Right where I am now - 1 year, 11 months, 3 weeks and 4 days

I am writing this as part of Angie at Still Life With Circles project, which is in it's second year now.

It has been almost 2 years since Jacob died and then was born. It's hard to believe that so much time has passed. I can't even put into words how hard it is to believe, how hard it was in the early days to believe that we would ever make it this far and would ever be this happy again. But we are happy, most of the time. That happiness always has a longing to it, of varying degrees.

The bigs days like Mother's Day, my birthday, Easter, etc don't have the same stabbing pain as they did last year, but I still have an ache. I am still aware that he is missing from the group and so are the babies I miscarried after him. Having lost 5 babies, it's hard to keep track of how old each one should be for each occasion, but I always know for him. Had he been born in October 2010 like he should have been, he would be 19 months old now. I saw a woman a few weeks ago pushing a stroller with about a 1.5 year old boy in it and she was pregnant, just about as big as me. The tears came to my eyes and I quickly walked passed. That should have been me. That could have been me.

I would have been back to work for 7 months. I might very well be pregnant right now too, in that alternate universe. Looking forward to seeing my two babies interact, knowing that once this baby was born, we likely wouldn't have anymore. I always wanted my kids to have siblings that they could grow up with, but that likely isn't going to happen. Emily is going to be raised as an only child I think, even though she has a sister who is 22 years older than she is, a brother who we got to hold but not keep, and 4 other siblings in heaven. An "only" child with so many siblings.

Most of our days are happy. We relish every kick and movement that we get from this baby, our little girl. There is not a second that goes by that I take for granted. I plan for the future, but I always wonder if I will still be pregnant in a day, a week, a month as I should be. I wonder if all the plans I'm making for my maternity leave will really work out the way they should, give or take a few days or weeks.

Jacob's second birthday is approaching fast. It isn't coming with the same dread and heaviness and sadness that it did last year, but all of those feelings are still there and are coming to the surface more as each day approaches. We will do almost the same things we did for his first birthday. Light a candle, have cupcakes, donate a box to the hospital for another babyloss family and blow bubbles in the garden where he is buried. This time we get to do it with his sister, hopefully, who has brought us happiness and joy we didn't think we would find again.

I asked Ted today how he thought we would be emotionally if I wasn't pregnant right now. I know that we wouldn't have anywhere near the happiness that we have at the moment, but would we be as down as we were last year. We both think we would be, but that would be complicated by the fact that we still weren't pregnant or had lost again. That we would be more hopeless, that we would have an even harder time seeing pregnant women and babies. For some reason, it still bothers me to see pregnant women a little, I still get that little lurch of jealousy and longing and then tell myself how ridiculous that is because I am pregnant too. I have a big belly, I have a baby I feel move a ton everyday. I don't know if I feel jealous out of habit or out of fear or what. I wonder if other women that I walk by everyday see me and feel bad because they have recently had a loss and have no idea of what I have been through.

I still sleep with Jacob's blanket under my pillow. I think of him every day, many times. I still love to talk about him, but have been faced with the awkward question of "is this your first" many times over the past few months. From store clerks, to waiters to people who just see me in a store and start talking to me because I'm pregnant. Most of the time I say yes, then in my head I say "the first to make it this far" or I apologize to Jacob, August, Cub, Madeline and Emma. A few times I've said no. One woman asked what my other child is and I said a boy and she said "the million dollar family". I didn't bother telling her that that isn't quite the case, that that boy died. Other times I've said that my first passed away and awkwardness ensues and I feel bad for making the other person feel bad. It's easier for them if I say yes, but it isn't necessarily easier for me. I do it anyway and then feel like I've betrayed my other children.

What will I say when Emily is old enough to understand. I don't want her overshadowed by her siblings that are no longer here, but I also want to acknowledge them. I guess I'll figure it out as I got along.

This life of balancing joy and grief continues and that is just the way it is going to be. I don't want the grief to go away anyway, as it is another tie to my lost babies. But it is so good to feel good again. I am a changed person, but changed for the better. I am a mix of happiness and sadness, of longing and hope.

