August 17

It's two week later. Two weeks and I didn't write a post for my baby boy. If it were any of my girls I would've made sure to sit down and write. If not the day of, at least within the next several days. If it had been for any of the girls it would've been a birthday post.

But I didn't. I haven't.

And now here it is, almost two weeks after the anniversary of saying hello and goodbye. Except we never got to say hello.

I don't like calling it his birthday. I can't explain it any better than to say it doesn't feel like it was his birthday, even though I suppose I technically birthed him that day.

That is the day they gave me drugs to induce pain. Drugs to help my body recognize that the baby inside me was no longer alive. Drugs to help get him out of my womb and into a tomb.

(Too cold? Too vivid?)

I don't like to call it his birthday because I know that if things had been different, if life had been different, if he had been different, it wouldn't have been his birthday. You might tell me You never know but I do. I know. His body came into our world two and half months early.

He wouldn't have been two and half months early. He would've come at the expected time. The end of October or beginning of November. I know you'll tell me I can't know, but I know. I just do.

August 17th would not have been his birthday.

If things were different.

But they weren't. He was never meant to make it nine months. He was never meant to say hello. He was never meant to live.

He came into our world already gone. And that is they day we remember.

I won't call it his birthday.

(Except to my girls, because for right now that's the easiest. But even when they say, "It's Baby Calvin's Birthday!" or "Baby Calvin's two!" it makes me flinch. Because it doesn't feel right. Not to me.)

The day came and went and we recognized it in the way we did last year, with flowers, a bridge, and quiet words. With love sent out into the universe.

He didn't get a birthday post this year. But of course, he never gets a birthday post. Still, there is guilt. There is always guilt.

I did not miss it because I was too busy. It was not because I couldn't find the time to write. It was not because the day passed unnoticed. It was not because Calvin, my son, is not important.

I did not write a post, I have not written in so long, because I don't want to feel my feelings. I don't want to think about or process or spend any time exploring the lurchy gurchy whatever-they-are feelings regarding the loss of my son.

Lately, when something starts to sneak into the corners of my mind I pinch it with my fingernails and throw it into a box as quickly as I can, eager to avoid any of the feeling. I hide that box in the back of the back of the back of the backest closet of my mind.

Basically, I do the extremely healthy thing of avoiding it at all costs. (I do actually realize this is not the healthy thing.)

It's not because I don't love him. It's not because I don't think he's important. It's just because, right now, I can't. Or I don't want to. Or I can't and don't want to. I don't know. Maybe it's all the same.

Either way, it doesn't change reality. He is still not here. And right now that's pretty much all I can say.

I would do it all again a million times over, even knowing that I would never get to hear him cry, look deep into his eyes, kiss his nose, and tell him I love you.

But I do. Oh I do.

Like a Candle in the Wind: Truth Telling Tuesday

I found out today that someone I (kind of) knew died this week. Actually, I only knew her through my hair, she cut it several times, so clearly I didn't know her much at all, but there's something about the connection a girl can feel with her stylist. I'm not claiming that we had some deep and meaningful bond, just to say that when I sat in her chair and we chatted it felt good and nice and right.

She was only a few years older than I am, a sweet young woman who seemed happy and cheerful. Her smile was warm and dazzling and her eyes full with joy. She was just filled with so much life. Which seems like a ridiculous thing to say because obviously everyone is filled with life when they are alive, but I guess maybe that's what makes it hard to believe she's not anymore.

I am sad and upset and confused. I ache for her young daughter who is around the same age as my older girls. My mind is spinning and there is fear and anger bobbing up and down. I imagine being here for my girls one day and the next day being gone and what that would do to them and who they are and how they grow up. I can not imagine how traumatizing it would feel to be a little girl who's mother is suddenly gone, who's whole world is abruptly pulled out from under her, who will grow up with such limited memories with her mother.

When I lay down for a nap today I kept wondering what my girls would remember about me. Would they remember anything other than my frequent naps?

And yet, even with my fear about what kind of mother memories my girls would have should I die, I spent most of the day wanting to stay in bed and be away from my children. I felt frustrated and irritated and short of patience. I wanted to hug them close and reassure them that I'd never ever leave them, yet I wanted complete and total space. I wanted to be left alone to feel all the confusion without interruption from little mouths.

I don't understand. And I suppose I'm not meant to. But when something like this happens the world feels unstable. I am awkward and uncomfortable, trying to adjust to this dramatic tilt. I question how and why and tremble in fear at the thought of what (if anything) comes after this.

As a human I want to make sense of things, even the things that I am not to understand. I like my world to be clear and concise and easy to categorize. I don't like gray areas and ambiguity. Unfortunately, the world does not conform to me and my desires to be able to put everything into little boxes, but luckily I am slowly learning how to understand that I can't understand the world. I am slowly learning to open my heart to what is real. I am slowly learning that fighting against what I can not control or change hurts me more than letting go. I am slowly learning to accept the world as it is. In all of its pain and beauty. And I can only hope that we all can find a way to do the same.

But death, it is still death. It is still painful. It still hurts beyond belief.

