One month tomorrow.
I can't even process how much my life has changed in that time. I was prepared for changes, but not for anything like what's happened. Going to the store is an ordeal for me. Spending time with people outside of my family is so emotionally and mentally exhausting to me that I'd honestly rather just not leave the house.
I found a charity online that does free photo retouching for stillborn babies, so I brought the one professional picture we have of Matthew to the place here in town that is affiliated with them. I really wanted the hospital to call Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep to do Matthew's pictures - and I didn't realize until the picture arrived that it was a different service. NILMDTS specializes in bereavement pictures, and the service that did ours takes pictures of all the babies that are born at that particular hospital. The picture I got was beautiful, but I would have liked different shots. Specifically one of me and the Other Half and our son. It would have been nice to have a family picture when we had the chance.
Anyway, the picture came back yesterday. I don't know how I feel about it. It is amazing. Beautiful. Perfect. He looks like an angel. But in a way, seeing it makes it harder. Seeing him in that picture was like looking into an alternate reality. One where my precious boy lived.
I hope that anyone reading this who has children knows how incredibly, amazingly lucky they are. I hope you appreciate every single tantrum, every messy diaper blow-out, every sleepless night. Because there are those of us who would take it all in a heartbeat if we could.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Moving forward
I had a baby 15 days ago. I can say that, I know it's true. But sometimes, it really feels like a dream. Probably because I spent most of my pregnancy waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. After eight years and two miscarriages, I really thought it would never happen for me. So pretty much every time I went to the doctor, I honestly expected the doctor wouldn't be able to find a heartbeat. It surprised me every time I heard it. Even once my baby got so big that I could watch him moving through my clothes, I still didn't really believe that I was going to get to have a baby.
But about two weeks before Matthew was born, it started to feel real. The house was full of baby stuff. We put together a crib and a stroller and a car seat. I washed load after load of baby sheets and towels and clothes. We bought diapers and wipes and a fancy bag to carry them in. We had a bag packed with one outfit for me, and five outfit options for our little man. I saw my doctor and had ultrasounds and everything was proceeding on schedule. I really started to believe that I was finally going to be a mom.
So when that shoe finally dropped, I was so unprepared. When the Doppler on my belly didn't find the heartbeat, I couldn't breathe. When the ultrasound confirmed that my baby was no longer alive, I wanted to die, too. I felt like a part of my soul had been ripped away. I was already in labor, so I was allowed to progress toward my eventual delivery. I labored for about nine hours, pushed for 20 minutes. I felt the same elation and euphoria that every woman feels once their baby is delivered for about a second, and then the soul-crushing reality sank in. Some part of me still hoped that there had been a mistake, that I would get to hear that beautiful first cry, but it never came. My son was dead.
I brought my infant son home in a four inch square box. How is that fair? My son is dead, and Kim Kardashian gets to perpetuate the next generation of exploited Hollywood children. How is that fair? Drug addicts and child abusers get to have healthy children, and I don't. How is that fair?
The answer is that it isn't fair. Because life isn't fair. We are told that all the time, but we always forget. Life isn't fair. Bad things happen to good people. Babies die. And we have no control over that. The only thing we can control is how we let these things affect us moving forward.
My son never took a breath on this earth, but every single pew in the church was occupied at his memorial. He was loved by so many, even though only a handful of people ever got to see him. And that love, along with the prayers and well-wishes that accompanied it, is what I can carry forward. Being angry or bitter won't bring my precious Matthew back. Nothing will. And holding on to anger or bitterness will only make me feel worse in the long run. So I will honor the memory of my son by waking up every morning. I will allow joy into my heart. I will laugh when I feel like it, and cry when I feel like it, and I won't feel guilty about either one. I will miss my son with every fiber of my being, but I will keep moving. And one sweet day, I will see my beautiful boy again. And he will be proud of the life I've lived.