23 months

Just one more month and it will have be 2 whole years since we held Jacob in our arms. Today I read over some of my earliest blog posts, describing the day I found out he had died and the day he was born, and some I wrote in the 2 months after he was born. I am so glad I wrote in the blog. It helped me then and it still helps me now. I also spent some time today staring at his ultrasound picture, which has been on my desk since I got back to work after he was born. He was so beautiful, so perfect in that picture. Moving all over. I only got that picture because he was hiding his hand throughout the scan so I had to get up, walked around for awhile, then come back. Had he not been hiding his hand that day, I never would have had such a great picture of him.

I don't know what his second birthday will be like yet. I'm not approaching it with the same dread, the same heaviness, that I did his first. But it still hurts and there is still time for it to get worse and I know it will. I still think about him all the time. I still talk to him and I still write his name on the shower door every day when I have a shower.

A few weeks ago, my Mom told me that she bought a quilt from her friend Bev for Jacob when I was pregnant with him. After he died, she just kept it for the next baby, I guess. I told her that I would really like to have it now and she gave it to me a week ago.

It has a Noah's Ark theme.

I turned it over and the back of the blanket couldn't be more perfect.....rainbow.

This blanket will be in Jacob's little sister's room and eventually she will sleep under it. It seems surreal that that might happen one day, but there is a very good chance that it will. 

My Mom gave this to me when I met her, Laurie, Ben and Danny at the mall. We were at a restaurant and after eating, Laurie left the table for a minute. I asked Ben what he did with his friend Drake when they got together a week or so before. He told me the things they did, then said that he had a balloon but it went into the sky to Jacob. My Mom and I sat across from him with our mouths hanging open and looked at each other astonished. Ben said it like it was just the way it is. I don't even understand if and how he really understands who Jacob is. We've explained that Jacob is his cousin and Jacob would have played with him a lot if he hadn't gone to Heaven. From the beginning, Ben has never shown any confusion and he has never even seen Jacob, not even a picture of him. 

Anyway, Laurie got back to the table and I told her what Ben said, trying not to cry as I did. She said that when the balloon got away, Ben was upset so Laurie told him that it was ok, that the balloon was going into the sky to Jacob and Jacob would love playing with it. Ben calmed down right away and was fine with it. A few days later, he had another balloon, which also got away. This time, right away, Ben said that the balloon is going to Jacob to play with. 

About a week ago, my Mom asked if Jacob's cheeks were as chubby as Boh's cheeks look. I said they weren't, but thanked her for bringing Jacob up so easily. There is no awkwardness when his name is said and it doesn't seem like anyone in my family is afraid to bring him up for fear of upsetting me. I love that they do, I love that my Mom asked that question, I love that Laurie talks about Jacob to Ben and Danny. I love that he is always included. I miss him terribly, but I'm so grateful to have had him. 

Incredible post from Glow in the Woods - Magic

Mrs. Spit, Gabriel's Mom, wrote this amazing post over at Glow in the Woods - http://www.glowinthewoods.com/home/2012/4/17/see-magic.html
I've copied and pasted it below, just in case anyone has trouble going over to the original. And because it's something that I know I will want to read time and time again.

I am sitting on my front porch with a cup of coffee, watching the sun set on the brick building in front of me. The sun behind me, and the world is a beautiful place, filled with red and yellow and gold. My chair is comfortable, my coffee is good. The dogs are sniffling around the front yard. I can hear the sounds of children, in those last few moments before the call to come in for the night will go around the neighbourhood. It was a busy week of travel and meetings, it was a busy Saturday of errands and household things, and I have this brief time – with nothing but to sit and enjoy, watch the changing of the light.


They call this the magic hour.

What is grief, but a form of magic, I ask you? What is the terror and the pain and the horror that I found myself in four years ago, but a form of magic, a spell, an incantation that was thrown over me? It is easy to imagine the vile and loathsome creature that took my son away from me – it is easy to think of a cave, a foul smell and the guttural words of a spell. That seems as good and as reasonable an explanation of any about why tragedy struck me, struck mine, struck you and struck yours.

