Four Months

I sit side by side with my broken down soul
while she cries shining rivers of tears
Her hands are too small for the pain she must hold
Pain she feels she's been holding for years

She's tired and weary and can't catch her breath
and she bleeds from a wound that won't heal
What she thought would be hers belongs now to death
What should be a dream is too real

As I look in her eyes full of sorrow and rage
my heart breaks and splinters in two
One piece remains with me in this cage
The other is taken by you

My body is healing, my days come and go
Underneath, I am cracked full apart
Without you, my spirit crumples and folds
For now, we must share half a heart

My soul and I clutch the other's cold hand
As we stare at what is to come
A lifetime without you is so hard to stand
But it's something that can't be undone

Our only recourse is to rebuild the walls
Of this rubble that used to be strong
So we pick up the pieces, the big and the small
And we learn to sing a new song

My soul and I sing of the piece we have lost
Of what's missing and forever will be
We sing of a meadow covered in frost
We sing of a caged bird set free

We sing through our sorrow. We sing through our pain
We sing, though we don't know the words
We sing to the sunshine in spite of the rain
We sing notes that may never be heard

We are broken and bloody and losing our voice
But we refuse to give into the night
Without you, we are left with no other choice
We use our love to make our own light

You Are My Sunshine

Today, I was looking at updates from Return to Zero and I saw someone posted a picture in memory of their child with a verse from "You Are My Sunshine".   The line that says "The other night dear, when I was sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms.  But when I woke dear, I was mistaken.  So, I hung my head and I cried."   And I lost it.   Fell to my knees and cried.  Seriously and completely fell apart.   It was not pretty.

You can imagine why.   However, an underlying reason was that I sang that song, at least the first verse, to Kenley every day in the shower while I was pregnant.  Every single day.  It just made me happy, soaping up my belly and belting it out to my little girl.  Mike liked to try to sneak in with his iphone and record me in all of my off-key glory because he thought it was hilarious.  So, this song reminds me of a joyful and innocent time.  But now, it is as if that second verse has been added to my life now.  And the song means something completely different.  It is a song of what I have lost.

After pulling myself together this afternoon, I pulled out my ipad.  I downloaded a pretty version of this song and I coordinated it with some photos to create a movie.   I used photos from the beginning of the pregnancy all the way through to last week.   Throughout the entire process of creating it, I cried.  It actually felt wonderful to do so.  A cleansing of sorts, I suppose.  And now, I am sharing it with you.   Fair Warning:  You will likely also cry.

More than a Scar

Every morning, I place a silicon patch on my C-section scar to help it fade.   Every evening, I peel it off before my shower.  It doesn't hurt anymore.  It isn't tender.  But, it's still there.  A mocking smile about 4 inches below my belly button.   It reminds me every day about what happened to me, of what I don't have, and of what is left behind.  I hate it.

It is the line in the sand to divide the before from the after, the inside from the outside, her life from her death.   This small, pink line is so much more than it seems.

To the average mother, a C-section scar is a badge of honor.  It shows what her body went through to give her children life.   To me, it is a reminder of death.  It is a reminder of the absolute worst day of my life - the day my child was ripped from me both literally and metaphorically.   

I am fully aware that I had an option to not have my scar.   I could have delivered Kenley through regular labor.  I could have been induced and waited in the hospital for contractions to begin.  I could have been in pain for several hours, utilizing all the breathing techniques I learned in my birthing class, to deliver my daughter.   My dead daughter.   Instead, I took the chicken way out.  I couldn't bear to go through labor knowing the end result was a lifeless baby.  I needed to get it over with.  I needed to not feel.  I needed to forget. I've read so many stories of women in my situation who chose to labor.  They explain the reason for their decision being they needed to have those last few moments with their baby.  They wanted the pain because it made them feel closer to their child.   And I feel instantly guilty that I chose to go to sleep.  I couldn't handle what has come naturally to women since the beginning of human existence.  I ran away.   One minute I am awake and sobbing, pregnant with my dead child, the next I am emerging from a drug induced sleep, numb and emptied of the life I had failed to keep safe.  In my panic, I chose to leave behind those last few moments with my baby.   I didn't savor the time I had left.  I was afraid, and I deserted her at the end.  And so, now I have a scar.

Looking back on it,  I probably still wouldn't do anything differently.  In a way, that makes it worse because I am still a coward.  After all I have been through and worked through, I am still not strong or brave enough to go through the birth of my daughter.  I couldn't even do that for her.  My logical brain reminds me that she was very tightly wrapped up in her cord - and I wouldn't have been able to deliver her naturally anyway.   I would have labored for hours only to have to resort to a C-section in the end, but that doesn't really matter.  Without that knowledge, I still chose to escape, and I feel guilty that I couldn't  - or wouldn't - face those last few moments I had with her.  Just because I was scared.

My scar reminds me every day not only of what I lost - but of who I am.     The ugliness of both is overwhelming.  Physically, it will heal into a thin, white line.   One day, it may be only barely visible.  But, I will always know.  Every day.  For the rest of my life, I will remember what I did and didn't do when it mattered the most.

Feeling Selfish

A thought has been crossing my mind lately that I am slightly embarrassed about.  I really shouldn't think it.  In the grand scheme of things, this is a tiny, unimportant matter that really is kind of selfish.   But, in the spirit of the blog, it wouldn't be fair for me to not write about it, so here goes.  I have lost my special status - and it upsets me.

When you are pregnant, people smile at you.  All the time.   They open doors for you.  They slow their car and wave you across the parking lot.   When you are pregnant, people treat you differently.  Sometimes, it's just a tiny glimmer of acknowledgement in their eyes, but it's something that says "Hey.  Way to go.  You're making a human and that's awesome!"   From what I have seen firsthand, that attitude continues once the baby is born.  Strangers stop on the street to oogle the baby.  They make faces.  They wave.   They give nods of "I've been there, too!  Keep on keepin on!"    I miss that.   I miss feeling special and I am upset that I didn't get to continue it.  

It's not fair.   In the amount of time it took to realize her heart had stopped beating, I went from the spotlight to the shadows.  I went from basking in the sun to cowering in the corner.   I feel absolutely terrible that I am complaining about this, but then I remember that it wasn't ME that made anything special.  It was Kenley.   She was the one who I was pregnant with.  She was the one who made me glow from the inside out.  She was the reason my belly bulged. 

It's hard to go from celebrating to mourning in a split second.  It's hard to spend so long hopeful for the future and then plunge headfirst into living in the past.   Right now, all my joy comes from her.  Memories of pregnancy, of how I felt to feel her move, of the smiles I got when strangers glimpsed my growing stomach.  I cling to that special feeling because it is all I have left.  When I lost her, I lost the light that illuminated me.  The light that enabled everyone to see me.

