I found the Baby Loss Blog Directory, and I'm flabbergasted. I cannot believe the number of baby loss blogs. If we assume probably about 5% of people who lose a baby blog (and I think that's probably a generous estimate), then the number of actual losses becomes astounding. It's not a new figure, but suddenly, when there are pictures, faces, families and lives put to each individual statistic, the volume of losses is staggering. I have been perusing several baby loss blogs, some I've found at my new favourite baby loss site, missfoundation.org, and some who've surfed their way over to mine, and left comments. I can't believe how often I find myself concurring, and nodding over and over in agreement with their comments, perceptions, new realities and such. It is a mixed bag really, because I am part of an exclusive club no one wants to join. It is pretty much the shittiest thing on earth, yet here are these women. They are amazing writers, insightfully narrating their own journeys, and trudging their way through grief, lending a shoulder to cry on and crying on mine, and I think "wow, how lucky am I to have all of this within my grasp?" I mean, I would trade it all in for another minute with Isla in a heartbeat, but what a strange thing has happened in having had her at all. I have been exposed to this new underground of suffering people, like me, willing to share my pain, while I share theirs. In the most raw and vulnerable of human states, we expose ourselves and are at the mercy of virtual strangers. And we embrace each other unconditionally, with compassion and empathy. It's a level of humanity that is sadly not often experienced in 'real life'. I have visited a few 'every day' blogs, where the bloggers write about a new recipe they've found, or some anecdote their husband told them. Sure, it's cute, but it seems awfully meaningless to me. There is no richness, no meat, so to speak. Again, I'd give it up in a second and have my own 'fluff blog' if I could, but I guess if I have to endure this, I am grateful for the company of some insightful, thought provoking, empathetic souls with whom to share the journey, in all its ups and downs.

Note: This was a really shitty week, PMS, the 4 month mark, full moon and all that...
This post feels really optimistic, so I'm sure I'll crash tomorrow. Ah, the joys of grief.

4 months

So. Today is 4 months since Isla was born and passed away. It still feels weird to write that.. passed away.. my baby.. yes, very weird. Very wrong. Most days I'm still mostly melancholy, thinking heavily about her, wishing so hard that I could just wake up from it all, and have her here with us. There are babies everywhere, and somehow, due to an environmental glitch I'm sure, everybody is having girls. I can't believe how I never see baby boys. And I do look, it's not like I'm just seeing the pink everywhere. It really is pink everywhere. And it's hard as hell. I want to walk up to these moms and tell them that I had a baby too, and I should be pushing a stroller with a carseat in it, and pink billowing out everywhere. I created a beautiful daughter too, even though she's not here.
I often feel like my body let me down. Not all the time, but it does cross my mind... that even though I could make this baby, I couldn't deliver her, bring her into the world safely. I wrack my brain for reasons this happened. I sometimes wish we'd had an autopsy to find out the real cause. But part of me was scared that we'd find out it was somehow my fault. This way, with a cord accident, we knew it wasn't.
Sometimes I think I'm doing so well on this grief journey, progressing appropriately through the stages and healing on schedule. Then I fall back into it full force, and spend a few days wallowing in it, feeling gutted all over again. I think in some ways, I'm grateful for these forays back into the black, because they remind me that I am still missing my daughter so much. I sometimes feel like I'm doing too well (I don't read back in my blog, but I'm sure I've mentioned this a time or two already) and not grieving, or making Isla's life meaningful. It makes me feel connected to her to grieve her, as I move on in my life. Because while she is forever a newborn to me, I will continue to evolve as a person. I need, as much as it hurts, to keep her alive to me, to keep her near my heart as I move further away from her birth. It saddens me that my memories are fading. I mean, some, I'm grateful for the encroaching fogginess, like the moment I asked if my baby was going to die, and no one said no. I'll gladly forget that one anytime. But, others, like remembering how she felt in my arms, her warmth, her little hiccup breathing sound, her sweet hair, her precious fingers and toes... all of her... is fading too, and I have nothing but her photos to remember her by now. I still sleep with the blanket she was wrapped in at the hospital, and who knows how long I'll do that. I just know that for now, I need to. Though the memories are fading and the intense grief has somewhat eased, I still miss my daughter so damn much it hurts. I think this will always be the case for me. And that is something I have a great deal of anger over. I don't want to be missing my dead baby for the rest of my life. I should be out pushing her in the swing, putting barrettes into her wavy soft hair, planting flowers with her. Not missing her, living my life while she is denied hers. It's an awful reality that I have to endure forever, and all the work I do to "keep her memory alive" is really in vain. It will not bring her back, and that's all I really want. I miss you sweetheart. I love you so much and we all wish you were here with us. You can't imagine how much you've impacted us, and just how very sad we are without you.
My heart hurts every second for you and I wish you were here in my arms. I love you. mommy.
Triggers are abundant, though I usually avoid them as best I can.

Ah, 2008. New Years was refreshingly good. We spent time away from our home, with friends that we don't get to see often, and it was nice. New Years Day, Evan got sick, started acting like he was having an asthma attack/allergic reaction, and I freaked. I realize I reacted pretty emotionally and probably overreacted, in some people's eyes, but I really don't care. I live in constant fear that something horrible will happen to Evan. Whether it's asthma, allergies, childhood cancer, horrific accident... whatever, I'm sure it will happen. I realize also, that I'm not being very rational here, and the fact that I *know* this probably makes it okay, for now. When I imagine something happening to him, I nearly lose my mind. I think it would not be possible for a tragedy like that to hit a family twice, and yet, it can, and does. A friend of mine who lost her 3 day old to a metabolic disorder nearly lost her 5 year old over the holidays to the same thing. I cannot wrap my head around that. I want to take her pain and fear away so much, I just ache for her, because while my fear may be somewhat unfounded, hers are not, and that's just wrong.
Religion is something that I've played around with throughout this whole thing. I had a lot of people pray for me, and my family, which I'm grateful for. But, only in the way you say thank you when someone blesses you for sneezing. I really don't think much of it. I'm glad they're thinking of us, but that's about it. I've had comments that stink, like I'm now living a blessed life (whatever that is) since Isla has died, and I'm keenly aware of the "real" meaning of life. Uh, yeah.. thanks, but I'll take blissful oblivion and a living daughter any day. So, I've tried to entertain the notion of an afterlife, or some sort of spiritual world beyond ours. I can't. I want to, believe me. If I could somehow convince myself that Isla is out there, waiting for me, playing on clouds, sliding down rainbows, I would gladly embrace it. But, I cannot. It is not something I was raised with, faith. I never had it instilled in me, never had any formal religious education, etc etc etc... So, it's pretty hard to up and decide to "believe" in God and some kind of other worldly existence. And believe me, if there was ever a reason to do so, reuniting with my baby would be it. So it's not like I haven't tried. I am pretty much resigned to the fact that this is it. My short time with Isla is all I will get. Maybe I'm wrong, hopefully I am.
So, 2008. While I'm glad to have 07 over with, because it puts a healing distance between me and trauma, I am sad too. Tim was sad because it was no longer the year our daughter was born, and that puts a sad distance between us. It's like a page in our lives has turned, and her name's not on the next page. Her character's been written out of the book. While I know that's not true, and she's only as obsolete as we allow her to be, I can't ignore the fact that time marches on, and it is doing so without her. And that hurts. Here go our lives, our move, our relationships, birthdays and holidays without Isla. That. Sucks. Large.
And that's all I feel like saying tonight. More on my mind, but I'm not feeling like putting it out there right now. Happy 08 everyone.
love you baby girl. xoxo mom.