3 months ago today (well, it's just after midnight, but close enough) you were born, my sweet baby girl. It has been a very lonely 3 months without you. Dad and I spend much time talking about you, what you'd be doing now, like holding your head up. Your brother did that just around 3 months too. You'd probably be sleeping in your own room now, in the same cuddly sleepsack Evan did. I ache when I see other baby girls in malls or stores, especially the ones around your age. I feel angry and want to scream why did this happen to us?!!? for everyone to hear. We miss you terribly, and though you never even came home, this house feels tomblike without you here. I remember joining the support group after you died, and meeting the others who'd lost their babies around 3-4 months prior. I thought that seemed like such a long time ago, but here I am, 3 months without you, and it feels like nothing. I can still remember almost everything about your birth, and how it all felt. I thought the other girls must have been so far along their grief journey by 3 or 4 months, and how I couldn't wait to get there myself. Yet, now that I'm there, I feel like barely any time has passed at all. It is such a slow, lonely journey Isla. I don't know if you can even imagine how much you've impacted our lives in the short time we were blessed with you. My god, you've made such an impact. I struggle to muster up the words to even describe it, but is has been profound. I try, constantly, to find ways to have your life affect me in a positive way, in the choices I make every day, the decisions I must make in my life. I want to live in honour of you, live a life you did not have a chance to, but it is oh so hard, my baby girl. I strive to do the right thing, be kind and nonjudgmental of others who don't recognize the gifts they've been given. I try to sympathize with others who life lives full of loss and hardship. I try to be compassionate and forgiving. But often, I fail. I can only maintain that perspective for so long, before I am overcome with the loss of you. It is not fair that I had to lose you. You were a brand new life, so full of potential, so ready for the world. We were so ready to watch you grow, breathe in new life and face the new world head on. We were so proud of you, before you were even born. We knew you'd go on to do grand things. How is it fair that you were robbed of all of that because of a fucking stupid accident with your own body parts? How can this even happen? I cannot believe this happened. It is still so hard to accept. When I see women with baby girls, I think to myself 'they get to go on and live with their little girls, but I don't. I don't now, and I won't ever get to hold my baby girl again.' My god, how unfathomable it is that you are gone forever. We knew you so briefly. If there is one positive thing that I can glean from your death, it is that I no longer fear my own. If by some miracle, there is an afterlife, and I get to see you, and hold you again, then I fear nothing in my own death. What I fear is the misery I will endure until that time. Though I am absolutely blessed with a family whom I love, and who loves me, such a huge part of it is missing, I feel your absence all. the. time. I miss you so much sweet girl. Please know how much daddy and I love you, how much we miss you, and how we'd give anything to have just a few more moments with you. How my heart aches for you Isla. xoxoxo mommy.

Life has been fairly acceptable this week. I hesitate to say 'good' because that might give the illusion that they are. It's not 'good', but this past week, I have been able to function like a pretty normal person. This comes with a mixed reaction from me. On one hand, I am grateful for the reprieve from the crushing grief that paralyzed me weeks ago. I am glad I can enjoy some of the Christmas season through the eyes of my son, and appreciate his wonder and enthusiasm for life. I am cautious in this acknowledgment, however, because it kind of scares me. I don't know if I should be feeling this okay... this "good"... I am told by other grieving parents, and by my wise husband, to take what comes, unquestioningly. Accept that the hard days will not be forever, and embrace the good ones for what they are: good days. They are something to be grateful for, to be sure.

I am just one of those people who are constantly second guessing themselves. I don't trust myself enough, I don't believe in the legitimacy of my emotions. Somehow, when it's bad, I panic and seek respite from the pain, and when it's good, I worry that I'm not grieving properly, in that I'm able to feel good, and all of this will come back to haunt me, because I'm not doing it right. Yes, it's lots of fun inside my head.

