Rambling

I've been thinking a lot about the upcoming 8-month date. Eight months already! I don't know how I feel about it. There's so much guilt involved with feeling better. I'm sure everyone goes through that when they lose a friend or family member. Is it okay to be happy? Is it okay to smile? Is it okay to think about the future? I know it is. I know I'm supposed to do that, but it's hard. It's hard because I can't quite figure out how to move forward with life and still hold on to Isaac. I have been moving ahead, feeling better and more like myself. I've enjoyed that, but in some ways it seems so unfair to Isaac.

Don't get me wrong, things have been going well. I didn't know if there would come a time when I could say that. Things are good and calm. I had forgotten what it was like to be free from the stress of the pregnancy. Not many people really knew what CJay and I were dealing with every week. Every appointment was a new discovery that left us sick with worry and dread. That went on for so long, and now, it's like we're humans again. And therein lies the problem. Being this way - better - is the opposite of how we felt with Isaac. Maybe I think I have to be like I was because that's the only way I can keep him close to me.

We still miss Isaac. We still talk about him and wonder where we'll go from here. More children? Maybe. After Isaac was born, I thought I should have as many children as possible. He was amazing and that feeling was overwhelming. As time has passed and we've begun to experience all the feelings that we couldn't process before (I'm talking about all those weeks of the unknown and the appointments and ultrasounds and doctors.), CJay and I have wondered if we'll ever want to have more children. It's a complicated feeling. I know I'll always want Isaac, but will I want someone else as well? I don't know. And I know that each person, each couple has to make that choice when the time comes.*



*I'm not sure where I was going with this post, but thanks for letting me ramble a bit. I usually don't let myself do that on the blog.

Wave of Light

I know now how important it is to remember those who've passed on. My best friend lost her dad when we were in college, and we talked so much about her grief and pain. I cried for her because I knew how much she was hurting. However, I never really understood the grief she was living with until Isaac died. We all want our family and friends remembered, whether they lived 2 days or 60 years. October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. The truth is that if I hadn't been touched by infant loss this year, I wouldn't think much about an awareness month. But suffering makes us so much more cognizant of others and our surroundings. Of course, you would agree that we all should be sensitive without the tragedies, but that is not really the point. So, tomorrow light a candle if you've lost a child. Light a candle if you know someone who's lost a child. Or just light a candle because maybe, just maybe, what CJay and I have been through has made you more aware.

In 1988, the month of October was named national Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. October 15th has further been recognized as the international day of awareness.

Organizations across the globe ask that you take part in the "Wave of Light" by lighting a candle at 7 p.m. in your local time zone. Please take a moment on this day for reflection and remembering our lost children by lighting a candle at home, in groups and gatherings, attending a mass, or calling someone close to you who has experienced this loss. No matter how recent or how long ago, every parent would love to know that someone is remembering their angel child.

Successive Approximation (or 7 months later)

One of my favorite psychology classes was behavior modification, and one of my favorite topics was successive approximation. I had seen the technique used before and I had used it myself, but it was fascinating to find out that the technique had a name. It's a fairly simple conditioning tool: If I want my new puppy Cocoa (yes, we got a puppy) to come when I say "come," I offer her a reward for every step she takes toward me. So, I say "Cocoa, come." She looks at me as if to say "huh?" and then takes a step in my direction. I reward her with praise and a treat for that one step. With every additional step, she gets another reward. She doesn't have to come all the way to me on the first try. I just want her to move in my direction. I am reinforcing approximations of the behavior I desire from Cocoa. It won't be long before she comes when I call.

All of this came to mind yesterday when I was thinking back on these past 7 months. I remember thinking that I might not make it 3 months, much less 7. Those first few days after Isaac died, I had to remind myself to breath. I didn't sleep well. I didn't eat much. With each passing week, breathing became easier. I stopped reliving every moment of his short life. I started sleeping better.

At first, the grief was an intruder into our lives. As time passes, grief is a common companion. He's woven into every day and I accept it. I've stopped resisting. I've started enjoying the little things about life again. And each day I breath and work and eat and sleep reinforces the approximation of living. It won't be long before I feel like I really am living again. I'm finally looking forward to it.

Tree of Life

On Sept 26, CJay and I attended a memorial service for families who had lost children at the UVA Children's Hospital. When we received the invitation in the mail a few weeks ago, I was a little excited. Yes, excited. I know it's odd, but as time passes, people move on. As normal as that is, and as much as we expect that to happen, it's still heart warming when someone acknowledges what we've been through and, most importantly, our son.

As the day of the service approached I became anxious about what we would have to endure (tears? stories? questions?), but the service was a wonderful way to recognize those of us who have suffered this tragedy. There were tears and stories and questions, but the organizers handled the service with such care and tenderness.

A few parents stood to tell their stories, and then each child's name was read. When your child's name was called, you walked to the front of the auditorium and placed a carnation on the Tree of Life in memory of your child.

