I'm Good

These days, I spend a ridiculous amount of time analyzing how I’m “doing.”  I get asked that question more often now, and I truly consider my answer before I respond.  Before September 6^th, I always gave the same default reply: “I’m good.” When I first went back to work, I consciously did not answer, “I’m good.”  I made a point not to, even in the moment as an auto-response, say, “I’m good” because what kind of monster loses her child and is “good.”  I said things like “I’m here” or “I’m okay” but never “I’m good.” 

But here’s the thing: lately, sometimes, I AM “good.”  My students make me laugh.  My friends send me thoughtful cards.  My aerobics instructor says she can tell I’m losing the baby weight.  Friends suffer through 5 o’clock Charlotte traffic to eat dinner with me.  My husband surprises me with a card and new, delicious smelling candles. There are things in my life that are good.  There are things in my life that are better than good.  Most days I don’t even feel guilty about enjoying the good things in my life.

I know there are many who have experienced the loss of a loved one that, 10 weeks out from their loss, were not coping as well as Skip and I have been.  I think this has a lot to do with our personalities.  I also think it has to do with our relationship with the Lord.  And, I really want to write a post (or three) that explains how a tragedy like we’ve survived can increase your faith with God instead of leaving it in shambles, but this isn’t that post.  As much as I hate the cliché timing of it all, this one is all about gratitude and how it can affect you if you’ll let it.

One morning just a few days after losing Levi, Skip and I lingered in the bed, not ready to get up and face another day. He ran across this video called “The Happiness Project” and we lay there and watched it together.  To summarize, studies show that not only being grateful but sharing gratitude with others has a direct impact on an individual’s personal happiness.  At this point in my grief, I was desperate to do any and everything that could possibly bring a hint of happiness, so I took what the video suggested to heart.  I started by writing thank you notes for the meals and other gifts we received.  (If you didn’t get one, I am truly sorry for the oversight!)  I emailed the faculty my first week back at school to convey my sincere appreciate for their support.  I even wrote the hospital (a letter they shared with all 4,000 hospital employees!) to share my appreciation for the care I received.  

Just this morning on the way to work, I was trying to pray but was at a loss for words (rare for me, I know).  I’ve been trying to do more than just ask for stuff when I pray and to talk to the Lord on behalf of others.  I know how much it’s meant to have others do that for us, and I don’t do it enough.  So, I started naming out loud, in prayer, people I am thankful for.  I think I got the idea from a Face.book status I’d just updated saying I was thankful for enduring friendship and my time the night before with Becki.  And, it went on from there.  And on, and on and before I knew it, I was in my parking space at school and I was still naming people who I am so thankful the Lord saw fit to put in my life. 

I started a “sucks list” this summer (back when nothing really sucked and my life was perfect) as a joke with my mother-in-law.  When someone hurt my feelings or offended me, I would declare them an addition to the list.  After we lost Levi, I started adding people who I didn’t think responded to us in the way we needed/wanted/expected them to.  Some people actually got kicked off the list because of the way they were what we needed/wanted/expected them to be.  I kinda joked about it, but my hurt feelings were real (still are), and I think I came pretty close to obsessing over those who hurt us- intentionally or not.  This morning, I realized that the list of names I was speaking to The Father was the list that really matters. It is impossible to forget the hurt, the bruised friendships, and the “collateral damage” of this tragedy, but I am going to try.  And, if you’re reading this, I am thankful for you, too.

Cherish

I was going to write about our venture into the nursery last night, but as I pulled out my laptop, I remembered that tomorrow is Megan’s birthday and decided she was worth a post.  Besides, it’s much happier to write about my best friend turning another year older (than me!) and after last night, I could use something happy to dwell on. 

Megan and I have been friends ever since she came to teach at West Rowan.  We got closer when I was moved into same building and sometime between then and now, we became inseparable.  When I was pregnant for the first time in 2011, she was one of the first/only people I told.  (I gave her a letter from the baby to his/her Aunt Megan.)  She cried as much as I did when that pregnancy ended in miscarriage.  She listened to me complain about not getting pregnant again on my timetable, and was ecstatic when we finally got pregnant with Levi.  She threw me an amazing baby shower, and gave only as much advice in one sitting as I could digest.

