I wrote this in my journal a while ago but wanted to share because...
because I think this is the easiest way to summarize the basic thoughts that are ALWAYS going through my head.
"Dear Carter,
I spend every day hoping you know how much mommy and daddy love you. Because one of the emptiest feelings is thinking that without you here to hold, kiss, snuggle, and show off... there is just no way to express how much we love you.
I hope you get to play with Jay and Liam and all those other babies whose time on earth was too short.
I hope that children in heaven are not mean to each other like children on earth: that you are not teased about anything because you are perfect.
I hope there are parties in heaven: extra special, extra perfect days full of cake and presents and people telling you how wonderful you are. But maybe every day in heaven in like that. And that's okay too.
I hope you've met the wonderful man we named you after. I hope he introduced himself as Uncle Josh... because if you were both here on earth, that is the title we would have given him.
I hope the great grandmothers we thought you wouldn't get to meet are there to love you every day. I hope they hug and kiss you and tell great stories like they did for daddy and I.
Maybe you have met some of daddy's other friends too. I hope they tell you only of the good times: terrorism and war deserve no place in heaven.
I hope that our sadness doesn't contaminate your heaven. We are trying so hard to get along here without you, but some days it is much harder than others. I hope, if you feel our sadness, you know that it is just because we miss you even when we know you are fine. I hope, that if you must feel our sadness, then you get to feel our happiness and love too.
I hope that you know you will never be out of our hearts, our thoughts, or memories. I hope you know we will cherish ever moment we had with you... even the scary ones, the sad ones, the vomit-y ones. We will constantly wish that every moment with you had totaled many many more, but accept that cannot happen.
But mostly, I just hope you know how much we love you.
Love,
Mommy
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Tales from a bike ride through the dark
"Peter!!! Pete!" I yell, a mouth full of ice cream, (probably some dripping down my white shirt), one hand holding a waffle cone, one hand on the bike handlebars, as I dodge strollers and pedestrians and people dancing in the street in front of a huge stage.
"I think..."
"What?" Pete asks, sounding a bit impatient... though really he is just 100 feet ahead of me, trying to pull off the same prowess.
"I think we are downtownies... living in the 'burbs... I think that is our only problem."
Sunday evening was the festival downtown to welcome the US Pro Cycling challenge into town. There were vendor booths, live music, awesome people watching, and the usual liveliness of downtown.
To thoroughly enjoy this festival, we opted out of trying to find a parking place in the area and instead rode our bikes down the greenway that goes right into our humble downtown.
We ended up being able to have a nice dinner with Pete's parents and grandparents. And then we toured the fest, and stopped by the ice cream shop just around the corner from work.
But... all this fun meant that we headed home in growing darkness. And its a good hour ride from downtown to where we parked our car.
I'm afraid of what can't be seen. We all are in some extent. Especially on those pessimistic days. The fear of the unknown in front of us can be overwhelming in both a physical and mental sense. But it has always been a huge thing for me. I remember trying to explain this in a writing assignment in middle school. My teacher responded with, "So you are afraid of the dark?" Well, no... because my vision is bad enough that take my glasses away and I cannot see in the most perfect of light. But yes, because most often when things really sneak up on you unforeseen: is in the dark.
And to be completely honest, I still leave the light on if I go to sleep before Pete comes home. He thinks that its just because I fall asleep so fast that I do not get a chance to turn off the light. And sometimes it is. But most of the time, it is just because I do not want to wake up and wonder if the person walking into my bedroom whom I cannot see AT ALL (no glasses and dark? not a chance) is really Peter.
So, I wasn't completely psyched to be riding home in the darkness. Especially since I couldn't find my bike headlight OR headlamp. And Pete has a flashing taillight in front of me which, with my night vision (or lack thereof), just further obscures everything else.
But I embraced it. And I found it to be rather peaceful. Especially in the darkest parts of the green way. There is so little distraction. Its kind of like in one of those athlete based movies, where the pivotal moment comes and the sound goes completely silent except for the persons breathing and heart rate...