Tonight I will close my eyes and see a bright and beautiful and whole woman. And say an extra long prayer for a hurting family.

xoxo,
christine

His Blue Blanket

I miss my son.

As much as I obsess about this current pregnancy and the potential for losing it, this pregnancy has also provided me with a distraction from my grief of losing Calvin. I'm pretty sure that I have been avoiding some feelings, and pushing things down, slightly aware that my grief will come back and take me by surprise. That sometime in the future I will need to do more processing, that which I am avoiding right now.

We still talk about Calvin. (Of course we do.) Paige will bring up Baby Calvin. Hope will point up toward the sky in reference to him always being with us. His name doesn't come up all the time, but it happens most often when we talk about our family, and even when we talk about this baby who is currently growing within me. When Hope drew a picture of our family as flowers she included the four of us, the baby in my belly, and a teeny tiny daisy for baby Calvin - since he was teeny tiny.

The past two nights my heart has felt heavy, my body overwhelmed with emotion, my tears flowing freely. I want to hold him again. I want to kiss him again. I want to tell him I love him. I want to hear him cry, even though we never got to.

I've been sleeping with one of his blankets. One of the blankets he never really got to use. It had a spot by my pillow for many months, but the past two nights I've held it against my heart. It's just symbolic since it never got to become his own, but it's all I can do to feel closeness and comfort. It's all I can do for my grief.

xoxo, christine

My Love Will Find You

Dear Calvin,

Today was your due date. I wish you were here. I wish I could hug you and kiss you and snuggle you again. You and your siblings are the best things that ever happened to me, that I have been a part of. You make my life richer, more complete.

I hope that you know how much I love you. How much I miss you. How sorry I am for not being able to keep you here with me. I hope that you know I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

Having you and losing you has made me more of myself. (Perhaps that sounds convoluted or crazy, but I think it's true.)

Your life has already taught me so much. It gives me more appreciation for what I have, and better perspective on what's important. Your strength inspires me.

My dear, sweet baby boy, I miss you. I miss you terribly. But I hope that you know, I hope that you feel, wherever you are, my love will find you.

xoxo, Mommy

Broken

I am sad.

My heart is broken.

If only I felt as at peace as my previous post suggests. I am not at peace, not yet, although I imagine I will get there at some point, some day, some time. But that time is not now.

I am shattered.

When we got the news, I thought I had no words, and I am struck wordless again. There is no way anything on earth can explain what it feels like for a heart to shatter, for a soul to break apart.

I know it is not my fault, it is not anyone's fault, but all I could say when I held him was I'm sorry. Over and over and over again. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

How do I say goodbye to a baby I didn't even get to say hello to?

xoxo christine

Gone

I close my eyes.

There is a meadow. It is amber or maybe emerald. That part I am unsure of, but the rest I see with clarity.

He is young, maybe two, with bare feet and overalls. He is perfect.

His towhead is shaggy, tickling his white eyelashes. His eyes are the color of a cloudless sky. And his smile, it is as bright as the sun.

In the distance there are other children. Cousins and a brother or sister who have gone before him. They are laughing and playing.

He looks at me and waves, his smile shining. Our hearts connect and I feel it. He knows our love.

Then he turns and goes to them. They are calling his name. Caaal-viiin! C'mere, Calvin! They run away together swinging arms and giggling.

He is happy. He is at peace.

Our sweet baby boy, Calvin John, was born already an angel on Saturday August 17th 2013. He was eleven magnificent ounces and ten amazing inches. And our miracle angel in every way.

"Some people dream of angels. We held one in our arms."

xoxo christine

Tough Conversations

We sat at the table, just the two of us, and she turned to me. Mommy? I don't want people in the world to be dead, she whispered. In less than a second I wanted to scoop her up, cover her with kisses, and tell her that people don't die and that there's no reason to be afraid or sad or anything that might weigh on her shoulders.

But, as unprepared as I felt, my heart steadied as I told her that it's okay, and every one dies, and even though no one knows for sure, Mommy and Daddy believe in God and because of Him will we all be together again in heaven.

And when she looked away from me and mumbled, I'm not sure if I believe that, I wanted to shout, "It's okay! I'm not sure either! But somehow it's okay. I promise." Because even though I believe, I sometimes, too, have my doubts and fear that after death there is nothing, and then in the next moment I fear the wrath of God, immediately begging His forgiveness so I'm not damned to all eternity.

We talked quietly and she climbed up on my lap, telling me that our conversation was making her feel sad, but even when I asked her if she wanted to talk about something else, she said no. I tried to reassure her that she and I both have a long time before we die (even though I know there's always a possibility we don't, I didn't think at five-years-old she was ready for all of that), and how important it is to enjoy now and be happy together.

Long after our conversation was over it sits heavily with me, knowing that there will be many more conversations that catch me off guard, that I don't feel knowledgeable enough to speak about, that I don't want to mess up and leave her struggling and more confused than when we began.

I only hope, that as we both continue to grow, I can give her and her sister the tools they need to navigate this world.

xoxo,
Christine