It has been said (by me and others) that grief is not a linear process.  For me, these past few months have been more like a roller coaster.  It’s impossible to know what’s around the curve, and just when I think that I’m going to survive the ride, I get turned upside down and sideways.

Recently, a member of my immediate family called me “bitter,” “hostile,” and “hypersensitive.”  What that person doesn’t know is that for those of us who have lost a child, bitter doesn’t even begin to describe the flood of feelings that we’re dealing with.  Damn right I’m bitter.  I’m angry at God/Higher Power/Whatever — for taking our baby or at least failing to intervene (people are always talking about miracles — were we not worthy of one?)  I’m incredulous at some of the insensitive things that have been said to my husband and me in the wake of our loss.  I’m disappointed with people who insist that they understand, then try to tell us how to grieve (or how not to).

Here’s something that it took me years to learn:  our feelings are what they are.  Denying feelings doesn’t soften them or make them go away.  Trying to suppress them is like pressing down on the top of a really messy sandwich — instead of making things tidy, it makes stuff ooze from the sides.

So what are we to do with the feelings?  What do I do with the feelings that keep coming at me, crashing like stormy waves and often changing with the frequency of New England weather?  Sometimes I have to hunker down, close my eyes tightly, grit my teeth, and ride them out.  Sometimes I write.  Often I cry.  But I know I can’t deny my feelings.  I can’t snap my fingers and make myself stop being sad or angry.  I have to acknowledge the sadness, anger, confusion, disappointment, or whatever I’m feeling at the moment.  I don’t have to wallow in my feelings, but I do have to acknowledge them, because they are what they are.  The waves crash over my head, and they sometimes knock me down.  There will be other storms in the future.  But I know that eventually, this storm will subside.  Never completely… but enough for me to be able to open my eyes, stand up, and breathe again.

October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

Sadly, for too many of us, every day is pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day.

Lately, I’ve been trying to get out for a walk almost every day.  The other day, I saw a dandelion — in perfect condition for wish-making.  But I kept walking.  All I could think of to wish for was to have Maggie alive and well, here in my arms.  And I knew that no matter how hard I wished, no matter how hard I blew on that dandelion, that wish could never come true.  That was a bitter reality to swallow, but I kept walking.

A couple of days later, I was out for another walk.  I saw another dandelion — probably not the same one, but one of many.  This time, I picked the dandelion, made a wish, and blew.  It wasn’t the same wish from the other day — I know I can’t have that wish.  But I was able to come up with another wish.  Maybe that’s what hope means to me these days — being able to come up with other wishes, even though my biggest wish can’t come true.  Being able to look to the future.  Being able to stop, pick that dandelion, wish, and blow.

Guilt has been another common feeling for me during this ordeal.  My biggest question:  Why wasn’t Maggie safe in my belly?   I wasn’t drinking, smoking, or using drugs.  I was doing everything right, and not taking risks.  My belly should have been the safest place in the world for her.

Yesterday was my birthday.  These days it’s hard to feel celebratory about anything.  I suppose this is the first of a handful of milestones we’ll face in the coming year — Thanksgiving, Christmas, Chris’ birthday…  Sometimes it’s not a holiday, but just a beautiful Sunday afternoon.  Somehow it seems wrong to enjoy things when our daughter is not here.  I imagine that with time, smiles may come a little more easily.  Maybe someday we’ll even be able to feel joy again.  But for now, even the happier days are tinged with sorrow and riddled with what-ifs and if-onlys.

When we lost Maggie, I was unprepared for the anger I felt.  I could understand the sadness and the puddles of tears, but why was I so pissed off?

I felt cheated, like I’d been royally screwed by the Universe.  I’m not a religious person, but I believe in God.  At least I did before losing Maggie.  How could God give us this precious gift and let me carry her around for 38 weeks, only to snatch her away?  It’s so cruel.  There are so many times where I feel like turning my back on God (or whatever higher power) and denying his existence.  I can’t even bring myself to capitalize the pronouns (as writers are supposed to when referring to a deity).  Other times I’ve talked to him, wondering why he would do such a thing.  Or wishing he’d taken me instead of making me live without my daughter.  But there doesn’t seem to be much one can do about being angry at God.  It’s not like I’m going to vandalize a church or anything.  So what to do?

The other night I saw Kanye West on the Jay Leno Show.  He attributed his acting out to his failure to grieve his mother’s untimely death last year (due to botched surgery).  I imagine lots of viewers rolled their eyes at that, but to me it makes a lot of sense.  It makes sense that Kanye is angry, both at the surgeon and at God/The Universe/ Whatever.  And maybe feeling like he has no control over the loss has led to acting out.  I can understand that.

