My husband will be home late tonight because he's picking his children up for the weekend. Oh joy. I get to take care of other people's kids all weekend while missing my own, all the while getting no appreciation or recognition for my efforts. I resent them. I resent their happy, carefree lives; their innocence, their baby brother who was born just 1 week after my baby died. I resent having their living, breathing selves in my home and having to listen to their gaiety and laughter. I am jealous that my husband has living children and I do not. I worry that his living children make him 'forget' Kara or miss her less. I know it is not true, because I told him I think about it and he reassures me that nothing could ever make him forget her, or take the pain away from his heart. He assured me that he still cries at least once a day (and it oddly reassured me) and that his living children could never soften the grief and love he feels for Kara. Yet I still resent them for their lives and their meaning to my DH. I want to give him more children. I want to have OUR children, not someone else's. I've taken care of his children (with his ex-wife) for over 10 years now - I'm tired of faking it. I'm tired of feeling left out of this family. I feel no connection to them after 10 years (thanks to their b*tch mother.) Don't get me wrong - they're great kids. Polite, sweet and good-natured. But they're not mine. God help me, I can't get past it. At the end of the day, I'm just 'B'. Unappreciated, unconnected genetically.
I want my own children to need me, to want their mother. I want my own children to make my husband's eyes glitter with happiness and laughter. I want my own children to celebrate the holidays with and to bring to family functions. I want to kiss my own children goodnight and to give them warm hugs and soft lullabyes. I want to raise my own children - teach them right from wrong, help them to grow into the best people they can be. Infertility and grief are strange bedfellows - they feed off of one another and keep my heart aching over one or the other. My infetility and my grief also combine to make me resentful of my stepchildren. I should be grown-up enough to overcome this, but I'm not. The sad reality is that I am a bitter, grieving mother forced to care for her perfectly healthy stepchildren, while her baby is dead.
I can't even say that I'll try to do better. I can't. It's simply not in me after 10 years of trying. I'd rather go shopping while they're here than take them bowling with DH. I'd rather go to the gym and let them make themselves cereal than stay home and make pancakes or a family-Sunday-breakfast. We are not a family and I can't pretend that we are. I am their maid, their cook, their laundress...that is all. I feel like it would have been different, had Kara lived. We would have been a family, finally connected by blood. Maybe it will be different if we have a rainbow baby. I hope that a real, live baby will soften the boundaries between us and make us a real family someday. I believe that is what it would take to change what is.
I miss my girl. I miss her every minute of every day.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Alone Again
Today was a lonely day, not unlike most of my days since Kara died. DH was at school all day leaving me to my own devices, which is never a good thing.
My day started out okay; woke late, had yummy coffee while checking emails, forced myself to the gym and did some retail therapy afterwards.
Returning from the gym, I searched the garage for the silk floral arrangement I made for Kara's grave for St. Patrick's Day. I needed the metal hooks I used to hold it in the ground, for her Easter decoration. Looking at that flower arrangement with the stuffed leprachaun made my heart break. A rush of emotion hit me all at once; how tragic that I have a child's grave to decorate during holidays. How much I miss my daughter, every second of every day. A short sobfest followed; crying over her picture, wiping my tears from the glass before it ruined the photo, calling my mother in desperation for a human connection. It was not a good day. I dread the days when I am alone - they almost always end up this way.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Fulfillment
This is my blog dedicated to my daughter, Kara. I didn't want to bring other areas of my life into this blog because it's an outlet for my grief, longing and intense love for her. But my grief for Kara permeates every corner of my life. So there are things I find must speak of here.
Kara is my first child and I turned 40 yrs old on July 2nd, just 3 weeks after her death. Kara was the result of 2 years of infertility - trying to get pregnant the old fashioned way, 4 IUI's and 3 IVF's. I average about 4 eggs per cycle, and usually all embryos test genetically abnormal. Kara was our healthy embryo on our 3rd IVF cycle.
Since her death, we've had 2 failed IVF cycles - October and January. October's failed cycle was disappointing and I was back in the 'pit' for the better part of a week. In January, we actually had (1) healthy embryo transferred back, and it didn't implant. I was crushed. I was traveling on business at the time (alone, thankfully) and I could barely keep it together during customer visits after the doctor called my mobile with the bad news. I was a mess - it was another loss all over again. I kept it together until safely in my hotel room, and promptly broke down into a sobbing, snotty, gasping mess. This lasted for an hour until my husband talked me down - he was like a hostage negotiator on the phone. "It'll be okay, babe. We'll get pregnant hun, we will. We just have to try again. We'll keep trying, no matter how long it takes." On and on he went until I recovered some semblance of sanity. It seems this cycle repeats itself every 3rd month.
