Today marks four months since my little one passed away.
Today is hard. I miss him so bad. My heart feels like it has just broke into a billion pieces and sunk away into my chest.
Today I miss the future for him and our family. I miss that Ben doesn't get to play with his little brother. I miss that I don't wake up at 2 in the morning and nurse Aaron and rock him gently. I miss that I don't lay him on my chest and listen to his chest rise and fall. I miss that I don't take him to the park with me and Daddy and Ben. I miss that I don't chase him around the front yard and blow bubbles for him to chase. I miss that I don't look in the back of my van and see two carseats secured for a ride to the grocery store.
I miss Aaron. Always.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Glossing over it
You know how you hear a song and it is nothing special but then you hear it again and your circumstances change and now it seems like it is just meant for you?
Tyler came home from work today and shared with me that he listened to
JJ Heller's "Olivianna" and just wept. I had told him that yeah I heard of it but I never stopped to listen to it. He told me it was about a baby girl who had died. So this afternoon, I went to the gym and bravely listened to it while I walked the treadmill. And yes, I too, wept. I cried at the gym. Again.
I wanted to do some research about this song and see if there was any information about the family who lost their little girl. I found their website and blog: http://www.groverstyleblog.com/olivianna/
I found a review of the CD and the author of the review describes the song "Olivianna" as a story they heard about a little girl who dies 11 minutes after being born. They then go on to describe another song without even a period break. Just a comma; a short pause. This struck me.
It reminded me of a time I stumbled upon a blog from someone that I share friends with but don't know personally. Let's back up a little though. One of my oldest friends and her husband sang at Aaron's funeral. They left their son with a friend. That friend was the author of the blog I read. She wrote: "J and B had to sing at a funeral so we went to the Children's museum!"
Glossed over. No, lady. It wasn't just a funeral. It was a funeral for a 28 day old little boy named Aaron. My Aaron. You have no idea what pain you just wrote off. You just wrote off the life of my little one and I won't stand for that. It wasn't a funeral. It was a family mourning and grieving and trying to cope with the fact that they'll never see their little baby again; that they'll never hold him again.
And then to follow it up in the same sentence about going to the children's museum.
To describe the death of losing my Aaron in one word, funeral, it is an outrage.
No description can ever encompass all the deep sadness that goes with losing your baby but he is more than one word.
Tyler came home from work today and shared with me that he listened to
JJ Heller's "Olivianna" and just wept. I had told him that yeah I heard of it but I never stopped to listen to it. He told me it was about a baby girl who had died. So this afternoon, I went to the gym and bravely listened to it while I walked the treadmill. And yes, I too, wept. I cried at the gym. Again.
I wanted to do some research about this song and see if there was any information about the family who lost their little girl. I found their website and blog: http://www.groverstyleblog.com/olivianna/
I found a review of the CD and the author of the review describes the song "Olivianna" as a story they heard about a little girl who dies 11 minutes after being born. They then go on to describe another song without even a period break. Just a comma; a short pause. This struck me.
It reminded me of a time I stumbled upon a blog from someone that I share friends with but don't know personally. Let's back up a little though. One of my oldest friends and her husband sang at Aaron's funeral. They left their son with a friend. That friend was the author of the blog I read. She wrote: "J and B had to sing at a funeral so we went to the Children's museum!"
Glossed over. No, lady. It wasn't just a funeral. It was a funeral for a 28 day old little boy named Aaron. My Aaron. You have no idea what pain you just wrote off. You just wrote off the life of my little one and I won't stand for that. It wasn't a funeral. It was a family mourning and grieving and trying to cope with the fact that they'll never see their little baby again; that they'll never hold him again.
And then to follow it up in the same sentence about going to the children's museum.
To describe the death of losing my Aaron in one word, funeral, it is an outrage.
No description can ever encompass all the deep sadness that goes with losing your baby but he is more than one word.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Crying at the gym
I cried at the gym the other night. The guy beside me on the treadmill probably thought I was insane. But really, crying at the gym isn't a surprise. I cry everywhere. I cry myself to sleep every night. Every night. That isn't an exaggeration.
I wish people would talk to me. It seems avoiding me and my pain makes them feel more comfortable. It is kind of strange how life goes back to normal. We have become forgotten. A story in the past. But, I am still here battling daily to face the day. To take care of my son. To get out of bed.