There were so many names. Too many. It was hard to look at those other parents so overwhelmed with their grief. It was hard to know that we're just like them. In some ways, it's reassuring to see so many people struggling with this loss. I hate it, but it makes me feel better knowing we're not alone. I suppose it makes me more confident that CJay and I will survive.

Looking back

I didn't intend to go so long between posts, but we've been busy. It's been nice to have things occupying us these past few weeks. CJay is taking courses in preparation for his CPA exam, we went on vacation, and I've traveled for work.

I wanted to write something on September 5. Something that said where we've been, where we're going, how we're feeling. But I didn't. Instead I've been thinking about a different anniversary. We're quickly approaching the 1-year anniversary of that fateful 12-week ultrasound - the day we first heard "cystic hygroma." It was September 18.

I remember how I felt that day. I remember wondering what was taking the doctor so long. She must be busy with another patient, right? I remember Dr. O saying "it's a cystic hygroma." She had just been to a conference where the leading researcher on this topic had been discussing her study results. She gave us the power point presentation with her notes scribbled on the printed slides. Dr. O said the majority of babies with cystic hygromas are born with Turner's syndrome. I knew we weren't having a girl. I knew that all along. (Turner's is a monosomy X chromosomal disorder, meaning it only occurs in girls.) I asked Dr. O a hundred questions. CJay sat quietly most of the time. I think he was in shock at the news.

The anniversary of the beginning of our twisted adventure seems more monumental to me than a 6-month birthday for Isaac. It seems more important to note that we're approaching 1 year since we changed forever. It has been a gradual process. One where we felt mostly like puppets on a stage. It was a process that robbed us of our innocence. No matter how naive that may sound, I believe death does that to its victims. Mostly, it's the only way I know to describe how different I feel and have felt for almost a year.

We've learned many lessons this year, cried a million tears, and marveled over the miracle that lived only 2 days. I'm convinced I'll never know why we went through this, but 1 year later, I know that I would do it all again for those 2 days with Isaac.

Isaac's scrapbook

I've never done any scrapbooking, which is probably good for my rage (Don't ever ask about the time I learned to crochet. Can you say homicidal?). I just get...so...irritated when everything isn't perfect the first time. I do better with something more physical like sports. Fortunately, my sister-in-law loves scrapbooking and, to my knowledge, hasn't turned homicidal in the process.

Julie offered to take our photos and numerous ultrasound pictures of Isaac and make us a scrapbook. At first, I wasn't sure I would like a scrapbook. They seem like such happy things. It's not that we weren't happy about Isaac, but there was so much stress involved in the pregnancy. When I look at those ultrasound images, I can remember each appointment and the bad news that followed. I didn't know if putting those memories in a scrapbook would really be what I wanted. But what do I know? The scrapbook is amazing! Julie did a great job! I'm glad she could see the potential when I couldn't.

These pictures just don't do the book justice, but I wanted to share some of the pages anyway.

Blogging

I really don't enjoy blogging. At first it was difficult for me to write anything at all. I didn't want to expose the struggles of the pregnancy or give minute details about how we were coping. The truth is I don't really want to share all my feelings with everyone. That's why there are long gaps between posts sometimes. I just don't have anything positive to say. I refrain from these posts: "Here are 100 reasons why life sucks now." Or maybe: "I almost pushed someone in front of a car today." Or how about: "I can't stop crying this week and my face will probably always be this puffy."

The truth is that grief has its way with you. I'm up and down and angry and sad. I'm talking zero to 60 in milliseconds. I've had many sleepless nights, and I was having a hard time believing it had anything to do with my grieving. But who am I kidding? Grief leaves its residue on everything. I look in the mirror and see someone different, but people don't treat me that way. It's not like I want them to. Or maybe I do. I don't make decisions as well as I used to. I don't care as much about other people's problems. I don't want to ask about your day. I don't want to hear happy stories.

It's not like that every day. I never see it coming. Some days, the mornings are great and the afternoons are miserable. Some days I want to scream and some days seem completely normal. And I can't find any rhythm to it. Most of the time, I just want to be alone with my agony.

It hasn't helped that I fractured my foot only 2 weeks after I was cleared to begin exercising. I spent 6 weeks in a boot and I'm still restricted (at least for another 2 weeks). I haven't been able to exercise as much as I wanted or lose as much baby weight as I'd hoped. I had planned to be in a 4 miler at the first of September, and I was so excited to begin the training program. Six weeks before the race, I'm still not able to do any jogging - doctor's orders. All of that has heaped frustration upon grief, and there's just no getting around it. I have to live through it. What choice do I have?

I know everyone deals differently with their grief, and here I am. Four and a half months have passed since we lost Isaac, but the stress started last September when we heard "cystic hygroma". I've been trying to cope since then. It just seems like it's been a long road already and I see no signs of relief ahead.