Which brings me to April. I was supposed to cycle in April for my (5th) IVF. Unfortunately, I haven't had my period yet this month and the deadline for AF to appear is Friday. If she doesn't show by then, I'll have to wait until May. My ovaries and eggs are aging before my very eyes. I am desperate to cycle again, only to be heartbroken when it fails yet again.
I am convinced that being pregnant will start me on the road to healing. I know that no baby can ever replace Kara. But I am sure that a real living, breathing baby will breathe new life into this tired, heartbroken, 40-yr old woman. Problem is, will anything else do? If I don't have children, there is no point in living. If I can't get pregnant, will I ever find happiness again? I am convinced, not.
What if I don't get pregnant with my own eggs again? I will go to donor egg.
When do I give up on my own eggs and look for a donor? I don't know.
The injectible hormones make me suicidal when an IVF cycle fails. When is enough, enough?
The heartbreak of a failed cycle brings back Kara's loss in full force. Everything is related to Kara's death. Everything revloves around my getting pregnant once again, and trying to be a mother to a live child. At some point, I must find something else to bring me fulfillment. But what is it?
Kara is my first child and I turned 40 yrs old on July 2nd, just 3 weeks after her death. Kara was the result of 2 years of infertility - trying to get pregnant the old fashioned way, 4 IUI's and 3 IVF's. I average about 4 eggs per cycle, and usually all embryos test genetically abnormal. Kara was our healthy embryo on our 3rd IVF cycle.
Since her death, we've had 2 failed IVF cycles - October and January. October's failed cycle was disappointing and I was back in the 'pit' for the better part of a week. In January, we actually had (1) healthy embryo transferred back, and it didn't implant. I was crushed. I was traveling on business at the time (alone, thankfully) and I could barely keep it together during customer visits after the doctor called my mobile with the bad news. I was a mess - it was another loss all over again. I kept it together until safely in my hotel room, and promptly broke down into a sobbing, snotty, gasping mess. This lasted for an hour until my husband talked me down - he was like a hostage negotiator on the phone. "It'll be okay, babe. We'll get pregnant hun, we will. We just have to try again. We'll keep trying, no matter how long it takes." On and on he went until I recovered some semblance of sanity. It seems this cycle repeats itself every 3rd month.
Which brings me to April. I was supposed to cycle in April for my (5th) IVF. Unfortunately, I haven't had my period yet this month and the deadline for AF to appear is Friday. If she doesn't show by then, I'll have to wait until May. My ovaries and eggs are aging before my very eyes. I am desperate to cycle again, only to be heartbroken when it fails yet again.
I am convinced that being pregnant will start me on the road to healing. I know that no baby can ever replace Kara. But I am sure that a real living, breathing baby will breathe new life into this tired, heartbroken, 40-yr old woman. Problem is, will anything else do? If I don't have children, there is no point in living. If I can't get pregnant, will I ever find happiness again? I am convinced, not.
What if I don't get pregnant with my own eggs again? I will go to donor egg.
When do I give up on my own eggs and look for a donor? I don't know.
The injectible hormones make me suicidal when an IVF cycle fails. When is enough, enough?
The heartbreak of a failed cycle brings back Kara's loss in full force. Everything is related to Kara's death. Everything revloves around my getting pregnant once again, and trying to be a mother to a live child. At some point, I must find something else to bring me fulfillment. But what is it?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Unafraid of Death
Another babylost-mama friend recently emailed me:
"That sense of being okay with death instead of fearing death is very real for me. If not for knowing the awful, awful pain that my death would cause my loved ones, I would certainly choose death--just to end my own pain and so I could finally meet my baby girl."
Her words touched me so deeply. I also find myself okay with death, no longer fearing it. I fear the manner of death, like a plane crash or years of suffering through cancer, but I don't fear death itself.
What if God gave me the choice to continue on this awful grief journey that is my life, or 'poof' I could be dead, painlessly and instantly?