But about two weeks before Matthew was born, it started to feel real. The house was full of baby stuff. We put together a crib and a stroller and a car seat. I washed load after load of baby sheets and towels and clothes. We bought diapers and wipes and a fancy bag to carry them in. We had a bag packed with one outfit for me, and five outfit options for our little man. I saw my doctor and had ultrasounds and everything was proceeding on schedule. I really started to believe that I was finally going to be a mom.
So when that shoe finally dropped, I was so unprepared. When the Doppler on my belly didn't find the heartbeat, I couldn't breathe. When the ultrasound confirmed that my baby was no longer alive, I wanted to die, too. I felt like a part of my soul had been ripped away. I was already in labor, so I was allowed to progress toward my eventual delivery. I labored for about nine hours, pushed for 20 minutes. I felt the same elation and euphoria that every woman feels once their baby is delivered for about a second, and then the soul-crushing reality sank in. Some part of me still hoped that there had been a mistake, that I would get to hear that beautiful first cry, but it never came. My son was dead.
I brought my infant son home in a four inch square box. How is that fair? My son is dead, and Kim Kardashian gets to perpetuate the next generation of exploited Hollywood children. How is that fair? Drug addicts and child abusers get to have healthy children, and I don't. How is that fair?
The answer is that it isn't fair. Because life isn't fair. We are told that all the time, but we always forget. Life isn't fair. Bad things happen to good people. Babies die. And we have no control over that. The only thing we can control is how we let these things affect us moving forward.
My son never took a breath on this earth, but every single pew in the church was occupied at his memorial. He was loved by so many, even though only a handful of people ever got to see him. And that love, along with the prayers and well-wishes that accompanied it, is what I can carry forward. Being angry or bitter won't bring my precious Matthew back. Nothing will. And holding on to anger or bitterness will only make me feel worse in the long run. So I will honor the memory of my son by waking up every morning. I will allow joy into my heart. I will laugh when I feel like it, and cry when I feel like it, and I won't feel guilty about either one. I will miss my son with every fiber of my being, but I will keep moving. And one sweet day, I will see my beautiful boy again. And he will be proud of the life I've lived.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Primitive forces
I think anyone that's ever been through childbirth can tell you that it has a very distinct smell. It's a primal smell. Of blood and earth and things that are older than recorded memory. And so it's fitting, somehow, that it is the only smell I will ever associate with my son, Matthew.
Matthew was stillborn on March 26, 2013. We knew for about nine hours before his actual birth that he was never going to take a breath. I will never know his favorite color. I will never know if he prefers bacon and eggs or pancakes for breakfast. I will never change his diapers or hold his chubby baby fingers when he takes his first steps. I will not choke back tears while I walk him in to his first day of kindergarten. I won't see his face flush with embarrassment when I insist on taking a million pictures of him with his date to prom, or excitement and pride when he walks across the stage to accept his diploma. I won't wear beige and cry through his wedding, or hold his first child in my arms.
So I can't feel sad about losing these things, because I never had them to begin with. What I feel is so much more primal. It is a grief that has no words. An all-encompassing, raw wound that stretches across every inch of my body.
Matthew never smelled like a baby - like powder or shampoo or lotion. He smelled primitive, like blood and earth, like the sweat and tears that poured from my body when I brought him into the world. His perfect cheeks were cool under my lips when I kissed him, and his long, nimble fingers - so much like his father's - curled so neatly around mine, even if there was no grip behind the motion. The nurses cleaned him up as much as possible, but his skin and hair were still stained and bore that primal scent.
I held my son for several hours before surrendering him to the hospital to prepare him for a post-mortem examination. He will be released tomorrow for cremation, and then we will bring him home to Arkansas to lay him to rest. I will never hold my precious Matthew in my arms again. I will only hold him in my memory. And in my mind, in my heart - these primitive forces of undying love and unyielding grief will stay with me forever.
