ttc | pregnancy | birth after loss > Having a hard day
oh, yes.
all this is one of the reasons that books like 'the secret' piss me off so much. they would have you believe that our babies died because we somehow believed they would or wanted them too or some such nonsense.
i didn't believe all that before either. i did believe that bad things happen to good people for no reason at all. but i did also believe that you could attract good things to happen to you, that you could make good things more likely to happen. and yes, now i realise how horrendously arrogant and naive i was.
i don't entirely want to go back to who i was before. i don't want to be naive and arrogant. but i hate being this depressed person who gets freaked out by pregnant women and who cries and who is never really truly happy any more. i miss having energy. i miss enjoying life.
it took me a long time to accept that this grief is for the long haul. then it took me a long time to accept that this depression and anxiety are for the long haul. but hell, we've been through a devastating experience. why did it come as such a surprise to me that this will take a long time to deal with?
but it does.
it's not fair but it's true.
thinking of you keely.
all this is one of the reasons that books like 'the secret' piss me off so much. they would have you believe that our babies died because we somehow believed they would or wanted them too or some such nonsense.
i didn't believe all that before either. i did believe that bad things happen to good people for no reason at all. but i did also believe that you could attract good things to happen to you, that you could make good things more likely to happen. and yes, now i realise how horrendously arrogant and naive i was.
i don't entirely want to go back to who i was before. i don't want to be naive and arrogant. but i hate being this depressed person who gets freaked out by pregnant women and who cries and who is never really truly happy any more. i miss having energy. i miss enjoying life.
it took me a long time to accept that this grief is for the long haul. then it took me a long time to accept that this depression and anxiety are for the long haul. but hell, we've been through a devastating experience. why did it come as such a surprise to me that this will take a long time to deal with?
but it does.
it's not fair but it's true.
thinking of you keely.
September 15, 2010 |
B
B
Ditto! I agree with every word said here. I long to be happy again. Is it possible?
September 15, 2010 |
Francisca
Francisca
Keely,
I'm really sorry to hear that you're having such a bad day. I can definitely relate to how you feel out of control. I've found myself, at times, getting choked up during random conversations, and I feel embarassed and over-emotional. For me, those times come and go, and I'm sure they will do the same for you--you won't feel this way, to this extent, all the time, forever.
I know what it's like to go through low times that seem like there is no light at the end of the tunnel, but I believe there is. It probably won't be the same light as you once knew, but a more enlightened one, even if a little dimmer.
I read a book recently that had a quote that really touched me, and although it didn't make my troubles or hypersensitivity disappear, it gave me a glimpse at a different perspective, and I hope it helps you as well.
"This is what you do with grief, you lean into it & open your fingers. You let it support you like the frail beauty of the turning luminous earth."-Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (The Vine of Desire--a book with two main characters, the one who spoke these words was a babylost mother.)
I hope you have a strong support structure close by you today, but even if not, know that we're here for you.
Thinking of you,
P
I'm really sorry to hear that you're having such a bad day. I can definitely relate to how you feel out of control. I've found myself, at times, getting choked up during random conversations, and I feel embarassed and over-emotional. For me, those times come and go, and I'm sure they will do the same for you--you won't feel this way, to this extent, all the time, forever.
I know what it's like to go through low times that seem like there is no light at the end of the tunnel, but I believe there is. It probably won't be the same light as you once knew, but a more enlightened one, even if a little dimmer.
I read a book recently that had a quote that really touched me, and although it didn't make my troubles or hypersensitivity disappear, it gave me a glimpse at a different perspective, and I hope it helps you as well.
"This is what you do with grief, you lean into it & open your fingers. You let it support you like the frail beauty of the turning luminous earth."-Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (The Vine of Desire--a book with two main characters, the one who spoke these words was a babylost mother.)
I hope you have a strong support structure close by you today, but even if not, know that we're here for you.
Thinking of you,
P
September 15, 2010 |
P
P
Oh, Keely, I am so sorry that today is feeling particularly hard and that you are even having to think about any of this at all. It's just so unfair. I think one of the very hardest things that babylost parents (or any parent who has lost a child) is realizing how little control we have. When I was going through the worst (so far) of my guilt over whether we could have saved Hudson if we'd taken her to the ER earlier, one of my friends rightly pointed out that I was desperate to believe that we could have (even though to know so would feel horrible) because to have to accept that we cannot protect our children (or ourselves) from everything really feels even worse.
Ever since I found out I was pregnant, I have started being hyper-vigilant about what I eat. I started drinking smoothies with spinach yesterday, for pete's sake. Not that this is a bad thing-- obviously lots of women do this when they find out they are pregnant and obviously eating more green veggies is good for me and for the pregnancy. But I ate junk food with wild abandon all through my pregnancy with Hudson and she was just fine. She was better than fine-- she was ahead on lots of developmental scales, especially language. So I know that my insane thoughts about what I do and don't eat now have nothing to do with really controlling the outcome, as much as they have to do with my PERCEPTION that I can somehow control the outcome. Because the alternative, as I've already learned, sucks big time, and, even now, is nearly impossible for me to accept.
