Always heavy

Today is one of those days where I could just cry forever.

The more this baby grows inside of me, the more I miss him.

Two days. Not even two days.

I held him while he died. I held him for his entire life - the end of his life.

It doesn't stop. It doesn't stop.

Time does not make it easier. The person who said that is wrong. It's bullshit.

The weight of the grief? Is always the same. Maybe some days, it's easier to pick up - but the size never changes. It's always heavy.

"An Exact Replica..."

I just finished reading "An Exact Replica Of A Figment Of My Imagination" by Elizabeth McCracken. I bought it after reading the post from a BLM blog about how much she enjoyed the book and felt connected to the author.

I have to admit, the first two or three chapters were very hard for me to follow. She is living in France at the time of her son's stillbirth with her European husband. So there was a little bit of dialogue that was difficult for me to follow (and the fact that they named their baby Pudding), but once I got past that, this book consumed me and I loved Pudding too.

Here are a few entries from it that I found particularly moving and could relate with very well:

"I thought stillbirth was a thing of history, and then it happened to me, and yet now when I hear of a baby dying I'm just as incredulous. You mean they still haven't figured this out?"

"I want to hear about every dead baby, everywhere in the world. I want to know their names, Christopher, Strick, Jonathon. I want their mothers to know about Pudding. The dead don't need anything. The rest of us could use come company."

"When I returned for every successive appointment, the pregnant women in the waiting room made me sad: there they sat in the present, dreaming of the future. I couldn't bear watching. I wanted a separate waiting room for people like me, with different magazines. No Parenting or Pregnancy, no ads with pink or tawny or pearly smiling infants. I wanted Hold Your Horses Magazine. Don't Count Your Chickens for Women."

I've also found great comfort in the books Still by Stephanie Cole and Waiting With Gabriel by Amy Kuebelbeck.

What books have you read that helped with your grief or at the very least - reassured you that you weren't completely alone in this? My Amazon account is open and waiting for suggestions.

Cry

I've cried every day for eight weeks. It's not that I keep track, I just know there hasn't been one day that I haven't broke down. When did you have that first "tear-free" day? I want mine.

My waves

Today was hard. Saying that almost makes what I experienced today a huge understatement. Everywhere I looked around the house, every single time I looked into my daughter's beautiful eyes - Sawyer was there.

It was one of the first times since we've been back at the house that I didn't force myself to go out and "keep busy." My arms and legs were like rubber, my heart was aching and I felt sick to my stomach all day.

It was probably one of the most beautiful days of the summer, and I couldn't drag myself out of the house and I feel terrible for keeping Sadie so cooped up.

I tried to keep busy in different ways. Researching again all morning long - trying over and over to find another family who has experienced our heartbreak and pain. I have yet to find another mother or father who has dealt with the same type of Truncus Arteriosis that Sawyer had. I just need to know I'm not alone.

After looking for leads, Sadie and I had lunch. Just like we used to before our lives changed. Sitting at the kitchen table, the sunshine pouring in through the windows - we eat our lunch. But the banter is different. I lose myself in almost every moment, thinking of how things could have been. A single tear rolls down my face. Sadie stops her playful talk, looks at me seriously and asks "You okay Mommy?"

No. I'm not. I'm not okay. I miss my baby and I'm just so sad. It's such a small word and it consumes me at almost every moment. Sad.

The grief is just like my mom said it would be. She lost her second baby too, a son. The pain, she assured me, comes in waves. And that's how it's been. Big waves, small waves. There are never days where there are no waves at all. Just like a calm day at the beach, there's always the tiniest wave lapping at the shoreline. Making its presence known, not letting you ever forget.

And that was my day. Huge waves. One right after the other.

No tears at bedtime

Last night was the first time in over four weeks that Erik and I went to bed without crying.

Part of me wonders how bad this is...

Am I a horrible mother for not continuing to mourn the death of my baby until the day I die? Because that's how I feel this morning.