I haven't left myself alone with my thoughts much in the most recent months. Because, well, frankly... they aren't pretty. But, on the bike... it was serene. It really did seem like the worst thing in our lives was that we live too far out "in the burbs." Everything felt momentarily okay.
But there was still this tightness in my chest. This wondering if we would have to find out that the zombie apocolalypse had started between the time we had ridden south on the trail in the light to when we were riding north on the trail in the dark. And as Peter's tail light fell off his bike and we momentarily stopped to fix it, it did seem like the opening moments of a horror movie.
But it was fine. Well, I mean, we arrived home completely unscathed. There was another moment when we briefly stopped that we heard something LARGE tromping through the woods just ahead of us. And then, a huge dog appeared at the side of the trail. It had to be a dog. To huge for a coyote, too small for a bear, and too completely uninterested in us to be a mountain lion.
But there was this moment of tension as I was leaning over my bag when this happened and Peter whispered, "Whatever happens, don't move." and I heard the snap on his holster... (the dog is fine, it wandered away and we moved right along... and with a little more pep than we had before)
People talk about how those missing a sense (sight, hearing...) just end up with better abilities with the other four senses. But. This was different than that. It was too dark for sight. So quiet for sound. So still (except for the air rushing past you as you pedaled) for touch.
So you are left with smell and thoughts. And somehow, this made the world seem so much brighter, more peaceful, loving.
I can only declare that this perception is because for the briefest point in time (a whole hour out of a whole lifetime), we OPTED to not be able to see in front of us. And it did not slow us down. It did not hurt. It was not frightful. It was not unfortunate.
IT WAS NOT BAD.
I don't know what is in front of the Hall family at this point. And I've finally accepted that, my wildest guess, dream, hope, fear... will not ever be exactly what we end up with. I would say that I cannot see very far in front of me at all.
But that doesn't have to slow me down, hurt me, scare me, or be bad.
It just has to be accepted.
"I think..."
"What?" Pete asks, sounding a bit impatient... though really he is just 100 feet ahead of me, trying to pull off the same prowess.
"I think we are downtownies... living in the 'burbs... I think that is our only problem."
Sunday evening was the festival downtown to welcome the US Pro Cycling challenge into town. There were vendor booths, live music, awesome people watching, and the usual liveliness of downtown.
To thoroughly enjoy this festival, we opted out of trying to find a parking place in the area and instead rode our bikes down the greenway that goes right into our humble downtown.
We ended up being able to have a nice dinner with Pete's parents and grandparents. And then we toured the fest, and stopped by the ice cream shop just around the corner from work.
But... all this fun meant that we headed home in growing darkness. And its a good hour ride from downtown to where we parked our car.
I'm afraid of what can't be seen. We all are in some extent. Especially on those pessimistic days. The fear of the unknown in front of us can be overwhelming in both a physical and mental sense. But it has always been a huge thing for me. I remember trying to explain this in a writing assignment in middle school. My teacher responded with, "So you are afraid of the dark?" Well, no... because my vision is bad enough that take my glasses away and I cannot see in the most perfect of light. But yes, because most often when things really sneak up on you unforeseen: is in the dark.
And to be completely honest, I still leave the light on if I go to sleep before Pete comes home. He thinks that its just because I fall asleep so fast that I do not get a chance to turn off the light. And sometimes it is. But most of the time, it is just because I do not want to wake up and wonder if the person walking into my bedroom whom I cannot see AT ALL (no glasses and dark? not a chance) is really Peter.
So, I wasn't completely psyched to be riding home in the darkness. Especially since I couldn't find my bike headlight OR headlamp. And Pete has a flashing taillight in front of me which, with my night vision (or lack thereof), just further obscures everything else.
But I embraced it. And I found it to be rather peaceful. Especially in the darkest parts of the green way. There is so little distraction. Its kind of like in one of those athlete based movies, where the pivotal moment comes and the sound goes completely silent except for the persons breathing and heart rate...