When I go out into the world, no one gives me a second glance.  No one thinks I am special.   No one smiles at me.  No one waves at me.  And it hurts.  It hurts because they don't know.  They see a woman with ill fitting pants and a soft stomach and think nothing of it, if they even see me at all.   I want to run up to everyone I see, look them right in the eye, and say, "Hey...I am still special! Look at me!  My baby is not here, but I am still a mother!  I still deserve your smiles and your knowing glances!"   Sometimes, I feel like a ghost that no one can see.   Running around, trying to make herself known, but everyone just looks right through her.  No one knows she's there 

I hate the selfishness of this post, but I hate feeling like this all the same.  Maybe the fact that Mother's Day is quickly approaching is making me extra sensitive, but I can't help how I feel.   I was pregnant.   I had a baby.   I lost her.  But, I am still special, dammit!   

Writer's Block

I've had some serious writer's block lately.   My latest posts have been written for a few days and have just posted on a schedule.   My last written post was scheduled for today, so now here I am.  Trying to write something that will go out tomorrow.   And then hoping that by tomorrow night, I'll have more to say for the coming days.  
Usually, I can write one or two posts at a time - or sometimes polish one up for publishing.   But lately, I've been having trouble getting my words out.   Maybe I'm running out of things to say.  Maybe I'm just tired of saying the same things over and over.  Maybe I'm just plain tired and need a break.    Maybe it's all three.   

I do need to write.  I do need to sort and work through things.   My emotions get easily tangled up inside of me, and this blog helps me work through the knots.   But, I think sometimes, I just need a little bit to not think about it.   To not obsess over what happened and what I can't change.   Nothing will bring her back.   No amount of writing will keep me from losing her.   Words cannot take me back in time.   And these words, while so very helpful to me, are also becoming hurtful.   Sitting at my computer for thirty minutes to an hour at a time where all I do is think about how much I hurt is hard.   Cathartic, yes.  But still so very hard.    

I want to try to keep up my pace of posting daily, but I'm not sure I can right now.    I'm not sure I can keep focusing so hard on everything at the same time.   Everything takes an enormous amount of focus now.   Not just this blog or my Kenley's Krew Facebook page.  Everything.   I have to give everything my full attention in order to maintain some sense of normalcy.  It's like my brain is on a leash.   If I allow it some slack, it will immediately wander to how much I miss her.   How all I want to do is hold her in my arms and touch her soft skin.   How empty I feel without her here.    And then, I feel the tears rise hot and fast.  My breath catches and my heart breaks.   And I have to work so hard to pull myself back together.  Sometimes, writing is a welcome release, but sometimes, writing these posts seems like I am breaking my heart repeatedly on purpose.   

I'm tired.   I am going to try to keep posting every day, but if you check in and there is nothing new, just know I'm on a break.   I'll probably be back the next day, or maybe the next.   I just need a minute to regroup and recharge.   Maybe I'll get a second wind tomorrow.   Maybe that wind won't blow through for a few more days.   I don't know.  All I know is I am doing the best I can with what I have - and sometimes that just isn't enough.  

The Five

After I discovered I was pregnant, five other women I know found out the same thing.   One was only three weeks behind me.  Another was five months behind me.  The rest were in between.   All of them with girls.  All five of them.  About a month ago, the first girl was born.  And I cried.   Pretty much all day long.   Today, the second one arrived.   I didn't find out until after 10 pm, so at least I now have the solace of sleep to look forward to.   I have to make it through three more, and I don't know if I can do it.   Three more little girls born healthy and loved.   Three more little girls in their mother's arms.  Pictures of happy families.  Exhausted mothers.  Beaming fathers.  Pictures I never got to take.  Pictures of a life I didn't get to have.   
Don't get me wrong, I am so very happy for all of these wonderful women and their daughters.   All five are friends of mine and I would never wish any of them ill will.  (I would actually never wish my situation on someone I despised.) I am happy for them, but that doesn't mean I hurt any less.
My heart is already broken.  Each time one of The Five is born, it breaks my heart a little more.   It's not fair.   No baby should die.   No mother should feel this pain.  Why me?   Why my daughter?  I know there is no answer to those questions.   I know there is no reason to this tragedy.  And I hate it.
I hate that not only do I not get to hold my daughter in my arms, but I have to watch everyone else hold theirs.   Women who's pregnancies followed mine - and went along with mine.   Women whom I care about and want the best for, and who got it.  I have to watch each little girl come into this world when mine never got that chance.  I have to watch these little girls do all the things my daughter will never get to do.   
Three more little girls to go.   Three more healthy babies.  Three more joyous mothers.   One broken heart.    

Two Months

Today, Kenley should be two months old.  I should be wiggling her into her "I'm a Hoot" onesie and heading over to a friends' house, happily settled into my maternity leave.  There are so many things I should be doing today.  Writing these words is not one of them! No offense, but I don't want to be writing this post to you right now.   I don't want you to be on the other side of the internet reading it.  None of these posts should exist, and I am beyond angry that they do.   I should not be doing any of this.  I shouldn't belong to two online support groups.  I shouldn't attend grief counseling every second Wednesday.  There shouldn't be a room in my house I still can't enter.   This is not the life I was supposed to have - and it is definitely not the life I want.

I need a break from this, but there's no where to go.  Nowhere to run where this grief won't follow me.  No distraction big enough.  No project detailed enough.  It's frustrating because I'll have a few good moments - and sometimes a good day here and there where I'm still thinking about her, but in positive ways - but then I crash again and I'll feel like I'm back at square one.   I've been having more and more down days lately.  

I am tired.  Scratch that - I am exhausted.  Completely and utterly.  Mentally and physically.   I can't keep up with the pace I've set for myself.   When Kenley died, I hit the ground running.  Ok...so, this is what we are going to do to survive.   And I am realizing, I can't do it all.  At least not the way I thought I could.   It's catching up to me.   I've said before overcoming grief is like climbing a mountain.  And I have been holding on to the rope for dear life as I scale this impossible cliff.   I grip it so tightly my hands are bleeding and my arms tremble with effort.  I want to loosen my grip just a little.  I want to let go.  I want to relax.  But, I can't.   I can't pry even one finger from the rope.  I can't let go even a little bit.  I have to hold on with all my might because if I don't, I will fall.  

So, I hold on.   I hold on while my palms bleed and my knees shake.   I hold on while the sweat runs down my brow and into my eyes.  I hold on, too tired to keep climbing, but unwilling to give up.  I have come to realize that I will always climb this mountain.  For the rest of my life, I will have to propel myself onward and upward. I know there is no top to this cliff, but, it would sure be nice to find a nice, wide ledge.

  

Hungry Eyes

I have become a visual stalker.  A watcher.   The mothers, the babies, the pregnant bellies.   My eyes dart to them automatically no matter where they are - and I follow them with my gaze until I can no longer do so without looking like a psychopath.    I'm like a beggar pressing her nose against the window of a fancy restaurant.   I know it's a little creepy, but I can't help it.   Sometimes, it makes me cry.   Other times, it makes me smile.   I never know which it's going to be until it happens though.   On the times it upsets me, Mike always asks me why I do that to myself. Why look when I know it will most likely cause me pain?  I have no answer other than I have to.  Maybe it's because I am grasping at straws, trying to find some way to bring that part of my life back to me.  To claim what should be mine.  Or, maybe I'm a glutton for punishment.   I don't know.  I wish I did, but then I don't really know anything anymore.