Magic, all around us. Old order magic with no waiving of hands, muttering of incantations. Magic, hiding in plain view. Magic that is good and magic that is so terribly evil it is impossible to behold. Magic held into balance, just barely.

And it seems a reasonable explanation that the magic of that spell would slowly wear off, that I would be able to find my way in the world. I look the same as I did back then, more or less, I walk and talk but I am utterly changed. See? Magic.

I believe in goodness and mercy, all the days of my life, in spite of what happened. Perhaps I believe more strongly now. See? Magic.

And on my front porch, watching the liquid line of gold fall towards the ground, I can be captivated by sudden and ephemeral beauty. See? Magic.

Grief then a form of magic. It seems appropriate to think that – the best explanation. So much of our world seems fragile, improbable. The quickness of the life and death, the peace of a Saturday night sunset. The curve of my son’s ear, the way his finger was crooked just like mine. See? Magic.

And this. The world I live in now. This wholeness and this peace that I find has come over me. My contentedness and my delight in beauty. I wouldn’t have believed it possible. See? Magic.

Flashbacks

We had a good day today. A really good day. I've written more about it on my other blog.

I am 20 weeks and 3 days pregnant with my rainbow baby. That makes tonight the eve of the day we found out that Jacob had died. It hit me full force when I was standing in the garden tonight before going to church. I was telling Jacob that this baby will never replace him, that we love them equally. I stared at the spot where he is buried and I suddenly had a flashback to being at Dr. A's office and her not being able to find his heartbeat and the sinking feeling I had the longer she tried, then the feeling when she stopped. It was terrible.

I got home, told Ted what happened there and his face fell and I knew he was feeling the same pain.

I got in the shower and had a flashback to him being born and Dr. A passing him to me. For a few minutes, the pain was as bad as it was that day.

As I was writing this, I started talking to Ted about it again and the tears came, streaming down my face and if I had let it happen, I would have been sobbing. We ended up standing in the living room hugging for a few minutes.

As painful as it was reliving those times and feeling the pain again, I was glad to. I'm glad I still feel it so deeply. 

I wonder.....how have we survived losing him?

Jacob

22 months

I don't have much to say that I haven't said before, but I couldn't let a monthly anniversary pass without writing something.

We drove by the garden last night after going to a movie and parked across the road from it. There were lights all around it and it always makes us feel better that it isn't dark in there at night.

We sat for awhile and I felt the sadness getting stronger and stronger and told Ted that I wanted to leave, that I was getting really sad and he said he was too.

I am at about the same stage in my current pregnancy that I was when Jacob died, although I didn't know he had died for another week. It's a scary week for me, I feel reassured with every kick that I feel from this baby, but then worry when I haven't felt anything for an hour or longer. I didn't need anything to magnify what a loss it was to lose Jacob, but it certainly feels more acute right now than it has in a little while.

It doesn't really matter how much time passes. Our boy isn't in our arms and that will always hurt.

Re-post from Small Bird Studios - When you lose a baby

Wonderful piece by Fran over at small bird studios.  If you have not read this, please do.  It is amazing!

When you lose a baby...

You don’t know what to expect.

People surround you. For a couple of weeks. Making sure you are not going to kill yourself, refuse to get out of bed, or start rocking a baby doll like the crazy lady they heard about from a friend.

You get lots of sympathy cards, clearly written and designed to be sent to console a daughter losing her father. Not the other way around.

You get free baby formula in the mail. For months and months and months.

And free baby magazines. And free baby coupons.

You secretly envy every pregnant woman. But not without a tinge of guilt, because you know all too well that she might be one in four- expecting her rainbow child.

It seems like the whole world is expecting a baby.

You have baby stuff around your home. Because you never imagined you wouldn’t need it.

You feel jarred. In the grocery store. At a birthday party. At the dinner table. At Christmas. Driving.

