If I were watching myself on a TV show, I would be absolutely amazed at my mood changes. I can go from being completely devastated one day to (could it be?) being almost, somewhat happy the next.
Witness Christmas. We spent a few days at my parents’ house for the holiday, including Christmas Eve. The gathering was relatively small—just M, me, my parents, my brother and SIL and their 18-month-old. While my mother was having her traditional holiday meltdown in the kitchen (basically, she becomes very stressed out and bitchy in a short amount of time), I was slowly becoming unglued. By the time we were ready to open presents, I was an emotional wreck. I think it was watching my parent’s joy at being with their granddaughter and remembering how big I was supposed to be. See, Christmas was significant because it marked the beginning of my third trimester.
I made it through the gift opening mostly in one piece. At the end, however, I realized I wasn’t going to make it through the rest of the evening and excused myself early. So there I was, on Christmas Eve, sobbing in my parents’ guest room while everyone else conversed merrily downstairs. That’s a picture I won’t soon forget.
The following morning we made the two-hour drive back home to spend Christmas Day alone together. We could have gone to M’s extended family celebration, but I told him I couldn’t handle a large group just yet. Hell, I couldn’t even handle my own family! I was exhausted (I hadn’t slept well) and as soon as we got home I tucked in for a two-hour nap. And that’s when the bad times ended.
M and I proceeded with our day as planned: We made a lovely Christmas dinner for two (chicken cordon bleu—yummy!), opened a bottle of wine and watched two movies—“Casino Royale” and “The Sound of Music” (guess which one I chose?). We opened gifts, discovered that each of us had gotten the absolute perfect gifts for the other one and were overcome with how much we loved each other (it sounds corny, but it's true). And the most perfect Christmas gift of all? I walked out of the bathroom gleefully informing M that I wouldn’t be able to thank him properly with sex because…AF arrived! A long nine days after my last Provera pill, but it was still here. Which meant I could finally proceed with the pre-TTC process (Dr. Hot won’t start treatment until the next cycle, but this cycle had to start before I could even begin looking forward to the next one).
Suddenly, life was full of hope and possibility again. And although I went to sleep, as I usually do, still wishing that things had gone differently and Zach had had the right organs in his body, I wasn’t quite as sad as I was the night before.
And really, that’s all I can ask for right now.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
When in doubt, send a card
I’ve recently learned there are two types of people in this world—those who send sympathy cards, and those who don’t.
Our dining room table is covered with cards we received after Zach’s death. There are probably more than 60 all told, a few of which are doubles from people who forgot they had already sent a card. It is heartening to know that so many people care so much about us.
But when I look at those cards, I tend to think more about the ones that aren’t there.
For example, there is no card from K, a friendly acquaintance from work. She and I occasionally worked on projects together, and once she found out I was pregnant (she was due at the beginning of November), she was thrilled and got me a little onesie as a gift. She and I went out to lunch for some “baby talk,” and I had been hoping we would become better friends once we were both part of the “mommy club.” She even knew about the low amniotic fluid, but was confident there was nothing wrong and even followed up that fateful Friday afternoon with an e-mail asking how things went.
The problem was, I never came back to work that day. And that was her last day working before maternity leave.
From what I’ve pieced together since returning to work, she called our office assistant several times that week to find out how I was doing. I know she had been told the baby couldn’t live outside the womb and we were inducing labor.
But over the past six weeks, I have heard nothing from her. No sympathy card, no e-mail, and certainly no call. Actually, scratch that—my e-mail address was included in all the pictures she sent us of her newborn. Fortunately, my co-workers deleted them before I came back. One of my co-workers suggested that maybe she felt weird approaching me because she has a healthy newborn. Maybe, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t send a short e-mail stating simply, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” It’s almost like now that I’m not pregnant anymore, she has no more use for me. Point taken.
The same goes for J, another friend through my Bible study. For the past two months, she has lived in the same house as A (the pregnant friend from my previous post, who, incidentally, organized our Bible study group to provide meals for us in the first few weeks after Zach’s death), so I knew she was aware of everything that was going on. Yet the first time we had any communication was when we went to her goodbye open house last week. She told me she had “wanted to call, but didn’t know if she should.” So why not just send an e-mail? Or a card? That’s certainly not intrusive! Instead, she did nothing.