The other day, I was waiting for my friend in the parking lot of Barnes and Noble.   A woman with a stroller walked up to a car down the row from me.   I watched her from across the parking lot as she took her baby out of her stroller, changed his diaper in the trunk of her SUV, and then put him back in his seat before resuming her shopping trip.  From the way she cradled his head, I could tell he was maybe two months old.  As I am watching her do the most mundane tasks of having a baby - probably one of the tasks she barely even thinks about while she's doing it - I am imagining what it would have been like to change Kenley's diaper.  To pick her up ever so carefully from her stroller and lay her down on the backseat.  To still her squirming legs so I can maneuver the diaper around her.   To make faces at her.  To boop her nose.  To do all those things I can't do - and will never do - for her.  And then, of course, I start to cry.  Misty eyed and lips trembling.  At that moment, I see my friend walking towards the car, a hazelnut macchiato in each hand.  (one of the many reasons we are friends)  I wipe my eyes and reorganize myself.  When she gets in the car, I tell her about my moment, and like a good friend, she doesn't judge me.  I am so grateful I have such supportive and non-judgmental friends.  Grief certainly makes you do things you never thought you'd do.  

I can't hold my baby in my arms, so I watch other mothers do it.   I watch them tie them in slings and fasten them in strollers.  I watch them stir the baby food jar and rearrange the blankets in the car seat.  I watch with a sharp sadness for what I do not have now and with an ever so soft jitter of excitement for what I will have again.  I can't help but feel slightly guilty over that excitement though.   As if wanting (and then having) more children is somehow an affront to Kenley's memory.  I know that is not true in the slightest, but I can't stop myself from feeling it.  One day, that will change.  One day, Kenley's brother or sister will be the one I hold in my arms, the one I nuzzle and push in the stroller.   And the love I feel for Kenley will not go away and will not be divided - but instead will be multiplied.   And then, sometime, I will be out and about and I will recognize a sister watcher.  I will know her by the sadness in her eyes, by the way she leans forward and cranes her neck.  To someone else, she appears to be a run of the mill woman who happens to admire the adorableness of a passing baby.  But, I will know - and I hope she finds what she's searching for.   I hope we all do.

External Parameters

As a teacher, I create a weekly newsletter outlining the things we are going to learn and do each week, including due dates of assignments.  Partially to keep the parents informed, but mostly to keep myself accountable.   If I told everyone we were doing this - then we have to do it.   I do the same thing when I invite people over to my house as much as possible.   Not just so I can see them, but because it forces me to keep things clean.  (Or at least to have a panicked cleaning session every once in a while)  I tell someone I am going to do something before I have full intention of doing it because the accountability of keeping my word keeps me focused.   I need external parameters.  I need restrictions from the outside world to help me set my own boundaries.  I always have.   

This blog is an external parameter.  So is the Kenley's Krew facebook page.   And my outings with friends.  And the foundation idea.   They are all walls I have set up for myself to maintain focus.  Like blinders on a horse.   Here...zone in on this.   The fact that other people are reading my blog keeps me focused in writing it.  I can't just slack off and not post for a while.  I need to keep the ball rolling.  Please understand, that ball isn't really for you.   It's for me.  I know myself.  I know that at the beginning, my words would come pouring out of me so fast and furious I wouldn't be able to contain them.  But, then I would get tired.  Not less full of emotion.  Not less in need of purging.  But tired.  And I would slack off, letting the feelings build up.  So, a public blog with just a few loyal readers keeps me focused.  The Kenley's Krew facebook page is basically the same thing.  I can't just say to myself "Self, you are going to find one positive thing about today".  I need to make myself accountable.  I need to at least pretend that other people are paying attention.   I can't fall apart right now because I am focusing on my positive facebook post.   I'll fall apart later.  But, then later doesn't come because I've made some plans with friends.  I'll hold it together for my friends.   All these things - these distractions - are to keep me together.   I have created all of them for the sole purpose of keeping me in one piece.   Like rubber bands around a broken vase.

I have constructed a maze of distraction for myself.  As long as I keep moving through the twists and turns, I can pretend I have purpose.   I can pretend that I am actually going somewhere.  Strangely, I can even sometimes pretend that none of this really happened.   Well, I can at least distract myself enough so I don't fully realize it in its entirety.   When you make enough noise, you can drown out the whispers inside you.  I am working so hard to keep her memory alive - to continually do things that make me think about her - so I don't have to feel the full impact of her absence.   If I just write another blog post, a piece of her is still here.  If I just think happy thoughts and post them on her Facebook page, I can feel connected to her.  If my friend comes over, we can talk about her some more.  Hold on a second, I'm feeling a little empty...oh I know...let's start a foundation!  We'll dedicate it to her memory!  Yeah...that will take a lot of energy!   I can focus on all of these external events I have created and I don't have to think about what is really going on, which is that my heart is breaking over and over and over again.  

If I just keep doing all these things all the time, then she's not really gone.  I'm not really broken.   Everything is okay.  It's really just an elaborate scheme to keep myself from completely breaking down. And it is exhausting.  I am so very tired.   I want to walk away from everything right now.  Mid-sentence.   Just go back to bed and stay there for god knows how long.  Pull the covers up over my head and let the world go by.   But then, I'll have to think about what has happened.  Full force, no distractions, pummeling me down.  Usually, you will see two types of reactions to grief.   Someone will either suddenly get very busy, or they will barely even be able to get dressed.    You do the first so the second doesn't happen to you. You focus on everything and anything but your sorrow.   Because grief without distraction is crippling.   Not, ouch, I stubbed my toe crippling, but oh no, I've been bitten in half by a Great White crippling.   I'm going to just pretend my legs are still there, even though they are not.  I am going to pretend I am not bleeding to death on the sand.   I'm just going to keep going, and going, and going, and going.  No matter how tired I am.  No matter how much I want to stop.   Because if I do stop, I'll never get started again.  

Reality Bites

I am now past the point where it makes sense to still be pregnant.  I can't keep pretending she's still on her way, even for one blissful second.  She's not.   By now, I should have a baby.   A baby who should be anywhere from 6 to 3 weeks old.  A baby who should be keeping me up at night, who should be sleeping in her crib and squirming in my arms.   I should just now be putting her in her stroller to go for a walk around the block.  Yesterday, Mike and I went out to lunch because I had a Panera's gift card and we needed to get out of the house.   We sat outside on the patio.   Again, it was a nice spring day. The sun was shining and a soft breeze blew through the bushes.   All I could focus on was the empty space next to the table.  The space where the stroller should be, but is not.  I spaced out and lost myself in my thoughts for a few moments.   Mike noticed and tried to call me back, but it was too late.  I had already spiraled down into sadness.  My lunch was ruined.  I was no longer hungry, and I didn't really care.