I called her from my doctor’s office when we learned that Levi was gone.  She wept for me- hard, long sobs that only a best friend and a mother could cry.  Her daughter was having a birthday sleepover that night and her husband was not yet home.  I assured her that she did not need to come (what could she do?) and gave her a few phone calls to make for me.  A few hours later, she came to the hospital anyway.  She went home in the middle of the night and was back early the next morning.  She stayed in the room while I delivered my precious boy. 

Megan ultimately became the medium between the outside world and me. She had to tell the story of our tragedy over and over again.  She arranged my substitute for school and corrected my lesson plans when I screwed them up.  She faced a room full of students who love me the most and answered questions about my broken heart.  She arranged meals for us, made insurance inquiries, made my favorite dessert, and sat on my couch and cried.  She ordered books that she thought might offer some comfort and read them when I was finished.  She started following the baby loss blogs I follow and sent screen shots of sections that spoke to her the most.  I could go on and on.  I’m sure I’ve forgotten many of the things she did in those early days that seem to run together in the sadness of it all. 

Almost ten weeks later, there are not many days that go by that Megan doesn’t mention Levi to me.  She never makes me feel guilty for having a day that sucks less than the others and she’s made a lot of sacrifices (and so has her husband) to be there for me.  If I’ve learned one thing through all of this it’s to not take things for granted.  To cherish what you’ve got while you’ve got it.  To appreciate every moment I’m given.

Happy Birthday, Megan.  I cherish you.

My Advice

Not that any one has really asked, but, I’ve been thinking about some of the things that I’ve done that have helped me deal with my grief, and I think they’re worth sharing.  Today, as I talked for over an hour with another BLM, she described the way I’ve handled some things as “proactive,” and I would have to agree.  I’ll give you an example.

A couple from our church was expecting a baby girl around the same time we were expecting Levi.  The mom and I had talked a bit about our pregnancies, and I was looking forward to watching our babies grow up together.  Her c-section was scheduled for just two days after my due date. They were very kind to us when we returned to church and Skip texted with them the day their little girl was born.

Every Sunday since, I’ve braced myself and glanced over to their area of the sanctuary to see if the new baby was making her Sunday debut.  Yesterday was her day.  It, luckily, was a pretty good day for me and in an instant, I decided that I had to go over and meet this precious little girl and hug her mama, my friend.  In the five previous weeks of nervous glances, I never planned to meet this little miracle.  I just needed to know that she was in the room so I could avoid her.  Going close enough to smell her baby skin was not in the plan.  But yesterday, it was. 

I needed to do it on my terms.  I needed to be the one who made the choice to be that close to another baby.  I needed to not run into them in the grocery store or a restaurant and not be prepared.  I needed to make the first move.  Honestly, had she been a little boy, I couldn’t have done it.  And, I couldn’t hold her or talk to her much.  But, I survived saying, “nice to meet you” and going back to my seat.  And, I was glad I did it.  Her dedication service will be next weekend, and I am grateful I have plans to be out of town.  I was dreading it already and relieved to not have to decide whether to stay in the worship service for the dedication. 

What I realized today talking to my friend is that there aren’t really set stages of grief.  We all do it differently.  Some BLMs I know cannot even look at babies on commercials, much less voluntarily walk right up to one.  I could on that given day, but I don’t want to attend a dedication service for a new baby- even though I SO believe in the act of dedicating babies to the Lord.  The next time I see this little girl, I may burst into tears.  Grief is something that cannot be taken one day at a time; it must be taken one breath at a time.   And, I am more than a little grateful that some breaths are getting easier to take. 

Hide Your Crazy

Yesterday was one of those days when I wished I was not plowing through my grief and insisting on rejoining the world.  I had a hair appointment right after school and I was actually looking forward to getting a new ‘do and visiting with Drew while she worked her magic.  It had already been a slightly worse day than normal even though I couldn’t put my finger on a reason (it wasn’t a day or date that usually hurts more). 