I haven't left myself alone with my thoughts much in the most recent months. Because, well, frankly... they aren't pretty. But, on the bike... it was serene. It really did seem like the worst thing in our lives was that we live too far out "in the burbs." Everything felt momentarily okay.
But there was still this tightness in my chest. This wondering if we would have to find out that the zombie apocolalypse had started between the time we had ridden south on the trail in the light to when we were riding north on the trail in the dark. And as Peter's tail light fell off his bike and we momentarily stopped to fix it, it did seem like the opening moments of a horror movie.
But it was fine. Well, I mean, we arrived home completely unscathed. There was another moment when we briefly stopped that we heard something LARGE tromping through the woods just ahead of us. And then, a huge dog appeared at the side of the trail. It had to be a dog. To huge for a coyote, too small for a bear, and too completely uninterested in us to be a mountain lion.
But there was this moment of tension as I was leaning over my bag when this happened and Peter whispered, "Whatever happens, don't move." and I heard the snap on his holster... (the dog is fine, it wandered away and we moved right along... and with a little more pep than we had before)
People talk about how those missing a sense (sight, hearing...) just end up with better abilities with the other four senses. But. This was different than that. It was too dark for sight. So quiet for sound. So still (except for the air rushing past you as you pedaled) for touch.
So you are left with smell and thoughts. And somehow, this made the world seem so much brighter, more peaceful, loving.
I can only declare that this perception is because for the briefest point in time (a whole hour out of a whole lifetime), we OPTED to not be able to see in front of us. And it did not slow us down. It did not hurt. It was not frightful. It was not unfortunate.
IT WAS NOT BAD.
I don't know what is in front of the Hall family at this point. And I've finally accepted that, my wildest guess, dream, hope, fear... will not ever be exactly what we end up with. I would say that I cannot see very far in front of me at all.
But that doesn't have to slow me down, hurt me, scare me, or be bad.
It just has to be accepted.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Prologue
I'm not exactly sitting to write now... but I will in the next few days. I have an interesting topic (er, stream of consciousness) to put into the world.
But here is a teaser:
"Peter!!! Pete!" I yell, a mouth full of ice cream, (probably some dripping down my white shirt), one hand holding a waffle cone, one hand on the bike handlebars, as I dodge strollers and pedestrians and people dancing in the street in front of a huge stage.
"I think..."
"What?" Pete asks, sounding a bit impatient... though really he is just 100 feet ahead of me, trying to pull of the same prowess.
"I think we are downtownies... living in the 'burbs... I think that is our only problem."
But here is a teaser:
"Peter!!! Pete!" I yell, a mouth full of ice cream, (probably some dripping down my white shirt), one hand holding a waffle cone, one hand on the bike handlebars, as I dodge strollers and pedestrians and people dancing in the street in front of a huge stage.
"I think..."
"What?" Pete asks, sounding a bit impatient... though really he is just 100 feet ahead of me, trying to pull of the same prowess.
"I think we are downtownies... living in the 'burbs... I think that is our only problem."
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Holy cow, two posts in one day!!!
It has been a while since I posted a food obsessed blog. 
And since I named this blog "foodie-talk" back in the day, I figured it was time.
Tonight, I had a wonderful dinner planned. But I spaced out and started way late. So I was suddenly rushing to finish it up in time for Pete to eat before heading off to his half night shift.
It still turned out great. I was so worried the pork would turn out too tough since i rushed it (I think I set a world record for fastest fully cooked pork that was edible) but it was all great.
The best part was the sweet potatoes.
We made a hashbrowns type of dish with sweet potatoes instead. So awesome. Here is a... recipe ish...
2 sweet potatoes
1 apple
1/2 large onion
1 clove garlic
salt and pepper to taste
2 tbsp canola oil
4 tbsp butter
We used a cheese grater to grate up the sweet potatoes. Then we julienned (cut into small strips) the apple and onion and minced the garlic. We put all that in hot saute pan coated with the oil / butter mix.
