Can't Sleep

It seems to be a fairly common phenomenon amongst most BLMs that sleep can be an elusive thing.

When we were leaving the hospital after we lost Georgiana, the medical staff gave me sleeping pills. I took them religiously starting that night, so overwhelmed with grief and fear I didn't even think about it.

Cue to seven months forward, when I decided to get off the Ambien. I had a couple of really bad nights (i.e. less than one hour of sleep), and have had a couple of good ones (i.e., more than six hours of sleep).

Tonight is not so good.

I've been up since 2:30 am and finally just decided to come out here to the den and write. The dogs are snoozing next to me on the couch.

I have thought many times about what C.S. Lewis wrote at the beginning of his book, A Grief Observed. He wrote, "no one told me that grief felt so like fear."

It's odd to think about unless you've gone through it, but it's true. Grief, in its worst moments, really does feel like fear, that horrible panicky fluttering that hits your chest when you realize something has gone horribly wrong. I began to feel it when the doctor told us that fateful night at the hospital that she couldn't find a heartbeat. When I was 38 weeks pregnant. It was impossible. I couldn't even fathom it.

And the fear settled in.

Most days, I pray fervently for God to lift it from my heart and mind. Many days He does. Other days, I feel it much more strongly.

I decided a few days ago to start a Novena. For those of you who are not Catholic, a Novena is a special nine-day prayer in the Catholic church where you ask for a special intention or special graces from God. I never thought much of Novenas until right after Georgiana died, when we were back in our overwhelmingly empty and quiet house and I felt absolutely attacked by evil and despair. These two things, I have come to realize, are very real and tangible, the seen and unseen, right?

In those early early days, I started a Novena. I focused on St. Joseph, the protector of the Holy Family. I prayed for St. Joseph to help protect us, and to protect our entire family. I prayed for more children, I prayed for my child in heaven, I prayed for the two of us left here on earth--her mommy and daddy.

After a few days of the Novena, much of evil feeling that was in our house lifted. In its wake was a wrenching sadness, but some of the fear I felt had left.

Since then, I've been a fan of Novenas.

So I began another one a few days ago.  I have started praying as well to St. Lucy. For some reason, I feel a lot of connection between her and our Georgiana. To me, St. Lucy's story represents the difference between physical sight and spiritual sight.  During her martyrdom, she lost her eyes.  Even with no physical sight, she led others to Jesus because of her faith, because of her true sight.

This battle between what is real and what we see is so intense in us mamas who have lost our babies. It's easy to get sucked into the idea that our children have died, they are buried in the ground. It is so easy to feel despair on those worst of days when the rest of our lives feels like forever.

I have to remind myself, though, that although all those things are real, they are not necessarily true, at least in the grand scheme of things.

Don't worry, I'm not under some mistaken illusion that my daughter did not die. No, that part became very real to me very quickly after everything happened. What I mean is that our faith teaches us to look beyond this earthly life, and death, to look beyond the grave.

I think of the line in Corinthians--"oh death, where is thy victory?"  I never understood the magnitude of those words until I lost my child.  If you let it, death will conquer you. Every dark thought that comes up will seep through your soul and make you feel despair.

This is when I think on St. Lucy, a saint whose name means light, who, despite having no physical sight, saw to the true reality, to what was waiting for all of us who love Him and have faith.

What is true is that my child's body is in the grave, but she is not there. She is with Jesus, in a far better place than I can ever imagine. My mother-in-law said to me early on to think on what a beautiful life my daughter led--from the safety of my womb to the glory of heaven. Not too shabby, when I think about it that way. That, I am thankful for. I miss her here on earth, but I am thankful for that.

Now, safety of the womb? That's a whole different post...

I pray for light in the darkness, that my all too human heart, that misses my daughter terribly every minute of every day, will align more closely with the truth, that my daughter is alive and well with Jesus. I pray that I feel some of that joy, and not so much of the sorrow, and sadness, and yes, fear, that hits me.

I pray that for you all too.

It's now 4:21 a.m. Time to watch some useless TV and hopefully pass out on the couch until I have to get up for work.

Pray

For all of you who might still check my blog (even though I've barely posted in over a month, we'll get to that later) I'm asking you all to please send a prayer up to God with my intention attached it. Trust me that this is something important to pray for.

I'll post more later. Much love.

Beautiful

This was read at a funeral I attended the other day. A great man who had lived a long life and whose life was captured in poetry and song. At the end of the service, I felt as if I knew him well, even though I only know his wife.

Simply beautiful to me. Captures day-to-day living perfectly right now.

"Heavy," by Mary Oliver

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel,
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it -
books, bricks, grief -
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled -
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

Tired

I actually had the best Sunday today that I've had in months.

Last Sunday was not the best. Dave and I went out to Georgiana's grave for the first time since her funeral. Georgie is buried in babyland, which is a smaller part of a bigger Catholic cemetery in OKC. I was very upset when I saw the state of babyland. Maybe I didn't notice it at the funeral. All things told, I wasn't noticing much at her funeral except her, me, Dave.

Back to babyland. The grass is dry, there are hardly any plants, or trees, and it's just...ugly. I'm not sure right now what I'm going to do about it, but I'm going to do something to make it much better. Not just for me and my baby girl, but for all the parents who have had to bury their sweet children there.

Onto today.

This weekend, our good friend Nick is in town. We went to mass today, had lunch, and then went and hung out at my parents' house. We played board games with my brothers and sisters, swam, and had a great dinner. It was a good day.

Do some of you notice though, that even on a good day, it's still not good anymore? I still feel so...tired, so worn down, so so sad, all the time. Even when I'm laughing, it sits there at the back of my mind.