And I can just so feel you on wanting to be the girl you used to be. I don't even recognize myself in pictures and videos from when Hudson was alive. I am a completely different person, more subdued, less vibrant, less likely to engage people. I, too, want to believe that having another child will bring back that other girl. And even though I know in my heart that it won't, the one thing that I hold on to is that this new person that I have become, for all the basketcase that I am on a regular basis, is also a better person, with a much deeper appreciation for what is really important and an uncommon understanding of how short life is and how we have to suck out of it what we can while we can. Now, understanding those things and actually acting on them are two different things, but it's just a process, I guess.
One last thing. You probably already read this on the blog, but for the other mamas here, a friend sent me a quote from the book she is reading (Out Stealing Horses by Per Patterson). The main character, a 15-year-old boy, after experiencing the hardest thing in his life, says:
"It was as if a curtain had fallen. It was like being born again. The colors were different, the smells different, the feeling things gave you right down inside yourself was different. Not just the difference between heat, cold; light, darkness; purple, grey, but the difference in the way I was frightened and the way I was happy."
And it's true that realizing that this curtain is permanent, for life, forever, is one of the worst and hardest things about this process. It may change in quality over time-- get lighter, more transparent, but it is always there. We may get some sneak peeks around it every once in a while, but it is always there.
I'm just so sorry you have to go through this struggle. Keep leaning on us.
Ever since I found out I was pregnant, I have started being hyper-vigilant about what I eat. I started drinking smoothies with spinach yesterday, for pete's sake. Not that this is a bad thing-- obviously lots of women do this when they find out they are pregnant and obviously eating more green veggies is good for me and for the pregnancy. But I ate junk food with wild abandon all through my pregnancy with Hudson and she was just fine. She was better than fine-- she was ahead on lots of developmental scales, especially language. So I know that my insane thoughts about what I do and don't eat now have nothing to do with really controlling the outcome, as much as they have to do with my PERCEPTION that I can somehow control the outcome. Because the alternative, as I've already learned, sucks big time, and, even now, is nearly impossible for me to accept.
And I can just so feel you on wanting to be the girl you used to be. I don't even recognize myself in pictures and videos from when Hudson was alive. I am a completely different person, more subdued, less vibrant, less likely to engage people. I, too, want to believe that having another child will bring back that other girl. And even though I know in my heart that it won't, the one thing that I hold on to is that this new person that I have become, for all the basketcase that I am on a regular basis, is also a better person, with a much deeper appreciation for what is really important and an uncommon understanding of how short life is and how we have to suck out of it what we can while we can. Now, understanding those things and actually acting on them are two different things, but it's just a process, I guess.
One last thing. You probably already read this on the blog, but for the other mamas here, a friend sent me a quote from the book she is reading (Out Stealing Horses by Per Patterson). The main character, a 15-year-old boy, after experiencing the hardest thing in his life, says:
"It was as if a curtain had fallen. It was like being born again. The colors were different, the smells different, the feeling things gave you right down inside yourself was different. Not just the difference between heat, cold; light, darkness; purple, grey, but the difference in the way I was frightened and the way I was happy."
And it's true that realizing that this curtain is permanent, for life, forever, is one of the worst and hardest things about this process. It may change in quality over time-- get lighter, more transparent, but it is always there. We may get some sneak peeks around it every once in a while, but it is always there.
I'm just so sorry you have to go through this struggle. Keep leaning on us.
September 15, 2010 |
Mandy
Mandy
Do I think about it? Oh my yes.
Yes, there was a lot of naivete, and a fair amount of arrogance way back when. And a lot of useless worrying and a lot of unhappiness trying to control things I know intimately understand to be outside the spans of my control.
And yet. . . I wouldn't change it. I don't think, anyway. I think that grief can be a crucible, a refining fire. And I think I am a better person in many ways for my grief. I was where you are at for a long time - and I'm not saying I'm not still there or won't come back again. But I'm sort of seeing now ways in which I think I'm better. More kind, more compassionate, less judgmental, more willing to appreciate beauty for what it is, more understanding of the arc that is all life, better perspective.
But. . . but. I don't like how much more frail happiness is, how easy guilt falls, how quick I am to assume responsibility, how quick to fall back into the way of thinking that good things happen to good people, and therefore since something bad happened to me, I must be bad.