Cook over medium heat for 3-5 minutes at a time, before flipping.
It was so delicious!!! What a great way to change up the sweet potato side dish.
Cheers, LiA
Well, I have been doing some stuff.
Okay, its been weeks since I have written a blog, so this will be long but pictured filled.
When you last left the crazy world of Lia and Pete, we were about to embark on a 40 mile bike ride "for a good cause..."
It was a beautiful sweltering day even in the mountains. And Pete had just finished a graveyard shift. We made it 15 miles... and then it wasn't fun anymore. So we turned around... rode 15 more miles DOWNHILL at speeds near 30 miles an hour, had a nice lunch with the parents, and went to bed at 5pm. CASA raised over $13000 with this ride so thank you all for your support. We may take it on next year, but only if we are more prepared...
I finished remaking my sewing table into something a little more beautiful, instead of just practical.
You probably remember the before photos:
But after posting these, I found this label on the bottom:
"Carefully packed and inspected by Kent 5 11 '76"
HA!!! I knew it was dated, but yeesh!
So here is what I turned it into:
I love it!!! However, I have not really gotten around to using it since finishing. I'm way overdue for a sewing project...
In other news, we bottled our beer.
I love this picture of Pete. He looks dead asleep. I promise he is not. but its just funny how it turned out because his eyes are closed. He says I always take unflattering photos of him. I guess this is proof.
Oh, PS: beer should be done Sunday. Our first recipe, a honey brown ale. We haven't started another yet, but should soon...
Also, I cut off all my hair. I like it a ton. I was momentarily regretful when the buzzer touched my neck. But it feels nice and is super low maintenance (and we all know that is my priority beauty wise). I would have a picture, but I'm still in my pajamas with major bedhead (that is the thing with short hair).
Pete has taken on more of a managerial role at work, and is working DAYS for the first time in a year and a half!!!
I will be starting my promotion officially the first part of September... until then, it is a huge learning curve to master. Not huge. But, there is a list of stuff to figure out. I have a bunch of different shifts than I have ever had before and am gradually taking on more and more responsibility.
As my dad said so poetically last night, It is nice to see good things start to happen after going through hell.
And it is. Some days still feel like everyone has moved on but us. But for the most part, we seem to be succeeding at continuing on.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
"And also in first place..."
It was late in my generation that the concept of "every kid is a winner" really gained strength. I think I can best describe this... campaign by telling you about my life growing up in the ATA.
I first joined the American Taekwondo Association as a second grader. I was about seven. My mom herded all three of us kids into the studio at first: my younger brother, Ben about 4 at the time, and my older brother, Josh... 14ish. We all got started, excitedly joining the ranks of the many other students at this particular taekwondo studio in our small southern California town.
Ben only lasted a couple of weeks before the instructors and my mom decided he wasn't quite ready: lacking in coordination, and / or attention span in order to fully participate. So he was out.
Josh and I started our Taekwondo careers together. It wasn't super eventful right away.
So, enter Ben, about a year later. He eagerly joins classes. But, during his year of waiting to "mature" enough to participate, the ATA created a program called "tiny tigers" specially formulated for 3-6 year olds. So, he particpates, but is definitely not the youngest.
We entered tournaments. And... we always got trophies. There was always a 1st, 2nd and 3rd place for each category of competition. But beyond that, everyone else received a 4th place trophy. (Over the years, I collected MANY of these.)
By the time I received the rank necessary to judge in tournaments, the "tiny tigers" program had grown into quite a beast. As a young black belt of about 12... I judged in these rings most often. And... they all got "FIRST" place trophies. While it was sweet to really drive home that, "every kid is a winner" crap, it definitely felt like selling out to announce, "And in first place for best sportsmanship.... and in first place for strongest technique.... and in first place for loudest kiyapp...." And then we would set loose 14 "first place" four year olds running about whatever gym the tournament had rented.
