The Last Few Days

This weekend was hard. Saturday marked six weeks since we said hello as well as goodbye to Liam. I was doing pretty good for the most part, until the smallest thing set me off. I hid in the bathroom, not wanting to breakdown in front of everyone. I was upset for the rest of the day. Sunday was a little better, more frustrated than anything. I was nervous because my temp had dipped and gone back up. A thousand emotions ran through my mind as I pondered what it could mean. It wasn’t a very big dip, but I was anxious, not knowing. I hate that. That afternoon, I felt much better. I had posted on FB about people being afraid of talking about my son. I hate the way they look at me, like they want to say something. I wish they would just say it. I hate that they pretend my son never existed, it hurts so much worse than telling people about him and his brief life. Maybe 10 minutes after I posted that, one of my old regulars that hadn’t been in in quite some time came in and said, "Oh, I see you had the baby." I nodded and told him that we had lost him. He sympathized, he’d been in my shoes before. I remember the day I had asked him if his girlfriend had had the baby. My heart broke for him when he told me they had lost him. I never thought we’d be in each other’s shoes a few years down the road. He told me I could talk to him, f I needed someone who understood, then he left. The lady behind him was also a regular I’ve known for a few years. She smiled and said, "I know that was hard." I nodded and told her that it wasn’t so bad, better than pretending that I was ok. Then she told me that she had lost two children, not quite as far along as I was, but enough that they kept her on the maternity floor. I would have died if they had left me there. She told me that everyone would ask her what she had, much like people who don’t know ask me, and hat she would just tell them it was a boy and leave it at that. I do the same, depending on how I feel and who it is that’s asking. She said that after so many times of pretending everything was fine, she finally shouted that her son had died. My eyes filled with tears. So many times I’ve wanted to shout that at people. I wanted to scream it at the nurse who innocently said, "He was big enough to be healthy, but still not too big." I know she didn’t know, but I was so mad at her for me pretending that I wanted her to feel my pain. Instead, I just nodded. I still can’t say that my son has died or that he’s dead. I say, "We lost him." or "He grew his wings." Death just seems too scary a concept, too final. Telling people that he "Grew his wings," affirms that it’s not final and that one day I’ll see him again in Heaven. My heart hurt for this woman and for myself. Then she said the one thing I needed to hear all along. She had asked how I was and I told her that I thought I was ok, but that I have my moments. She told me that she still does, even after 20 years. Then she said, "I just remind myself that I’ll see him one day, just like you’ll see your little boy, Liam." The fact that this woman, that I barely knew remembered my son’s name and actually said it to me meant so much. I can’t even begin to explain it. I feel the same way when I come on here and someone has used his name in a note. It’s like the angel mommy version of hearing, "Wow, your baby’s so cute!" This overwhelming pride came over me because my son lives on through me. People know his name because I say his name. It’s not much, but it’s all I can do. I will make my mark in the names of my angels! <3 Monday morning I found out that my temps had given a false spike. I hadn’t ovulated because at what I thought was 4dpo, I started my first cycle since being pregnant. At first I just tried to shrug it off, popped some Midol and went to work. Thank goodness I had to do paperwork! I didn’t think it would affect me so much, but it hit hard. I guess part of it was the surprise, since I hadn’t expected it for another 10 days. I lost it while I was counting and doing paperwork in the office. I sobbed the entire two hours I was in there. So many emotions flying through my mind. I was shocked, since I wasn’t expecting it just then. I was devastated because it made everything so final. Once again my womb was reminding me that it was empty, but so are my arms. I’ll admit, I was a little relieved, because as much as I want it, I’m terrified of being pregnant again. I felt guilty for feeling relieved. Hell, I feel guilty no matter what emotion I feel. My mood only seemed to get darker as the day progressed. Darryl hadn’t realized that my cycle wasn’t due for another 10 days and told me that he had half expected me to come home and tell him I was pregnant. I hated the fact that I wasn’t. I hated the fact that I wanted to be and the fact that I was a little relieved. We talked some on the drive home, about how he feels like I forget that I have him and Ville here. I just told him the truth, that I’m grateful, but that doesn’t make anything better. I feel guilty, because I have a child and that doesn’t make anything better. I can’t even imagine how people who lose their only child feel. I told him that the fact that I wake up each morning and make it through the day is a testament to how grateful I am that they’re here. If I didn’ have them, I might not be. Then, I explained a little more about how I was feeling, especially with the severely depressed mood. I asked him if he had ever been more afraid of living than of dying. He answered no. The truth is, I’m terrified of living the rest of my life with this pain. I don’t know how people do it. Aside from having Darryl and Ville, the only reason I haven’t (And won’t) become suicidal is because I was taught that I’d go to Hell if I killed myself. Obviously, I’d never see my angels again if I went to Hell, so I’ve resigned to living the rest of this relatively short lifetime with this pain. I still don’t really know how to, but I know I will find a way. For them, for my loves on Earth, and even for myself too.

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