Once Drew put on my new color and moved me to another chair to process, I began halfheartedly scrolling through Face.book to pass the time.  And then, I saw them.  Pictures of a newborn baby.  Eyes swollen shut, not yet in clothes, looking a lot like Levi did on the day of his birth.  Except, this baby was breathing and his mama was smiling.   This mama announced her pregnancy just four weeks after we announced ours.  I knew she was getting close to her due date, and I had planned to hide her updates in the near future.  But, I hadn’t gotten around to it and there she was holding a tiny baby boy so close to the size that mine had been.  I couldn’t catch my breath.  I immediately shut the app and willed myself to stop thinking about it.  I talked to myself about how much I had to do before I could crawl in the bed and cry myself to sleep.  I easily had an hour to go in the salon, and the place was packed.   My husband had a meeting with a potential client scheduled at our house for dinner and I had (in a moment of insanity) volunteered to cook.  I simply did not have time to have a meltdown.  So, I didn’t.  Yet.

When it came time to leave, I gathered up my purse and my bag of new hair goodies and went to get out my car keys. I dug all through my purse, but I couldn’t find them.  I took out my wallet and my phone and my day planner and still didn’t see them.  I decided pretty quickly that I had locked them in my car. (Mostly because I had in fact locked them in my car last week at the gym and Skip had had to come rescue me.)  I finally decided to go out and check my car.  Let me tell you, it’s never a good thing when you’re relieved that your keys are not in your car.  But that meant they were actually lost and that, in the moment, seemed worse.  I stalked back into the salon and announced to those who knew I was having trouble finding them (which was everybody in the place by then) that they were not in my car.  Drew searched her counter and I even went through her drawers.  The keys were NO WHERE.  I was inching closer to panic mode.  And by panic mode, I mean ugly cry, melt down, can’t hide your crazy mode.   A colleague of mine who was in the salon gingerly asked if I would like for her to go through my purse for me.  I was embarrassed to need that kind of help, but I was also desperate to find my keys, so I handed over my bag.  She immediately pulled my keys out of the FRONT POCKET of my purse.  We told everyone that they were found and I held it together and faked a laugh and hit the door as fast as I could.  I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.

I made it all the way to the car before the tears came. The whole time I was in the salon looking for my keys and getting help from strangers and that nice colleague, I knew they were all thinking, that’s the girl whose baby just died. I knew that before I even made myself look straight crazy, they were all feeling sorry for me.  I imagined that just after I pulled out of the parking lot, the few ladies that didn’t know were getting filled in on our sadness.  I could almost hear the other hairdressers telling how I had been in the shop just a few weeks before Levi’s death talking about my baby shower and counting down the days.  I hate to feel pitied and it happens just about everywhere I go these days. 

This is a part of the grieving process that Skip doesn’t really understand.  When I say things about people feeling sorry for me, he says they should feel sorry for me.  He reminds me that I feel sorry for me, so it’s okay for others to feel the same.  But, I still hate it.  I especially hate it because sometimes my grief makes me do things that make me look stupid and incompetent and those are two things I’ve never been before.  I’ve always been pretty sharp.  I’m quick-witted and fairly analytical and I can hold my own in most situations.  In that salon yesterday, I felt like a little kid. 

I know that the impact of those pictures had a lot to do with my inability to help myself in those moments, but those onlookers did not (nor would I want them to).  I wish others could understand a little bit better, and I am SO glad that they don’t.  I do not for a second begrudge my Face.book friend a healthy baby.  I wouldn’t wish this type of pain on my very worst enemy.  I just wish that other people’s happiness didn’t hurt me so much right now. 

Everything's Different

I got pretty obsessed over the extra post-partum weight quickly after we came home.  Friends and family were bringing meals and I didn’t care whether I ate them or not, but I was calculating weight watcher points and reading labels like nobody’s business.  It gave me something to fixate my attention upon and something (I thought) I could control.  And after the first week and a few pounds lost, the number on the scale stopped moving.  I got back in the gym, we started Couch to 5K, and I didn’t lose an ounce.  My OB wasn’t concerned and everyone that I mentioned it to told me the same thing they told me about my grief, “give it time.”  For someone like me who has always been in total control of herself and almost every facet of her life, this was yet another thing that I had lost control over. 

