The Weight of Winter

It snowed yesterday. It was beautiful, light, fluffy, pristine white snow. Over a foot of it, as it turns out. So now we're deep in the shadow of winter. The holiday season, that threatens to suffocate us all.

I've known for several years that I suffer from seasonal affective disorder. It's one of those things that is more of a blip than an epiphany. The winters here are long and dark and gross. The air is hard to breathe, and getting more dangerous to do so every year. The sun shines for a few hours here and there, but only enough, it seems, to melt the ice only to have it refreeze the next night. As beautiful as the white fluff in the yard it, it also serves as a reminder that it 'tis the season for joy and suffering to battle it out for supremacy.

The weight of this depression is like a bowling ball on my chest. I'm lying down trying to catch my breath from underneath this season. I want nothing more than to roll the ball off my chest and be free of the pain, but the ball is actually the people I loved. The ball is my mom, and Dawn and Wyatt and Laura and Charlotte. This weight that is crushing me is entirely in my head and my heart, so I cannot remove it. I can't leave it behind.

I talked to my primary care physician today, to get a refill on my anxiety meds. The meds that haven't been doing their job lately. I told her that I'd like to try something new, but that I don't dare try anything until after February. In the 3.5 minutes she spent with me, I told her I'd been feeling increasingly depressed, promised I'd come in for the blood work she ordered 6 months ago, and mentioned that I will be seeing an ortho for my shoulder that I've been dealing with for 3 years. 3.5 minutes of her day, and I walked out feeling even more hopeless and misunderstood than when I woke up. Mental Health"care" in America sucks. So the bowling ball stays. The weight of winter stays.

I Can't Forget

A year ago today, I still had a mom.

Year One

In the past 365 days, I've learned a lot about the world. First and foremost, that I am a mess without my mom. I've learned that grief changes a person, no matter how many times you experience it. Grief is always different, always enormous. It changes from day to day, so when you begin to think you've got a handle on it, you have to start over.

Every single day, I have to remind myself that my mom is gone. Every day, there's a question I need to ask her, or a story I want to tell her. Every damn day, I realize all over again that the memories are just memories now, all that I have left is absolute nothing.

I feel like I've learned more about myself over this past year. Mostly, how good I am at avoiding myself. How I tend to pretend things are fine, and how good I am at acting normal when I feel like I am flying apart at the seams. I feel like I am looking at the world through a window, and also that I'm on both sides of the glass. I know how fucked up I am over losing my mom, but the me on the other side is going along with life like the worst thing never happened. I remember clearly, going to bed the night she died, not wanting to close my eyes because all I saw was her. The last image of her was not a pleasant one, and all I could see was that. I was terrified to go to sleep because I was convinced I would not wake up. Because I think that's how she died. I think she was asleep and her heart just gave up. I have to think that. I can't even consider another possibility. I shut down all of my thoughts about her fear or pain, because she deserved heaven in the blink of an eye.

Every day, for 365 now, I call to the universe to give her back. I honestly cannot picture my life without her, my children growing up without her. Them not knowing the joy of having her in their lives. It drowns me, to think that Miles may not remember her or Dawn, that he'll have no grandma to look back on. To know that Sophia still grieves so deeply, that starting with her sister, she's known so much loss, and she's only 10. That I'm supposed to be a functional adult and even I can't deal with it all, so how is she supposed to? I have not come to terms with the complete and total loss. I don't imagine I ever will at this point. There are not words to describe the whole of loss that I feel, that the loss had not disappated, even after 12 months. It still feels fresh with every breath, and I struggle to cope with every sunrise, knowing she's not here.

I can't ramble on forever. I can't face it, either. I honestly don't know what tomorrow will bring, because the loss is still so immense that I am drowing in it. My mom was the best person I've ever known, and though I understand that it was a privilege to have had her at all, I can't measure my days without her. I can't seem to force myself awake into the truth, and every single day, the universe refuses to give me what I need to cope. I need my mom. I need my mom.

11 years

My darling,

  11 years have come and gone since you came into our lives, and left without a sound. There are days when I wonder if you still belong to me, or if you ever really did. Our life without you is so busy, so loud and messy, and although I know you'd fit right in with us, you're nowhere to be found. I still have moments when I look around, trying to find something I've lost, without thinking about what it is. Some catch in my breath that tells me someone is missing, and it takes a moment for me to remember that it's you. You're always missing.
This past year have brought more grief than I'd thought possible. These past few years my faith has been on shaky ground, but since we lost your grandmothers and your cousin, I feel as though the ground has fallen out completely. Is wanting to believe the same as believing? I miss you, my little love. My first and always, I miss not having you, never having you. I hope you're somewhere safe, that you remember me, and that you understand more things than i do.