As my grief journey is progressing, and some of the black, deep, despair is (thankfully) softening, I am finding I do have some control over the acceptance, and expression of my mourning. This is good and bad. When Isla first died, I was shattered, unable to function at all, unable to do anything but immerse myself in her death, and try not to drown. Now that I've found some footing in this experience, and am incorporating this loss into my life, I am more able to choose when I wade into the sadness. The problem is, a lot of the time, I am just choosing not to at all. I know it's the wrong thing to do, I am fully aware of when I choose to deny an impending grief outburst, or stifle tears in an inappropriate (and sometimes, appropriate) situation. It's not good that I am doing this. This is not honouring my daughter, this is not working through the grief, it's working around it. This is the bad way. Many books will say there is no 'wrong' way to grieve, but I believe there is. Yet, I feel such a sense of relief in my ability to exercise some control over my emotions. It's empowering, and gives me some strength, some hope, and it's hard to deny it. I relish this newfound control. Perhaps it is okay... I don't really know. I assume that because I am human, and doubtlessly loved my daughter, that the grief hasn't disappeared at all, rather, it is ebbing, as grief is apparently wont to do. My emotions swing broadly to and from the extreme ends of the spectrum, and I can't assume that because I am currently in a place of tranquility and hope, that I won't swing back to despair eventually. Not that I am inviting such a self-fulfilling prophecy, but just that maybe I can take today for what it is, and try not to ask too much of myself, or question my own experience too much. It is, after all, my own unique experience, and sometimes I forget that that doesn't make it right or wrong, it is just mine. It is sacred and unique, to me.

A wise friend of mine, who also tragically lost her infant daughter, told me that it's not forgetting, it's not stopping grieving, it's 'moving along in my grace'. I don't know exactly what she meant, but it sounds good to me. I think it means something along the lines of me being human, suffering an insufferable loss, finding a glimmer of hope in the dread. Embracing it, and letting it embrace me, for I need this, and I deserve it.
And so come the tears.

So, I had a root canal done yesterday. I've been dreading it for weeks, though it really needed to be done. Once I got there, I realized instantly how long I've been out of the 'real' world. People rushing around, appointments, phones ringing, hustle and bustle. I think this was part of what I was dreading, the demands placed upon me to be in a certain place, at a certain time... Yet, once I got used to so much frenzy (and yes, it was actually quite frenzied, even at the dentist's!) , I actually kind of enjoyed it a bit. There was a sense of order and purpose to it all. Something I haven't felt in quite a while. A refreshing change from my typical anomic existence, as of late. It was strangely comforting, and reassuring. I am still technically on 'mat leave', so I have lots of spare time, and not much to fill it with. I don't think I want to reenter the world of professionally employed, just yet, because there is still the issue of Evan and child care, but I think once we move, I may look into some kind of part-time volunteer work. Who knows what, but probably not something with kids, which is a bit scary, because it's all I've ever done, in one capacity or another.
Last week was really tough. I don't know what, if anything, sparked it, but it was a few days there where I felt very low. It's the kind of day that I know is going to suck as soon as I wake up. Before I even get out of bed. There's a real "who cares" feeling to everything, and an inability to give a shit about anything, let alone pretend for the sake of others. I know that makes it hard on Tim, that some days I can't be a good wife, and hold up my end of the household, marriage and all that, but at those times, I just don't care. Those are the days I can't really get motivated to do anything; eat, shower, play with Evan, go out... I'm reduced to my bed or the couch, with a book for quite a few hours. I find it quite debilitating, and realize that I'm being completely unfair to Tim and Evan, but at the time, I just don't feel well enough to care.