All this nonsensical reminiscence is just to explain that... I know what it means to get an award just for the sake of getting an award. While I participated in a ton of various activities over my school years, I mostly have a ton of "participant" ribbons, "runner up" awards... and "fourth place" trophies (one I was awarded at the Las Vegas nationals for sparring... I was competing well. But locked feet with my opponent and sprained my ankle. Later on, I dropped the trophy and... its foot broke off. To this day, this trophy [one of the smallest] is my favorite.)
Sometimes, with an experience of intense grief and pain, everything good that happens to you... just feels like a fourth place trophy. I am having one of those days today. I just got amazing news of an excellent opportunity that I absolutely deserve....
But there is still a little voice in my head that says, "You know this never would have happened if Carter hadn't died."
In the most recent case, this unfortunately is completely true. I don't say that to be crass or cruel. But we are talking about a great career opportunity. And, if I had left work in early March to be hospitalized for as long as possible before having a baby who was in the NICU for months and a high needs child due to prematurity for quite some time... yeah, what is on the table today, would not be on the table.
I can't give a lot of details as to this most recent "thing" yet, so I will go back to the last time I was really feeling this way.
In early April, I took a vacation. You may remember. I went to a fancy resort outside of phoenix, AZ and laid by the pool... The pool bartender flirted with me despite my constant reminders that I was married. I took lots of pictures of random things. I geocached in a cemetary.
What I never spoke of, is the breakdown I had the night before leaving. It was my first vacation I had taken by myself (mostly by myself, Heidi and I shared a hotel room, but she was working 95% of the time), leaving Peter behind to work. I remember crying to him... as if I was being given a death sentence. He assured me it would be okay. I SHOULD have fun. And I remember telling him, "But this is just a consolation prize. I am not supposed to be going on a vacation to lay by a pool. I am supposed to be pregnant. And if not that, then I am supposed to be camping outside the NICU for every bit of news to receive about our daughter."
"I am NOT supposed to be getting vacation right now."
But that's the sad thing about Infant loss no one can adequately describe. You grieve the loss of your child. But just as much (and on some days, more so), you grieve the loss of the future you had planned with them. You feel awkward not following the restrictive pregnancy rules; you remember that at Christmas, you won't have a _________ old baby, you will have an extra stocking. You realize you will never shop for the things you thought you would, talk amongst other parents about milestones, research safety ratings, shop for houses based on school districts, and so on and so forth.
I didn't mean to react to this fabulous moment in our lives today as if it was a fourth place trophy. I was trying to be thankful. But being thankful for the opportunity, led me to the same thinking... "This never would have happened if I had a new baby. I would just be getting back from maternity leave in order to hear this announcement"
And remembering that... just led me to realize that, since what I really want is to be a mom.... to a live child, that a new title or salary or whatever... it is great. But it is not what I had in the plans for this year. It wasn't even in the BACKUP plan!
So, there is this little dark voice, in the back of my head that renames one of the most wonderful things that has happened to me as "just a consolation prize." Do I deserve it? yes. Did I work hard for it? yes. But did I think, a few months ago that it was even a possibility? no. And if, the future I expected as of six months ago had come to pass, would this have ever occurred? no.
But.... that is another funny thing. Life continues.In the words of a song I have always loved, "I thought of you, and where you'd gone, let the world spin madly on. And everything that I said I'd do, make the world brand new, take the time for you... and the world spins madly on." (the weepies)
I CANNOT STOP the world from happening. And... for the most part: I don't want to. The thought crosses my mind on occasion. I still have those, "Hey wait, my baby just died!" moments. But, for the most part, the world has to continue spinning. I find myself not wanting to wish this pain on anybody. But not really wanting to be witness to all the happy endings either. Today, I found out that one of my bussers and Pete's partner's girlfriend are both pregnant.