Matthew was stillborn on March 26, 2013. We knew for about nine hours before his actual birth that he was never going to take a breath. I will never know his favorite color. I will never know if he prefers bacon and eggs or pancakes for breakfast. I will never change his diapers or hold his chubby baby fingers when he takes his first steps. I will not choke back tears while I walk him in to his first day of kindergarten. I won't see his face flush with embarrassment when I insist on taking a million pictures of him with his date to prom, or excitement and pride when he walks across the stage to accept his diploma. I won't wear beige and cry through his wedding, or hold his first child in my arms.
So I can't feel sad about losing these things, because I never had them to begin with. What I feel is so much more primal. It is a grief that has no words. An all-encompassing, raw wound that stretches across every inch of my body.
Matthew never smelled like a baby - like powder or shampoo or lotion. He smelled primitive, like blood and earth, like the sweat and tears that poured from my body when I brought him into the world. His perfect cheeks were cool under my lips when I kissed him, and his long, nimble fingers - so much like his father's - curled so neatly around mine, even if there was no grip behind the motion. The nurses cleaned him up as much as possible, but his skin and hair were still stained and bore that primal scent.
I held my son for several hours before surrendering him to the hospital to prepare him for a post-mortem examination. He will be released tomorrow for cremation, and then we will bring him home to Arkansas to lay him to rest. I will never hold my precious Matthew in my arms again. I will only hold him in my memory. And in my mind, in my heart - these primitive forces of undying love and unyielding grief will stay with me forever.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Sorry for any spelling errors
My hands are shaking as I type this.
It's not an earthquake, or an unsteady chair. It's not that I'm an emotional wreck or vibrating with joy over something. It's an autonomic response to the beta agonist I just took. AKA the albuterol shakes.
See, I have asthma. I've had it my entire life. I was diagnosed when I was six. I have what's called cough-variant asthma, which is just like regular asthma only the main symptom is coughing instead of wheezing.
I have my little arsenal of inhalers - some I carry with me everywhere I go, some I take on a schedule.
I am a good asthma patient and still use my spacer, even if most adult asthmatics stopped using theirs ages ago. I sometimes have to take steroids, which turn me into even more of a raging crazy person than I normally am.
(Side note - once, after I got a big ol' steroid shot, I went to the Olive Garden to eat dinner. It was during their never-ending pasta bowl special. And I am here to tell you today that it is NOT never-ending. They cut you off after four bowls.)
8% of adults worldwide have asthma, and 9% of children. Every day, nine people die from asthma attacks. It's not something to fuck around with. And, as a life-long asthmatic, I get pretty irritated when people imply that asthma is something that I could rid myself of forever just by losing weight. People who can't breathe because they're morbidly obese are just as asthmatic as people who smoke. Yes, they experience some transient symptomatic relief with albuterol, but it's a bronchodilator. Everyone in the world would experience the dilation of the bronchioles with that treatment. When the problem is that your body habitus or chest wall is so heavy that it compresses your lungs, your problem isn't asthma, it's your physiology. When the problem is that you fill your lungs with smoke and toxins, your problem isn't asthma, it's idiocy.
Asthma isn't something that exclusively strikes nerds, as it has always been depicted in the media. Although severe or uncontrolled asthma can certain limit a person's ability to play sports or spend a lot of time outdoors. It's a chronic disease that can pretty significantly impact a person and those around them. It can be pretty damn scary to watch someone have a full-blown asthma attack. Not to mention all the missed school or work, doctor visits, medications, etc that families of asthmatics have to deal with.
But it's also something that, once controlled, can be no more limiting than allergies or nearsightedness. Bill Clinton is asthmatic. So is Jackie Joyner-Kersee. And Martin Freeman, who is one of my favorite British actors. So now you know a little more about asthma. And knowing is half the battle.
PS - Lest anyone forget the reason for this blog in the first place, I must give a shout-out to Host Friend and his lovely wife for getting me these little beauties:
It's not an earthquake, or an unsteady chair. It's not that I'm an emotional wreck or vibrating with joy over something. It's an autonomic response to the beta agonist I just took. AKA the albuterol shakes.
