to say or not to say?

People say “Everything happens for a reason.” People say “At least he’s with God now.” People say “You’re young and you can try again soon.” Some people don’t say anything. Well, none of that helps. What was the reason? Why would God be so selfish? Do you seriously think I want to a) even think about going through that again so soon and b) have a different child? I want the one I started in January! And those of you who didn’t respond to the news that took me literally hours to muster up the courage to share, don’t you have anything to say? I appreciate that this is a sad, horrible situation and that plenty of people don’t think they can handle it or that they don’t know what to do to help (hence the crappy advice). But something I’ve learned is that a few words say the most: “I’m sorry. I love you. I’m here for you.” The list goes on, actually. Believe it or not I think there are more right things to say than wrong…and frankly, I’d rather have you say something I find to be “wrong” at the time than keep quiet. While I can’t promise I won’t paste it on my blog later and bitch about it I can promise I appreciate the effort. Maybe that’s just me, but I’m keeping that in mind for my ownself in the future.

Boob Takeover

I am feeling conflicted about writing this, but I think it’s time to share it. Part of the confliction, I think, is that I don’t feel right making fun of my situation. It doesn’t really feel good to laugh about any of it, even if it is amazing, ridiculous, or anything else good. I mean, I had a baby. I made it through childbirth. Hubby and I have survived, even came out better than before, those are good things. But I don’t have a baby for it, and I really don’t know what went wrong, so I don’t find the success and fun in them I should.

However, some things just can’t be contained.

Like my boobs.

My boobs got enormous. Huge. The doctor warned me, as I was sitting in the hospital bed, holding Wyatt and wondering what to do next. “The milk will come in. It’s kind of cruel, but it’s nature,” she said. “Wear a tight sports bra, the tightest one you have, don’t stimulate the nipples-I mean, don’t even let the water in the shower hit them-and it will go away in a few days.” I still wasn’t prepared. I mean, I was focusing on some other things, but still, I know she warned me and I just wasn’t ready. They literally blew up. Spilling-out-the-sides-and-top-of-my-full-coverage-sports-bra-blew up. I still can’t get over it. They looked like Heidi Montag-Pratt-whatever’s from The Hills after her full body makeover, and she paid for those. I’m talking cantaloupes, round and pert and firm just like ‘em. I know I can’t do it justice, just writing about it—even telling someone about it in person with props and hand motions will never do them justice. Now Hubby is the only one who can attest what is possible in my chest department. But I have proof that I can make milk for a baby…and that my skin is verrrrry stretchy. So at least that’s good.

Support Group

I never pictured myself attending any kind of help group. I never pictured a lot of things that are now a part of my reality, so, here we are. I’m certainly not against groups, and as someone who’s been around psychology and education a lot I think they’re legit. Just, personally, talking exhausts me. Especially to strangers. Yikes! If the definition of an introvert is someone who needs alone time to recharge from others then that’s me in a nutshell. But when the hospital solace person mentioned a support group for parents of pregnancy or infant loss and suggested we give it a try, I didn’t even think twice. And now that we’ve been, I’ve even got Hubby thinking it’s a good idea.

The real problem is that everyone’s story is so sad! All these sad parents talking about their sweet little babies. Babies who kicked them and kept them up at night, babies who made them sick for three months and tired and cranky for more. Babies they gave birth to and held, babies who lived for two weeks or no weeks. Babies who were perfectly fine and babies who had severe health problems. Really, what can be sadder than sick and dead babies? Boy, it is exhausting. But it’s also liberating. I couldn’t even introduce myself without bursting into tears and using two tissues. It felt great!

While I can’t say every day is getting better, I can say longer stretches of time are getting better. This group is going to help with that. And I have found myself being sarcastic again…so maybe I’ll start sharing some of those stupid things again.

my "maternity" leave

After all the fun I’ve poked at being pregnant, other pregnant ladies, stretch mark creams, babies, and other things, I feel the fool. My baby son was born three months early on July 21^st, and he was not alive. There is not much sarcasm or fun-poking to be had about that; that’s probably part of why I had to take some time off between posts. It’s not that fun to write somber, depressing, sad things. It’s more fun to write about how jiggly my thighs were getting and how if I didn’t take a two hour nap you didn’t even want to think about talking to me. But I suppose it’s time to say something, and I suppose living my life in this new way is all I can do.

I went in for a regular check up and got the shock of my life: no heartbeat. A close second was the reality that I was going to have to give birth to this poor little baby. I didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl (and I very much recommend being surprised). The lady doing the ultrasound felt so bad and so guilty it made me feel even worse. Of course there were all the happy pregnant ladies hanging around the joint, chatting by the scale as if it was coffee break at the office. I didn’t want to use the bathroom because I didn’t want to walk down the hallway and scare them all into thinking it could happen to them too. But somehow, I made it through. We did. Hubby joined me for the marathon hospital wait, studying for the bar exam (lucky guy) while I surfed tv channels and cramped up like there was no tomorrow. Eventually, Wyatt was born. (Feet first, just to make it fun). We held him, checked him out, cried a heckofalot over him, and eventually had to say goodbye.

Now, I’m a mom.