Ten

My darling girl,

   Nothing makes sense to me right now. Where are you?
I just walked through snow, eight inches deep. I went to your headstone and I cleared the snow off. My feet are wet, my knees where I knelt in the snow, but I don't feel it. I closed my eyes and I asked you to let me know you're here, but you never do. Nothing makes sense to me right now. There are so many things I don't understand, and so many things that I feel like I need answers to. Maybe I don't deserve answers, is that it? Maybe I am unfit to know the things I thought I used to know. I feel like I want something to believe in, but I don't know what that is. I used to believe in everything, and now? Now I'm not sure. About anything. What is it about a decade, 10 years, that makes this feel so important? Just more years of you not being here with your family. Baby I'm not trying hard enough everyday, and that's why your birthday feels so big. I don't know what to do, I don't know what to say, this is a journey that I never thought I would be on. And I know that no one thinks that they will never take this journey. I know that people think this can't happen to them. But it does. And 10 years later I still don't know why. We have had so many happy things happen to our family, and so many terrible things. We're just like the rest of the world. Except we're not. Maybe we are thicker skinned, maybe we are tougher because we needed to be tougher. But that's not fair, we won't ever get our happy ending, because we lost you. All of the happy things that happen in our lifetime, not a single one will make up for the loss of you.
It's your birthday,  but I can't celebrate.  I can barely drag myself up the hill today.  I miss you,  I miss you. I'll always miss you.
Mommy

Bits and Pieces

How many times have I told the story? 10 years ago right now I was probably still trying to get some sleep. They have been a long night, even with the Demerol Benadryl and Ambien the nurses had given me, I didn't sleep. I remember at one point, Mike took the blood pressure cuff off of my arm. Every time it filled with air I would wake up. I don't think I slept more than 2 hours that night. I don't remember at what point they started the pitocin, but they had started something to dialate me the night before. 10 years ago today was a blur. I know that our families were there, I know that some of my friends came in to see me. I remember we were watching TV to try and distract us from what was going on. I think that at that point I was still in denial I had no idea it was ahead of us, for some reason I think I still had hope that they were wrong. Things like this don't happen in real life, do they?
Some of the things I remember, was my older sister looking at the Monitor and explaining that the contractions were so big that she was surprised that they haven't turned down my pitocin. And of course there was the epidural that was leaking down my back so I could still feel things that I shouldn't have been able to feel. The anesthesiologist who didn't believe me until he actually looked at my back. Bits and pieces of one of the biggest days of my life. I remember being in labor finally, finally being able to push, I couldn't feel anything by that point, I was so drugged up. I think I remember pushing maybe before 5 times, and she was out. But she didn't cry. The room was quiet. I don't remember if I cried, if Mike did. Later, of course, but maybe not then. I asked the nurses to clean her off.  They almost dropped her  the doctor got mad.  She still didn't cry.

10 years

Ten years ago tonight,  we went to bed with a lifetime in front of us. We had dinner with Mike's parents, on the way home we talked about having a small get together when Mike's friend was in town,  our last party before the baby was born. Did I wake up in the middle of the night, as I so often did, to feel her moving around,  dancing,  enjoying the homemade egg rolls we'd had for dinner?  Did I feel her moving? Did I sleep through her death? My body resting as my daughter's heart slowed and stopped.  What was I dreaming about as she slipped away from us?  I was 36w 4d pregnant with our first child,  and when I woke up in the morning,  she was already gone.
I can't revisit that morning.  I cannot relive that right now,  I am too weak,  and I've done it a thousand times already.  None of my searching will matter, because after ten years,  we still don't know why. The experts,  the tests,  the studies could not explain to us why our healthy baby girl had died. The look in the doctors eyes when they all told us, there is no answer. 

Tonight I am letting Sophia and Miles sleep in my bed.  I will wake up and check their breathing,  like I always do.  I will touch their faces and hold their hands.  None of this brings back my Charlotte, none of this makes it better. But it gives me something to hold onto.