In the weeks since losing Maggie, I have taken out my anger on others.  I’ve had a hair-trigger temper, sometimes aimed at people who don’t deserve it.  One day, I fired off a hateful, expletive-laden e-mail to Babies R Us for failing to remove my address from their mailing list.  Sure, I’d already asked them twice, but my actions were disproportionately over-the-top, considering the offense.  Why would I do such a thing?  Maybe because I don’t have God’s e-mail address.  Maybe because I feel more powerful when I’m angry than when dissolved into a puddle of tears.

I think acknowledging anger is key to working through it.  Growing up, I was often admonished to be happy and cheerful — anger was a “bad” emotion.  It never occurred to me that I could say, “I’m angry.”  So I acted out, especially as an adolescent.  Now I realize that it’s OK to be angry about my loss.  It’s OK to say that I’m pissed off, especially at God/The Universe/Whatever for the epic unfairness of all of this.  It may not seem to fit in with the Grieving Mother role, but I realize that, at least for me, it has come with the territory.  So now for me, it’s about trying NOT to take out my anger on innocent people, but to channel my anger in healthy ways.

I am angry.

I am angry at my body for failing to keep my daughter safe.

I am angry at modern medicine — there seems to be a pill for almost everything, yet babies are still dying even in the 21st century..

I am angry at the well-meaning people who say, “You’re young — you can try again.”

I am angry at the people who have said nothing at all.

I am angry at God/The Universe/Whatever for letting us fall in love with Maggie, then taking her away.

I am angry.

But that’s OK.

The following is from a Hebrew Book of Prayer.  Chris and I both found it very touching.

We Remember You

In the rising of the sun and in its going down,

We remember you.

In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,

We remember you.

In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring,

We remember you.

In the blueness of the sky and the warmth of summer,

We remember you.

In the rustling of leaves and the beauty of autumn,

We remember you.

In the beginning of the year and when it ends,

We remember you.

When we are weary and in need of strength,

When we are lost and sick at heart,

When we have joys we yearn to share,

We remember you.

So long as we live, you too shall live,

For you are now a part of us,

As we remember you.

I almost had a panic attack in Walgreen’s the other day. I was buying a birthday card for my 2-year-old nephew (as if he cares about getting a damn card). I’ve decided that the greeting cards section can be a freaking minefield for anyone who’s lost a child. There were cards congratulating people on their new baby or pregnancy, sympathy cards, and even Halloween cards (since when was Halloween a Hallmark holiday?) Everything seemed to remind me that Maggie will never turn 2, and that she’ll never go trick-or-treating on Halloween. I found a card and got out of that aisle as fast as I could. Then the woman in front of me at the checkout was chatting it up with the pregnant cashier, so I ended up finding out that the cashier is having a girl. Ugh. I know they had know way of knowing how painful it was for me to hear the conversation (or why it was so painful). But I just couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Everywhere I look around, I see babies, babies, and more babies. If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. It’s not that I begrudge others their babies — it’s that I long to have Maggie in my arms.

I wish I could go on vacation somewhere where there are no children – kind of like an Anti-Disneyland. Grief Camp.

Insomnia has been a pretty persistent problem in the 8 1/2 weeks since losing Maggie.  I have Ambien, temazepam, and Benadryl.  Unfortunately, I didn’t take anything when I went to bed a few hours ago.  Around 2:45am, I woke up — I could have sworn I heard the doorbell ring, but it must have been a dream, right?  Like all of this — some horrible dream, right?  Right?  If only.

And if I can sleep, then there are sometimes vivid dreams involved — dreams apart from the nightmare that I’ve been living.  The hardest ones involve babies.

Solo insomnia really sucks.  I’m jealous that Chris is sleeping so soundly, but he will have to get up soon enough, so I try not to wake him up.  So what to do?  Take a hot bath?  Take a long walk?  I feel somewhat limited in what I can do at 4am.

In the future, I will refer to July 7 as “Maggie’s Day.”  Since her death preceded her birth, the standard birth – death date format doesn’t really work very well.  Since birth certificates aren’t issued in cases of stillbirth (only certificates of fetal death), would she technically have a date of birth?  July 7 is the day she was delivered.  It’s the day we finally got to see her beautiful face, her tiny little feet, and her long little fingers.  It’s Maggie’s Day.

I got out of bed and fought the oncoming Ambien haze to start this blog.  As I add posts, I hope to work through some of what I’m feeling after losing my first, my only, my beautiful child.  The occasional meltdown may be public, tinged with a bit of internet anonymity.

This is my story.  I won’t try to speak for every woman who’s suffered a similar loss.  I’ll just say what’s on my mind.  And I’ll try to link to resources as I come across them — a perinatal bereavement clearinghouse of sorts.

Perhaps you’re here because you know me, and you want to gain some insight into why I changed forever after that day.  Perhaps you don’t know me at all, but have had a similar experience.  Perhaps you’re up in the middle of the night googling “stillbirth,” because you (or someone you know) were blindsided by loss.  Whatever brings you here, welcome.  Whether you seek clarity, comfort, or camaraderie, I hope you find what you’re looking for.

Peace.