Even good days feel bad most of the time, but I guess I'll take what I can get, which is better than four months ago. But there is a part of this, at my core, deep within, that doesn't get better, that feels the same that it did the second I learned my daughter had passed away. I don't know if this goes away. There are moments when it just all feels like too much.

But I keep on keeping on, because that's what you do, right?

4 Months

Yesterday marked four months. I was a swirl of emotions all day yesterday and today, but keeping it together and plugging along for moving's sake. We are in a very small 2 bedroom apartment for the time being, but it fits us well and it's cozy. The buildings themselves have a Section 8 feel about them, but I'm not complaining.

By Friday of last week, we were getting the h*ll out of dodge (and by dodge, I mean Colorado Springs). I feel an amazing sense of relief to leave that house and not have to look at that hospital anymore.

I reflected yesterday, as I have every month on the 20th, about her funeral. There are many memories, snapshots if you will, from that day, that I can hardly bear to remember. Closing the lid to her coffin with Dave, having to walk away from her gravesite (willing myself) and realizing I would never again see her on this earth.

It is better being here in Oklahoma City. I am around my family, this is a new yet familiar place, and I am starting many new things. Changing environments can be very good. The ever-present sadness remains, and I spend many moments of the day just repeating to myself that this life does not last forever. It's so hard sometimes.

A sweet mama whom I do not know lost her little girl Ellianna a few days ago. Please pray for her family. They have been on my mind a lot, as I remember the raw hell of the first few days and weeks.

Love and prayers to all of you. Love, most of all, to my sweet Georgie. I miss you so much, baby girl.

The Dog Ate It

So...

Today has been exhausting. We are moving in three days. The movers came to pack up today. They actually did a really great job and were very helpful, and for a small tip, we were able to get them to pack up a lot of stuff that we're taking with us (versus going with the movers to temporary storage) (bonus!).

Tensions have been high. I've been very tired. I feel like a 90 year old trapped in a 30 year old's body. At one point today, I just gave up, I pray that God has no more "big ones" for me.

It's hard to put moving into words. I think it would be great if there were a book that didn't just deal with loss and stillbirth, but also had the following chapters: (1) moving and stillbirth; (2) grocery shopping and stillbirth; (3) job change and stillbirth. On and on...

The point is, Georgiana and her passing affects all of it. I am actually looking forward to moving to OKC, but she has just changed my whole view on...well...everything.

You all are probably wondering about the title of this post.

So...when we went to our first SHARE (pregnancy and infant loss support group) meeting, it wasn't even three weeks after Georgie had passed away. We called SHARE, and they were having a meeting the next day. When we got there, they gave us a memory book, flowers, and about six grief books.

Our dog Bingley (the goldendoodle) destroyed all six books.

I had the books sitting on one of our kitchen chairs because we had our last meeting tonight in Colorado Springs. I was going to bring the books back to the SHARE library. When we got home from church the other night (it had been storming so we left the dogs inside), Bing had apparently had such a panic attack without us (he's a little high-strung) that he tore all six books off the chair and chewed them all up.

Picture it...we get home...I realize pieces of grief books are all over the floor (Silent Grief, Empty Cradle Broken Heart, They Were Stillborn, When Men Grieve).

Awesome.

Me: "Great. We have ruined the pregnancy loss books. Good thing we're moving because we'd probably never be invited back to SHARE."

Dave: "Well, they're just chewed around the edges.  We can return them. It'll be ok."

(insert wifely glare from me)

Me: "We cannot return them like this. We have to buy new ones."

Of course our dog had to destroy the few things in our downstairs that do not belong to us.  And grief books to boot.

To say our life is messy now doesn't even begin to describe, but I think this situation encapsulates the whole thing perfectly.

Back to moving...

Moving

Ugh. I hate moving.

I hated moving before. Now I really hate it.

And I have no energy for it.

Dave and I cleaned our closets out today, trying to get ready for the movers to come next week. We probably cleared about 9 trashbags full of clothes we were throwing away. Sad, right? Wow. I can't believe he and I even have that many clothes together.

Of course, I ran across lots of the clothes I wore while pregnant with Georgie. I had a small laundry hamper in the corner of my closet that had a lot of the dresses I wore in the third trimester. One was a really sweet little navy dress with red roses on it. Another was a random strappy dress, blue and white, that I wore just three days before she died, for St. Patrick's Day.

Needless to say, I felt about 90 years old after cleaning the closet out. A year ago, I would have bounced into another project right away. Today, I finished, rolled into bed, and cried.

This doesn't even include the feeling of dread I have about packing up her nursery. I just can't stand it.

One of the hard things about "dealing with everything well" is that everyone thinks I'm doing ok. Well, I'm not. I'm able to work, and clean up (most of the time), and talk to people, etc...I look "normal," most days.

But inside, I am still raw. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts a lot of the time. Sometimes it's one minute at a time. Sleep is good when I get it, not often. Mornings are a nightmare, repeated every day.

Everyone thinks I'm doing great. My counselor, who specializes in late term pregnancy loss and postpartum, says I am doing better than any woman she's ever seen who has dealt with a stillbirth. I just don't know how to take that. Does that mean I'm better at hiding it than others? That I am better at putting on a normal face?

Well, whatever it looks like from the outside, inside it mostly feels impossible. I told Dave maybe I should just collapse in a crying heap in the corner and rock myself back and forth. Then people will treat me how I feel, not how they think I feel based on how I act.

This post was supposed to be about moving. Then it turned into a rant. Oh well.