See, I have asthma. I've had it my entire life. I was diagnosed when I was six. I have what's called cough-variant asthma, which is just like regular asthma only the main symptom is coughing instead of wheezing.
I have my little arsenal of inhalers - some I carry with me everywhere I go, some I take on a schedule.
I am a good asthma patient and still use my spacer, even if most adult asthmatics stopped using theirs ages ago. I sometimes have to take steroids, which turn me into even more of a raging crazy person than I normally am.
(Side note - once, after I got a big ol' steroid shot, I went to the Olive Garden to eat dinner. It was during their never-ending pasta bowl special. And I am here to tell you today that it is NOT never-ending. They cut you off after four bowls.)
Asthma isn't something that exclusively strikes nerds, as it has always been depicted in the media. Although severe or uncontrolled asthma can certain limit a person's ability to play sports or spend a lot of time outdoors. It's a chronic disease that can pretty significantly impact a person and those around them. It can be pretty damn scary to watch someone have a full-blown asthma attack. Not to mention all the missed school or work, doctor visits, medications, etc that families of asthmatics have to deal with.
But it's also something that, once controlled, can be no more limiting than allergies or nearsightedness. Bill Clinton is asthmatic. So is Jackie Joyner-Kersee. And Martin Freeman, who is one of my favorite British actors. So now you know a little more about asthma. And knowing is half the battle.
PS - Lest anyone forget the reason for this blog in the first place, I must give a shout-out to Host Friend and his lovely wife for getting me these little beauties:
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Running
I have recently taking up something that I swore I'd never do.
Running. For pleasure.
Now, I'm not exactly 'running' at this point. More like kinda-jogging while sweating profusely and actively wanting to die. I feel bad for any unfortunate people who happen to drive or walk by me on these horrifying endeavors. I'm sure it's supremely unpleasant to have to watch a sweaty, jiggly mess of a person panting and sweating and flailing all over the place.
(I tried for like two hours to effectively draw a representation of this, but was unable to capture the true horror of that visual. My apologies.)
See, I always said that I would never run unless something large and scary was chasing me. But then one day it dawned on me - if I didn't run under ideal circumstances, then if I ever *had* to run for my life, I would die. Quickly. So I haul my ass around the neighborhood, wheezing and cursing.
So far, the best thing about running is the cool female voice on my trainer program who says "workout complete" when I can stop running. THAT is a great feeling.
Running. For pleasure.
Now, I'm not exactly 'running' at this point. More like kinda-jogging while sweating profusely and actively wanting to die. I feel bad for any unfortunate people who happen to drive or walk by me on these horrifying endeavors. I'm sure it's supremely unpleasant to have to watch a sweaty, jiggly mess of a person panting and sweating and flailing all over the place.
(I tried for like two hours to effectively draw a representation of this, but was unable to capture the true horror of that visual. My apologies.)
See, I always said that I would never run unless something large and scary was chasing me. But then one day it dawned on me - if I didn't run under ideal circumstances, then if I ever *had* to run for my life, I would die. Quickly. So I haul my ass around the neighborhood, wheezing and cursing.
So far, the best thing about running is the cool female voice on my trainer program who says "workout complete" when I can stop running. THAT is a great feeling.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Crafty-time
Yeah, yeah. Again with the sucking at posting things. I know. I'm going to try and do better. For example, I made a new wreath for my door.
I think it's a pretty sweet wreath, and I'm going to tell y'all how I made it. So if anyone out there in Internet-land wants to make one, you'll know how. At least, you'll know how I made mine. Anyway. Here are the things you'll need:
Once the boa is secured, carefully wrap it around the wreath form. (I say carefully because if you're an impatient person like me, you'll start wrapping before the glue dries and end up burning your fingers.)
