A different kind of New Years resolution

I haven't written much lately. I've tried to get caught up in the Christmas spirit, but this year no one really seemed to feel it. Myself included. We all wanted to just get it over with. Everyone was happy to see each other, but we all spoke of our relief that the season was ending.

Part of it is not having you here, at least for your Daddy and me. It's hard, with so many new and about-to-be-here babies in our life, not having you here to share in it. This should have been your first Christmas, and I couldn't seem to care without you. I think your Grandmas felt that too.

I don't really know what to say. It's hard sometimes, when I sit down to write to you, to put the swirling collective cloud of lovejoygratitudesorrowlonlinessfrustrationgriefwonder thoughts into words and sentences. I can't make linear statements about these completely nonliniar thoughts, and I can't make them make sense, because most of them, considered, don't.

I think about you often in whatever place you are. I often think about you playing with other children who have gone before you--particularly with Layla. Less often I think of you with your great-grandparents, and with my own brother who died at about the same age you did. Sometimes I think of you as what age you would be now. Other times I think of you as an older child, even as an adult. And sometimes I imagine you as a being so much wiser and more conscious than myself, now that you aren't limited by these pods of electricity and raw meat.

Sometimes I feel like you are near me; some little spiritual nudge, a drawing of my attention to some small thing--sometimes helpful, sometimes funny, sometimes sad. You make me see the patterns in the frost, the shape of the bare white trees against the dark firs in the woods, the moonlight reflecting off of waves. And I see something small and perfect and beautiful like that, and part of my heart says that's Isaac. Brief and beautiful and perfect. I can carry the moonlight on the crashing waves on Christmas Eve in my heart the same way I carry the indescribable shade of red your tiny lips were.

I find myself confused by my own writing here. Why the serious tone? Why are these letters--this blog--not funny? Why can I be my dark, funny self here? I'm thoughtful and reflective outside of this, of course. But the biggest thing in our life is laughter. Your very name means laughter. And the people closest to us, to you, are the very same people I can make pitch black deadbaby jokes to. Even alone, I make jokes. Constantly. Out loud. (You might have noticed this, actually).

I guess this post (which, originally, was going to be me saying that every time I watch Mythbusters, I have the random intrusive thought that Kari and I were pregnant at the same time and her baby is alive and mine isn't) has winnowed itself down to a New Year's resolution to be more relaxed and funny here.

Perhaps it is a different phase of my grief; the part where I don't just talk about the deep, quiet, solemn parts about your life, or the wistful memories of it. Perhaps now is when I write fewer "letters" and more "blog posts." Perhaps it is time to speak not just to you, but openly to those who are reading this.

Hello, world.

It's a start.

Thanksgiving

Today was strange. Wonderful, but strange. We had a quiet family thanksgiving dinner with our family, then a raucous dinner with friends. At both places, people talked about you, asked about you, said they were sorry you were gone. We're so incredibly lucky--everyone has been very supportive. We decided that we didn't want to act like you never were. We talk about you often, and pretty much everyone seems to respect that.

At the same time, I felt like I was abandoning you. Because today we told people about your new brother or sister, who we just found out we're expecting. Your new sibling will be born right around your birthday; the due date is July 26, and you were born just ten days earlier.

It's so confusing. It feels like a betrayal. Sometimes I talk to your new sibling, but every time I do, I feel like I should really be talking to you. And I feel like I can't see or hold either of you right now; if you're only near me in your spirits, then somehow I should be trying to "keep it fair" how much I talk to either of you.

This new baby doesn't change how much Daddy and I love you. Not one bit. And our family will always be incomplete; we will always be missing you.

Today, on this day we're supposed to be grateful, I am grateful for both my children. I'm grateful for you, for your short life inside me and for how much you changed Daddy's and my world. And I'm grateful for your brother or sister.

Take care of each other, if you're out there.

A Hard Day

Today is hard. It isn't any special day. I don't know why. I'm so angry, and so sad, and so very lonely.

I never had something so bad happen that couldn't be fixed. It isn't like I lived some charmed, pain-free life. Far from it. Lots of terrible, painful things have happened in my life. I've mourned, I've grieved, I've cried, I've learned...but all of it was something I could "get better" from. But you being gone--it's un-fixable.

Sometimes its like I'm pregnant with your memory--I can no more put you down and walk away from you than when you were safe inside me. I can't feel your kicks in my belly anymore; now you kick in my heart. You're here but you're gone and you're never coming back.

I'm trying to clean the bedroom today--I need to put away the maternity clothes, but I can't bring myself to. The sight of them brings pain, but the thought of folding them up and putting them away doesn't feel right either. I hate almost all my clothes--I don't really fit in anything. I've gained more weight in my pain than when I was carrying you. I'm eating like a defiant child, not really caring what goes into my body. If I'm not nourishing you it's like I can't see a reason to nourish me. Don't have much more appetite than when you were here, but sometimes I find myself eating to fill the void. I feel ugly and fat in everything--and in mortal terror that someone will think I'm still pregnant.

I can't seem to move in any direction right now. I feel guilty for sitting in my pain, listening to music that makes me cry, brings the dull gnawing ache to a clarity, in hopes that this too shall pass. But sometimes I feel guilty when I'm not sad; I question my own happiness when it comes, doubt my own peace when I find it.

I am more aware of magic because of you. A bird landing in a tree, a deer seen unexpected in someone's yard, rainbows, snow in the springtime, beautiful clouds; when you were still here, I saw them and thought they were miracles just like you. Now that you're gone, you're in every beautiful thing I see. Often it's a comfort, but there are moments that I cry that you'll never see them. Never point out something mundane with your child's wonder, never squeal with joy at the sight of a soap bubble, never chase a butterfly. The list of things you won't do aches.

And I'm so angry. I want you back. I want the innocent faith that nothing truly bad could happen to us. I don't want to be grateful sometimes. I want to scream, to yell and swear. Why couldn't we be normal? Why did there have to be some genetic specter lying in wait? Why does it still have to be there, threatening any siblings you might someday have? Why does something so normal as having a baby have to rest on the edge of a coin toss?

Sometimes I feel like there's some greater plan at work.

Sometimes I want to kick the shit out of whoever planned it.

Peace

It isn't always bad. There are times, like now, where I feel like my soul is at peace. Today I have felt more peaceful, more...content than I have been since I held you. Its the first day I've felt like I could actually live the rest of my life. I miss you still, but I know you're in a happy place. I can feel you near me. Moments like these are when I think you'd want me to live and be happy. You wouldn't want me in agony all the time. Today has been an almost happy day. We took our first little trip since you were born. We went to the hotel where you were conceived. Only happy things have happened to us here; our first New Year's Eve, not long after we fell in love was in this very room. And we're only a wall away from the very place you came into our life. Your daddy and I loved each other so much we had to make you just to hold some of it. We love each other very much, your daddy and I. We talked about you a lot today, but for the first time neither of us cried. We talked about how much we love you, and how hard it was to let you go--but also how glad we are that you can be somewhere that you can be happy and whole.

It feels strange to feel happy so soon. There have been many moments where I felt okay, or at peace. How can I still miss you so much, still feel that hole in my heart, and feel anything but the pain? At moments the pain threatens--especially when it whispers that I shouldn't ever feel happy again. But for this little step out of time, in this place full of love and happy memories, all I can really think of is the joy you brought into my life during that precious time you were here. And the lessons you've already taught us, the gratitude I feel.

How can I feel blessed when I've lost so much?