Gloomy

There are days that I just want to lie on the floor and close my eyes.  I don't want to talk to anyone,  I don't want to think about anything,  I just want to close my eyes and cease to exist for a while.  Today is that day.  But I have a sweet 3 year old sitting on my lap who wants me to watch Trolls with him, and wants to talk about magic.  I have a 9 year old at school that I need to pick up in an hour. I have laundry and dishes and toilets to clean. I am thankful for the people and the things that keep me going,  that force me to get out of bed on the days when I feel like I can't breathe. I am. But I also just want to lie down on the floor and close my eyes.

Beginning

This is how it begins.  I say I'm fine,  I feel fine,  I'm impressed with how well I'm feeling.  And then the heart palpitations begin. The choking feeling and the tears threatening to flood.  It's so strange, it's like a light switch, but it has a mind of its own. Is it because it's my cousin's birthday?  He's 10 days older than Charlotte.  Is it because in 10 days it will have been 10 years?  How have I lived an entire decade without my daughter?

Balance

I'm not a religious person.  I haven't ever been, really, even though I was raised in a family that went to church most weeks. I went to church events,  though reluctantly. I am close to people who have chosen to stay in the church, and I don't disagree with their decision to do so.  But I left,  and I walked away feeling fine with my decision. I used to think I was a spiritual person, but over the last few years I've lost even that.  But here's a secret,  I still pray.  Every night,  I say the words in my head,  more often than not, the same words I always say, with some variation here and there, depending on the day. I still pray, but I'm not sure why.  I don't know if i believe anymore,  in anything. I'm not sure if I'm praying because it's habit,  or hope. I feel like I beg and I beg,  and I just feel nothing. Since Dawn and Wyatt died,  especially, it's hard for me to pray. Not because losing them made me lose faith,  because I honestly don't know if I had faith before that. Losing both of them so close together,  not being able to properly grieve for either of them,  I feel stuck. I stopped praying for them,  obviously, and of course kept praying for our families.  But even that has stopped.  Maybe I feel like it wasn't being heard,  maybe I felt like it wasn't enough, I don't know.  I wish I knew where to go, what to do, to find the kind of faith other people have.  Not knowing is the absolute hardest thing about losing people.  Will I see them again?  If not, what's the fucking point?

We lost Charlotte before we even had her.  I spent 9 months as her mom,  getting to know as much of her as I ever would. But then in an instant, she was gone. Forever?  It terrifies me to think that I will never have another chance to hold her,  to see her face. To not know is sickening. I used to believe that I would see her in heaven,  but now?  Now I'm stumbling, I've lost my balance, and it feels like it's so much easier to just fall.

February

I've decided to take February one day at a time this year. Instead of lumping the month together in one large angry ball of grief, one day at a time.

That being said,  I can already feel the weight. Ten years of mourning my daughter,  ten years of milestones missed. I can feel everything I've spent the last ten years not doing,  and it's a heavy weight.  I can't describe the way it woke with me this morning,  the unwillingness to face the day. I did not want to admit myself that it was the Februaries that caught me off guard, that the reason I felt "off" was just the stupid month. I should be stronger than that by now,  I should be able to work around the schedule my heart has been keeping for the past decade. But I am not,  I cannot. I will admit that I did push through,  I woke myself up and shook it off as much as I could,  and for any given day in February,  it was a victory. Still,  here I lay in bed,  tormenting myself with the realizations that it will not end. Time does not heal wounds, it stretches them, they come out misshapen and raw in places that were not raw before.  I think I do a pretty consistent job of living my normal life with my only half normal heart,  but February keeps coming back. I can't wonder what tomorrow will bring, because I let go of those anxieties to keep myself sane. I will face the next 25 days with as much strength an dignity as I can muster (on any given day.) That's all I can do,  hope for the best, as the world crumbles around us.  Keep the stresses out,  and hold the stresses in.

I bought a black dress

A week ago, we broke Sophia's heart. It was the hardest thing we've ever done to her. We had to sit her down and tell her that her Gramma is dying. She's not just sick. She's not going to get better. We had to tell her that Gramma is going to die. It could be next week, it could be a few months. Her heart shattered. We told her that it's okay to be sad, and to be angry. But it's also okay to be happy and laugh and still feel normal. She's a strong girl, and I know that she's going to be okay. But the world will never be the same for her again.

1000 Oceans

The waves are coming.  When I close my eyes I feel like I'm in the middle of the ocean,  in a rowboat.  I'm holding on to the sides but the boat is shrinking and soon it will be just me,  in the middle of the waves. 