The baby you never knew, but lost changes every part of your life. Every. single. part.

Forever.

You see baby clothes and it brings tears to your eyes.

You get sick and tired of crying. You never knew it was possible to cry this much.

You find yourself angry at God. Angry at yourself. Just angry.

You sware you can feel them kick but they’re gone. They call them phantom kicks. I call them painful, all kinds of painful. But sweet too.

You know, or you have a strong feeling of knowing what your child would have looked like, and been like. You see a child in the store, or on the street. Their hair color, dimples, smile, their personality and suddenly you are reminded of your child. You miss your child even more, if that’s even possible.

Your Babies R’ Us Registry is still active. There is no delete button on their site. The babies r’ us people don’t make a dime on people like us. Why bother right? You have to call them, plead with them to remove your freaking’ registry, because there will be no baby shower. There is an awkward silence. There is sadness. There will be no baby.

You get hospital bills about 3-4 months after you buried your child. You have to pay for the baby you delivered but didn’t bring home.

You find that moment of happiness in life for the first time, but the guilt swallows it up almost immediately.

You remember the size of the casket. The size of the plot. The face of the funeral director. The expression of those that attended the funeral. The feeling of raw pain, like your chest has literally been ripped open.

Somehow you convince yourself that you deserve happiness. Because you really do. But in the happiest, purest moment, there is still that hole that only they were meant to fill.

People compare your pain to their own pain. The loss of their grandmother, husband, their failed marriage, rebellious teenagers. Somehow this comparing leaves you stranded. If they can compare their pain of a situation to the loss of your BABY, they will likely never get it. Babies are not supposed to die. End of story.

You lost a dream. And it almost feels like you imagined their entire existence up. Their name becomes a distant memory on the lips of others.

There is awkwardness when you talk about your child in a crowd. No one knows whether to cry, walk away or pretend you never brought him or her up.

You lose friends. You find new ones.

You can’t believe that women have actually survived this and you never knew about it. Not really, anyway.

You would do anything for another minute with your child.

You cry when others bring up your child, not so much because it hurts but more so because it such a precious and rare gift.

You long for the rewind button, even after many many instances of acceptance.

You want to know what went wrong, and why…

You find a new appreciation for moments in life that make you laugh… you laugh harder and love stronger.

You know that you can die bitter, or die thankful. There is no in between.

You never ever, EVER get over your child. The one you hoped for, prayed for, carried and loved for the weeks and months they were with you.

You learn to live with the pain.

21 months

The other day at work, Ted was listening to music and the Irie version of Tears in Heaven (he calls it Jacob's song) came on. He thought he would be ok listening to it, but tears filled his eyes quickly. He told me about it that night and we talked about how it just never goes away. We can go along through the days feeling ok. Thinking about him and missing him, but doing ok. Then something like a song or a smell or just seeing something in a certain way brings us back and the pain is fresh again.

21 months is such a long time and it's still hard to believe that it's been so long since we held our baby boy.

I've been by the garden three times in the past week. I talk to him and sometimes I just sit there and listen to the sounds of the birds and the people and the traffic and the wind and think that this is what his body is surrounded by all the time. I know that he isn't really there, but it's the last place that we held him, even if it was his ashes.

I had a hard time sleeping a few nights ago and moved to the couch so I wouldn't keep Ted awake. I ended up crying over something silly and it quickly turned to crying for Jacob, missing him and thinking of what life would be like if he had lived. It brought me back to the days and nights of crying in the early days, of feeling just horrible emotionally all the time.

Today,, 21 months after Jacob was born, we went to my OB's office for our second appointment with her for this pregnancy. As we sat waiting to see her, I thought of what was happening 21 months ago at the same time. Jacob has just been born and we were holding him, loving him and memorizing him because we knew we wouldn't get to keep him for very long. She stood at the counter for awhile writing a note and I stared at her face, thinking back. Tonight we stopped by the garden and stood silently for a few minutes, both of us talking to Jacob in our heads. Ted said how it is just so sad.

We miss him.