Saturday, 28 December 2013

When worlds collide

I often imagine this parallel world, one where the dead exist.
See, I have this theory. I think that we are all composed of the universe, of the trees and the stars and the ocean, and inside everyone there is this one thing, one piece of their soul, that makes them different from every other person on earth. The essence of your being, so to speak. The you inside of the universe.
So in this other world, I imagine the dead, this essence of their souls, living. They exist in a world very similar to ours, where we meet in passing, but we can never see them.
Maybe I imagine this because it brings me comfort. Maybe it's a fairytale I want to believe in because it gives me some semblance of peace.
I believe that in this other world, my loved ones exist. Not always, but sometimes.
Sometimes we happen to cross paths. When I'm riding in the car on the way home, when I'm rushing to get to work on time, when I'm in the kitchen making scrambled eggs. I can feel it, a sudden rush of energy. I whisper their names, Cam, Mia, and I wonder if perhaps, in their world, they are whispering mine as well.
It only happens for an instant. For one brief second my world catches up with theirs and there is this rush of air and all the remembering in the world is mine. It doesn't hurt, not like you might think. It's kind of peaceful.

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

Christmas 2013

I've never been much of a Christmas person.
Correction, I've never been much of a people person. After a few hours with family I'm burnt out and in desperate need of a closet in which to hide.
I also get a little nostalgic at Christmas. A little sad reflecting over this past year, and all that happened. It's usually a bitter sweet kind of sad, though. This year was no exception.
It was my second Christmas without Mia.
Last Christmas was a blur, only a few months out after losing Mia. I was a mess, and barely had time to get ready for the holidays.
This year they seemed to sneak up on me as well. I was the frazzled woman standing in line on Christmas Eve with an armful of presents and a fierce look of determination.
The Christmas Eve service I attended last night was around the theme "Fear Not."
I thought back on this year, in the 15 months that have passed since I lost Mia. There are a million things I could fear. And yet there was a strange peace over my heart.
This morning I awoke and opened presents with my family. We ate a big turkey and the extended family came over and it was jolly and merry and everything Christmas is supposed to be.
It was bitter sweet for me. It came with a pang of nostalgia and a wave of grief.
I barely remember last Christmas, to be honest. I couldn't tell you now what I got, what I gave or who's house I went to. It was a blur. I was numb.
This Christmas felt heavier.
This Christmas I felt pain deep in my body, and felt Mia's little body so close I could close my eyes and remember so distinctly what it was like in that moment when she was born.
While I've been working hard to let go of all I can't control, to accept what was, there are moments when I feel her close and I just accept it.
"Hi darling girl. Mama misses you."
I know, mama, I'm here.
This Christmas I listened to Kate Rusby and looked at the stars as I drove home, thinking about grief and love and how funerals and memorials are more for the living than the dead.
This Christmas I felt her, in a way I rarely do anymore, and smiled.

Sunday, 15 December 2013

Parallel Universe

I watched the snow fall from the hospital window. I sat in a chair overlooking the city beside my mother, who had come in to get some tests done.
She was being tested for cancer. It runs in the family. My grandmother died from cancer, my aunt died from cancer, my cousin died from cancer.
It seems death runs in our family, like a winding ribbon or a vein, tying it all together.
My heart felt heavy as I thought of how things should be.
Sometimes, in my head, I live in this parallel universe. One where my baby didn't die and my love didn't die and my mother isn't being scanned for cancer and where I'm not sitting in a hospital in December, days before Christmas, thinking the one thing that links our family is death.
I drink my tea and watch the thick snowflakes and the dim glow coming from the bright lights and I hear her voice.
"Hi Mama."
I look around. She's not here. I know she's not here. She's dead.
"Everything will be ok, mama."
They are the only words I hear from her, sweet daughter of mine.
Sometimes, in the midst of a snowstorm or late at night, she whispers to me. I can feel her hands on my face, her breath on my neck.
It's only for a moment, only a brief second in this parallel universe where my daughter still exists, where she is learning to whisper my name, when her father is just in the other room instead of buried under the frosty ground.
But a minute is enough, enough to keep me pushing forward.
"I hear you baby," I whisper into my tea, "I love you."