The last couple of days have been better. Had a birthday celebration with friends last night, at a big sports bar. About 2 hours in, I started to fizzle. I was mentally burnt out from all the happiness around me. There were several staff Christmas parties going on, so lots of laughing, hugging, wishing each other Merry Christmas. It was fine at first, but after a couple of hours, I'd just had enough. I wanted to shout out to them that they had no right to be this happy. That they didn't realize how much pain I was in, or how their happiness made me feel so alienated. We left, and in the car, Tim kind of deflated right away. I think the night was about an hour too long for both of us, in spite of having fun with our friends. It's still hard to see others having so much carefree fun. I know that I don't know what's going on in their lives, or what the future may hold for them, but I know this: I am not happy and they are, and it's not fair. It's a constant reminder that they have something I don't; the blissful naivete that everything is great, life is wonderful, and tragedy is something that happens to other people. I was one of them, who didn't realize that all around me might be people hurting and trying their hardest to get through a night full of happy people while they quietly suffered alone. I'd go back to it again in a selfish heartbeat, and give up every ounce of 'being a better person' and all that bullshit. It is an incredibly lonely place to be when you're aching for something so badly, and everyone around you is laughing, enjoying themselves fully, not a thought in the world about all the things that could go wrong. I even managed to worry about Evan, though he was in quite capable hands. I often worry that he's going to suffer a major allergic reaction, and no one will know how to use the epipen, or he will get some incurable childhood cancer, and I won't be able to do a damn thing about it. While out with the women from my infant loss group today, every one of them called home on their cell phones to see how their other kids were, though we were only gone a few hours. They confessed that they too often worry about their surviving children, and think something equally tragic will befall them. What a damn rip-off that is. Jesus, we've already lost one child, and now we uncontrollably worry about the ones we have left. It's not fair, and I hate that I think about this all the time, while other moms are thinking about decorating their homes for the holidays, shopping etc etc... I am a prisoner to my thoughts , and right now, there's not much I can do about it.
I found out a good friend of mine is expecting her 3rd child. I knew this was coming, and wasn't sure how I'd react. It was much harder than I expected it would be. When I found out, my whole head went fuzzy. Like that feeling of being on Tylenol 3s... kind of foggy headed, "this isn't really happening" sort of thing. I felt immobilized and numb for a few seconds, before I could muster up some words. I told her that if I cried, it was okay. And I did cry, briefly. I'm happy for her family, absolutely, but it's such a tangible reminder of another person who gets to have her baby, while I don't. We should be sharing in the excitement of her new pregnancy together, while enjoying my newborn...instead, I am grieving my baby's death, and imagining how wonderful it will be for her when her new baby comes. It all just makes me feel empty, useless and ripped off. As glad as I am for their family, I am just so sad it's not me, with my new baby. I am sad for our friendship too, because I think it will suffer as she goes on in her pregnancy, and nears her due date. Though we won't live here anymore, I still hope to be close, and I am afraid I won't be able to be a present, helpful friend at the times she'll need me the most. In fact, she may not even want me around...maybe it makes her uncomfortable to be pregnant around me. It probably would make me feel that way. Maybe she's secretly relieved I'm moving, so she won't have to worry about the awkwardness of our friendship growing as she does. I don't know, it's still so new, and I have no firm grip on any certainties. Except that I feel like I'm rambling here, and not sounding very coherent, which is always a sign that it's time to stop writing.