After lunch, I needed a haircut.  It's been a while and my wavy mane had gotten seriously out of control.   The last time I went to my hairdresser, I was pregnant.  So, that's out.  I'm not explaining myself to one more person.   A walk-in salon was nearby, so we stopped in.   The girl who cut my hair was very sweet, and a little younger than me.   She was a typical young hairdresser with jaggedly cut streaked hair and some forearm tattoos.  As hairdressers do, she began friendly chit chat.  We talked about our husbands and our weddings.  I described my quirky shin-dig in St. Augustine and she told me all about her intimate getaway to Cancun.  Then, she asked me if my husband and I were "thinking of having kids".   In a way, I knew this was coming, but I was still taken by surprise. I said we are going to start trying late this summer, which we are.   I am so very glad she worded it the way she did because that enabled me to skirt around the issue.  If she had asked me if I had any kids, what would I have said?  What can I say?  "Yes, I have a daughter."   But, I can't leave it at that because then the questions come.   How old is she?  What's her name?  Who's watching her?  So, then, what do I do?   Do I say what actually happened?  Is that really something you do to a stranger who is just trying to make conversation?   Does saying nothing mean I am betraying her memory?   I sat in the chair while she cut my hair and proceeded to tell me about her daughter, Sophia, who is 2.  She showed me a picture.   My heart split right down the middle, but my mask didn't crack.   I smiled and told her that her daughter was adorable.   And then, the coup de gras, she said "Having children is great.   It's a total bonding experience with you and your husband."   If my head wasn't tilted down while she cut my hair, she would have seen all of the light leave my eyes as I switched over to autopilot.   No longer was I trying to hold it together and make conversation.   I checked out completely.  She finished the haircut (she did a great job, by the way), and I paid her and left.   I am sure I was polite and friendly.  I'm sure I smiled and said thank you.  My mask was secure and she never knew that inside, I had died.   I die every day at one time or another.   And every time, I bring myself back to life as best as I can.  A kind of defibrillator for my soul.  Don't ask me how I do it, because I don't know.  I just do.

But, I don't want to do this anymore.   I'm tired of being "strong".  I'm tired of picking myself up again and again and again.  I'm tired of pulling myself together enough to pass for human and then have one tiny moment be my undoing.  I'm just plain tired.    I look to the future with hope in my eyes, but it's still so very blurry.  Through various grief boards I read or am a member of, I am able to catch a glimpse of what I might be like in the future, and it saddens me.   While most of these women have moved on with as much grace as they can muster, they are still a little broken.  They will always be a little broken.   And so will I.   It's hard to accept the fact that I will always hurt.   Maybe not with such intensity, but it will never go away.  I can continue on with my life.  I can have more children.  I can do all the things I want to do - but she will always be missing.  Always.  I will always have a hole that aches for her.  The thought of this stretching out for the course of my lifetime is too much for my heart to bear.  But, I will bear it because life goes on.  As weary as I am, life goes on.  

Four Letter Words

Yes, those words.  The words that can alter the Motion Picture Association of America's ratings on films.   The words that get bleeped out on the Maury Povitch Show.  The words that assail your ears when the NY Giants are winning in Philadelphia.   Words of exasperation, of frustration, of anger.  Words that you know you shouldn't say, but sometimes you can't help it.  Those words.   They have been slip-sliding out of my mouth more often than I care to admit lately.  Sometimes, they are the only way to express how absolutely angry I am.  Sometimes, I am so mad that multi-syllabic words just won't do. Eloquence is not what I need.   I need grit.  I need dirt.  I need vulgarity.  I need to spit out my words in hateful beats.  Through clenched teeth and red-rimmed eyes.  Sometimes, I am tired of communicating my grief through neat and tidy packages - and I need to just let some obscenities fly.   I mutter them to myself.  I shout them to the heavens.   I don't care.   I am angry!

There's only so much anger you can feel without it exploding.  There's only so long you can keep a pot of water on the stove before it boils over.  Some days, I reach my limit faster than others.  There is no good reason for me to be without my baby.  There is no good reason for her to be gone.  She is dead because she twisted too far in her umbilical cord.  One too many cartwheels.   I cannot hold my baby ever again because she was too full of life before her life even had a chance to start.   The injustice of what has happened is a volcano inside me.  Always churning.  Liquid hot magma coursing through my veins.  It's an anger I can't explain, although I am obviously trying.

This is not something that can be satisfied with an "Oh dear!"  or a "Fiddlesticks".   Nope.   These words are called "Bad Words" or "Foul Language" for a reason.  That's what they express.  Foulness.  Disgust.  Frustration. Rage.   And sometimes, that is exactly what I am feeling.  Sometimes, I admit, I have to drop the F bomb. I just do.  Because it is fitting - because there is no other word that works.  No other word poisonous enough to propel the black tar of emotions that are clogging up my heart.   If your child were ripped from your arms forever, do you think you'd be able to hold your tongue?   I'll bet you that you couldn't.  I'll bet even if you've never uttered a bad word in your life, you'd let loose a stream of sentences that would make a sailor blush.   No matter how Scarlett O'Hara you think you are, when grief takes a hold of you, sometimes you just don't give a damn!

Finding the Others

Frenemy:  Someone who is both a friend and and enemy, a relationship which is both beneficial and dependent while being competitive, fraught with risk and mistrust.

The internet and I are frenemies.  I use it for information, which it gladly provides.   I seek out stories similar to mine for comfort - to know I am not alone.  And when I find those stories, plus a hundred more, I instantly wish I was.  The other day, I went Blog-hopping.   This is a phrase I have just now coined (copyright pending) to explain jumping from one blog to another via the links on each writer's page.   I Blog-hopped for a good two hours, reading story after story of women who know the same pain I do.   Two hours.   And I could have continued for days, linking from one person's anguish to the next, never crossing back.   

A whole new world has opened up to me.  A world I never new existed and will forever wished it didn't.  I stumbled upon this particular website as part of the Small Bird Studios blog.   Anyone who writes a blog on baby loss can enter their URL and add their blog to the list.  Women who come across this site searching for support have several stories to choose from.   When I added my site, I was #509.   Five hundred and nine!   That means, there are five hundred and eight other heartbroken women who have found this site and entered their blog.  Five hundred and eight other mothers who know what it is like to feel broken and incomplete.   If that number seems staggering to you, think about this:  that list is only the women who write a blog AND happened to find this website AND then decided to add their name.   (Since adding my blog, I have revisited the site and it is now up to 521.  For those of you not doing the math, that is eleven more women.)  This is when my friend the internet becomes my enemy.  When it links me to story after story of heart ache.  When it reminds me that not only am I not alone, but the amount of people here with me is far too many.