I realize this may seem a bit harsh to some of you. I truly understand that this kind of situation is awkward and people don’t know what to say. But my goodness—don’t say nothing! From my perspective, it seems like you don’t care—especially if I had considered you a friend beforehand (casual acquaintances I can forgive). I certainly sent my share of sympathy cards before we lost Zach, but I didn’t realize just how much they mean—even the ones that say nothing more than “I’m sorry.” They’re a very, very easy way of acknowledging someone’s grief without having to actual face them in person.
I don’t want to end this post on a negative note, so I do want to acknowledge the many, many people who did come through for us. There was the (formerly infertile) sister of a friend who sent a touching e-mail even though she barely knows me; the (formerly infertile) friend of a friend who sent a meal to us even though she barely knows me (notice a trend here? Gotta love the IF sisterhood!); my friend A who organized some of the meals; my friend AW who called me the morning before we left for our induction just to check in on me; my officemates who sent us beautiful flowers; my friend K who drove two hours on her day off to visit us two days after we received the diagnosis; and of course our families, who have been with us through this whole ordeal.
I just wish we had a couple more sympathy cards on our stack.
Our dining room table is covered with cards we received after Zach’s death. There are probably more than 60 all told, a few of which are doubles from people who forgot they had already sent a card. It is heartening to know that so many people care so much about us.
But when I look at those cards, I tend to think more about the ones that aren’t there.
For example, there is no card from K, a friendly acquaintance from work. She and I occasionally worked on projects together, and once she found out I was pregnant (she was due at the beginning of November), she was thrilled and got me a little onesie as a gift. She and I went out to lunch for some “baby talk,” and I had been hoping we would become better friends once we were both part of the “mommy club.” She even knew about the low amniotic fluid, but was confident there was nothing wrong and even followed up that fateful Friday afternoon with an e-mail asking how things went.
The problem was, I never came back to work that day. And that was her last day working before maternity leave.
From what I’ve pieced together since returning to work, she called our office assistant several times that week to find out how I was doing. I know she had been told the baby couldn’t live outside the womb and we were inducing labor.
But over the past six weeks, I have heard nothing from her. No sympathy card, no e-mail, and certainly no call. Actually, scratch that—my e-mail address was included in all the pictures she sent us of her newborn. Fortunately, my co-workers deleted them before I came back. One of my co-workers suggested that maybe she felt weird approaching me because she has a healthy newborn. Maybe, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t send a short e-mail stating simply, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” It’s almost like now that I’m not pregnant anymore, she has no more use for me. Point taken.
The same goes for J, another friend through my Bible study. For the past two months, she has lived in the same house as A (the pregnant friend from my previous post, who, incidentally, organized our Bible study group to provide meals for us in the first few weeks after Zach’s death), so I knew she was aware of everything that was going on. Yet the first time we had any communication was when we went to her goodbye open house last week. She told me she had “wanted to call, but didn’t know if she should.” So why not just send an e-mail? Or a card? That’s certainly not intrusive! Instead, she did nothing.
I realize this may seem a bit harsh to some of you. I truly understand that this kind of situation is awkward and people don’t know what to say. But my goodness—don’t say nothing! From my perspective, it seems like you don’t care—especially if I had considered you a friend beforehand (casual acquaintances I can forgive). I certainly sent my share of sympathy cards before we lost Zach, but I didn’t realize just how much they mean—even the ones that say nothing more than “I’m sorry.” They’re a very, very easy way of acknowledging someone’s grief without having to actual face them in person.
I don’t want to end this post on a negative note, so I do want to acknowledge the many, many people who did come through for us. There was the (formerly infertile) sister of a friend who sent a touching e-mail even though she barely knows me; the (formerly infertile) friend of a friend who sent a meal to us even though she barely knows me (notice a trend here? Gotta love the IF sisterhood!); my friend A who organized some of the meals; my friend AW who called me the morning before we left for our induction just to check in on me; my officemates who sent us beautiful flowers; my friend K who drove two hours on her day off to visit us two days after we received the diagnosis; and of course our families, who have been with us through this whole ordeal.
