I wish I'd held her

I remember her
Her little body looked like it was made of glass. I was afraid to touch her. They urged me to go, to pick her up, to rock her body and hold it close to mine, but I shook my head.
I didn't want to touch her
Her tiny hands were balled up into fists, her face pale.
She was tiny. God, was she tiny. And lifeless and harmless and helpless.
I wish I'd touched her
I wish, when I'd had the chance, I'd kissed her head. I wish I'd touched her fists.
I wish I hadn't been afraid. Everyone else in the room held her, touched her, cried over her, but I didn't.
Tomorrow I'm getting my memorial tattoo, a permanent reminder of my girl. Also of the person I've become since she died.
I watched a video today about stillbirth and cried.
I wish I'd held her.

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.

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.

28 weeks

I failed her, you know.
That's what my mind keeps saying, whispering over and over as I lay here in the dark, alone.
I failed her.
I failed to keep her inside of me, safe and alive.
Instead she was born at 28 weeks, so tiny, so small.
I failed to give her the things she needed to survive, so that when she was born they could take her into surgery and fix her.
Instead she was born with a broken heart, dead.
This is where I fail. This is where I am not enough.

She was tiny, so tiny. She was 28 weeks, but she was perfect. She was perfect, aside from the fact her heart was broken and she was dead.

I failed her. I feel like I failed her. I feel like this is where i wasn't enough. I was sick, I wanted the pregnancy to be over.

I thought she would get better. I thought she would be born alive, that the doctors would fix her, that we would get our miracle.

She was born at 28 weeks, so tiny. Her heart was broken.
It was because of me she died. She is dead because of my body. It is because of me she got sick, because of me she died.

I can't stop thinking about that tonight. it feels like it's on repeat in my brain, like a broken record. I've tried writing this post over and over again, and every time I write it it doesn't come out like i want it to. It's not poetic, maybe not even coherent.
What about grief is poetic?

I feel like it's my fault, even though so many people have told me it isn't. I don't know if I fully believe them. It is because of me she died.
Ah, but it is also because of me she lived, lived for those 28 magical weeks.


I'm not sure what I wanted to get out of writing this post. I don't want to be told this isn't my fault, that i did everything I could. maybe I want companionship? someone to come along side me and say that, as a mother, it is the worst feeling to feel like you failed your child.

I feel like I failed her.
But in the dark, if I listen hard enough, I can hear her whisper, "But mama, I'm ok."