Sometimes, reading about someone else's pain makes me feel connected.  I feel less crazy.  I feel validated in my emotions and my actions.   I think, "Oh, I am so glad I am not the only one who feels that way.   Oh, wow, she does that too!"  I read their stories and I cry along with them, and I feel cleansed.  But then, I keep reading.   Blog after blog.  Post after post.   The circumstances vary, but the pain is the same.  And then, I begin to hurt.  Not just for my baby, but for all of the babies.  For every mother who had to say goodbye.  Another ant bite on an already swollen ankle.  Wait, that's not the best analogy...an ant bite is too inconsequential to describe the heaviness of this magnitude.  It is both comforting to know that other people understand.  But it is also heartbreaking.    When you have felt the pain of your own creation being ripped away from you, you wouldn't wish it on anyone else.  Ever.  We are united in agony, bound together by tears and shattered souls.

Sadly, stillbirths and infant losses happen more than you'd like to think - and they will continue to happen more than you will personally know of.   I never in a million years dreamed I'd be on this end of the keyboard, pouring my heart out into a blog like this.   But I am.   And so are hundreds of other women.  And we all want the same thing (besides a time machine to undo the unthinkable).  We want our babies to be remembered.

Maybe you know someone else who has been in my shoes.  Maybe you have seen them struggling with their laces.  Maybe mine is the only face of loss you know.  Maybe yours stares back at you in the mirror.  I know there are at least four women whom I have met through our shared tragedies who are reading these words right now.  And I want to say to each of them that I am so very sorry you have to feel this pain too.  I am so very sorry your baby is not in your arms.  This is not how it is supposed to be.  But, we are strong.  We are fighters.   We will remember our children with a love we never knew was possible.  We want everyone to know they were beautiful and wonderful and pure.  We want everyone to know their name.  Hunter.  Avery.  Brooke.  Ava.  Kenley.   Much love, Mamas.  Much love.

   

The Second Death

There is more to grief than mourning the person you lost.   You also mourn losing yourself.  The person you were before is gone too.  Irrevocably.  You mourn who you were and who you will never be again.  
  
Yes, everyone changes over time.   If you could look at your past self through a magic mirror, you'd probably be shocked at how different you have become.  You would think to yourself, "I'm not even the same person!"  And, you'd be right.   You're not.  And you won't be the same person in ten years that you are today.  But there is a huge difference in changing with growth and time - and having who you are just cut off at the knees swiftly and without warning. 

Think of two trees growing side by side.   Saplings, bending in the breeze, reaching for the sun.  Over the years, the saplings grow.  Their branches thicken, their leaves become full, their trunk grows strong and hearty.   Then, one day, a woodsman comes by and chops down one of these trees with his shiny axe.   Just takes that heavy steel blade and chops through the soft, fleshy trunk.   Then, he drags the tree behind him to chop up for his winter firewood.  Now, both trees are vastly different from the original sapling they once were.  One tree will continue to grow and change as normal.   It will get taller and thicker.  Its branches will spread even more.  It will be different, but still the same.   The other tree, the victim of the axe, has a long way to go before it even begins to resemble a tree again.  Right now, it is just a stump.  The majestic tree it once was is now keeping the feet of the woodsman warm.  The only part of that tree that still exists is its roots, which, fortunately, are strong and unyielding.  Over the course of many years, if the conditions are right, the tree will begin to grow again.  But, it won't ever grow like it did before, in one, thick trunk.  Tiny leafy shoots will sprout up from the stump.  The new tree will grow in several different directions.  Each offshoot will be less stable than the original tree, and they won't grow nearly as tall, but they will grow.  

The person I was less than two months ago is just as dead as Kenley is, and neither one is coming back.  I can forge ahead.  I can pick up the pieces of my shattered self and try to put them back together again, but Humptey Dumptey was never the same again, and I won't be either.  And that is just as hard to deal with as everything else.  I will never be who I was.  I will never fully return to who I used to be.   And that is frustrating.  I worked very hard to become that person, and I was finally the person I always knew I was meant to be, after so many years struggling.  I already lost my child, to lose myself as well is too much.   I have to start all over.   From square one, I have to rebuild who I am.  It is exhausting.   I don't want to do it.   I really just want to throw in the towel and be a stump.  Some days, I just want to roll over and let the river of grief wash me away.  I'm tired of fighting.  Of always fighting.   I have fought for everything I am my entire life.  No part of who I am came easy.   I had to put up my fists and defend myself against my demons day in and day out for as long as I can remember.   Only in the last few years has it gotten any easier.   Only very recently, have I been able to finally sit on the porch with a glass of lemonade and mop my brow.    And now, this.    How will I win this battle when I am already so weary? How does a stump manage to regrow it's leaves?   This is grief.  With a few quick chops of its axe, grief cuts you down where you stand, and part of you dies.  Just dies.  And what regrows in its place isn't the same at all.

Smile

Not to toot my own horn, but I have been told numerous times in my life that I have a great smile, even though I've always been a little self conscious about my giant teeth and wide grin.  When I am truly happy, my eyes crinkle up and my entire face smiles.  Sometimes, I smile wide-eyed and excited with a mouth so big it looks like it could swallow an entire cupcake in one bite.  (and it has tried)  In pictures, those who know me can tell when I am smiling from actual happiness and when I am smiling simply because someone is taking a picture.  Here are a few examples of real smiles.

    

In each of these pictures, I am truly happy.   It was a good day.  I can see the joy in my eyes.  In pictures I have taken recently, that joy is gone.  I can tell.  Maybe you can't.   Maybe you've seen a picture posted on Facebook and you think to yourself, "Hey, Rebecca looks happy.  It's good to see her smiling again."   But, if you were to look - to really look - at those pictures and then compare them to the ones above, you'd see it too.  There's a dullness in my eyes now that isn't in the pictures here.   My mouth is smiling, but that's it.  My heart isn't in it.  How could it be?  

I miss the joy I felt in these pictures.  I miss being carefree and happy.  I am trying so hard to find that joy again.  I am usually a very cheerful person, and so I am not really sure what to do with a heart full of sorrow.  It's heavy and confusing.  I've kind of developed this "Fake it till you make it" attitude.  I put on a good front when I have to.  I take a deep breath, open my eyes, and smile wide, hoping no one will notice that it's not real.  That I'm lying.

But, what else can I do?   Cry all day long?  No one wants to deal with a constant sobbing mess.  I don't want to be a constant sobbing mess.  So, I smile.   Even though I don't feel like it.  Even though I don't know if I'll feel like it ever again.  I smile.   I smile because I figure if I do it enough, if I try hard enough, the happiness that lies buried deep inside me will finally burst through the mountain of sadness that has sits so heavy on top of it.  And, yes, there is happiness somewhere down there.  Leftover happiness from my life before loss.   It wasn't decimated by Kenley's death, but it was shoved WAY down deep.   Maybe, if I just keep smiling, I'll find it again.   It reminds me of this song, which was never more true than it is right now.