I just wish we had a couple more sympathy cards on our stack.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Grieve all you want...but not in my backyard
I’m at a loss for how I should be handling my loss in public.
More specifically, I have no idea how much “shielding myself” is too much. People like to tell grieving folk such as me that we should take as much time as we need, that everyone grieves at a different pace, and “only we know what’s right for us right now.”
Well, yes, that’s all well and good, but it’s really only a bunch of lip service. As far as I know, I am the only person who thinks about Zach and my current childless state pretty much around the clock. (M does think about him, but, being a guy, the grief comes in waves for him and isn’t as constant.) So while others offer me a hug and a “How are you doing?” when we see each other, they can quickly move on to other things, while one part of my mind is always stuck on Nov. 7.
Case in point: We stopped by my friend A’s house for a small open house/goodbye party for another friend on Saturday. I was apprehensive, because A is 13 weeks pregnant and I hadn’t seen her since we lost Zach. Most of the afternoon went surprisingly well, except when A was handing out her holiday letter to all of us. M read it first and tried his best to hide it inside his jacket, but she cornered him and insisted that I read it. Most of the letter was one long gush about how excited A and her husband are to be having a baby in June. I felt sick to my stomach and quickly put the letter down. At first, I couldn’t believe she would insist I read such a letter in public, but then I realized she simply hadn’t been thinking about how it would affect me. Well, of course not—because unlike me, not everything in her life is colored by the events of Nov. 7.
Is this the way life is going to be from now on? People tell me I should take my time with my grief, but in the next breath they instruct me not to isolate myself. OK, so I’m supposed to be out and about. But are these same people going to take personal responsibility for making sure the conversation doesn’t turn to something that makes me want to shoot myself? More likely, if I ever show any sign of being bothered by talk of babies and pregnancy, they will be thinking, My goodness, doesn’t she know the world still goes on despite her loss?
M and I are in a weekly Bible study with A and a few other people. We’ve said we will come back in January, but am I really ready to be seeing her on a weekly basis? When I was pregnant, my gestation was a prayer request (from other people in the group) pretty much every week. (To tell the truth, it got kind of old.) Will they do the same thing with her? Do I send all of them an e-mail asking them to pray for her privately, rather in front of me? Or would that look too much like I feel the sun rises and sets on my emotions?
Or, put more simply, do I:
a) withdraw completely
b) come back, but make sure they all know what topics are off-limits with me, or
c) just suck it up and hope that someday it won’t hurt so badly
For the audience who is reading this post, the answer would never, ever be “c.” However, I’m afraid that the rest of the world doesn’t see the situation quite the same way as we Infertiles and Pregnancy Loss People (IPLP) do.
More specifically, I have no idea how much “shielding myself” is too much. People like to tell grieving folk such as me that we should take as much time as we need, that everyone grieves at a different pace, and “only we know what’s right for us right now.”
Well, yes, that’s all well and good, but it’s really only a bunch of lip service. As far as I know, I am the only person who thinks about Zach and my current childless state pretty much around the clock. (M does think about him, but, being a guy, the grief comes in waves for him and isn’t as constant.) So while others offer me a hug and a “How are you doing?” when we see each other, they can quickly move on to other things, while one part of my mind is always stuck on Nov. 7.
Case in point: We stopped by my friend A’s house for a small open house/goodbye party for another friend on Saturday. I was apprehensive, because A is 13 weeks pregnant and I hadn’t seen her since we lost Zach. Most of the afternoon went surprisingly well, except when A was handing out her holiday letter to all of us. M read it first and tried his best to hide it inside his jacket, but she cornered him and insisted that I read it. Most of the letter was one long gush about how excited A and her husband are to be having a baby in June. I felt sick to my stomach and quickly put the letter down. At first, I couldn’t believe she would insist I read such a letter in public, but then I realized she simply hadn’t been thinking about how it would affect me. Well, of course not—because unlike me, not everything in her life is colored by the events of Nov. 7.