Like I said earlier, the wrapping doesn't have to be super tight. You just want it to cover the wreath form. My first boa covered about a third of the form.
Once the boa is completely wrapped, carefully glue both the end of the first boa and the beginning of the second boa to the form, and continue wrapping.
Repeat until you have completely covered the wreath form.
The idea is for it to look like grass. I saw a similar wreath using fuzzy green yarn, but it just didn't look as lush as I wanted. Once your form is wrapped, glue one end of the ribbon to the inside of whichever side you want to be the back of the wreath.
Loosely wrap the ribbon around the wreath. Mine was just long enough to go around six times, and I wanted it to have a more scattered look. If you want your grass to be just bursting with flowers, then wrap that ribbon to your heart's content. Secure the other end to the back side of your wreath. Voila!
One super cute spring wreath. I think my wreath form was about $4, plus three $5 boas, plus $2 worth of ribbon. So the whole project cost around $20, and I can leave it up for at least a couple of months.
See? Isn't this better than reading about my incredibly depressing job? I have two more big craft projects in the pipeline, so that means at LEAST two more blog posts. And since this is what the stinkin' thing is supposed to be about, I present to you my socks:
Sparkly rainbow toe socks. Could life get any better?
I think it's a pretty sweet wreath, and I'm going to tell y'all how I made it. So if anyone out there in Internet-land wants to make one, you'll know how. At least, you'll know how I made mine. Anyway. Here are the things you'll need:
- Wreath form (I used a 12-inch smooth white Styrofoam to make the wrapping a bit easier, but you can use any style or size.)
- Marabou feather boas (For my 12-inch wreath, I used three. You don't need to wrap it super tight, just enough to cover the wreath form.)
- Flower ribbon (I used daisy ribbon, but any springtime flower will do. Also, I bought the ends of a spool, which ended up being about 18 inches, I think.)
- Hot glue gun
- About 15 minutes time
Once the boa is secured, carefully wrap it around the wreath form. (I say carefully because if you're an impatient person like me, you'll start wrapping before the glue dries and end up burning your fingers.)
Like I said earlier, the wrapping doesn't have to be super tight. You just want it to cover the wreath form. My first boa covered about a third of the form.
Once the boa is completely wrapped, carefully glue both the end of the first boa and the beginning of the second boa to the form, and continue wrapping.
Repeat until you have completely covered the wreath form.
The idea is for it to look like grass. I saw a similar wreath using fuzzy green yarn, but it just didn't look as lush as I wanted. Once your form is wrapped, glue one end of the ribbon to the inside of whichever side you want to be the back of the wreath.
Loosely wrap the ribbon around the wreath. Mine was just long enough to go around six times, and I wanted it to have a more scattered look. If you want your grass to be just bursting with flowers, then wrap that ribbon to your heart's content. Secure the other end to the back side of your wreath. Voila!
One super cute spring wreath. I think my wreath form was about $4, plus three $5 boas, plus $2 worth of ribbon. So the whole project cost around $20, and I can leave it up for at least a couple of months.
See? Isn't this better than reading about my incredibly depressing job? I have two more big craft projects in the pipeline, so that means at LEAST two more blog posts. And since this is what the stinkin' thing is supposed to be about, I present to you my socks:
Sparkly rainbow toe socks. Could life get any better?
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
I suck at posting things
So again, I have neglected my little corner of the Internet. I feel like it's a combination of things that keep me away - laziness being the main factor. Although there's also the bone-numbing exhaustion that comes from working a split schedule (meaning I work days and nights). It's kind of horrible when I leave the hospital and can't remember how the hell I got home. I tell you, the worst time for anyone to medically fall apart in a hospital is between four and six in the morning. The entire night shift has already checked out for the evening, and the second wind that comes from knowing that work is almost over hasn't started yet.
So there's that reason. Also, about a month ago I had a hilarious diatribe about public transit and behavior all ready to post, but it got eaten by the gods of the Internet. Either that or the MBTA has my computer bugged in the off chance I might make disparaging remarks about it on a blog that - and I'm not trying to brag or anything - has had over 100 hits in its entire existence.