Monday, 2 December 2013


I'm bad at writing.
I'm bad at keeping up my blog in this little neck of the woods. So often it gets pushed to the side, and I forget to write. I apologize.
I'm bad at managing this grief. more often than not I simply drag it behind me, like a ball and chain. Sometimes I think I'm doing alright. Other times I just want to crawl in bed and ignore the world.
Like today. Today I want to crawl in bed and pretend the world outside doesn't exist.
I'm bad at being nice to people. I snapped at the lady in the grocery store. I ignored my co-worker until she thought of me as arrogant and bitchy and decided never to speak to me again.
I'm bad at displacing my grief into constructive, creative outlets. On my birthday, when I couldn't stand being without them, I got my nose pierced. Because I wanted it to hurt, like that last morning I had with them.
I'm a bad mother. If I was a good mother, my baby wouldn't have died.
I'm a bad lover. If I had been a good lover, a good girlfriend, my partner wouldn't have died.
I'm a bad baby loss mama, a bad widow. I feel like I should smile more. I should probably smile more, right? And getting out of this room would help. Showering, maybe, changing clothes, washing my hair and brushing my teeth. Maybe it would help if I wasn't so angry, so isolated in my grief.
Maybe it would help if I didn't wear red lipstick and hadn't gotten a hole in my nose. I mean, what kind of person does that?
Sometimes I feel like a bad person. I know I'm not. I know I'm a normal person dealing with life and that never before has this happened and that this experience is all my own and I know all of this. My therapist, Violet, she tells me these things. She listens to me. Sometimes I get mad at her, but she never yells back, or ignores me. She just tells me it was a good session, that I displayed emotion.
She told me not to filter, to just say what I feel. Sometimes that gets me into trouble. I'm still learning how to do that.
The last few months, while I haven't been writing here, I have been writing, a lot. I've been playing guitar again (badly. I only know a few chords). I've been taking long walks and working and sometimes staying in bed and sometimes crying and sometimes ignoring certain people.
I want to write here again. I want to be my old self again but I'm still trying to find it.
I hope to start blogging here more regularly, even if its only once every couple of weeks. I think maybe its good for me, therapeutic.
But I'm not making any promises.
We both know I'm bad at blogging.

Saturday, 28 September 2013

The Double Life

I haven't had much time to write recently.
Life seems to be spinning so fast, and I can barely stop to catch my breath.
The world keeps turning and while my heart is still broken over the loss of my little girl, its a different kind of pain.
I mentioned her the other day, in a conversation with a woman I barely knew. She asked if I had any children and I said that I did, a daughter. She asked me her name and I said it was Mia and I didn't mention that she had died and I walked away from that conversation feeling both like a liar, for refusing to admit that my daughter was dead, and feeling comforted because for the first time I got to mention her name and talk about her the way any other proud mama would gush about their baby, and it wasn't surrounded by pain and sorrow like the conversations usually are when I bring up my daughter.
Life continues and I am learning what it means to live again and it's hard to believe that it was just over a year ago that I had her with me, that Cam and I were sitting around the table barely understanding how to love each other again.
I never thought I would be here, and when I heard those other baby loss mama's talk about how the pain never really went away but it changed forms I would laugh.
I had just buried the love of my life and my child and how dare anyone tell me that I would ever feel anything besides stabbing pain.
But I did. I do. My conversations are centered around things other than the loss of my family. I get to talk about things like love and I get to stress out about things that need to get done and try to do a load of laundry before breakfast because I forgot to do it again and I'm out of underwear. And I get to do those things and be normal and then I get to come home and see Mia's memorial shelf and see the pink notebook I keep filled with letters to them and I get to fall into bed and say "I'm doing it, my loves. I made it through this whole day without feeling so sad and I'm living life again and while I don't think of you all the time you are always with me and I will always love you."
And sometimes it feels like I'm living a double life, the one where I miss my family and grieve over them and the one I live with everyone else where I keep my personal life personal and go out for drinks with new friends I met at work who don't know my story yet and don't know about Cam and Mia.
And sometimes I feel guilty about that but mostly I just feel like I'm moving forward in my grief.
And it's hard, to feel like I'm moving on and being happy without them, but I know that they will always be with me, and I am forever changed because of having loved them.

Tuesday, 10 September 2013

One Year Later

One year...
How is that possible? It feels like only yesterday I was sitting in that hospital room, receiving the news that I thought would end my world. That my Mia was gone.
I was broken. Something inside of me snapped.
For months I crumbled, continuing my darkest decent.
It was in December when I decided I didn't want to live anymore.
It was in February when the strings inside of me broke and I was sitting in a pew at my church and sobbing.
Ever since that day in February, things began to change.
And now I'm here, a year later, something I didn't even imagine possible at month one, or six months.
And I'm doing ok.
Of course I think about how things could have been different, but I have days now when I can think clearly and realize that it was never not going to be like this.
The journey of losing Mia has made me a different person than I would have been if she was here. Maybe I would have liked that person better, but I'm not here.
Instead of changing diapers, I'm going back to school.
Instead of scheduling birthday parties and play dates, I'm scheduling counseling appointments and trips to the grocery store, where I buy enough food to feed only one.
Mia's death broke me, but her life saved me. Because of her short, beautiful existence, I am a different woman than I would have been otherwise.
 I'm stronger, and gentler. The impact of her short life is making ripples, spreading out.
She makes me beautiful. She makes me strong. She makes me a mother.
And yes, even though the pain of losing her has been unspeakably awful, and while I would have given anything for it not to have happened, her short life forever changed mine, and I am grateful. I wouldn't change a thing.
So here I am, one year later, blessed.