Is this the way life is going to be from now on? People tell me I should take my time with my grief, but in the next breath they instruct me not to isolate myself. OK, so I’m supposed to be out and about. But are these same people going to take personal responsibility for making sure the conversation doesn’t turn to something that makes me want to shoot myself? More likely, if I ever show any sign of being bothered by talk of babies and pregnancy, they will be thinking, My goodness, doesn’t she know the world still goes on despite her loss?
M and I are in a weekly Bible study with A and a few other people. We’ve said we will come back in January, but am I really ready to be seeing her on a weekly basis? When I was pregnant, my gestation was a prayer request (from other people in the group) pretty much every week. (To tell the truth, it got kind of old.) Will they do the same thing with her? Do I send all of them an e-mail asking them to pray for her privately, rather in front of me? Or would that look too much like I feel the sun rises and sets on my emotions?
Or, put more simply, do I:
a) withdraw completely
b) come back, but make sure they all know what topics are off-limits with me, or
c) just suck it up and hope that someday it won’t hurt so badly
For the audience who is reading this post, the answer would never, ever be “c.” However, I’m afraid that the rest of the world doesn’t see the situation quite the same way as we Infertiles and Pregnancy Loss People (IPLP) do.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Public service announcement
At Becky’s request, I have compiled a list of the “wrong” things people have said to us following the stillbirth of our son, and what they should have said. Keep in mind that all of these people meant well; mostly, they just said these things because they were uncomfortable. I have even included a comment I made a year and a half ago to a friend who had just miscarried. Yes, I screwed up too. Also, keep in mind that most of these comments were said to us as part of a rather short conversation. As in: “It’s been a hard month for us because we found out our fetus had a deadly birth defect.” “Oh. Well, I’m sure it’s for the best.” Now, if a similar comment had been part of a longer conversation on, say, spirituality and how we as Christians have to believe that God somehow works everything for good, then it would have been more appropriate. It’s all about context, baby.
With that said, I proudly bring you…
The Pocket Primer on What to Say Following a Stillbirth, Miscarriage or Other Infant Loss
What they said: Absolutely nothing (my 91-year-old grandfather)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “Well, at least you’re still young.” (M’s uncle)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “We have had so many miscarriages in the family. I firmly believe that is due to environmental factors.” (M’s second cousin, who apparently has no idea of the difference between a miscarriage and a stillbirth/medical termination)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “All I can say is, everyone I’ve known who has had a miscarriage has gone on to deliver to term shortly afterwards.” (This was my comment, said to a friend who had miscarried at 8 weeks.)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “You know, naming a fetus can actually make the grief process harder. It might not be the best idea.” (M’s therapist apparently didn’t realize I had actually given birth to a baby, and not had a miscarriage. Do the math, asshole! Once he realized his mistake, he apologized profusely, but we’re both still pretty pissed off.)
What they should have said: “Hmmm, I see. Go on.”
With that said, I proudly bring you…
The Pocket Primer on What to Say Following a Stillbirth, Miscarriage or Other Infant Loss
What they said: Absolutely nothing (my 91-year-old grandfather)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “Well, at least you’re still young.” (M’s uncle)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “We have had so many miscarriages in the family. I firmly believe that is due to environmental factors.” (M’s second cousin, who apparently has no idea of the difference between a miscarriage and a stillbirth/medical termination)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “All I can say is, everyone I’ve known who has had a miscarriage has gone on to deliver to term shortly afterwards.” (This was my comment, said to a friend who had miscarried at 8 weeks.)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “You know, naming a fetus can actually make the grief process harder. It might not be the best idea.” (M’s therapist apparently didn’t realize I had actually given birth to a baby, and not had a miscarriage. Do the math, asshole! Once he realized his mistake, he apologized profusely, but we’re both still pretty pissed off.)
What they should have said: “Hmmm, I see. Go on.”
Monday, November 19, 2007
Grief
In the first 30 years of my life, I never experienced the death of someone close to me. My father's parents died before I was born. My cousin died at 28, but I never knew him very well. The most I knew about grief came from the death of my two dogs, and the aftermath of my longtime college boyfriend dumping me (I had been expecting to marry him and had to completely rework my long-term plans afterward).