During my darkest hours, I would seriously consider this offer and there are days I would probably accept. The pain I would cause my poor, darling husband is the only thing that gives me pause. At times, the pain and loneliness that is my grief is enough to make my selfishness take over and wish for an end to this pain. I would choose death to end my own suffering and to be with my daughter, the baby I long to hold and to touch.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Re-evaluating friends and family
Losing my baby has shaken me to my very core; physcially, emotionally, spiritually, socially, I am a new person. There are things I don't much like about my 'new' self. Here are a few:
*Physcially, I still have 15lbs of pregnancy weight - my body is changed. I don't enjoy physical activity/working out like I used to (I still do it, but I hate it.) I hate my body, hate shopping for clothes. My favorite pasttimes used to be shopping & working out - now I hate both.
*Emotionally, I feel like my skin has been ripped off and my body is just raw nerves. I cry easily and have physcial reactions to innocent questions like 'do you have children?' In my profession (sales) I am asked this question at least once weekly. It never fails to make my breath catch in my throat.
*Socially, I am insecure and uninterested in conversation. I miss my friends, but don't wish to be with them either. None of them have suffered a loss. I feel ostracized; an outcast. I am the mother whose child died. I will always be this mother and I am acutely aware of how others must view me. When visiting friends/family, my eyes hungrily roam the room searching for baby photos when no one is paying attention. Everyone has a baby who was born near the same time as my baby. I fantasize about how Kara would look now. I awkwardly hold their baby, wondering if Kara would be this big/quiet/fussy, thinking how wonderful it feels to hold a baby. It must feel 100 times better when it's your own.
*Spiritually, I question why God allowed this to happen. I struggle with my faith and my anger at Him, daily. I am sure of His existence, and I will do my damndest to get to Heaven to be reuinted with my child. I've stopped attending Mass because to stare at a baby for an hour is torture. I struggle with the 'why' every day.
I've changed in another way, too. I've never taken friendship lightly and so my friendship vetting process can be rigorous (according to my husband.) But once we are friends, I support and defend you to the end. When Kara died, I found out who my true friends were, and I still hurt thinking of those who weren't there for me. I thought I picked my friends well. I thought we would always be there for each other. Obviously my vetting wasn't rigorous enough. It hurts to know that people you love, haven't even thought about you while you were struggling just to stay alive. When you were curled up in that fetal position for 2 months on the couch, they never rang or emailed to tell you they were thinking of you. All the tears I've cried...there are oceans between us now. I am hurt and angry. I will be more careful about who I let into my life. I know that when it comes to friends, quality not quantity matters most. But it still hurts when you are rejected and ignored when you're hanging onto life by your fingernails. I will never speak to those people again, nor acknowledge their emails at this point. It's been 8.5 months - where the hell have you been? To that end, I deactivated my Facebook account. Who needs all these people popping in from grammar school asking how you've been and if you have kids? no thanks.
That's the end of my rant for today.
*Physcially, I still have 15lbs of pregnancy weight - my body is changed. I don't enjoy physical activity/working out like I used to (I still do it, but I hate it.) I hate my body, hate shopping for clothes. My favorite pasttimes used to be shopping & working out - now I hate both.
*Emotionally, I feel like my skin has been ripped off and my body is just raw nerves. I cry easily and have physcial reactions to innocent questions like 'do you have children?' In my profession (sales) I am asked this question at least once weekly. It never fails to make my breath catch in my throat.
*Socially, I am insecure and uninterested in conversation. I miss my friends, but don't wish to be with them either. None of them have suffered a loss. I feel ostracized; an outcast. I am the mother whose child died. I will always be this mother and I am acutely aware of how others must view me. When visiting friends/family, my eyes hungrily roam the room searching for baby photos when no one is paying attention. Everyone has a baby who was born near the same time as my baby. I fantasize about how Kara would look now. I awkwardly hold their baby, wondering if Kara would be this big/quiet/fussy, thinking how wonderful it feels to hold a baby. It must feel 100 times better when it's your own.
*Spiritually, I question why God allowed this to happen. I struggle with my faith and my anger at Him, daily. I am sure of His existence, and I will do my damndest to get to Heaven to be reuinted with my child. I've stopped attending Mass because to stare at a baby for an hour is torture. I struggle with the 'why' every day.