I love you, baby girl. The light of your life will not go out, and your life forever changed mine.

Sunday, 1 September 2013

For baby Emily (And her mama)

My friend lost her baby this morning. Her husband emailed me this morning. If anyone should deserve to be rewarded with a happy newborn, its this girl. I'm still not convinced she's not superwoman.
She named the baby after me.
Sweet baby Emily, I want you to know you are loved. So so loved. Your tiny life mattered. Your days were predetermined and your life fits into His great plan.

Tuesday, 30 July 2013

What's new

I haven't slept in days.
I went to bed early last night only to play Angry Birds on my phone and toss and turn until well after midnight.
The insomnia is new.
Unfortunately the hole in my chest is not new. The feeling like I am breaking apart, that's not new.
Seeing her in the faces of everyone I meet, that's new.
Staring at walls for hours on end and walking into rooms and forgetting what I came there for, that's new.
Wearing the same shirt for days on end, that's not new.
The pile of unwashed dishes in my sink is new, and the laundry that I haven't done in days.
What's not new is the way my heart stops... and then starts again every time I think of her. It's just for a moment, not very noticeable to anyone but me, and only when I'm paying attention.
The self destruction is new. Or just back now after an absence.
Feeling like I don't want to breathe, that I don't want this to be my life, that's not new.

Sunday, 7 July 2013

Saying goodbye

Today was hard...
Sometimes these days come out of nowhere and they hit you over the head, unexpected like. It's easy to forget what these days feel like.
Its not like I'm hysterical or that I find it impossible to get out of bed today, I just feel heavy. It's hard to explain.
This morning I went to the bus station and said goodbye to some good friends of mine who are leaving on a trip. A trip Cam and Amelia and I were supposed to be on. But Cam is dead and Amelia is dead and I'm not going. and that sucks.
With everything in me I want to go but with everything in me I want to go under normal circumstances. I want to go with Cam and with my baby girl.
So as I said goodbye to my friends today, I stood there with tears streaming down my cheeks, not at all anticipating how hard this was going to be. Standing there with my backpack, that should have been me. I should have had Mia on my hip, her favorite blanket and pacifier in my backpack. I should be wondering about whether or not she'll sleep through most of the long bus ride. Instead I don't get to worry about any of those things and to me, today, that seems unspeakably cruel.
I'm leaving in a week, for a vacation to the ocean. I thought I knew where I wanted to scatter Mia's ashes but lately the idea of taking them with me and scattering them in the ocean sounds more and more like what I want to do. I'm not sure if I'll do it yet. I'm not even sure if I'll pack the little jar containing her ashes in my suitcase, squished between my sundress and my bathing suit. But I'm open to the possibility. The idea of letting go doesn't sound as unbearable as it did in those early days, 10 months ago.
Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing. I tend to get that feeling when I write here, which is why I was avoiding it for quite some time. I thought I was ready today but as I stare at this page and everything I've written I wonder if I am. Reading it all, it makes me feel so incomplete. lacking. like a liar because I write all these extravagant things and I write thoughtfully and in the end its simple.
I'm just a girl who lost her baby.