That has all changed.
We held a memorial service for Zach at our church yesterday. There were only 13 of us at the service--just our immediate family members. It was absolutely beautiful. The songs were perfect--which meant, of course, that I was fighting back tears the entire time. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Even my brother, who sat next to me during the service, was choking up during "Children of the Heavenly Father."
Afterward, at home that night, I felt terrible. The facts of our loss hadn't changed, but somehow I found myself focusing on all the negatives. "First infertility, now such a devastating loss," I said to M. "Maybe God is trying to tell us something. Maybe we're not supposed to be parents. Why in the world would he allow us to become pregnant just to have this happen to us? We had finally begun to relax with this pregnancy and plan for a future with our son, and then this happens."
Just like I had two weeks ago, I went to bed crying and I woke up crying.
That, I am told, is completely normal behavior after a memorial service. Not only was my body exhausted, but my mind was exhausted. I was just so sick of keeping a positive--or at least not completely hopeless--attitude that I was willing to just give in to all the voices whispering terrible things to me. My grief was talking, and I was listening. And man, did it suck.
I'm doing a little better now. I'm at least able to see life with a little more perspective. But one thing hasn't changed: Although I know that I will be happy in the future, I just can't picture it right now. Events that I would have normally been excited about just don't interest me anymore. Honestly, I can't picture being all that jazzed about anything in the near future. I guess this is what people mean when they say the bright colors of the world have become dull.
But I haven't completely given up. I know there will be brighter colors eventually. I just wish the doctors could put me under anesthesia and wake me up when the sun comes out.
That has all changed.
We held a memorial service for Zach at our church yesterday. There were only 13 of us at the service--just our immediate family members. It was absolutely beautiful. The songs were perfect--which meant, of course, that I was fighting back tears the entire time. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Even my brother, who sat next to me during the service, was choking up during "Children of the Heavenly Father."
Afterward, at home that night, I felt terrible. The facts of our loss hadn't changed, but somehow I found myself focusing on all the negatives. "First infertility, now such a devastating loss," I said to M. "Maybe God is trying to tell us something. Maybe we're not supposed to be parents. Why in the world would he allow us to become pregnant just to have this happen to us? We had finally begun to relax with this pregnancy and plan for a future with our son, and then this happens."
Just like I had two weeks ago, I went to bed crying and I woke up crying.
That, I am told, is completely normal behavior after a memorial service. Not only was my body exhausted, but my mind was exhausted. I was just so sick of keeping a positive--or at least not completely hopeless--attitude that I was willing to just give in to all the voices whispering terrible things to me. My grief was talking, and I was listening. And man, did it suck.
I'm doing a little better now. I'm at least able to see life with a little more perspective. But one thing hasn't changed: Although I know that I will be happy in the future, I just can't picture it right now. Events that I would have normally been excited about just don't interest me anymore. Honestly, I can't picture being all that jazzed about anything in the near future. I guess this is what people mean when they say the bright colors of the world have become dull.
But I haven't completely given up. I know there will be brighter colors eventually. I just wish the doctors could put me under anesthesia and wake me up when the sun comes out.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
You know it's a really, really bad day when you go to bed crying and you wake up crying--with little periods of wakefulness in between just to make sure you can't get a truly healing rest. I woke up this morning asking M what I can possibly do to feel better. Because the pain is certainly not going away; it's just getting worse.
I guess the only thing I know how to do is write about my pain.
I'm no fool. I can put 2 and 2 together. Thanks, Geohde, for reminding me of the name of the condition the perinatologist thinks our baby has--bilateral renal agenesis. Yes, it's fatal. Dr. Google tells me that it's extremely rare; only 1 in 5000 babies have it. As M and I remember what the tech told us (he said he finally found the bladder, but it was empty, which was why he had trouble finding it in the first place), and then think about the low fluid levels, we realize we know exactly what the doctor will tell us on Monday: This child will not live. There is no hoping left. There is only raw pain.