Rainbow Baby

   8 years ago today, we checked into the hospital. We were there for an amniocentisis, a test I never thought I'd want. We were there to check the lung function of our second daughter, we were there to see if it was safe to meet her. I packed my bags that day, not before, not ahead of time like I had with Charlotte. My only birth plan was to get her out safely. My doctor came in and explained things to us again, set up the ultrasound. Pulled out the needle. It didn't hurt nearly like I thought it would. We watched our little baby on the screen, moving around, saying hello.The doctor left to go to a Jazz game, told us he'd call when the results came in. Said we could go either way- if her lungs were mature (i'd had steroid shots) we would induce in the morning. If they were not, we could decide what to do. I knew, I wanted her out of my body. My dangerous body, that had not kept her sister safe. The next day I would be 36 weeks pregnant.
   Mike and I watched that stupid Jazz game, against the Spurs, whom I hated and hate even more now. We watched it, we waited. We answered texts and calls from anxious family and friends. We got the news late, but it was good- her lungs were fine and she would be born on the 29th.
   I think we got some sleep. The nurse came in with the cervical softening crap. Family arrived in the morning. The induction started. It went smoother than with Charlotte, we could hear her strong heartbeat, we had something to look forward to. The contractions weren't threatening to rupture my uterus, the epidural wasn't dripping down my gown. I felt her moving, I felt her kicking and rolling. I called the nurse, and she checked me because I could feel so much. The nurse gave us some bad news: the baby had turned breech sometime during the labor process. My water had alread been broken, and I wouldn't have risked trying to turn her anway. So we booked the OR, and I had my first ever surgery. After much nausea, panic attacks, terror, relief, pain, extra bleeding, passing out, etc, the surgery was over. Sophia was safe, crying, alive. Mike went to the nursery with her. I kept bleeding. After many extra stitches and worry, I was fine as well. I had to wait over an hour to hold my baby, because her blood sugar was wonky, and I had so many drugs in my system that I could barely stay awake.
   I think I lost my point somewhere. I can't express properly the fear, anxiety, and joy. My baby girl brought me back to life. She saved me. Every day, she makes the world a better place. She is an amazing big sister, and little sister. She is smart, and funny, and beautiful. She is wise and kind. Tomorrow she will be 8 years old. 8 years of making the world a better place, of bringing sunshine and rainbows and unicorns into our lives. I cannot celebrate her enough. Happy birthday, Sophia. We love you.

How

I should be asleep.  I'm in bed and my eyes have been closed and I was halfway there.  But I've gotten myself worked up with worry.  Talking myself down from an actual panic attack, but I should have made the doctor give me some xanax or rescue meds today.  I knew this was on the horizon.
It's been brewing for weeks, this unease in my mind.  It's just the time of year, it's just the weather, it's Paris, it's San Bernardino, it's the upswing of traffic at airport #2. It's the shorter days and the long cold nights, the ice on the roads and the constant drip that just freezes to drip again. It's my closest friends living miles away and my inability to fix the woes of those I love.  It's this damn headache that only subsides for an hour or two and then comes roaring back to blind me. The worry over bills to come and home repairs we just can't seem to get around to.  The loss of my daughter, my sister, friends, family. It's this time of year, but I need to go to sleep.  I should have asked for xanax.

A birthday, a year

My darling Charlotte,
   Another year come and gone.  Hundreds more days without you. 365 sunrises. Millions of heartbeats missed. I have missed your joy.  Your laughter and your tears.  I have missed watching you learn and grow and become a child from the baby I knew. 
   I write this letter to you every day.  You are in my mind every second,  your name stays on my lips with every breath.  Your birthday letters that you will never read,  like my prayers and my wishes,  scattered in the wind.
   Another year we have spent watching our family thrive and grow.  Your sister is becoming a young lady. She is so smart and curious.  I am amazed every day at the way she sees the world.  She is so bright,  despite my darkness.  Your brother is a handful.  He is my wild child, always running and climbing and yelling.  I talked to him about you and he looked surprised.  Do I not bring you into our home enough?  Or was he amused because he knows you?  Do you visit them in their dreams? 
   I wish I could hold your hand one more time.  Kiss your cheeks,  feel your breath on my face.  What I would give to see your eyes looking into mine,  your voice calling my name.  I love you, my sweet baby girl.  I love you wherever you are.  I miss you every day.  I miss you with us.  We are not complete. You are missing from us.  I love you.
  