Thursday, 4 July 2013

Right Where I'm at 2013 - 9 months 3 weeks and 3 days

I know this is a bit late. I know other baby loss mama's and daddy's are done this post and maybe no one even cares what I have to say anymore.
After all, it is early July and the sun is shining and melting away the remains of winter on my heart. It is a season for beaches and eating raspberries from the pail and bare feet.
And yet, when I left this blog for a time, back when I was only beginning to see signs of spring in my heart, I was asked by a dear friend of mine to return every once in a while.
So I'm making good on my promise and returning (Though no promises on how long I'll stay, Jen!)
It's July and even though it's sunny and flowers are popping up out of the garden in my backyard, today is not sunny. Today it is raining and windy and I spent the day in bed with a good book; a book about loss, love and two woman. One is a mother who lost her son, the other a woman whose husband left her. I can relate to both of these women. I am both of these women. My daughter is dead and my lover is gone and I am the shadows of these women.
When I started this post, preparing to title it, I wrote down 8 months. It took me a minute before I realize it's been nine months, will be ten in six days. Has it really been that long without her? How have I gotten from there (a grieving, sobbing, hysterical woman who wouldn't get up off the bedroom floor) to here (a somewhat less hysterical but still grieving woman who wanders through life but still periodically returns to the bedroom floor). I don't understand how its been this long. It feels like just yesterday and also like forever ago and I know this is cliché to say. Its supposed to feel like this, I think, its time. And yet I am still stuck in a state of disbelief.
I haven't scattered her ashes yet, in case you're wondering. I thought about it. I know where I want them to be. I feel more ready than I did a few months ago, when I first considered the idea. I have everything all planned out, which feels vaguely morbid. And yet something doesn't feel quite right and so her ashes continue to sit on my shelf in a little jar tied with a pretty pink ribbon.
I talked to her last night. In my busy life its so easy to push past it, to nod to her presence as I run past her memory, doing what needs to be done. Its easy to say, "Good girl. Good Mia. Good staying still and being quiet while Mommy gets her work done." But in the last few days the missing her has become something fierce and so I will sit and acknowledge her. So I was talking to her last night and I was asking her things like why she is here and who she was and why me.
I don't think I have all the answers yet. She doesn't seem to want to answer me and I can picture her in my head, a spicy little girl, giving me the silent treatment. But I believe she came to me for a reason: to teach me about love, and to help me find my voice, and also to help me learn to live again. Maybe its just me but I think my dead daughter saved my life.
It will be 10 months soon. 10! double digits! I am approaching it carefully, like I imagined I would approach her tenth birthday, with a great deal of nostalgia and wistful longing. And while I am excited for 10 months, then 11, for the first year to finally be over, I am content to sit in this single digit stage for just a little while longer.
I love you, my sweet.
And that's where I am today. I'm doing ok. I'm speaking my truth, even when its hard, something my daughter taught me, and her father. I'm telling her story and his story and my story, and how they all intersected, and talking about life and love and connection to groups of people. I haven't gone far yet, but I hope to. Some days, after sharing her story, I am so exhausted. I run a warm bath and step into it and think about everything. I don't feel worthy of love, of her story, of his story, of my story. And even if I say it a million times it won't bring back my loves. Their legacy isn't in my story, but in me. I am the monument of their lives. And so I will live and love and speak for them. They are woven into the fabric of my being and I have to trust that.
There's dinner to be made tonight and laundry to be done and a house to be cleaned for my brother's birthday tomorrow. But I think I'll sit here for just a moment longer and read about a mother who lost her son and a woman who lost her lover, and find myself woven into the pattern of them.
We are all connected.

Monday, 3 June 2013

Living my truth

I haven't written here in days, weeks, maybe even months.
I find I don't know what to say. As I opened up this little blog for the first time in a long time today, I felt the obligation to write something.
Not something about my dead baby, or my dead baby's dead daddy, but about my life.
My life, the one that's not dead.
My life is good. It's filled with good, happy things. There's someone with whom I think I could possibly be in love with (But we're taking it VERY slow). I'm considering maybe scattering Mia's ashes at the end of this month, when I take a trip with my family up the mountain. Right after she died, I knew that was the place I wanted her ashes scattered and as the time approaches I'm not sure if I'm ready to let go yet, but we'll see.
My life is good. I'm good.
I don't know how often I'll be poking around this little space anymore. As I'm walking into my life (The one where, despite all odds, I am very much alive) I am learning to live in my truth. My truth is this: my baby died. Her father died. And I survived this.
And I carry this truth with me, out into the world, and as I carry it I find myself needing this space less and less.
So this is goodbye, for now. Hopefully, Lord willing, I'll be back again real soon.
Until then, know I am thinking about all of you, and sending my love
Go and live your truth

Sunday, 28 April 2013

My Girl

I was watching My Girl in the hospital.
I was a strange mix between being tired and being emotional.
They'd just given me the medicine to start my contractions (so I could give birth to my dead daughter) and I was convinced it wasn't going to work (In that moment, as in most of my pregnancy after I found out Mia was sick and would die, I just wanted it to be over with.)
"You need to give me more," I cried to the nurse, unsure of why I was crying. I was wrapped up in some of those blankets from the warmers. I had an IV in my left arm, medicine that was supposed to help me give birth to my dead daughter flowing into me.
"You're fine," The nurse assured me, "Just try to relax, darling. Labor will start before you know it."
But I wasn't convinced. I was hysterical. More, I needed more.
I just wanted her out, just wanted this nightmare to be over. I was terrified of the idea that the medicine meant to induce labor wouldn't work.
I kept trying to get up out of bed and go somewhere (I'm not really sure where). I kept asking for more medicine, kept hysterically sobbing and telling the nurse it wasn't going to work.
In the end, I did end up needing more medicine.
In the end, I got an epidural. I pushed and screamed and cried, the warm blanket that was quickly losing its heat wrapped under me, stuck to my back with sweat.
And there she was, so tiny, so fragile, so perfect.
This wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want a dead baby. In that moment I would have done anything to put her back inside me, where she belonged, where she was safe and alive.
All the while the closing song from My Girl played from the TV screen in the corner of the hospital room. I don't even know how it was still on, but it was.

