Marking Time

Monday January 8, 2018  is an odd sort of coincidental date of triggering thoughts and feelings. First, it is a Monday, marking 35 weeks since Corva was delivered. Second, this 8th of January marks 8 months since the birth of my youngest daughter.

Although Corva was born on her due date, technically she was inside me for 38 weeks. This means that in three weeks, on Monday January 29 (or, likely, Saturday January 27th), Corva will have been dead for as long as she was alive

This weekend was particularly difficult for me. With the days lining up precisely as they did in May 2017, I was reminded on Friday January 5th that Friday May 5th was my last day of work. And on Saturday January 6th I remembered that on Saturday May 6th I insisted that my husband go to urgent care after days of illness and severe abdominal pain. On Sunday January 7th I remembered that on Sunday May 7th I picked my husband up from the hospital after his night spent in observation,  conscious of the fact that the very next day was my due date, oblivious to the fact that my daughter had likely already passed away. Last night I recalled that 8 months ago, I fell asleep cuddling with my then-3-year old only to awaken in the night with labor pains. I wasn’t concerned only excited. Was she moving? I don’t recall, though now I can say, likely not; testing indicates Corva likely passed a couple days prior to birth.

This is how I mark time now. By Mondays and 8ths. And I wonder if it will always be this way.



Woke up and wished that I was dead
With an aching in my head
I lay motionless in bed
I thought of you and where you’d gone
And let the world spin madly on.


 

Not Ready to Make Nice

The other morning, as my daughter and I were heading down the garage steps to get into the Jeep, she stopped abruptly and plopped herself on the top step, crying. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “You stepped on me!” she wailed. I did? I didn’t think I was anywhere near her but perhaps I did step on the heel of her shoe. I didn’t argue with her because her perception was that I had hurt her, even if in my mind I wasn’t near her at all. Instead, I sat down next to her and gathered her in my arms. “I am so sorry, I did not mean to hurt you. Will you forgive me?” And then it occurred to me: “Do you know what forgive means?”

These are my most candid moments as a parent–the ones where I really have to stop and think about something in order to carefully explain it in 4-year-old terms. What does it mean to forgive?

I explained that when we forgive someone, we still love them even if they hurt us.

Okay, it’s not the most complete definition, but it was the best I could devise on the spot with minimal coffee.

But really, forgiveness is much more complex. For me, related to the death of my baby, forgiveness is muddled with anger, betrayal, sadness, and guilt. I’m angry with my midwife, I’m angry with myself, I’m angry with the universe.

FORGIVENESS:

“A conscious, deliberate decision to release feelings of resentment or vengeance toward a person or group who has harmed you, regardless of whether they actually deserve your forgiveness.”

Wow. How does a person even start? To forgive my midwife. To forgive myself. To forgive the situation that nobody can change. 

Why does it matter? Why can’t I live the rest of my life harboring this guilt, anger, and bitterness? Advice about forgiveness abounds. We hear it from psychologists, poets, religious leaders and our mothers.


But all of these feel-good sunshiny quotes I found online–I say “Eff you.”

My baby died.

My heart hurts.

I just cannot make myself forgive that easily.

I’m still mad as hell.


Is there anyone you haven’t been able to forgive? Have any of you been able to forgive someone without receiving an apology? Has anyone received an apology but still wasn’t able to forgive that person?

On Friendship 

ACT 1

Today a coworker, let’s call her Fran, came into work with her newborn. I saw her down the hall showing him off to two other coworkers. I quickly slipped into my office and closed the door. No way was I going to handle that well. Later, a friend told me that Fran had been looking for me specifically. Eek.

The thing is, I feel like Fran should know better. She’s the one who wanted my address so she could send me an invitation to her baby shower. (Clue #1: no response to the text). She’s also someone who rescued me from taking baby appointments during the 22 days I worked at WIC post-loss. (Clue #2: me bawling in my office after seeing a baby). Later, this afternoon I noticed an envelope in the box on my office door. Thinking it was from someone else, I opened it. A thank you card. With a  photo collage postcard of her living baby. Pre-loss, I magneted photo cards like this onto our fridge.   Uh-uh. No way. I tried to pawn off the card on my living daughter but she had her own choice words to say about that baby. What the hell am I supposed to do with this card?

ACT 2

Six weeks after my loss, a friend, let’s call her Holly, phoned to tell me she is pregnant. (A rough way to receive such news, as I desperately held back tears while congratulating her). And even though I have known this woman for nine years, and even though she was one of the first people to reach out to me in my grief and offer her support, I have drawn back from her. I have stopped responding to her texts. I have neglected to return her phone calls. Last week I had a meeting in the building where she works and I couldn’t bring myself to stop by her office. 

Fran and Holly didn’t dump in or say hurtful platitudes. All they did was get pregnant and deliver (or expect to deliver) a living baby. However, I selfishly don’t want anything to do with either of these people. I don’t want to see them or talk to them and I CERTAINLY don’t want to see their babies.  This is incredibly unfair to both of them. 

Then again, it is incredibly astronomically unfair that my baby died.


In the midst of your grief, did you lose friends as a result of circumstance? Were the friendships eventually mended?