Well, it's been a while since I wrote. We went to BC to see the new house. Tim hadn't seen it yet, and we took Evan. It was a mixed bag. We didn't plan very well, and ended up having to buy a few necessities to get us through the week. We stayed at the house, which has a few guests, it appears. Bugs. Whatever, apparently they're normal. Evan was as good as a bored 3 year old could be, really. And even then, we found our patience wearing thin and yelling too much. He spent some time with Colby and Tyler, but we neglected to arrange anything concrete. And here Tracy was planning to make Evan a birthday cake etc... And now this week is Evan's actual birthday, and I've fucked it all up again. A good friend of ours was waiting to hear from me about the birthday plans, and since I didn't get back to her, now we're having a mediocre party at the mall, not at all what I really wanted, but it's my fault anyway, so whatever. I hate how this is all going. I feel like people are trying so hard to do what I want, and accommodate me through this, but really, I wish people would just tell me what to do. Make the decisions for me. I can hardly decide what to make for dinner anymore, let alone plan a birthday party. It's an excuse for being a lazy correspondent, I know, but I really feel unequipped to deal with the responsibilities and obligations of being a good friend right now. I feel torn between trying to be the good friend and make plans for outings etc, and just saying fuck it all, and dropping out of everyone's lives, because at least then I can't let anyone down anymore. I think I'll just do what I usually do. Suck it up, let them be angry and disappointed in me, and move on. Tim wanted to talk vehicles last night, about his, specifically. The original plan was for us to get a small SUV for me and Evan, and a battered old pickup truck for him, as we'd be taking trips to the dump, bringing home home reno stuff, etc... and now he's thinking an old SUV would be better for him too, and what do I think about that? And he throws all these questions at me, and I just couldn't do it. They may seem like just 'ideas' to him, but to me, these are huge discussions, that rattle the already tenuous foundations of my existence, and I can't handle much change right now. I could feel the inside of my head bubbling over with ever question, until I was almost mute... I literally could not answer another question, and lost it. I had to explain how being inundated with all the questions affected me, and how unstable it made me feel, and how I am wracked with indecisiveness right now, and can't even handle being asked what colour car to get, nevermind what kind of car, truck or SUV. Fuck, I feel like everyone expects things to be back to normal now. Don't get me wrong, everyone has been really supportive, and wonderful, for the first 8 weeks or so, but now I find people feeling impatient and frustrated with me. I think it must be like this for them: I had a loss. A wicked, horrible, unfathomable loss. They grieved with me, it was torture for many of them too. After a few weeks, life carried on for them. As it does for me too, I mean, time doesn't stop for me either. But how I deal with life now is different than those who got to go back to their normal, relatively unchanged lives. My everyday existence is different than it was before, and it won't ever be what it was, no matter what. So as much as people want me to be who I was before (which, truth be told, wasn't great either, I've never been a great friend, really) I can't. I am not that person. Though it may puzzle and even frustrate people that I can't even get through a seemingly unrelated activity without somehow coming apart at the seams, I can't help it. And if I repress my need to somehow escape, to save the others the awkwardness and inconvenience of my grief outburst, then I fall into a black hole, and am moody and withdrawn for the rest of the activity. So what do I do? I don't want to be the killjoy, the one who dampens the mood or whatever, even for myself, I get angry at myself for falling into it over and over again, when all I even want is just to have some uninterrupted fun with my family and friends. I just can't. I can't do it, because it's a part of me. Isla's life and death is woven through my whole self. It will be a part of every single thing I think, say and do for the rest of my life. It'll affect my choices, my ability to cope with future crises, my willingness to take risks, and accept challenges. I think after an appropriate grieving time, most of my friends and family went back to their lives, but didn't realize how I can't do that. One blogger whom I completely respect and am in awe of, despite our religious differences, described it beautifully. She said she feels like she's sitting on the bottom of the ocean. Her grief is the deepest and darkest of all, and no one is there with her. There are friends and family on the surface of the ocean, looking down at her, maybe dipping a toe or a finger in. They cannot share in her experience, it's so different at the bottom. And she cannot share in theirs. They are above her, in a different place, with different realities and experiences in the world. They don't see the world from the same vantage point, and therefore, she can't live the same way as they do, or the same way she used to. That's how I feel too. Everyone's back to normal, and want me back to normal, but this IS my new normal, and it sucks for me too. Bigtime.

Well, it's been 8 weeks, plus a day. Today was an okay, no, pretty okay day. I hesitate to say 'good' because that would be misleading, in that people might actually assume I'm better. Anyway, I think today made up for Friday, which blew. It was my first night alone since I had Isla. Tim was on evenings, Evan went to bed around 8 and I had 4 hours of uninterrupted wallowing time. And wallow I did. Deeply. Grief is an interesting emotion, I'm discovering. It's always there with you, like a body part almost, yet in different strengths. In fact, I think I'll liken it to a toothache, since I have one of those too. Lucky me. So my grief, like my toothache, is omnipresent. It's constantly there, in my awareness, just existing. Sometimes, I feel a sense of pressure, not exactly pain, just an awareness that something feels different around that tooth, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Sometimes, I'll avoid chewing on that side altogether, to avoid any chance of a flare up. Sometimes, I tease it a little. I'll send a small bit of food over to that side and test the waters... does the tooth hurt when I push food into it? Does it feel okay? I feel like I do this with my grief a bit too. Sometimes I totally ignore it. I don't want to even entertain the possibility of a meltdown because I'm in public, or because I don't want to be a killjoy or because I'm just so god damned tired of crying. Sometimes, I deliberately bring it on... I'll listen to sad songs and look through her pictures and have it out. The toothache, when it hurts, HURTS. Sometimes all I can do to get through the pain is pop a few ibuprofens, close my eyes and rock until the pain subsides. It's white searing pain, and every time it flares up, I curse that I waited so long to book the root canal I can't get in for until December 7th. Grieving is like that for me too. Sometimes, the ache of missing Isla is so intense, so physically palpable, all I can do is hold her blanket, or myself, and just rock while I sob. And I do sob. Sometimes so loudly and fiercely that my fillings vibrate. That's never happened before, and sometimes, the power with which it comes out of me scares me a bit. What am I capable of? How is this stuff inside me? How can I manage to have a somewhat normal day and then collapse into a heap in the evening? It's bizarre to me.