My Girl, My Girl, My Girl.

Thursday, 18 April 2013

Hatred and Loneliness

Someone I know is having a baby. I woke up one morning, checked social media, and saw status updates from my friends about someone having died, a little one having passed on. Immediately my breath got stuck in my throat. Had something happened to my friend's baby?
It turns out there was another little boy in our community who drown.
I hate that I live in a world where babies die.
I came home from work today, exhausted. I barely made it into the house before I was hit with a wave of nausea. I stumbled to the couch and lay there, sipping on water and chewing crackers until the urge to vomit passed. But as I was lying there, I thought about how much it felt like the morning sickness I'd had with Mia. All of a sudden I was bawling on the couch, gagging over a bucket, screaming for my little girl. Because this moment, being so sick I could barely move, it reminded me of her.
I hate that the one thing that reminds me of her is sickness.
I got an email today from an old friend of mine. I haven't seen him since pre pregnancy, pre Mia, pre becoming a dead baby mama. So he sent me this nice, chatty email apologising for the lack of communication, asking how I was and how my Easter was.
What do I say to him?
Do I tell him about Mia? If I did, would that make me seem like I wanted pity? How would my friend respond to hearing about my dead baby? When he asked how I was, did he really want to know how I was or did he just want a glossed over, 'fine' answer?
Do I not mention Mia? Would not mentioning her feel like lying betrayal? I could just say I'm fine, but that, of course, would be a lie, but how do you tell someone you doesn't even know you were pregnant, and had a stillbirth, that life sucks so much some days I can't even get out of bed without sounding like a suicidal nut case?
I hate that I have to think about these things now.
I'm numbing the pain with too much to drink, not enough to eat and countless hours spent in front of the TV watching TV shows on DVD. It's not a permanent fix, I know that, but I don't know what else to do right now. Feeling hurts too much...

On Monday, I had a rather upsetting conversation with my friend. She basically told me that losing Mia was preventable (It wasn't, the doctors have assured me, there was nothing Cam nor I did that caused her medical conditions and, ultimately, her death, though that doesn't stop the guilt from washing over me) and she told me if I wanted to have any chance at a future and becoming a powerful, strong, inspiring woman I needed to get over my daughter's death.
What the hell?!?!
I wish I would have been witty that day, coming back with a sharp, sarcastic remark.
Instead I went home, locked myself in my room and cried. I got snot all over my pillow and my eyes were red and puffy and my hair was messy from raking my hands through it as I screamed and I looked more like a zombie and less like an actual human.
I hate that I have to deal with people like this, and especially hearing this stuff come from people I thought supported me and were there for me.
I hate that everything I feel hurts and I just want to run away from my life
I hate that this is my life

If you wanna leave a comment in response to my baby loss angst and venting, tell me what you would do in regards to my friend who sent me the email. Tell me the ways you numb yourself (or if you do...), tell me what you would have said to this 'friend' of mine who said those rude things about my daughters death (in case I decide to send her a strongly worded email). Tell me about you, and how you've been doing. What makes you miss your babies? What makes you burn up with anger and hatred?
Or just talk to me... cause I've been feeling a little lonely now that I'm here all by myself.

Friday, 12 April 2013

It should have been different...

I've written here before (I think) about how a friend of mine has a baby girl who was born only a few days before I lost Mia.
I am in love with my friend's daughter. While every milestone baby S reaches is a reminder of the milestones Mia will never reach, it also feels like an honor to get to watch baby S grow up and have that physical reminder.
So, last night, I offered to watch baby S so her mama and daddy could go out.
Our evening was full of fun, including a poopy diaper (Which went everywhere, including all up her back and on her feet and on me) and a leaking bottle (Spilling milk all down her and all over me)
At bed time, I took baby S into a dark room, and held her to my chest as we walked back and forth across the floor.
I let myself imagine, for a minute, that I wasn't holding baby S, but Mia.
I imagined that I wasn't waiting for her parents to come home, but for Cam to come home from a night out.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the baby scent and imagined Mia was here.
I absolutely love my friend's daughter. I am the best non-official auntie ever. And I've promised to go with her mom to take her for her first pedicure and I want to be the one who teaches her how to drive in an empty grocery store parking lot and maybe take her to get her ears pierced or her first tattoo.
Because we should have been doing that together, little S and her mama and Mia and me.
And instead of hiding under my covers because I don't get to do those things with my daughter, I want to do those things, to honor my daughter.
It just hurts so much sometimes because she should have been here.
Things should have been different
But they're not
and it sucks

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

7 Months

I imagine she would look like me, with blonde curls and wide eyes full of curiosity.
She would have my tender heart and her daddy's tough spirit. She would be reckless and dangerous, just like her father, which would give her mother a heart attack.
She would have the best giggle, and her smile would light up a room.
She would be a daddy's girl, with a soft spot for her mama.
She would be stubborn and opinionated but with a charm that got her out of any trouble, just like her daddy had.
She would be able to melt my heart.
She would be my world.
Cam would walk with her when she cried, colicky during the night, letting me sleep between feedings. His eyes would be bloodshot when I found him in the morning, but she would be sleeping on his chest, and he would have a smile on his face.
We would live in a little trailer, barely scraping by, but living off of love.
I can't imagine my life being more complete than it would be if I was with them.

