Month: December 2018

These are among the most magical years for Christmas. Maxwell is all about Santa, presents and the magic. I want so badly to soak it all up because I know these times are fleeting. But this year, I am having a hard time. Well, I wasn’t, but now that I’m sitting here on Christmas morning without my husband, without a visit from Santa, and without the new baby we so badly wanted, I can’t bring myself to be happy or excited. We knew Barry wasn’t going to be home for Christmas. We’ve been planning for Santa to make a special trip to our house as soon as he’s back. As grateful as we are for the USCG and how much it has given us, it’s hard to look past all of the things it also takes away. It takes away our daddy and our husband on holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, and funerals. It takes away our ability to be together on days like today where I’m sure he needs us just as much as we need him. I feel lucky that I get to be here, at home with our kids on Christmas because Barry doesn’t. But selfishly, I really want him here so that I don’t feel like I’m bearing the weight of being a newly bereaved parent on Christmas, alone, without the ability to even pretend that everything is okay. I didn’t actually think I would feel this sad today. I truly thought I would be able to pretend it was just another day, since we are having our Christmas celebration sometime in the next few weeks. But sitting here in this moment, all I can think about and feel is the emptiness and how I long for a house that is fuller, happier and more magical. Maybe if magic were real we’d have Gabriel here with us.

I got my hair highlighted for the first time in over a year considering I found out last March I was pregnant with Gabriel. As expected, talking about Gabriel remains more awkward for others than it is for me. “Aw, congratulations on your baby!” the hairdresser said. “Thank you”, I replied.

But, how do I talk about him without making people uncomfortable? How do I not become that sad and kind of pathetic person who blurts out, “Thank you, but he died”. But that’s what I do, because I am really freaking awkward. So maybe I am sad. And pathetic. Maybe I’m subconsciously trying to prove that I am still here, that I can laugh and smile and be excited about getting my hair done even though I had a baby who didn’t come home with me.

I want to talk about him. Even if talking about his birth means talking about his death, it’s better than neglecting his existence. I want to be able to tell people that I have had three kids, even if only two of them are here with me now. I don’t want people to be uncomfortable and I certainly don’t want them to feel bad for me. I don’t need the pity or the sympathy. I don’t crave attention. But I want to tell his story. I want to share my journey because I know this path is not unique to us. There are thousands of families who have walked it with us, and thousands more who will.

I was that person who could never, and would never, understand what grieving parents went through. I didn’t know what to say or to do for people whose lives were complicated by the tremendous grief of losing their child.

But here I am. I know what it’s like because I’ve experienced it. I am experiencing it. And I’m okay. There is life after loss. Maybe it’s not as full, or as busy. Maybe there are still days of sorrow, regret and heartache. And maybe it takes days, or even weeks to get out of bed and not feel like those are your predominant feelings. Eventually, the thought of the world continuing to turn despite your loss will no longer infuriate you. And slowly, you will pick yourself up and start living your life again. You will acclimate to your new normal and pretty soon you’ll feel comfortable enough to blurt out to a perfect stranger that you just lost your baby, but that it’s okay, because today you’re focusing on yourself. Today you’re embracing the fact that in order to be the best mom to your kids, you have to be happy and healthy. Today, you’re not giving into the notion that since you just lost a baby you’re supposed to be miserable. Today, you’re trying to see yourself as the amazing, resilient and strong person that everyone else sees you as. Because maybe, just maybe, all those people are right.

Grief is a funny thing. Even though it is a deeply personal, intimate and different experience for everyone we still feel compelled to fit a certain mold. Society tells us to grieve, but to grieve a certain amount. Not too much (or little), not too long (or brief) but juuuust the right amount for juuuust the right amount of time. The course of my grief after Gabriel’s birth and death has not followed the path I anticipated, but now more than ever I understand that until you’re faced with this, you really don’t know how you will cope and get through your days.

It may come as a surprise to those who know me, but part of my coping has involved not sharing Gabriel with anyone. I have not shared all details about his birth. I have not shared any pictures of him. We had professional photos done at the hospital that Barry and I still haven’t looked at. I am, by nature, an oversharer and feel comfortable sharing intimate details of our life, especially this journey. But I just can’t share more details about Gabriel and his short life. I hope that changes with time, as I’m sure our family and friends would love to see photos of him. Keeping him close and knowing that the only people who saw him and met him was us and our children somehow brings me comfort. I know it doesn’t make sense but it was a deeply personal and emotional day and I’m just not ready to share that with anyone.

What I will share is that he was big. He was 9lbs and 3oz. He had blonde curly hair and he looked so much like Max that it was uncanny. Most importantly, and a detail that brings us closure and comfort, is that there was never a struggle, never pain and no suffering on his part. He never knew he was sick, but certainly knew warmth, comfort and love. It was immensely more peaceful than I had imagined and as a mom who knew I was going to have to say goodbye to my baby, it happened just as I had prayed it would.

I can say that losing a baby has been the most difficult thing I’ve ever experienced. I don’t have anything to compare it to, but it’s certainly in a completely different ballpark than anything I’ve been through before. That being said, the anticipatory grief was a whole lot worse for me. Yes, I gave birth to a baby and knew he wasn’t going to survive. Yes, I watched him decline before my eyes. And yes, he passed away in my arms. We spent time with him, both while he was alive and long after he had passed. It’s still immensely difficult to think about who he would have been, and how perfectly he would have fit into our family. It still brings me to tears if I allow myself to go down that road. I can still work myself up when I think about all the shitty people in the world who have babies who are healthy until the “nurture” (or lack thereof) process takes over. If I allowed myself to be consumed by that, though, I could never be a good mom to Max and Lauren, or a good wife to Barry. I would never be able to grieve in a way that is “normal”. I began this process months ago and can admit that never planning on bringing Gabriel home prepared me for my empty arms when I left that hospital room. Anticipating that his life was going to be brief meant that we had to plan on soaking up every single minute we were with him. And we did just that. We admired every inch of his perfect body, stroked his soft cheeks and cute nose for hours. We told him we loved him. We introduced him to his brother and his sister and had the chance to see Max absolutely light up when he held him. We have pictures of Max holding Gabriel with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, not knowing that Gabriel’s heart was no longer beating. But he didn’t care, he was smitten by his baby brother and his “cute little nose”. After he decided he was done holding Gabriel, he began begging for snacks and was overly excited about the Saltine crackers he found and we gave to him. Because the innocence of 4 year olds never ceases to amaze.

And it’s that same innocence, mixed with a whole lot of persistence, that has really saved us from wallowing in all the grief we feel like we should have. Kids do not skip a beat. Kids don’t understand grief in the ways that adults do, though they certainly still feel it. Kids still need to be fed, bathed, loved, held and played with whether you’re sad or not. We feel really lucky to have two kids at home who keep us going and give us a reason not to feel bad for ourselves. Even though there is a hole in our life where Gabriel should be, we are working on filling it with the few memories and mementos we have of him. And despite this loss, our life is bursting at the seams. All of the great things we have still outweigh all the bad we’ve been through. The things we’re grateful for still outnumber the things we’re not. And in time, the days where we have to choose joy will quickly fade into days where we can truly be joyous again.