When I drove home from the hospital yesterday, it fleetingly occurred to me how beautiful of a fall day it was. I always love Friday; it's my favorite day of the week. M and I were going to go shopping for baby furniture, which I was really looking forward to. We were probably even going to start a registry! I was just waiting for the doctor to tell me everything was fine with the baby, and then we would start making the calls to family members to tell them the sex. It's a boy. We even developed a short list of names earlier this week.
I'm a planner. My life revolves around my plans, and when I'm in limbo, as with fertility treatments, I feel incomplete. An even worse feeling, however, is when the plan gets disrupted. The most recent time this occurred was when my college boyfriend of 2 and a half years broke up with me a few months after I graduated. I was going to marry him and follow him to grad school. Instead, I was forced to imagine a life without marriage--at least in the near future.
We were so ready to welcome our little boy on March 25. I was ready to quit my job, quit a bunch of my activities and start scoping out the Mommy groups. I had all my maternity clothes, and I had decided I would start wearing them to work next week. My friend in our Bible study group had just announced her pregnancy and I was looking forward to us sharing this time together, eventually arranging play dates for our children.
Our baby boy fetus is now 20 weeks old.
My mother told me my brother was really broken up about the news. He kept saying, "And after all they've been through." He's right--how much pain is one couple really supposed to take?
Does this sound weird? I want to start treatments again. As soon as possible. I just can't give up on the plan. People always say you need a grieving period, but all I can hear is the clock ticking away.
I just wish this didn't have to get worse before it gets better. As you might have expected, there's no way I can carry this baby to term. I respect the decisions of those who might, but I cannot bear to be pregnant with a child that can't live without me. The only question will be how soon I can be...induced...and how bad the labor is going to be. I have no idea how they even do it. I mean, the baby is alive, so how does this work? Why are M and I forced to make these decisions?
I guess the only thing I know how to do is write about my pain.
I'm no fool. I can put 2 and 2 together. Thanks, Geohde, for reminding me of the name of the condition the perinatologist thinks our baby has--bilateral renal agenesis. Yes, it's fatal. Dr. Google tells me that it's extremely rare; only 1 in 5000 babies have it. As M and I remember what the tech told us (he said he finally found the bladder, but it was empty, which was why he had trouble finding it in the first place), and then think about the low fluid levels, we realize we know exactly what the doctor will tell us on Monday: This child will not live. There is no hoping left. There is only raw pain.
When I drove home from the hospital yesterday, it fleetingly occurred to me how beautiful of a fall day it was. I always love Friday; it's my favorite day of the week. M and I were going to go shopping for baby furniture, which I was really looking forward to. We were probably even going to start a registry! I was just waiting for the doctor to tell me everything was fine with the baby, and then we would start making the calls to family members to tell them the sex. It's a boy. We even developed a short list of names earlier this week.
I'm a planner. My life revolves around my plans, and when I'm in limbo, as with fertility treatments, I feel incomplete. An even worse feeling, however, is when the plan gets disrupted. The most recent time this occurred was when my college boyfriend of 2 and a half years broke up with me a few months after I graduated. I was going to marry him and follow him to grad school. Instead, I was forced to imagine a life without marriage--at least in the near future.
We were so ready to welcome our little boy on March 25. I was ready to quit my job, quit a bunch of my activities and start scoping out the Mommy groups. I had all my maternity clothes, and I had decided I would start wearing them to work next week. My friend in our Bible study group had just announced her pregnancy and I was looking forward to us sharing this time together, eventually arranging play dates for our children.
Our baby boy fetus is now 20 weeks old.
My mother told me my brother was really broken up about the news. He kept saying, "And after all they've been through." He's right--how much pain is one couple really supposed to take?
Does this sound weird? I want to start treatments again. As soon as possible. I just can't give up on the plan. People always say you need a grieving period, but all I can hear is the clock ticking away.
I just wish this didn't have to get worse before it gets better. As you might have expected, there's no way I can carry this baby to term. I respect the decisions of those who might, but I cannot bear to be pregnant with a child that can't live without me. The only question will be how soon I can be...induced...and how bad the labor is going to be. I have no idea how they even do it. I mean, the baby is alive, so how does this work? Why are M and I forced to make these decisions?
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