Those Empty Eyes

A conversation from last night's Private Practice [in a hospital, man's wife just died -- it's taken out of context, but hopefully you get the gist]:

Man: The thing is, I can't leave without my wife. And I can't leave with her, so I can't leave. . . Did you feel this way, when you lost your child?

Woman: Well, walking out that door was the hardest thing I ever did. But yeah, I did feel this way.

Man: You've got that "dead kid" face. I'm sorry, that didn't come out right.

Woman: It's alright. What do you mean about my face?

Man: Your eyes, you've been some place that most people have never been. You've survived something that no one would've wanted to survive. It's your eyes. They're, I don't know . . . empty.

Woman: It doesn't have to be dead kid. It could just be bad life.

Man: No, it's dead kid.

********

I wonder if I have a dead kid face? Are people looking at me and thinking, "Oh, for sure, dead kid." I wonder if my eyes are empty. I don't think they are . . . at least I hope not.

A Little Frustrating

I am not easily offended. I've come to accept the fact that I will probably never carry a baby to full-term (ie. 40 weeks). Because of my chronic hypertension, I am (and will probably always be) considered a high-risk pregnancy. I know what it feels like to be thankful for every day that I'm pregnant. But there are times that I hear women complain about their pregnancies, and the devil on my shoulder thinks, "Bitch, if you only knew!" And the angel on my shoulder thinks, "What a blessing, thank your lucky stars!"

There is a part of me, though, that thinks that I would never take that innocence away from her. Because the alternative, being on this side of the statistics, outliving a child, writing a blog dedicated to my dead son . . . I would much rather be running around with my menacing and adorable 19-month-old.

Okay, now help me off my soapbox . . . I'm getting old! :)

First 2010 Post

I wanted to write the requisite "New Year" post, but I found myself without anything constructive to say. The past few days have been difficult. 2009 was the first complete year that we were without Dylan, but we were also blessed by the birth of our beautiful daughter. That's the strange dichotomy we must balance from here on out. Celebrating the life and milestones that is our newest family member, while simultaneously honoring and always remembering and missing our sweet son.

So in honor of Dylan with much love, we decided to make a donation to the hospital and let that speak for itself:

What a Difference . . .

. . . a year makes.  Yesterday I turned 31, and I started thinking about how much of a milestone my birthday last year was.  I turned 30 last year.  It was a milestone birthday that I did not want to celebrate, not because I was getting older but because it was my first birthday as a babyloss mother.  It's not enough to have to celebrate my birthday sandwiched between the holidays, where it inevitably gets lost in the shuffle.  But to have to celebrate it without Dylan around last year was, frankly, grievously overwhelming.  Last year, instead of a birthday card, my husband wrote me this letter:

So I've never really been good at writing cards, but it seems this year to be especially difficult.  Buying a card off of the rack couldn't say what I needed to say.  I could get one that says "Hey you're 30!" but you already know that.  This year, and for every year on, our birthdays will not be complete as our family cannot be complete, for the most special member can no longer be with us.  So what can I say to that?  God's most precious gift to us was bitter-sweet.  For he gave us the most perfect baby in all the world, but we could not keep it. . . . For what gifts can I truly give to you that you do not already have? . . . You have given me so much that you do not know, that no gifts in the world could repay.  You are the crutch to my malady, the roots to my tree.  If I am strong like a brick, then you are the sand that I am made of, for I cannot be what I am without you.  I am truly blessed to have you as a wife, and Dylan as a son.  The Holy Spirit tells me that he's with us right now, celebrating along side of us.  With all of that in mind we say to you, Happy Birthday Mommy.  We love you!

Truly a priceless gift.  When I read this last year, I bawled my eyes out.  Even now, as I re-type it, I am teary-eyed.  Sure, it's been a year, and sure, the grief is less stinging and more bearable, but it's definitely still there.  31 - the 2nd of a lifetime of "incomplete birthdays".

"28" (12/2006) - A Complete Celebration:

"30" (12/2008) - Spent Quietly Contemplating

Thankful

It's just started raining here, a drab, overcast kind of day.  Fitting, really.  Today is November 17, 2009, exactly 17 months since we said goodbye to Dylan.  (Yes, I know I said I'd stop counting before, but I also said that that probably wasn't true).  My mom told me last week that it was my brother's birthday (I'm awful about remembering those things).  He would be 35 years old.  Evidently, a bereaved mother NEVER stops counting.  So, Happy Belated Birthday Alan.  Hope that your nephew celebrated right along with you!

The leaves are falling, Thanksgiving is coming up. I just wanted to share something I'm thankful for today.  Holly, a fellow babylost mommy, e-mailed me this beautiful picture that I wanted to share:

 I'm still amazed at the fact that Dylan's short life could have such a tremendous impact.  Thank you Holly!