But then she wasn't

8 years ago tonight, I went to bed carrying a healthy baby girl.  A strong daughter.  When I woke up on the morning of February 25th,  our world was forever changed.  Hopes shattered. A heartbeat stilled.  We will never know what happened in the night on February 24, 2007. We will never know why she didn't wake with me.  Tonight I go to bed with a heavy heart.  My senses are dulled and my heart is bruised.  Maybe someday I will dream of her.  Tonight I cannot imagine getting any rest at all.

Worry Stone

Saturday in the mail I received a gift.  Maybe I should start at the beginning.

When Miles was a newborn,  I started keeping up with the community on Baby Center.  The birth board I chose to join was a pretty terrible place. People bickering and being flat out rude for the sake of entertainment. It had very little to do with babies and very much to do with rotten attitudes.  Sometime in April or May,  someone mentioned drama on one of the other boards.  In the ensuing discussions,  someone brought up that this other board had a thread all about nail polish.  I was intrigued,  and even more so when people began to make fun of the very idea.  I've always had a love affair with nail polish. I thought it was just a girl thing.  So of course I decided to check out the nail polish thread and see what it was really about. It turned out to be about nail polish. No drama,  no bickering,  just shared joy over a cosmetic item.  Simple.  Straightforward.  I joined the women talking about their nails and just kind of stood in the background,  lurking for the most part.   In August or September, a new person began posting on the thread.  She introduced herself,  and told her story.
She had lost her first child in June.  Full term,  unexplained stillbirth.  I reached out to her,  She reached back.  We became friends.  We talk occasionally.  We text constantly.  She gives me strength.  I give her as much support as I can. 

In the mail,  I received a small fairy encased in a enamel star.  I put in it my pocket and rub my fingers across it throughout the day.  Sunday,  on my way to work I was thinking about how much I dislike the month of February.  Then a thought occurred to me.  Charlotte lived through most of the month.  I thought at that time,  8 years ago today,  she was alive.
Because,  I think,  of this worry stone,  Maybe I can begin to worry less about the month of suck. Maybe I can choose instead to remember how alive she was for the majority of it. 

February

As silly as it seems,  February sneaks up on me.  I can feel it coming,  often as soon as October.  But the holidays speed the world up,  things turn so quickly that I blink,  and it's February.  This heavy weight on my chest.  The insomnia.  Waking up in the middle of the night and looking around for someone who isn't there.  I touch my children's faces while they sleep.  I count their breaths.  There is always someone missing. A heartbeat that thunders,  but only I can hear it. 

She would have been 8 this month. She would be halfway through second grade. She would have giggling friends,  favorite clothes and movies.  Her sister and brother would drive her crazy.  She would roll her eyes at me like Sophia does.  She would be her daddy's girl,  like Sophia is.  So many things that she should be. 

So many times,  I've looked at Miles when he's asleep,  and have seen Charlotte's face.  I always thought she'd have looked like me and Sophia,  but I'm starting to realize that she was a mini Mike like Miles is.  The cheeks and the lips and the nose,  this is what she would have looked like if she had lived.  If she had had the chance to be 14 months old.  If she had had the chance to live. 

Walk To Remember

I'm here again.  Alone this time.  I thought I'd just show up and grab my shirts and then leave again. But on the way here I thought,  why?  Mike and the kids are having fun at gramma' s. I have nothing to get to.  I have nowhere to be.  So I'm sitting in the grass waiting for the program to begin. Waiting to hear my daughter's name called.  Waiting to release a balloon to her in heaven.  There are way too many people here. Way too many babies lost forever. October is Pregnancy And Infant Loss Awareness month.  How many people even know that?  Beyond the 500 or so people here.  And the people at the walks in cities around America this month.  How many people have any idea?  You can't blink without seeing pink effing ribbons.  Pink merchandise as far as the eye can see.  It's almost a holiday,  for those companies that make money hand over fist for "breast cancer research".  Everyone knows that October is pink.  But in my world,  October is pink and blue.  October is lighting candles and releasing balloons and every day,  trying to remind the world about my baby.  About all of the babies.  I won't do a breast cancer awareness manicure this month.  I won't post a breast cancer gif on my social media.  Everyone knows about that.  I want people to know about our babies. I want them to remember that October is for Charlotte.  Cory. Kate. Samuel and Ezekiel.  Melissa. Brayden. Christian.  Madeline. Rowan. All of the babies that didn't come home.  The babies that were carried.  Loved.  Lost. 

Today I am at the Share Parents of Utah Walk of Remembrance and Hope.  Today I am spending time with my daughter's memory. In my daughter's memory.  Her name was Charlotte and she was perfect.