So what, you may ask, has prompted me to overcome my months of laziness, apathy, and writer's block to again put fingers to keyboard?
Through the combined delights of StumbleUpon and Pinterest, I have recently come across several blogs that detail the (usually female) writer talking about how they've recently lost a lot of weight, or how they're trying to lose a lot of weight, and how much better their lives are now that they're skinny, or how hard they continue to work every day to maintain their new hotness. Now, I'm not out to rain on anyone's parade, but I'm gonna have to call bullshit on some of these.
I've been on the larger side for most of my life. And I don't care ONE BIT. I can't wear skinny jeans. Fine by me. Personally, I don't think anyone can.
And what breaks my brain about these girls is that they think that losing weight will magically help them find love. Really? Is this what you think life is all about? Making yourselves miserable and thin in order to attract a douchebag who wasn't man enough to see past whatever external flaws you may have had to see the person you really are? Because no matter who you are, no matter how hard you work, looks fade. Whatever paint and polish and Botox and Shellac you put on will eventually chip away. And you're left with what you have inside your body. And even before that, you're going to get sick one day. I don't mean cancer or something, but like a really bad cold. And you're not going to put on makeup and you probably won't shower and your face will be all splotchy and your nose will be swollen and crusty and you're going to look terrible. And that douchebag that only gave you the time of day because you were skinny is going to take one look at you and head for the hills.
I've been in double-digit dress sizes as long as I can remember, and it hasn't slowed me down one bit. I'm smart and funny and sexy as hell, when I want to be. I got more attention from men in college than my skinny, miserable friends, mostly because they were too worried about what they looked like than having a good time. I have love and friendship and fulfillment in my life, not because of what I look like, but because of who I am. And nothing can ever change that about me.
So there's that reason. Also, about a month ago I had a hilarious diatribe about public transit and behavior all ready to post, but it got eaten by the gods of the Internet. Either that or the MBTA has my computer bugged in the off chance I might make disparaging remarks about it on a blog that - and I'm not trying to brag or anything - has had over 100 hits in its entire existence.
So what, you may ask, has prompted me to overcome my months of laziness, apathy, and writer's block to again put fingers to keyboard?
Through the combined delights of StumbleUpon and Pinterest, I have recently come across several blogs that detail the (usually female) writer talking about how they've recently lost a lot of weight, or how they're trying to lose a lot of weight, and how much better their lives are now that they're skinny, or how hard they continue to work every day to maintain their new hotness. Now, I'm not out to rain on anyone's parade, but I'm gonna have to call bullshit on some of these.
I've been on the larger side for most of my life. And I don't care ONE BIT. I can't wear skinny jeans. Fine by me. Personally, I don't think anyone can.
And what breaks my brain about these girls is that they think that losing weight will magically help them find love. Really? Is this what you think life is all about? Making yourselves miserable and thin in order to attract a douchebag who wasn't man enough to see past whatever external flaws you may have had to see the person you really are? Because no matter who you are, no matter how hard you work, looks fade. Whatever paint and polish and Botox and Shellac you put on will eventually chip away. And you're left with what you have inside your body. And even before that, you're going to get sick one day. I don't mean cancer or something, but like a really bad cold. And you're not going to put on makeup and you probably won't shower and your face will be all splotchy and your nose will be swollen and crusty and you're going to look terrible. And that douchebag that only gave you the time of day because you were skinny is going to take one look at you and head for the hills.
I've been in double-digit dress sizes as long as I can remember, and it hasn't slowed me down one bit. I'm smart and funny and sexy as hell, when I want to be. I got more attention from men in college than my skinny, miserable friends, mostly because they were too worried about what they looked like than having a good time. I have love and friendship and fulfillment in my life, not because of what I look like, but because of who I am. And nothing can ever change that about me.
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