The other thing about grief I've been thinking about is how it reminds me of a wave. Like I'm in the ocean, and far out I see a big wave coming in. I see that it's building in strength and intensity, and I speed up to get to shore before it reaches me. In reality, I could escape a water wave, and get safely on the shore and continue merrily on my way. But I can't escape this. There is no safe shore to run towards. The wave just keeps building, and I keep running, faster and checking over my back to see if it's still there. By running from it, and refusing to allow it to wash over me, it somehow seems stronger and more powerful, and might consume me. But, inevitably, since I know I cannot outrun this wave, I acquiesce. I turn into it, face it full on and let it crash down on me. This is my grief. No matter how much I try not to think about Isla, keep her door closed, read books on trying again, try to run from the suffocating grief or whatever, it does not work, and this wave smothers me. So I let it, eventually. What choice do I have? And yet, once I am soaked in it, once I've screamed, sobbed, wailed and somehow squeezed every bit of emotion out of me, the wave ebbs. It's power is gone, it skulks back out to sea, until the next time. I am left battered and wrung out, physically exhausted and spent. Yet, in some odd way, it's kind of empowering. I'm no longer running from this wave; it's relented, for now. I've beat it once again, and come out alive.

I think the anticipation of a heavy grieving experience is worse than the actual experience itself. The dread of coming face to face with the anguish and despair is awful, but somehow, during my sobs, looking at her pictures, listening to sad songs, it isn't as bad as anticipating it. Somehow, this is my way of 'being with Isla' if that makes any sense. It's an intimate time, between her and me, and I actually kind of treasure it. That must sound so odd in light of what I wrote Friday, but whatever, I'm not above contradicting myself, if that's what it seems I'm doing here. In some weird way, these times where I grieve Isla so intensely, while they hurt like nothing I've ever experienced, connect me to her in a very intimate, maternal way. It feels worse to spend the day dreading the impending blowout than actually enduring the blowout itself. I probably won't feel that way next time I have one, or hell, even 5 minutes from now, but if I have to live with this grief the rest of my life, which I do, then I have to find some way to reconcile it into my every day existence. William Faulkner once said "given a choice between grief and nothing, I'd choose grief." I thought this was preposterous the first time I heard it, but I think I understand: While not a pleasant emotion, grief is a connection to something, a feeling that represents a certain depth of love, in pain. So for me, if the choice is to be connected to my daughter in pain, or not be connected to her at all, I choose pain. As awful as it is, I will take it. Sweet dreams baby girl, mommy's missing you tonight.
xoxoxo