I've changed in another way, too. I've never taken friendship lightly and so my friendship vetting process can be rigorous (according to my husband.) But once we are friends, I support and defend you to the end. When Kara died, I found out who my true friends were, and I still hurt thinking of those who weren't there for me. I thought I picked my friends well. I thought we would always be there for each other. Obviously my vetting wasn't rigorous enough. It hurts to know that people you love, haven't even thought about you while you were struggling just to stay alive. When you were curled up in that fetal position for 2 months on the couch, they never rang or emailed to tell you they were thinking of you. All the tears I've cried...there are oceans between us now. I am hurt and angry. I will be more careful about who I let into my life. I know that when it comes to friends, quality not quantity matters most. But it still hurts when you are rejected and ignored when you're hanging onto life by your fingernails. I will never speak to those people again, nor acknowledge their emails at this point. It's been 8.5 months - where the hell have you been? To that end, I deactivated my Facebook account. Who needs all these people popping in from grammar school asking how you've been and if you have kids? no thanks.
That's the end of my rant for today.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Gifts my daughter gave me
At a perinatal loss support group the other night, the counselor said something that really resonated with me. She said, "When we lose a baby, we talk about the loss, the grief, the aching, the missing. These things will always be with us, forever. We will forever miss, ache for, long for and grieve for that baby. But we must also think of the things our baby gave us, their gifts. Name a few gifts that your baby gave to you."
This was profound for me. I always feel the loss and longing for my daughter, but I never think of the things she blessed me with. Here are the gifts that Kara gave me.
1. A new respect for life at all stages
2. An understanding of the fragility of life
3. An appreciation of friends and family
4. Compassion for others
5. A more meaningful relationship with God
6. The ability to clearly see people and their intentions
7. An awareness of the pain and struggles of others
8. A clear vision of what really matters in life
9. A deeper, stronger relationship with my husband
10. The ability to love unconditionally and fully
11. The ability to forgive trespasses
12. A love so strong that it transcends death
This was profound for me. I always feel the loss and longing for my daughter, but I never think of the things she blessed me with. Here are the gifts that Kara gave me.
1. A new respect for life at all stages
2. An understanding of the fragility of life
3. An appreciation of friends and family
4. Compassion for others
5. A more meaningful relationship with God
6. The ability to clearly see people and their intentions
7. An awareness of the pain and struggles of others
8. A clear vision of what really matters in life
9. A deeper, stronger relationship with my husband
10. The ability to love unconditionally and fully
11. The ability to forgive trespasses
12. A love so strong that it transcends death
Monday, March 9, 2009
Missing her
It's been 8 months and 5 days since I lost Kara. I keep thinking I should be in a better place by now, that I shouldn't be crying each day over her, that I should start to see some light at the end of this long, dark tunnel. But I don't. I still cry every day for her. I miss her so much, at times it feels like my heart will burst. When I really let myself feel my grief, I feel like the air is being squeezed out of me. I dissolve into tears numerous times each day; sometimes just a few tears, sometimes great wracking sobs that take minutes to get under control.
I don't know how I can live my life this way. My only child is dead. My sweet Kara is laying in a cold grave, all alone. It breaks my heart that she is not with us, sharing this life with us. I just don't know how to do this. I wish someone had a roadmap for me of this awful grief journey that we must pass through. But even as I wish for a map, part of me knows that I will never get past the hurt. I'll never get past the squeezing of my heart every time I think of my beautiful girl who died before she was born. Even if I had a roadmap I know that up ahead, better days do not lie ahead. My baby is dead and she is never coming back. How could there be anything but dark days ahead? The sun will never shine for me as it once did. Life is different now. There are tears in my daily life...every day. I miss her terribly.
I don't know how I can live my life this way. My only child is dead. My sweet Kara is laying in a cold grave, all alone. It breaks my heart that she is not with us, sharing this life with us. I just don't know how to do this. I wish someone had a roadmap for me of this awful grief journey that we must pass through. But even as I wish for a map, part of me knows that I will never get past the hurt. I'll never get past the squeezing of my heart every time I think of my beautiful girl who died before she was born. Even if I had a roadmap I know that up ahead, better days do not lie ahead. My baby is dead and she is never coming back. How could there be anything but dark days ahead? The sun will never shine for me as it once did. Life is different now. There are tears in my daily life...every day. I miss her terribly.
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