It's May 30th Again

Every year feels a little bit different than the last.  Sometimes more difficult, sometimes less.  This year has been easier on my heart, though I don't have a reason why.  If there is any wisdom I've gained in the past seven years, it's that I have to feel how I feel without apology, shame, or guilt.  At times, this has meant laying on my closet floor, unable to get up or come out. It has meant contemplating whether I wanted to stay here.  Other times, this has meant being happy, proud, and just okay.  

Regardless of where I am in the moment, I know that Owen is gone.  I don't believe it was for some grand purpose or to teach me anything specific.  I do think we, as people, have a purpose and things to learn, I just don't think there's one way to get there- as is true with most experiences in life.  Was Owen's purpose here grand?  Yes.  Did I learn things? Yes, painfully. But I cannot equate this to being "led" to this point in my life, as some people say.  I was not led here.  I fought through a jungle of very dark thoughts and a lot of wanting to give up to get here.  With a lot of freaking help.  And that's not something to be ashamed of.  I could have gone in a million other directions, but I came here.  

Currently, my rainbow is watching Umizoomi in the other room, our new puppy is laying on the couch with him, and I have gone back and forth between my regular morning mom duties and re-reading old Facebook messages from the day that Owen died.  Some of them make me smile, and others take my breath away, but this is where I am, and this is what life looks like on the other side.  It's just part of my normal.  

Thanks to all of you who remember my boy always.  You are in my heart, too, and know what I would not be here without you.  

On Answering Stupid Questions

I'm not gonna lie; I'm feeling a little bit indignant today.  So hold on.  

Recently, it came to my attention that a friend of ours had asked, on several occasions, why, now that I had Aden, I couldn't get over losing Owen.  So.  Here you go "friend."  To help you understand. 

1.  Because people aren't replaceable.

2.  There isn't an age when your child suddenly becomes worth more.  Before they're born.  The day they're born, the day they go to kindergarten or college- that's your kid.  100% your kid.  It's not a 401k, it doesn't increase (or decrease) in value over time.  It just is.  

3.  Because I don't f&*$&! want to.  Yeah, I said it.  I am actually quite happy with my life currently, don't mistake that for meaning that I want to be in stage 1 of my grief forever.  But I DON'T WANT TO get over my son dying like it didn't happen.  It did.  I lived it, not you.  It's mine to own and do with what I feel is right.  And it's not your job, or anyone's job to decide that I'm not doing my journey of my own life the right way.  

I have never, do not, will never apologize to anyone for how I have handled, am handling, will handle the loss of my son because it's not anyone else's to live.  I've walked away from plenty of people because they couldn't "deal with" how I dealt with my traumatic and life changing event.  Must have been super difficult for them. If I make you uncomfortable because I brought up my kid in conversation?  Don't talk to me anymore.  Block me, unfollow me, delete me; I could not give less of a shit.  Honestly.  If I'm doing this particular life one time, then I don't want your pretentious, judgmental, hateful energy anywhere near me anyway.  

That feels better.  Back to your regular scheduled programming in 3...2...1...

A New Day Without New Words

It has been a long time since I had a night like tonight.  A night where tears came without holding back, and I was able to really step back and look at where I've been.  In short, it has been a long #^$&(#$ road.  There is some part of me that appreciates the wave of grief I weathered tonight because it means Owen is still so present in my heart.  He was here and he is mine.  These words I've spoken and thought and written hundreds of times are still what goes through my mind when I think of him.  I pass by his photos on my wall every day.  He was real and he is mine.  There are few people who know where I've been and truly understand the kind of living hell I existed in for many years.  My husband existed right along with me for a long time.  I am thankful that we survived together, and that we have become new people together.  We have this love for two perfect little boys.  It's not fair that we don't get to know them both in the same way.  It's not fair that Owen never got to go outside, to have a birthday, to ride in a batmobile.  It's just not.  I don't get to know what kind of lunchbox and backpack he would have chosen for Kindergarten this year.  I should have an almost first grader!  The thought is achingly impossible to imagine.  And it's not fair.  And yet, I find happiness here too.  There is happiness in the shrieks and giggles from my little rainbow.  There is happiness in the fact that when he's asleep, I can see Owen's face in his, and I can imagine for a moment that I have a glimpse into a life I didn't get to live.

Tonight I feel humbled at the ability my heart has to bring me to my knees as though this loss were fresh.  I am humbled by my own human will to survive and to find meaning in my life past the day my world stopped.  I am humbled by the honor and privilege I have to be a mother to two perfect little boys.  There is no "reason" for the loss of my son.  There is no greater purpose for his death, there is no truth to a cliched line about heaven needing another angel.  But he is supposed to be mine.  Whether he's here or in my heart, I was supposed to be his mother.  For that, I am grateful.  For the fact that he fought to be here, I am grateful.  For what I have learned from him, I am grateful.