But here's the thing, I'm not with them. For 7 long months I haven't been waking up for midnight feedings or holding our girl or watching her grow up in front of my eyes and seeing she has a great dislike for green beans but loves mixed berries. My acts of parenting have been reduced to these: sobbing into my pillow in the wee hours of the morning, her ashes sitting on my bookshelf. I held her once (for a few minutes) and I dressed her (In an outfit that was much too big for her tiny body, as we never expected her to be born so small) and we burned her (ashes to ashes, dust to dust) and I cried (all I know of her is grief)
And here's the crazy thing, I wouldn't take any of it back. I wouldn't trade any of the tears or the pain because those few moments I got with her (that didn't seem long enough), they were magical.
It's 7 months out and this time around I felt like my body remembered before my mind did. Usually it's the other way around. Usually this date is marked on my calendar, the only day unscheduled, and when the day comes I sit for it, upright, tall, perfect posture, taking a warrior position as if I can fight against the emotional pain that comes along with this day.
I grew tired and cried when I was in the shower or in bed or watching TV or just sitting on the couch. I felt like I was walking around with the flu, though I'm not sick.
And then today came...
My first anniversary alone...
I don't know how this is supposed to work... I'm sitting here, chewing on my lip, trying to decide what to do (I've been terribly indecisive as well, standing in front of the open fridge for nearly half an hour before deciding I want take out), wondering how I am supposed to deal with this day.
I'm not there to hold my girl or kiss her face or watch her grow up.
He's not here to share it with me, to hold me while I cry, to remember her too
So I do the only thing I know how to do
I let the tears fall (Grief is all I have left of them) and I pull her ashes out from behind the stack of books I'd purposefully set there so I didn't have to look at them every day and remember what I lost, and I turn on some music and order that takeout and turn off the phone
And then I fall onto my bed and have a good cry

I miss you, sweet Mia girl. I love you. Happy 7 month birthday

Saturday, 30 March 2013

I need a little more time... (Happy Easter, my loves)

I want to scream.
This isn't fair.
Last night i sobbed into my pillow, missing my baby, and missing her daddy.
I feel so often like i can't breathe.
I'm choking on air thats not oxygen and suffocating and its messy and not at all graceful
But still i paste on a smile and help decorate Easter eggs and try to enjoy meals with family.
I feel like i'm faking it
I'm no stranger to death and yet everytime it strikes i cry out for more time
To say "i love you," one more time
To make things right
For one more hug and kiss
And yet, with every death, i sit here and long for more time
Let me hold you longer, sweet child of mine
Let me tell you i loved you once more, my first love
I would do it different. I would let go of my hurt and just love the way Mia, and Cam, deserved to be loved
Never enough time
I feel selfish on my knees begging for just one more minute
To hold them (my loves)
To tell them i love them (i love you, my darlings)
To just be with my family, whole and complete (no missing pieces)
I hope they both know the extent of my love
I let him name her. He picked Mia. I agreed only if her full name could be Amelia.
We only got these small moments of parenthood and i let him name her.
And now he gets to hold her
To kiss her and love her
His acts of parenthood far outweigh mine.
I wish it wasn't so.
Amelia Kadee, your first Easter is coming.
I was with my cousin today and her daughter at the mall
They walked into some toy store, with stuffed animals
I watched as my cousin helped her daughter choose a bear
I wished it was me
I want to choose a bear for my daughter
I felt such a poigant loss
I stepped outside the store, tears in my eyes
Tomorrow is Easter and i feel so broken
How can i rejoice when so much pain surrounds me?
I feel so out of place. Like i don't belong with all these walking, talking, happy people.