Part of me is so bitter and angry. "Of course THEY are pregnant!" my subconscious exclaims... as if "they" are less deserving. But... here is what I have learned being an unfortunate case of baby loss mama: 1 in 4 pregnancies doesn't lead to a healthy child: defects, born to soon, miscarriage... And I would say that statistic holds true as I have been watching dozens of friends pregnancies progress this year. So... while I am so hopelessly jealous of every moment of these women's pregnancies... I find myself just holding my breath for when bad news strikes. Its not being pessimistic, its being realistic. As a fellow BLM said when discussing our shared pregnant friend now hospitalized, "it doesn't surprise me. I saw this coming. And I continue to hope for the best. but I know the odds."
Grief is a funny thing. You never know when it is going to strike... or what it will get you for. But it is always there. Waiting for the moments you are weakest.
And sometimes being a baby loss mama feels like being back in a tiny tigers ring. Because, somehow, you are provided (in the moments of deepest despair) with women who aspire to be as "amazing" as you. "And in first place for most creative use of grief filled hyperactive energy: _______... and in first place for most likely to succeed beyond this: __________... and in first place for best fake smile when someone asks if you have kids: ________... and in first place for most likely to refrain from punching inadequate parents: ________..." And that is what makes the life of a baby loss mama so lonely. All those first place trophies. Some days... it is like competing to win an Oscar. But because there isn't a high budget film about this subject, one just has to quietly go about their business, trying not to make the rest of the world feel awkward about dead babies and other such horrific acts of... life.
I first joined the American Taekwondo Association as a second grader. I was about seven. My mom herded all three of us kids into the studio at first: my younger brother, Ben about 4 at the time, and my older brother, Josh... 14ish. We all got started, excitedly joining the ranks of the many other students at this particular taekwondo studio in our small southern California town.
Ben only lasted a couple of weeks before the instructors and my mom decided he wasn't quite ready: lacking in coordination, and / or attention span in order to fully participate. So he was out.
Josh and I started our Taekwondo careers together. It wasn't super eventful right away.
So, enter Ben, about a year later. He eagerly joins classes. But, during his year of waiting to "mature" enough to participate, the ATA created a program called "tiny tigers" specially formulated for 3-6 year olds. So, he particpates, but is definitely not the youngest.
We entered tournaments. And... we always got trophies. There was always a 1st, 2nd and 3rd place for each category of competition. But beyond that, everyone else received a 4th place trophy. (Over the years, I collected MANY of these.)
By the time I received the rank necessary to judge in tournaments, the "tiny tigers" program had grown into quite a beast. As a young black belt of about 12... I judged in these rings most often. And... they all got "FIRST" place trophies. While it was sweet to really drive home that, "every kid is a winner" crap, it definitely felt like selling out to announce, "And in first place for best sportsmanship.... and in first place for strongest technique.... and in first place for loudest kiyapp...." And then we would set loose 14 "first place" four year olds running about whatever gym the tournament had rented.
All this nonsensical reminiscence is just to explain that... I know what it means to get an award just for the sake of getting an award. While I participated in a ton of various activities over my school years, I mostly have a ton of "participant" ribbons, "runner up" awards... and "fourth place" trophies (one I was awarded at the Las Vegas nationals for sparring... I was competing well. But locked feet with my opponent and sprained my ankle. Later on, I dropped the trophy and... its foot broke off. To this day, this trophy [one of the smallest] is my favorite.)
Sometimes, with an experience of intense grief and pain, everything good that happens to you... just feels like a fourth place trophy. I am having one of those days today. I just got amazing news of an excellent opportunity that I absolutely deserve....
But there is still a little voice in my head that says, "You know this never would have happened if Carter hadn't died."
In the most recent case, this unfortunately is completely true. I don't say that to be crass or cruel. But we are talking about a great career opportunity. And, if I had left work in early March to be hospitalized for as long as possible before having a baby who was in the NICU for months and a high needs child due to prematurity for quite some time... yeah, what is on the table today, would not be on the table.
I can't give a lot of details as to this most recent "thing" yet, so I will go back to the last time I was really feeling this way.
In early April, I took a vacation. You may remember. I went to a fancy resort outside of phoenix, AZ and laid by the pool... The pool bartender flirted with me despite my constant reminders that I was married. I took lots of pictures of random things. I geocached in a cemetary.