I titled this post the way I did because I do not have any new enlightening insight into my situation.  I do not have anything particularly inspiring or amazing to say.  I just needed to think about my boy tonight and really feel his absence for a little while. My Owen, my little fox, I love you <3 .="" nbsp="" p="">  

This Life

Sometimes I think I am doing so well, and then one domino is nudged slightly off-kilter and the whole shebang comes tumbling down.  It has been not quite 5 and a half years since my new life began.  And only in the last six months did I feel like I was actually living it.  The waves of grief have been generously small.  Manageable.  I have poured every ounce of myself into getting back my body and my mind after five years of "otherness."  But today it just feels disingenuous to say I'm doing OK.  Today I don't feel it.  It feels like everything I've been working for is not quite real, and it can just be taken away in a moment.

Today a whole plethora of things went wrong.  Aden asked me why I don't have a brother or a sister in my belly.  Then he asked if we could go buy one at the store.  And it's so incredibly unfair that he doesn't have his brother.  And I hate it.  I told him we were going to have to be OK with just him and me and daddy.  He said, "Oh, is the store closed?"  My heart is crushed.

The novels that I have spent every spare second working on since April will have to be unpublished... probably in the next twenty-four hours, because one of my students came across it during my free book promotion.  It feels like I'm losing the one thing that was saving me.  Writing let me get out of my own head and put everything on paper.  It occupied my mind in a good way instead of a debilitating one.  I had an actual hobby.  I haven't had one of those in a long long time.  And now that's over.  Again, unfair, but it's what has to happen.

To speak some truth?  I haven't been to the cemetery since June.  I have never gone this long without going.  Around the fourth year of Owen being gone, it started to feel... like I wasn't going there because I felt close to him, but because I was supposed to.  When he was first buried, I 100% judged the parents of the babies who had no decoration on their stones. "How sad," I thought.  And now I am the biggest hypocrite of all.  Truth be told, I don't feel close to him there.  I don't really feel close to him anywhere.  I am missing my boy.  I am missing everything.  He's not there under that stone.  He's somewhere that I'm not and it's so unfair.  

Most days I'm fine, I'm good.  I like my job, and I love love love my family, and I have found freedom in writing.  But today... today was not a good day.  I can hope for tomorrow to be better.

Five Years Later

This Sunday marks five years since I saw my little fox's face for the first time.  The past five months have been the most healing part of my grief journey, and for that I am grateful.  After we lost Owen, I divided my life into pre-loss and post-loss.  Who I was then, who I am now.  They were not the same person, so this felt appropriate.

During the past several months, I have started to reconcile those two people again.  I am still the dramatic, anxious, funny, quick-witted person I was in my late teens and early twenties.  I am still Owen's mother.  I am still a loss mom.  I am still the mom of a beautiful three year old rainbow.  I am still the new person who doesn't take crap from people anymore.  I am still the new person who is not afraid to walk away from people when they no longer support or add to my purpose here.  But now I can say I'm me- one person.  Taking control my health and my body has given me back a sense of self that I had been missing for a long time.  It has improved my marriage, my overall outlook, my parenting, and my relationships.  Writing my book has also been such a cathartic stress release.  It feels like I've found my place.  I feel more comfortable in my own skin than maybe I ever have.

All of this being said, does that mean I'm "better"? Or "over it"?   Of course not.  My baby should be graduating from pre-school next week.  It's surreal.  Of course my stomach tightens when I get the kindergarten registration emails from my school district, when I see other kids in their tiny caps and gowns.  It's the reality of the situation.  The grief of losing my son will last my whole life.  I saw above quote today and it just grabbed me.  I wear it differently now, and yet some days I wear it like it was the day he died, though those days are fewer and further between.

I miss my boy every day.  I can see glimpses of our life as it would have been.  I also have joy, and laughter, and life filling my home.  Happiness, while not the pretty picture we all dream about when we begin our adult lives, no longer escapes me.  I can be happy and still walk with my grief.  Five years ago, that sentence could not have been fathomable.  And now it is.  My Owen Fox has made me a better, kinder, more compassionate person, and I can never repay him for what he has given me or for how hard he fought to be here.  But I will try to be a person he can be proud of and who he would be happy to call his mom.  <3 p="">

Approaching 5

The past couple of months have been difficult for me in terms of where I am in my grief.  I feel like other areas of my life have gotten brighter; I've begun to take control of my health and weight, my family relationships are strong, and I've started a new endeavor with ItWorks that I'm excited about.  That being said, there have been more nights lately that I've found myself crying in bed, angry at what has been lost.