I miss you, Cam
I miss you, Amelia Kadee, my Mia girl
My love for you both will never fade
You are my family.
Happy Easter, loves

Tuesday, 26 March 2013

I love you, my darlings

I haven't been here in a while.
I'm sorry. I am.
Sometimes i forget why i'm writing. For her.
But also for him, now.
I warn you now this won't seem real.
"You're crazy, Em," you'll say, "you're just a sad babyloss mama desperate for attention."
I tell you now this is the truth. I wouldn't believe it if i hadn't lived it.
But is true. Like a horror story i can't escape, every word is true.
A month ago (give or take a few days) i stood witness to my second death in 6 months.
He died. Mia's daddy. A car accident. He went quick, they said. He's at peace, they said. He's with his daughter, i said. Is it bad that I'm a little jealous? That he gets to be with her and i'm here, without them both? I am here alone, remembering both of them seems like too big a burden for my shoulders to bear.
I miss my Amelia, my Mia.
And i miss Cam, her daddy.
I saw her today. Well not really her. I'll never see her again. But, at dinner, the girl at the next table, with blonde braids, had Down Syndrome.
I wanted it to be her. I want the little girl in the resturant and the little girl in Churh and the little girl at the park to be her. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.
I want my baby.
I should be buying her an Easter dress and putting bows in her hair. She should be sitting up and smiling. She should be smiling at me.
And so I sit here alone tonight. Believe my story, or don't. But its the truth, my truth.
I love you my darlings.

Sunday, 24 February 2013

Thoughts on Missing my Mia

I miss my baby.
I want to write about something else, something important, something about my life, maybe, or my other relationships, a poem or a song... something!
But all I can think about is her, missing her.

I was reading a book yesterday and one of the lines hit me. It said, "I lost something I never knew I needed." In the book, she was talking about her mother who died when she was a baby.
But I lost something I never knew I needed, too
I never knew how much I would miss Mia
I never knew how much I would miss having faith in my body (Now I can only stare at this lump of flesh with a look of pure betrayal.)
I never knew how much I would miss that blind hope, that innocence, that naive nature that comes from living in a world where babies don't die.
I lost something I never knew I needed. I never knew I needed her. But now that she's gone my heart is empty.
Yesterday I got to be alone. Cam (Mia's daddy) went out and left me in the house alone to do whatever I wanted.
My first reaction was, "Oh my goodness, what the heck am I going to do? I'm on my own. I can do anything I want. There's nothing that I have to do. Don't leave me!"
Early yesterday morning a friend of ours came by the house. He was collecting bottles for a road trip he and some other friends were planning for this summer. It was a road trip Cam and I were supposed to go on, our baby between us in the back seat. After I lost Mia I didn't even want to think about going anywhere, especially not a trip I had planned to go on with my baby. So this friend came by, and I am so thankful Cam was still home. I hid in our room. I know, it wasn't the mature, adult thing to do but I did it anyway. Cam talked to him, handed him our bottles and sent him on his way.
I don't feel like I wish I was still going. I can't imagine going, actually. It just makes me wish Mia was still alive, that I was able to do those things, that I felt like I could get up and go on a roadtrip.
Cam left and I had the house to myself. Despite my panic attack earlier, the silence wasn't as bad as I had expected.
I had a nap (Glorious!) and did some laundry, and I dug into a new book (the one I mentioned above) and I missed Mia.
I tell myself I'm going to be fine. Some moments I even believe it. There had to have been a reason Mia left us so soon, and while I don't understand why I have to believe there's a reason. I throw myself into growing and patching up the broken places and I tell my story - Mia's story - and people tell me things about how strong I am and how I survived the unthinkable and all this beautiful stuff and I think maybe - just maybe - something good can come from this tragedy and I can use my story to inspire others, to do something good, to make Mia's life (and death) matter.
Other days I'm a ball on the floor. My heart aches with the longing for my baby. I wail and groan and flail around. I scream at anyone who will listen how this isn't fair.
Because it's not fair.
Because Mia should be here with me.
Because this shouldn't have happened to someone like me.
I miss her today. I missed her when all my friends were talking about their roadtrip. I missed her when a girl I know announced she was pregnant, and bleeding. She was going in for more tests to try and figure out why she was bleeding, and if she was losing the baby. And while I feel for her, and I don't want her to go through this I got mad. I wrung my hands and tried to count to 10. A part of me feels like I want to be the only one with a dead baby. No, you can't have a dead baby, it's mine! And I know that's selfish, and mean, and hateful, but as I sat there with all my grief and heard friends say they will be thinking about and praying for this friend and her baby I wanted to scream, "What about my baby?!?" I missed her when I was going through the motions of normalcy, and in that moment when someone mentioned something and I got a little spooked and made a mad dash for the restroom, tripping over my heels.
I missed her today. I missed her everytime I took a breath, and when I held my friend's daughter who would have been the same age as Mia.
I missed her.
I miss you Mia.
How are you? And what are your thoughts on missing? Does it get any easier?