So, I'm sitting here watching Scrubs. They're performing cpr on a man and I am a mess. All I hear is the hospital staff counting as they did cpr on Isla. It's been a weird day. I had coffee with a friend this morning, it went okay. I think people are desperate to see some sign that things are better. I see it in people's faces when I laugh or make a joke or something. It's like their faces light up at the thought that I'm not in pain anymore. I feel kind of abandoned when I see their faces. Like they don't actually want to share in my grief anymore, they're ready to move on and be happy again. I feel alone, more than I did right after it happened. I almost feel guilty if I want to talk about it, or if I turn the conversation to Isla, I think I see (not sure, but I think I do) a look wash over their face like "oh here we go again..." and I feel really self conscious about it, and so alone. All I want to do is go into her room and smell her things and squeeze the shit out of her sleeper or blanket, to somehow absorb her into me, to hold her so near me that I don't feel the pain so hard. I just want her back and I am so miserable without her here. The things I do to console myself, or get by each day seem so hollow when I'm feeling low. Baking cookies with Evan is such a joke because he's into everything and I get so frustrated I distract him with some other activity, and end up finishing it myself, and what's the point in that? God I am so tired of the sadness, the missing her, the physical lack of my baby with me. I am so, so heartbroken. I am sobbing as I write this and I cannot believe the depth of the pain I'm feeling. I say I don't want the hurt to go away entirely because it'll mean she never made an impact, which I suppose is true to some extent, but this misery is nearly unbearable to me. I have less desire to be here than not. I know that's an incredibly selfish thing to say and probably seems even moreso to those who've not lost a child, but it is what it is. I am broken all the way through, and though I thought the hope of others who've walked before me was helping, I don't know that it is, and I feel hopeless still. All I want, ALL I WANT is my baby girl. God how unfair this all is. How can she not be here? Her tiny soft smooth little body, her brand new hair and fingers, not to ever feel me, or her dad? Never to hear eachother's voices? Not to ever nurse? Not to ever go to kindergarten or graduate from high school? To never get married, or bear children of her own? It's all too much for me, I feel so unable to deal with the magnitude of it all. Sometimes I can push it away for a while, and feel like I'm doing well. Doing well isn't really that at all. It's just pushing it away until I can't anymore. I am alone tonight, and I think that's why it's so damn hard now. There are no distractions. I had Evan up until 8. He stressed me out so badly I YELLED at him, full bore, and didn't even try to stop myself, though I knew I was acting horribly to him. He covered his ears, and I didn't care, I yelled on. I am a horrible wicked parent to him, and I don't deserve him at all. Now that he's gone to bed, which I needed so badly, I'm at a loss of what to do. I feel antsy and scared to be alone with my thoughts. I want to go sit in Isla's room and hold her, and hear her breathing and see her smile. She'd have been 8 weeks tomorrow. 2 months. God please let tomorrow be better. I am so very unhappy. I want desperately to feel genuine happiness, I know I'm not being very patient, and Isla deserves all these tears, and of course, I grieve for her with all of my soul but I am not strong enough to endure this pain for much longer. I am so tired. So tired, the things that mattered enough to keep me going this long are starting to not matter, and all I want is my baby girl. God Isla, I miss you so much.

Welcome?

I've learned that places of grief and mourning are never ones you really want to be welcomed into, but I do anyway. Because you may be a bereaved parent yourself, or maybe you know one, and my hope is that maybe you will find the comfort that I have in blogs like mine: that knowing you are not alone on this heartbreaking journey makes the burden of it less powerful, less consuming. If you are a bereaved parent, my heart goes out to you. I wish you peace and eventually, some ease of your pain. Welcome.

The name of my blog, Mi Isla Sola, is Spanish for My Lonely Island. A few other translations came up for that as well, but this one suited my headspace the most. I feel like I am on an island in a way. Alone. There's the rest of the world on the mainland, and they're looking toward something. From my island, I am looking toward the same thing, but we see it very differently from our separate vantage points. Though I am near the people on the mainland, and can hear them, see them, and them me, I am not "with" them. I am removed in an almost physical sense, from the rest of the world. I can participate in the mundane every day realities of life, but I don't really 'feel' part of it all. I don't know how I feel about it really. On one hand, I appreciate this new way of looking at the world, like I have bullshit glasses now; in that I can spot all the bullshit in the world, quickly, and not bother myself with it. I've gained a sense of what's important to me in life, and it's not stuff and things of material worth, but love of family and friends, and precious times with them. But it's a lonely place, feeling isolated from the rest of the world; a place in which everyone seems to have some place to go, some people to see, something funny to laugh at and enjoy. I get angry that I don't have the naïveté I once did, with nothing but the weather to complain about, nothing but a few bills to worry about. It's all so trivial now, and I find that I compare everything in life to the loss of Isla. It's not very productive, or conducive to healing, I'm sure, yet I do it anyway. For example, when someone I know recently complained about her broken arm, and the hassle it presented to her, I was enraged that she could be so shallow and unappreciative of her life. How dare she complain about such a minor inconvenience. I'm trying not to compare everything to my loss, because really, if I do that, I will win every time. There is truly nothing worse than enduring the death of your child, I'm convinced. Yet I must realize that everyone's experience is their own, with value and worth in themselves. I, like many others in the world are coping with a bum deal, and I should embrace, not reproach them for their experiences. I want to become a better person, not a bitter one. Eventually.

I started journaling a couple of weeks ago, and I'm going to copy and paste those entries here, retroactively, so the dates will be weird for a bit.