The Sound of Silence

When I open my eyes each morning, the soft grayness of my room suggests that another day has arrived.  As I roll over in my sheets, I am still groggy with sleep, but I am also still painfully aware of what woke me up.  Absolutely nothing.  I have the "luxury" of waking up as I so desire.  There is no alarm clock, but, more importantly, there is no baby crying.   My night was dark and quiet.  My morning is equally as silent.   There is no shuffling and whimpering from a baby monitor.   There are no giggles, no coos, no burps.  Sounds that should be filling the air do not - and the stillness hangs heavy like a lead curtain.

When I first came home from the hospital, I, not surprisingly, couldn't sleep.  I woke up often throughout the night.   Maybe it was my grief.  Maybe it was my body anticipating the needs of a baby that wasn't there.  Readying for cries that would never come.  Every time I awoke in the darkness, I noticed how quiet it was.  How absolutely silent my house was.  How still.  Now, as more time passes, I sleep in longer stretches.   I can now make it for about 4 hours at a time.  But when I do wake up, it is still to silence.  And that is not going to change - at least not for a very long time.

Everything I do is punctuated by what's missing.  I pick up a laundry basket to bring to the washing machine and I think of the tiny, pink clothes that should be inside it instead of the towels I'm carrying.   I wash last night's dinner dishes and think of the little plastic tub that should have fit right where my hands are - the little plastic tub that would have held my baby as I bathed her, carefully shielding her bright, blue eyes from the soap.  I get in my car without a car seat.  I go to the park without a stroller.  I sit on my couch without a baby in my arms.  The very fact I know you are going to read these words I am writing is yet one more reminder of what I do not have.  But really, when your entire life was centered and focused on bringing a baby into this world, there is nothing that is not a reminder.   Nothing.

Every action, every thought, every decision has a shadow of death around it.  Everything I do is done with the memory of what once was, and a sadness for what is not to be.  Everyday events that haven't changed become burdened with the knowledge that they should have.  Every discussion is peppered with words that are uttered because she is gone.   

My baby is gone.  Everything that could have been is gone with her.   The hole left in my daily life is bigger than any patch I could make to mend it.  The silence created in her absence is louder than any noise I could make to fill it.  And the silence is deafening.  

Four Corners

My emotions run rampant on a daily basis.  There are more ups and downs and twists and turns in my day than in Six Flags and Busch Gardens combined.  Of all these emotions, four in particular are the most prevalent.  Sometimes they hit all at once, like a gang sneak attack.  Other times, they slip in silently one at a time, and envelop me like a blanket.  No matter what, they are a part of everything I do.   My grief is like a room with four corners.  In each corner, an emotion I must confront, a challenge I must face.  My room is surrounded by windows, but right now, they are all boarded up tight, and it is dark.  As I face what is in each corner, I grow a little stronger.  With strength and time, I will eventually be able to remove the boards, letting more and more light in to chase away the blackness.  

Corner Number One
Sorrow overwhelms me.  Loss brings devastation.  Period.  My heart has been torn into pieces, and when I try to put it back together, there is one huge piece missing - leaving me hollow and broken.  When Kenley died, she took pieces of me with her.   Sorrow seeps in like radioactive slime, filling the empty spaces.  When I look through my photos of her, I trace her face with my fingers, and sorrow pours out in a waterfall of my tears.  Sorrow for the life she will never have, for the hand I will never hold, for the laugh I will never hear. I am sad for the daughter I will never get to watch grow up.  I am sad for the mother I am unable to be.  I am sad for the nursery, full of owls and sunlight, that sits empty and unused.  I am heavy and burdened with the weight of what should have been.  

Corner Number Two
Guilt consumes me.  Regardless of what people say, I can't let go of the guilt I feel.  Truth be told, I cannot remember the moment when I felt her move for the last time.  I know she was quiet on Sunday - gone by Monday.  But, did she move on Saturday?   Or was it Friday when I last felt that last ninja kick? I don't know.  I try so hard to remember, not just to ease my mind, but to have just one more moment of being conscious of her life.  I should have been paying more attention.   I took her acrobatics for granted.   I lost focus, and now she's gone.  I failed her.  I failed Mike.  I failed everyone who loved her and waited excitedly for her to be born.  I hold my guilt close.  I clutch it to my chest with white knuckles.  You can try to pry my fingers away, but they will not budge.  They will not loosen.  I should have known.

Corner Number 
Three Anger fuels me.  There are no words to express the anger I feel towards the unfairness of everything that has happened.  Of all the mothers in the world, why was it me?   Of all the babies gearing up for life, why was it hers that was taken away?  I deserve to be holding my daughter.  She deserves to live the quirky and hilarious life we would have given her.  I am angry at the universe - and I daily give it the proverbial middle finger.  I am like the teenager denied a curfew extension who sneaks out to the party anyway.  I'll show you!  I am more determined than ever to live my life to the fullest.  My anger propels me forward.  When the grief is too much to bear, my anger is what picks me up and says to me "Are you going to let it win?", and I respond with an emphatic and resounding NO!   I will not buckle to the grief.  I will not let Kenley's death be in vain.   I will push through this tunnel of death and darkness, and I will find my way to the light!

Corner Number Four
Love sustains me.  As sorrow weighs me down, guilt cripples me, and anger boils my blood, it is love that keeps me strong in spite of these others. Love for life.  Love for friends and family.  Love for Mike.  And obviously, love for Kenley.   I am surrounded by love.  It pours in from all directions, and I bask in it like sunshine.  It warms my soul and glues my broken heart back together.  I had never known a love like the one I feel for my daughter.  It was overwhelming and surprising.  I wasn't expecting to fall head over heels for my little ninja, but as soon as I knew her heart beat inside me, that is exactly what I did.   In her short 8 months of life, she showed me how strong love can be  and how strong love can make you.  I cling to it in this storm of emotion.  Love is my anchor.  It is what helps me feel joy in a joyless time.  I am lucky to have love in my room with me, as not everyone is afforded this luxury.   As long as I hold on to my love, I will get through this hell alive.  

Everyone who has experienced loss is in their own room too with their own corners to face.  Sometimes, we are able to open the window and let in fresh air.  Sometimes, we let others visit us.  Sadly, some people never muster up the courage to deal with what is in their corners, allowing themselves to be defeated, and they live the rest of their life in stifling darkness.  What I have come to realize is that I will always be in this room of grief. I will live the rest of my life within these walls.  Over time, I will let in more and more light.  I will get stronger and I will open the windows.  I will paint the walls vibrant colors and I will make myself more at home.   Friends and family will visit me and we will smile and laugh again.  But the room will remain.

Railroaded

Mike and I clutched hands and ran towards the train station.  Steam rose from the engine with a hiss as it readied itself for departure.  We needed to make this one!   Although the train schedule was fairly regular, once this one left, we'd have to wait several weeks for another one to come by, and the journey from here to our Destination was a long one.   I didn't want to keep putting these travel plans on hold.  It was time to go!   We scurried up the wooden steps of the platform, our shoes click-clacking as we ran.   Mike clutched the metal railing on the side of the train and pulled himself up.  Then, he reached out his hand to me, swinging me inside.   Whew!   We made it!  We found our way through the car to our seats and settled ourselves in for the long ride.   The scenery rushed by in a blur, but it was still beautiful.  As I sat there, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like when we got to our Destination!  So many of my friends had already arrived and sent me postcards and letters of their happy lives.   Smiling, laughing, having a great time!   I couldn't wait! It was going to be the best adventure ever!

