been difficult, with the regular ups and downs of living, I suppose.  So, i guess I'm not up to catching up almost a year's worth of blog in one post. And really, there hasn't been much happening, aside from a move out of the Midwest, the passing of my dear Tia. Both in July.

I've been inconsistent with the antidepressants since we moved, and it's shaken me a bit, though I'm getting back on the wagon. Sometimes, though, it's seemed to me that, while they helped me be far more functional, I hadn't been really focusing on rebuilding... Uh, I guess rebuilding myself and my life. my therapist calls it crisis management, last spring, and I guess it was. As you may have seen, I got really low last winter-into-spring. In February I probably hit my lowest point ever. Nothing *happened* but oh it was really bad.  Fortunately my therapist and shrink worked together and I climbed out of my hole.

Mostly, I've been struggling to figure out how to live this life, the one with no more pregnancy, the one -- probably -- with no children. The one in which I am loving other people's children.  And I am glad that they have wonderful children to love, but it is still not the same, is it. In the end, it's not the same.

Trying to reconcile...well, myself, I guess.


Today, I am up and down. Last night was bad, but I am okay enough today to occasionally "like" things on FB. Snarky exchanges with my sister, who is all about encouraging the snark over the mope, which is good. I'm going to try to stay away fora few hours today. It's so great to see my friends and family and their pictures and stories, but there is also the hangover to deal with.

My friend S, the dear friend who was there for us, for me, during and since, remembered the significance of today. She commented on a status posted that Time Flies.  She is the only one. I miss her so much. I can't reach out, somehow. I follow her doings on FB, but what do I have to offer her? I can listen and be excited for her. That is what friends do. Good friends. I am not a very good friend these days. I think that's why I've avoided the blog. Tired of being sad and struggling. Tired of hearing about it. Tired of processing. Tired of being the ne who is still struggling. Not just with the loss, I think, not just my boys, but with the delivery, the doctors and decisions and inadequate care we received. And... All of it. Second (third, fourth, fifth) guessing. And resisting this newer life. The one I didn't want. Looking around at the others who have what I want (at least on the surface).

I tried to post a status on FB, just a small comment on or recognition of the day, but nothing feels right.  I still think about the two little stars metaphor, but it just doesn't feel right anymore.  Hasn't for a while.

So in the world, where I don't really have a place to share this, I've come back here. I'm glad you're here -- I always have been.  And I think I'm going to try to write again. Or at least come by more often.  Thank you for sticking around.http://sodearandyetsofar.blogspot.com/2009/01/loving.html?m=0http://sodearandyetsofar.blogspot.com/2009/01/loving.html?m=0

Monday, February 13, 2012


That's what it is.

I try to work. I try to write.



I don't even have the words.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

stream of four years' consciousness

I need to write, but I don't want to.  I know there are things to write, but I don't want to. I've told my story too many times until I can see people inching away thinking Why does she have to mention this again? Dead babies, lost pregnancy infertility, Grief. I have talked and vented and cried. I have yelled at people who didn't deserve it. I have loved and I have gotten lost in it. I have lost who I am, what I want (need) who I used to be   No that's not right.   Kubler Ross says we tell our story to make sense of it, to let a little in at a time, as much as we can hard it leaks out a bit at a time with tears with seething -- the almost sweet smell of amniotic fluid on the white pad between my legs -- after that first burst it came and went  movement, sleep I could feel it leaving me. My only living son   my body slowly slowly bit by bit falling away his source of life of growth even as his heart beat strong wavy lines on the ultrasound, Oh look, you can see he's practicing breathing -- But how could he live, how could he grow and breathe and play when my body took away what he needed to do all these things

I had wanted to watch my child grow -- discover his fingers and toes, giggle and walk, grow into a person a little beautiful person someone to walk with for a little while -- so trite is the expression but walk with as he grew on his own with his mother and father slowly receding as he grew into a man -- I wonder if the wonder and joy of watching your child discover his toes ever really goes away

My chest closes off and my throat is tight, squeezing tears, again the tears that you'd think would slow, would dry up after four years

What did that what closed my throat discovering pink little bubble gum toes that fit in a little toothless mouth -- the milestones of growing up all those things I knew I was letting go of, letting him go -- And I couldn't even face it, couldn't be present.

Why didn't we wait a little longer? Why was I the only one with hope -- desperate hope for a future

Was it imaginary? this future? or would it bring pain for my boy? Toes he couldn't reach -- brain bleeds and spastic, cramped muscles -- a feeding bag an ostomy.  Five to 10 percent if we made it to 24 weeks, 28 weeks -- 32 -- stunted lungs -- poor weak legs --

And I couldn't say good bye -- not to my cold dead child.

I watch my sister with her eminently healthy child, the one who discovered her toes and fingers and slept, newly born, with a smile on her face -- She is happy and sociable and is learning to use verbs -- verbs, just like that. and she says, I love you, Aunt Sue, and I  -- my body my chest constricts with all the air my son never got -- (neither of them got) -- at least one had a chance, such a small one -- oh, the breath stops in throat, and I need to practice breathing.