The numbers on the scales are finally moving in the right direction again, and I went to my 4^th Weight Watcher meeting tonight.  While I enjoy the meeting as much as I enjoy anything these days, they (like everything else) are not like they used to be.  I used to speak up in the meeting about what worked for me that week.  I used to offer advice to others about their weight loss struggles.  Now, I sit pretty quietly and rarely speak up. I am thankful that no one in the meeting knows that I’m there to lose the baby weight that is here even though the baby is gone.  And, I’m mostly glad I don’t have to worry about talking to virtual strangers and having a total meltdown.

But, I also have this desire to scream, “this is not my fault!  I didn’t get to breast feed!” (Everyone assured me that the weight would just fall off if I would only breast feed.)  I want to tell perfect strangers that I did not just get fat, but that I was so deliriously happy during my pregnancy that I ate whatever I wanted.  And, it would’ve been totally worth having 25 pounds to lose if only I had Levi in my arms.  If the weight was coming off slowly because I’d rather snuggle a powder scented newborn than go to the gym.  If I didn’t have to buy pants two sizes bigger to wear to work because I wasn’t back at work yet.  If my reality was not the train wreck that it is, everything, EVERYTHING would be different.  The meeting tonight was yet another reminder that nothing in my life will ever be the same.  Even when things get easier to bear, and I am clinging to the hope that they do, nothing will ever be the same as it was before I lost my baby. 

Therapy

In the very first moments after I learned of Levi’s death, I knew I would write about his life, our loss, and the aftermath of it all.  What I didn’t know and have struggled with ever since is IF I would share my inmost thoughts on paper with others.  Today, on Babyloss Remembrance Day (a day I never knew existed and so wish didn’t have to) I have come to the conclusion that, yes, I do want to share with anyone who wants to read because I have been so impacted by others who were and are willing to share. And, writing is cheaper than therapy.

I have found such comfort in the blogs of other babyloss moms (yes, that’s what we’re called).  I found two that really resonated with me just a week after we came home from the hospital.  “Bythebrooke” is my favorite and is written by an English professor in St. Louis who lost her daughter Eliza almost three years ago.  “Deeper Still” is written by a woman named Larissa who’s in Australia and lost her baby Ariella just 32 weeks before we lost Levi. I can’t begin to tell you how much comfort I find in the words of these mamas.  I’ve emailed back and forth with them both and their words have been a salve to my shattered heart.

I think what pushed me to just sit down and write was my lack of participation in any of the Babyloss Remembrance Day “rituals” and my overwhelming guilt about it.  I spent a lot of time last night reading about the day and what other moms had posted that they would be doing to honor their babies today.  One mom even listed our sweet baby boy as one of the babies she would be lighting a candle for.  I even LIED and said I would do the same for her Zia.  And when it came down to it, I did nothing.  I didn’t want to light just any old candle.  I didn’t have the energy after school to go purchase a special “dead baby” candle(s). And, I rationalized with myself all day that I do not need a candle nor a day to remember my baby or my loss.  If I have one moment of the day that I don’t remember, it is fleeting.

But now that 7pm has come and gone, and I have done nothing but cry and post a picture on Face.book that I stole from a mom who did light a candle for her lost girl, I am overcome with guilt.  They say (they being people who’ve either gone through this or help counsel people who’ve gone through this) that the guilt us mamas feel after our loss is one of the worst side effects, and I’d have to agree.  Guilt that is not rational or deserved, but guilt nonetheless. Even in the moments when I feel like I am drowning in my grief and my guilt and I realize it’s not logical to feel the way I feel, the feelings come anyway and I am broken by things I could not do to save him or have not done right since he’s been gone.

So, I did not light a candle.  I do not have any pictures or special mementos displayed in our home (yet).  I did not even tell my husband or my mother or my best friend that today existed.  And I feel pretty crappy about it. But, I did make it out of bed this morning.  I taught 85 kiddos without having a breakdown. I made it to the gym, fixed dinner for my husband, and stuck to the crazy diet I’m doing this week.  I did some laundry and paperwork for our business.  And I missed my baby every second of today.