After a while, the attendant came by to punch our ticket.  Mike and I handed them over.  The attendant took a quick scan of the barcode.  It beeped happily.  He smiled and handed our tickets back to us.   "Enjoy your trip!" he said to us.   As the train chugged along, Mike and I chatted excitedly about the first thing we would do when we arrived at The Destination.  We made plans about all the sights we would see and the fun we would have.  We had heard from our friends that sometimes, this place wasn't always rainbows and sunshine like in the commercials.  Sometimes, it rained pretty hard.   So hard, that the howling of the wind and the rumbling of the thunder was enough to keep you up all night long.   We didn't mind.  We knew we could handle a few sleepless nights.  It would be worth it just to be there with everyone else, where we could all finally hang out together!  Over the course of our trip, the attendant came by to recheck our ticket a few times.   Each time, it beeped, he smiled, and the train continued to speed along.   

The longer I sat in my seat, the more uncomfortable I became.  My ankles started to swell from sitting down so long, my back started to ache,  and I was getting really tired.  Mike, being the wonderful and supportive husband that he is, rubbed my shoulders and brought me snacks.   "We're almost there, Beans," he said, reassuringly.  And we were!   From the window of the train, I could see signs for our Destination, the number of miles next to the name getting smaller and smaller with each sign we passed.  Soon!   We'll be there soon!  I could hardly contain my excitement.   Even Mike, who was usually so cool, calm, and collected, was showing signs of joyous anticipation.

The train car door slid open, and the attendant made his way to us again.   One last swipe before we arrive, I thought!   We pulled out our tickets and handed them over.  The attendant waved his scanner over our tickets.   No beep.  Nothing.  That's weird.   It should work.  "Swipe it again," I said.  "I'm sure it's just a glitch in your machine."   One more time.   No beep.   The attendant's smile vanished.  "I'm sorry," he muttered, "You're going to have to exit the train."  What?  Exit the train?  That can't be.  We bought tickets for the whole trip!   The ticket worked fine until now!   Why, all of a sudden, when we were so close, do we have to get off?   Everyone is waiting for us!  I'm sure they have already made signs for our arrival!  "WELCOME!" lovingly and painstakingly painted for us.  What are we going to do?

The attendant walked over to the side of the car and pulled a lever.   With that, the train came to a sudden and screeching halt.   Mike and I were thrown forward with such force we slammed into the seats in front of us and then fell to the floor.  "I'm sorry" the attendant said again.  "You're going to have to get off.  Now."  I'd hit my head against the seat pretty hard, and  a soft, warm trickle of blood fell from my forehead.   I was dizzy and confused.   Mike looked pretty banged up too, but he stood up, brushed himself off, and then carefully and tenderly, helped me stand.   I looked over at the attendant with pleading eyes, hoping he'd change his mind.   He shook his head and pointed to the door.  

We had no choice.  Our ticket didn't beep.  We weren't allowed to continue to The Destination without a ticket.  We hobbled to the door of the train and gingerly eased ourselves down the steps and onto the platform.  As soon as our feet hit the ground, the train doors zipped closed without apologies, and the train took off like a flash.  Without us.   We were stranded in the middle of nowhere.   We thought we were about to embark upon the biggest adventure of our lives, and now here we were.  Stranded, alone, far from home, and even farther from where we wanted to be.   

The trains only travel in one direction - to The Destination.  In order to continue our journey, we would have to start from the train station where we boarded - miles and miles and miles away.  The only way to get to where we were going was to WALK all the way back home and then hope with all our might that our timing would be right enough to catch another train.   

When the gravity of our situation hit me, I began to sob.  "We were so close!", I moaned.  "Why can't we just keep going?   I just want to be there!   I've already waited so long!  I don't want to start over!"   
Mike held me close and rubbed my back.   With shimmering eyes, he said to me "I know, baby.  I know.   I don't want to start over either.  But we have to.  And we can do it.  We can."  
 "But what if we can't catch the train again?"
"We will.  We caught it the first time." He is soft and reassuring.
"But what if they kick us off again?  What if our ticket stops working?"
"We will have to cross that bridge when we come to it, baby.  I love you and we can do this.  We'll get there, just little later than we thought"

We called all of our friends and told them what had happened - that we weren't going to make it this time.  That we were going to have to walk home and try to catch the train another time.  We cried.   They cried with us.  We were all so excited.  To fall from such great heights to such a depth of sadness is like a punch in the gut.  I fell to my knees and screamed.  I clutched my chest.  I wanted to go so badly - and I was almost there.  Almost there!   I didn't want to think about having to start again, not when I had been so close!

For quite a while, I sat at that train station and cried.   Several trains whizzed past the station, but none of them stopped.  They were someone else's train, not mine.  Taking someone else to The Destination, but not me.  Mike stood beside me while I moaned on the ground.  Keeping watch over my grief.  After what seemed like a hundred and one years, I realized I couldn't stay at this train station forever.   If I ever wanted to get to the destination, I had to find my way back home.  All. the. way. back. home.   So, I stood up, and I brushed the dirt and dust from my coat.  I picked up my suitcase, which felt so much heavier than it did before, and I took Mike's hand in mine.   After one final glance into the horizon, where the sun shone bright over The Destination, we turned our backs.

And we began to walk.

A Day at the Beach

It's a beautiful day in Cocoa Beach. The sun is shining in a cloudless sky. The breeze is gentle and cool. Mike and I are visiting friends down from New Jersey. We started out on the beach and have since moved to the pool of their rental. I, of course, have to forgo the water because none of my bathing suits fit, so I am writing this blog post on my ipad instead.  This morning I had a slight meltdown when I tried to find something to wear. Meaning well, Mike brought me a sundress from the closet when he pulled out his own clothes. A sundress that barely fit Before. There is no way it's going on me now. I finally found a big, flowy dress that could work, but I needed a strapless bra, none of which fit me either. So, that's fun. I know pregnancy changes your body. I know it takes time to get back to what might be considered normal, and I plan on beginning an exercise regime as soon as I can. That's not the point. The point is I am fat and doughy, nothing fits me, and my baby is dead. I had a baby but I don't have a baby. Somehow, I imagine the body issues seem less irritating when you're nuzzling the soft skin of your baby's chubby legs. You see a woman on the beach with a saggy belly and a baby, and you think to yourself, "Oh, look! She just had a baby. Good for her! She looks great!" For some reason, I feel the need to explain myself. "You see, I'm not normally this gross. I just had a baby. You wouldn't know that, of course, because she's in a vase in my living room, but I did. It doesn't look like it now, but this body served a great purpose. That purpose was taken from me, so now you can't tell. But it happened, I swear!"