This May will mark five years.  Year five feels like a weight right now.  Kindergarten.  Buying his backpack and lunchbox and first-day-of-school outfit.  I think the hardest hardest hardest part about 5, is that it feels like a passage from baby/toddler to full-fledged "kid," and I don't know Owen as a "kid".  I have no idea what he would look like, what his interests would be, what his strengths and challenges would be, his likes and dislikes.  It is the strangest form of longing to LOVE someone SO MUCH and not know who he is.  I can't explain it to non-loss parents.  The idea of it is too strange.  I try to envision Aden and Owen playing together- mostly fighting pretend dragons in the backyard as Aden loves to do, but the image is incomplete.  The only clear images I have are of an infant, and that's not true anymore.  This is hard.

Today I sat planning our small summer vacation.  I kept thinking and wishing that we had a closer network of friends with toddlers so we could plan something together and Aden would have someone to play with.  I started to get really upset about this, and finally came to the realization that I was just upset because he should have someone to play with already.  He should have a big brother and a best friend all of the time.  And you know what?  It's hard to make friends who have kids when one of mine is gone.  It just is.  I have made progress with this the past year since Aden has been in preschool and made some friends, so I guess I will just focus on that.

I guess I am coming to some sort of acceptance that we will not have any more children, and this wanting for Aden to have a sibling will just become part of my normal.  Though I was surprised (shocked) about becoming pregnant last October, I had visions of Aden as a big brother, and how he would be with his new sibling.  I started a "secret" Pinterest board of baby nurseries and pinned articles about bringing home a new sibling.  After that loss, I knew that mentally I could not survive another pregnancy that ended too soon, and seeing as how there are no guarantees, we decided that was it. Coming to grips with this decision has been a process, and I won't claim to be there 100% yet, but I feel like it's the right decision.

In the midst of all of this going on in my head, Aden brings light and love and joy to my heart every single day.  Where I would be without him is not a place I care to imagine.  I envision the next few months leading up to Owen's birthday to be difficult, but appreciate how fortunate I am to have my sweet rainbow here to make me smile.

Five and One

The past three weeks of my life have been quite painful... both physically and mentally. About mid-October, we were shocked (but excited) to learn that I was pregnant.  We had previously decided we were not going to try to have anymore children, as we agreed it was too much of a mental struggle after what we have been through.  This though... this was a surprise.  There was no trying to get pregnant... no charting, no clomid, no stress.... I just was.  And it was terrifying and exciting.  I knew it would be difficult to afford another child, but I wasn't letting myself think about that yet... I, of all people, know that it is a loooong road from two pink lines to bringing a baby home.  I decided just to let myself be excited.  I even started a secret pinterest board of baby nurseries and bottle types and how to prepare your child for another baby at home.  Was I getting ahead of myself?  yes.  Did it make me happy?  yes.  Such is the life of a type-A person such as myself.

Due to some odd events early in the pregnancy, I had a very early ultrasound and bloodwork.  Then more bloodwork.  Things came back.... weird.  More ultrasounds.... more bloodwork. 

No baby. 

After about 2 and a half weeks of tests and hoping and worrying, it was decided I was probably experiencing an ectopic pregnancy.  After experiencing some consistent pain, I ended up in the ER early last week and was treated with a drug to "dissolve" the pregnancy.  While I am thankful I was able to avoid surgery,  this drug is not without its own host of fun side effects... the likes of which I am still dealing with. 


As I sat in my hospital room after getting the shots, I actually laughed out loud in my frustration and said to my mom, "can you believe this has happened to me?  After everything else... this is how the universe gets its last laugh at me??"  I have lost ANOTHER chance for a baby.  This pregnancy made FIVE.  They ask you at the hospital "number of pregnancies? number of living children?"  FIVE and ONE.  Right now I think I am still in disbelief that I have yet again become a statistic.  This happens in 1 in 50 pregnancies... so I guess that's more likely than the 1 in 7500 I had for Owen's CDH.  Too bad those odds don't work for me in playing the lotto.  I am in a state of anger right now I think.  After everything I went through to get to this place of being OK with my new life... to being a mother to Aden and a mother to Owen's memory, how could life do this to me? 

So here I am now.  Suffering yet another loss.  Another baby I won't get to know, or read to, or buy Christmas presents for. Aden will still grow up alone.  And there's not a damned thing I can do about it.  So instead, I hug Aden tighter, snuggle him more, and pour all of the love that I have into being his mom. 

I debated about writing this... feeling like no one wants to know this.  But if I can't break the silence, after all of the work I have done to bring awareness to child loss, then I am not being who I am.  I am not asking for anyone's sympathy, I know I'm going to be OK.  I am asking for your awareness to the fact that this happens... a  lot.  To a lot of women.  Pregnancy loss, infant loss, infertility, still birth... they are all heart-shattering. So if you're lucky enough to have your children at home with you and healthy, give them an extra kiss tonight for this baby that would have been so so so loved in our family. <3 br="">