What I never spoke of, is the breakdown I had the night before leaving. It was my first vacation I had taken by myself (mostly by myself, Heidi and I shared a hotel room, but she was working 95% of the time), leaving Peter behind to work. I remember crying to him... as if I was being given a death sentence. He assured me it would be okay. I SHOULD have fun. And I remember telling him, "But this is just a consolation prize. I am not supposed to be going on a vacation to lay by a pool. I am supposed to be pregnant. And if not that, then I am supposed to be camping outside the NICU for every bit of news to receive about our daughter."
"I am NOT supposed to be getting vacation right now."
But that's the sad thing about Infant loss no one can adequately describe. You grieve the loss of your child. But just as much (and on some days, more so), you grieve the loss of the future you had planned with them. You feel awkward not following the restrictive pregnancy rules; you remember that at Christmas, you won't have a _________ old baby, you will have an extra stocking. You realize you will never shop for the things you thought you would, talk amongst other parents about milestones, research safety ratings, shop for houses based on school districts, and so on and so forth.
I didn't mean to react to this fabulous moment in our lives today as if it was a fourth place trophy. I was trying to be thankful. But being thankful for the opportunity, led me to the same thinking... "This never would have happened if I had a new baby. I would just be getting back from maternity leave in order to hear this announcement"
And remembering that... just led me to realize that, since what I really want is to be a mom.... to a live child, that a new title or salary or whatever... it is great. But it is not what I had in the plans for this year. It wasn't even in the BACKUP plan!
So, there is this little dark voice, in the back of my head that renames one of the most wonderful things that has happened to me as "just a consolation prize." Do I deserve it? yes. Did I work hard for it? yes. But did I think, a few months ago that it was even a possibility? no. And if, the future I expected as of six months ago had come to pass, would this have ever occurred? no.
But.... that is another funny thing. Life continues.In the words of a song I have always loved, "I thought of you, and where you'd gone, let the world spin madly on. And everything that I said I'd do, make the world brand new, take the time for you... and the world spins madly on." (the weepies)
I CANNOT STOP the world from happening. And... for the most part: I don't want to. The thought crosses my mind on occasion. I still have those, "Hey wait, my baby just died!" moments. But, for the most part, the world has to continue spinning. I find myself not wanting to wish this pain on anybody. But not really wanting to be witness to all the happy endings either. Today, I found out that one of my bussers and Pete's partner's girlfriend are both pregnant.
Part of me is so bitter and angry. "Of course THEY are pregnant!" my subconscious exclaims... as if "they" are less deserving. But... here is what I have learned being an unfortunate case of baby loss mama: 1 in 4 pregnancies doesn't lead to a healthy child: defects, born to soon, miscarriage... And I would say that statistic holds true as I have been watching dozens of friends pregnancies progress this year. So... while I am so hopelessly jealous of every moment of these women's pregnancies... I find myself just holding my breath for when bad news strikes. Its not being pessimistic, its being realistic. As a fellow BLM said when discussing our shared pregnant friend now hospitalized, "it doesn't surprise me. I saw this coming. And I continue to hope for the best. but I know the odds."
Grief is a funny thing. You never know when it is going to strike... or what it will get you for. But it is always there. Waiting for the moments you are weakest.
And sometimes being a baby loss mama feels like being back in a tiny tigers ring. Because, somehow, you are provided (in the moments of deepest despair) with women who aspire to be as "amazing" as you. "And in first place for most creative use of grief filled hyperactive energy: _______... and in first place for most likely to succeed beyond this: __________... and in first place for best fake smile when someone asks if you have kids: ________... and in first place for most likely to refrain from punching inadequate parents: ________..." And that is what makes the life of a baby loss mama so lonely. All those first place trophies. Some days... it is like competing to win an Oscar. But because there isn't a high budget film about this subject, one just has to quietly go about their business, trying not to make the rest of the world feel awkward about dead babies and other such horrific acts of... life.
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