There is an attitude of indignation that mothers of loss feel when we see life carrying on with out us. Here, at the beach, families are having picnics, splashing in the water, making sandcastles. They are untouched by my grief. Their lives continue without my baby, and it ticks me off! They chat. They laugh. They live. Why aren't they as devastated as I am? Why hasn't the entire world stopped to mourn her? Why does everything continue as normal? It's not right. If I have to feel broken and empty, everyone else should too. And then I wonder, how many of these people are just like me...looking at the world with hollow eyes. Appearing to be okay on the surface, but a river of sadness just a thin layer below. How many people are walking through life with a mask on? A mask of normalcy and social graces. How many of them, like me, want to take that mask off every once in a while and shout into a crowded room "Hey! I hurt! She's gone and I can't stand it!" How many of them are tired of holding back their tears so others don't stare? How many never go anywhere without a stash of tissues and big sunglasses? How many of them are tired of pretending that seeing other people oblivious to their pain destroys them inside? I'll bet you it's more than you think.

Again, it's all about survival. We are all surviving. We all do what needs to be done to carry on. What would the world be like if everyone broke down whenever they felt like it? We just can't. Donning that mask every day is a part of this new life. I put it on before I go out into the world. I secure the ties nice and tight so it doesn't fall when I need it the most. Like when I am talking to the cashier at the grocery store, buying eggs to replace mine that expired on my baby's due date. Or when I'm eating lunch in a restaurant full of people who have no idea that I am dying inside, and that I want to be anywhere but here. We all pretend. We pretend we don't hurt. We pretend we aren't about to burst into tears, or that we haven't just done so. We pretend that we don't feel completely alone in a crowd. Whether you have experienced loss or not, we all pretend at least every once in a while. Every last one of us. Some of us just have to do it every day.

Confessions of a (former) Shopaholic

Since it is Spring Break this week, all of my teacher friends have been trying to spend quality "daytime" time with me.   For a teacher, there is no greater adventure than being out in the real world on a weekday!  Oh wow...the post office is open?   AND the bank?  What other miraculous wonders will await us?    Normally, our go-to adventure is the mall or other related locations.  However,  this week, I have come to the conclusion that I just should not go shopping anymore.  It has lost all shreds of amusement for me.   Being a poor school teacher, my shopping experience mostly fell under the "window" category, but it was still a nice outing with friends.  We'd wander through Ross and Target, perusing the aisles and chatting about whether or not this shirt would match the skirt we have at home (too much purple), if that table runner would look good on a dresser instead (if you centered it just right), or if the special edition Keurig is really worth the extra twenty dollars (it is).  Most of the time, our excursion would be broken up by lunch somewhere and then a latte later.  Every once in a while, I'd actually find something to buy.   When I got pregnant, especially in the later months, I loved looking in the baby section.  (surprise!)   I'd ooh and ahh over the little pink Mary Jane socks or the footie pajamas covered in cupcakes.   Shopping was fun.  Not any more.  Not even in the least.  In fact, now all I really want to do is get myself home so that I don't have to cry in public.  While I really do love all of my friends and spending time with them, I am going to have to find another way to do it.  At least for right now.  

First of all, I can't shop for clothing for myself.   For the last six months or so, I have been limited strictly to the maternity section.  When I realize I no longer belong there, I am devastated.   I don't want to have to take off my stretch panel jeans and maneuver a regular button waistband over my tender and floppy stomach - in a size I am not willing to admit either.  I don't want to remember why my maternity pants keep falling down, but how I don't want to stop wearing them.  How I want to keep shopping for maternity clothes because I want more than anything to still be pregnant - or at least be able to hold the reason why I wore those clothes in the first place.  I'm flabby and gross and I don't even have a baby to show for it.   I put my body through the wringer for nothing!   Clothes shopping for me is nothing but misery.

Non-clothes shopping isn't much better. Obviously, anything baby related is out, which is difficult to do since every baby department in the world has suddenly increased its size by tenfold in the last month.  Looking through the purses, there is inevitably a satchel that could double as a cute diaper bag.  Shoes have to be purchased a half size bigger, and if I bend down to put them on, my shirt rides up and reveals the delightful spandex sewn into the top of my pants.   Housewares is full of tchotchkes - and what's a popular tchotchke nowadays?  Owls.  Today at Ross, I did not handle myself well.  My shopping buddy zipped off to the dressing room for a bit, and I wandered around in the kitchen items.   On the end of one of the aisles was a cute little owl.   

                                       

When I walked over to look at it and snap a picture,  (my sister and I have developed the habit of sharing Kenley's owls with each other when we come across one)  I happened to glance down the aisle behind it.  What I saw was the beginning of the end.   Every few feet, another owl figurine was perched upon the white, metal shelves.  I know they are all the rage now and they are going to be everywhere.  I know I've said before that I enjoy seeing them because they remind me of her.  That is still true.  But, today must have been an off day for my sanity because what happened next is not what I'd expected.  As I ventured down the aisle, my body vibrated with the hot tingles that attempt to keep back tears, but usually fail.  My pulse quickened.  My breathing shallowed.   Each owl I saw brought forth a muted moan from my lips.  I walked up and down that aisle two or three times, my hand on my mouth, looking wide eyed at all of them.  For some reason, I had the urge to move all of the owls from their original positions strewn about the aisle and bring them all together.  I didn't want them to be alone.  So, one at a time, I carefully brought all the owls to the same shelf.  I moved the strange golden buddha figurines and the black wooden candlesticks out of the way to make room for my parliament.  All the while, hands shaking, tears streaming down my cheeks. Fortunately for me, no one felt the need to shop in this area of the store at this time (or maybe it was because of me, who knows?), so I was left alone to wallow in my insanity.   After about 5 minutes, I had rearranged the shelves so that all the unrelated items still had a place visible to shoppers, but the owls were clustered together.  What started out as an innocent glance at an end display, ended up like this:

By the time my friend returned from trying on her dresses (three failures, two successes), I was a mess.  Being the great friend that she is, she helped me pick out one of the owls to take home with me. Although, I loved all of them,  I chose the teal one in the center.  I almost bought the two green ones too, but I thought I'd been crazy enough for one day and didn't need to start my hoarding tendencies just yet.  A little over a month ago, I would have enjoyed a day out in the shops.  Today, I just wanted it to be over.  I just wanted to get home where it was "safe" - or where I could at least be insane in privacy.

This is not what I signed up for.   The sign up sheet I wrote my name on involved strollers and diapers and wiggling legs.   It involved hair bows and peek-a-boo.   It did not involve empty arms, a broken heart, and a compulsion to rearrange discount store shelves.   Somebody must have switched the lists.   I don't belong here.  I don't want to be here.  I want to go home, where my baby is waiting - and the only thing that makes me cry is the fact "How I Met Your Mother" is still in reruns.