Tuesday, 19 February 2013


It's been a while since I last posted.
I've been running from baby loss blogs, running from the voice in my head that says, "No, no, no, no, no, don't torture yourself!" that comes up whenever I read these blogs.
I've been running from the feeling that says I have to remember every single painful detail, and also running from the feeling that says I must forget every single detail.
There are moments though, sometimes for a second per day, sometimes longer, and these moments are peaceful. I can sit with the memory of what happened and not obsess over not taking enough pictures of Mia, or comparing my loss to that of other baby loss mama's or thinking I am absolutely insane. There are these moments that are so peaceful and all of a sudden all these other things don't matter and I can just sit with the memory of my baby.
I'm a week past 5 months and I am in awe that I made it this far. On the 5 month anniversary of losing Mia, I sobbed like I haven't before. I was sitting in church and I was thinking I was going to be fine. There was only one little part left, I hadn't cried yet, I would be good. And then... last section... I lost it. I was sobbing, inconsolable, a distraught mess just shaking as people around me stood to go through the final part of the service. And in my head there was this voice saying, "Em, you are being pathetic, wipe your tears away, stand up and freaking sing!" But lately, there's this gentler, motherly voice inside of me that whispers, "No. No, you can cry, even if you don't understand why. It's ok to cry." And this past Sunday/Monday, I was laying in bed at almost midnight and I couldn't stop the tears from coming. I shook and sobbed and i was a red eyed, snot filled nose, blubbering mess. And there was that voice again, "It's ok to cry."
It's not so much that I miss her, that there's this unfillable constant ache like there was in the first few months. Now it's more that I have to live my life without, that my life changed in a way that was so different then what I thought it would be. I thought I would be happy, relieved, ecstatic that all my hard work had paid off into this living manifestation of hope. I didn't think I would watch a dead baby be delivered. I didn't think that my whole identity was wrapped up in being a mother and after her death I had to figure out not only how to deal with this life changing situation but also trying to figure out who the heck I am now. I don't know who to be if I let go of the pain that is associated with all I know of motherhood.
I saw a medicine woman last week. It was a final leap of faith, a final desperate attempt. She told me this: "You've lived through something most people couldn't live through and you survived." I didn't understand that, mostly because i was just doing what needed to be done, and curling up and dying wasn't an option. But she told me a lot of people would have just given up, and I survived. I survived, I didn't curl up and die. And it's time to figure out how to truely live.
I haven't been in blog land for a while. I hope to visit here more often. As I'm sitting here this morning, still in my pajamas with a cup of tea, I'm finding this release has been good for me. Just saying her name and this recognition, it is therapuetic for me. It is that moment of peace, that moment where it's ok to be nothing more then just her mother.

Monday, 14 January 2013

Love you...Mean It

I haven't written here for a while. I have a feeling most of the posts I write here will begin like this. Because I'm not one who blogs regularly or often and so when I drop in it will be to say hello, to raise my candle in the air and whisper the words I repeat every day in my head, "I miss you, baby."
It's been 4 months. On the 10th it was 4 months.
I started working out to lose the weight i gained during pregnancy and i started eating right again and i'm doing all these things and i feel good and sometimes i'm so worried about fixing dinner and getting work done that i forget. sometimes it's a full day before I even nod a hello to this baby of mine.
but tonight is sad and i'm missing her. and i don't know what to say because i'm glad i'm not drowning in sorrow every day anymore but moving on and not consciously thinking of her every moment of every day feels like a betrayal.

4 months. is that all? has it only been that long? has it really been that long?

Sweet baby girl, I miss you. I love you. As I write those words and listen to them roll off my tongue as i speak them aloud i want to keep saying them, over and over. I love you, i love you, i love you. I mean it, so much. I hope you know that... i hope you knew how much i loved you.

Tuesday, 1 January 2013


I made it through that first year without her.
Part of me wanted to cling to 2012, to stop the calender from changing. 2012 was all I had of her.
But I can't stop time, as much as I may want to, and it's 2013 now.
2013, a time, I hope, to get back up on my feet.
2013, I hope, will be the year I learn how to live again.
2013, I hope, will be the year i change out of these grief clothes and pick myself up off the floor.
2013, I hope, will be the year I make myself into a person worth loving, a person worth being.

I'm sitting here in yoga pants and a tee shirt that is much too big on me. There's a drink on the corner of my desk, because I need one.
I haven't slept in weeks, and on the 30th of December I was filled with such grief and longing for my baby girl I cried out, saying I just want to die.
I don't know how to live in a world where my daughter doesn't.
And so I keep running, running over all these pieces of glass that symbolize my past and they cut into my feet and make them bleed but if I stop running I'll have to face everything I'm so skillfully avoiding and I'll have to come face to face with my grief and turn it over in my hands and examine it and maybe even invite it in for some tea and let it stay a while so I can get to know it a little better. Maybe grief will even spend the night so I can examine it in it's sleep, if grief ever sleeps.
For that reason alone - because facing my demons scares me almost as much as delivering a dead baby did - I will keep running.
I'll sit here and take another sip of my drink and wrap my sweater around me a little tighter to ward off the chill. I'll turn on loud music so I can no longer hear death knocking at my door. And in avoiding I will be running.
I hope in 2013 I can learn to stop running.