I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore. I despise the idea of a silver lining in this, the cynic in me scoffs and roars, but . . . I can see good. And I know that my work situation (as frustrating and unhappy and stressful as it currently is) would not be like this and I'd likely be on the chopping block were it not for the changes made by Gabe's absence. It's not a happy thought, necessarily. But it's no less true for that.
I suppose all events are formative. This is just a baldly, transparent sort of changing event, and one on which I think we spend a good deal of time reflecting on.
Yes, there was a lot of naivete, and a fair amount of arrogance way back when. And a lot of useless worrying and a lot of unhappiness trying to control things I know intimately understand to be outside the spans of my control.
And yet. . . I wouldn't change it. I don't think, anyway. I think that grief can be a crucible, a refining fire. And I think I am a better person in many ways for my grief. I was where you are at for a long time - and I'm not saying I'm not still there or won't come back again. But I'm sort of seeing now ways in which I think I'm better. More kind, more compassionate, less judgmental, more willing to appreciate beauty for what it is, more understanding of the arc that is all life, better perspective.
But. . . but. I don't like how much more frail happiness is, how easy guilt falls, how quick I am to assume responsibility, how quick to fall back into the way of thinking that good things happen to good people, and therefore since something bad happened to me, I must be bad.
I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore. I despise the idea of a silver lining in this, the cynic in me scoffs and roars, but . . . I can see good. And I know that my work situation (as frustrating and unhappy and stressful as it currently is) would not be like this and I'd likely be on the chopping block were it not for the changes made by Gabe's absence. It's not a happy thought, necessarily. But it's no less true for that.
I suppose all events are formative. This is just a baldly, transparent sort of changing event, and one on which I think we spend a good deal of time reflecting on.
September 15, 2010 |
eliza
eliza
I'll tell you a secret - I throw away my living son's school papers and try not to take pictures of him. Yeah. Why? It's sort of like, well, if I ignore things that say he's here and doing like he ought, I protect him. He's out of my body so the less I have to do with him, the safer he is, I'm a mother that is toxic, like those fish that eat their young. I'm only just starting to realize it. In some ways maybe it's better that you do realize that you have changed so you can try to control things, I ended up being lectured by my own parents that perhaps some of my son's troubles are that he realizes on some level that I am pregnant again but doesn't want to say anything about it, that pretty soon I'll probably have to go ahead and tell him. He has already asked me why he is alive and "the baby" died, so I guess they might be right. It's not that I don't love him, it's just that I'm scared that I'll hurt him by loving him.
And, a side note to Mandy - as far as the spinach smoothies - yeah, I'm with you. My husband insisted I buy a pulse oximeter and so now while I'm sleeping he puts it on my finger before he goes to bed to check my oxygen levels. I'm having to stab myself with lancets for the glucometer every day even though I'm not diabetic to check my fasting blood sugar. Anything and everything that can be monitored at home is being monitored, from calorie intake to heart rate and oxygenation. It's as though we can keep anything from going wrong by acting like I'm already in the hospital.
And, a side note to Mandy - as far as the spinach smoothies - yeah, I'm with you. My husband insisted I buy a pulse oximeter and so now while I'm sleeping he puts it on my finger before he goes to bed to check my oxygen levels. I'm having to stab myself with lancets for the glucometer every day even though I'm not diabetic to check my fasting blood sugar. Anything and everything that can be monitored at home is being monitored, from calorie intake to heart rate and oxygenation. It's as though we can keep anything from going wrong by acting like I'm already in the hospital.
September 17, 2010 |
anonymouse
anonymouse
I think about the fact that having another child would make me feel whole again. That it could bring back the old me that was fun. Tip the scales back in favour of the good guys. Vindication. Sometimes I wonder if I will be o.k. if it doesn't work out for me. Sometimes I just feel f**ked over. I can't go out on this shitty note.
September 17, 2010 |
diana
diana
For me, I always tried to work hard and always tried to be conscientious about the choices that I was making, and things just always seemed to work out. I had a happy family growing up, I met my husband in college, we got married, started our careers, waited five years, got pregnant with Tyler, had Tyler, he was perfect, life was good. And somehow, I think we always just attributed everything working the way that it did to ourselves, that we had always tried to make good choices and if you would just think about and plan what you were doing in life then things would work out.
I now see how unbelievable naive and arrogant we were, to think that we really had anything to do with any of that.
And then last year, fate starting fucking with us and it just won't let up, won't stop. And we are at a complete loss as to what to do. Do we keep going? Do we call it good and leave well enough alone?
How did I become this person who is scared all the time? Cries at nothing? Who hears one piece of potentially bad news and falls completely apart? I feel completely out of control of my body and my life and I. HATE. IT.
I don't want to be this person anymore. I think I keep believing that if I just have another child, I will get back that girl that I used to be. But I'm starting to believe that I won't. And that just makes me so sad, because I liked being that girl, and I hate being this one.