It sucks that I have to do the reminding that this journey I am on isn't one that I will get over. Ever. I will never get over my Aaron. Sure, in time it'll weave itself into an ache that I can live with. Maybe not, though. I don't know how I'll be in time. I do know in the now, I am hurting and feeling more alone than ever. I miss my baby.
I wish people would talk to me. It seems avoiding me and my pain makes them feel more comfortable. It is kind of strange how life goes back to normal. We have become forgotten. A story in the past. But, I am still here battling daily to face the day. To take care of my son. To get out of bed.
It sucks that I have to do the reminding that this journey I am on isn't one that I will get over. Ever. I will never get over my Aaron. Sure, in time it'll weave itself into an ache that I can live with. Maybe not, though. I don't know how I'll be in time. I do know in the now, I am hurting and feeling more alone than ever. I miss my baby.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Too Soon
It is too soon to try to be strong.
I tried to read a book about one mama's loss. I threw it on the floor. Her baby was sick. Incompatible with life, so they called it.
But my Aaron. Developed perfectly. He wasn't supposed to die. I read about other mamas who start having contractions and they have time for bed rest and medicine to stop contractions. Not me. Not part of our story. Such strong contractions. Emergency C-section. Baby taken from me too soon.
My C-section scar still hurts. I am angry today.
I am not happy for other pregnant ladies. I am not happy for them that they get to hold their babies and have a future with them. And I do not.
No, I am without.
I am without my child. I look at his picture of everyday. He looks like his brother.
I miss him so much.
I tried to read a book about one mama's loss. I threw it on the floor. Her baby was sick. Incompatible with life, so they called it.
But my Aaron. Developed perfectly. He wasn't supposed to die. I read about other mamas who start having contractions and they have time for bed rest and medicine to stop contractions. Not me. Not part of our story. Such strong contractions. Emergency C-section. Baby taken from me too soon.
My C-section scar still hurts. I am angry today.
I am not happy for other pregnant ladies. I am not happy for them that they get to hold their babies and have a future with them. And I do not.
No, I am without.
I am without my child. I look at his picture of everyday. He looks like his brother.
I miss him so much.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Stories
Confession time: I am kinda tired of reading about lost babies. I avoided the books and blogs and pictures of other people sharing their stories because losing my baby was staring me straight in the face. I didn't need to read about anyone else's loss. Then I started thinking that it would be cool to connect with others and share my story and read other stories. But now, I am kind of back to the avoiding feeling.
Yet, they just keep popping up. It is almost like it is unavoidable, sadly. It is eyeopening to see and read these stories. Before I lost Aaron, I wasn't really aware of all the lost babies and mournful mamas (and dadas) there were. Even people in my circle. I click a blog to peruse and to my surprise it is from a momma who has miscarried. I hear from an old college friend about her miscarriage. Although I didn't miscarry, I still feel connected to these mommas: for we are mourning some of the same things, specifically, a future. A future with our babes. It was torn apart and lost. I wanted a future with my Aaron. They wanted a future with their babies.
So I will keep reading those stories. I will keep trying to reach out and connect. Because although it is painful, I wouldn't want my Aaron's story to be tossed aside. He deserves to have his story told and for people to listen to it. As do all the stories of lost babies. The pain pushes us apart from each other but also drives us together. It is a beautiful mess.
Yet, they just keep popping up. It is almost like it is unavoidable, sadly. It is eyeopening to see and read these stories. Before I lost Aaron, I wasn't really aware of all the lost babies and mournful mamas (and dadas) there were. Even people in my circle. I click a blog to peruse and to my surprise it is from a momma who has miscarried. I hear from an old college friend about her miscarriage. Although I didn't miscarry, I still feel connected to these mommas: for we are mourning some of the same things, specifically, a future. A future with our babes. It was torn apart and lost. I wanted a future with my Aaron. They wanted a future with their babies.
So I will keep reading those stories. I will keep trying to reach out and connect. Because although it is painful, I wouldn't want my Aaron's story to be tossed aside. He deserves to have his story told and for people to listen to it. As do all the stories of lost babies. The pain pushes us apart from each other but also drives us together. It is a beautiful mess.
September 28: Part One
I found out I was pregnant with baby #2 on April 30, 2012. Five days after my first child turned one. We were so excited and scared! Two under two?! How will we be able to handle this?
Being pregnant with Aaron brought a lot of worries and stress. It was different than when I was pregnant with Ben. I had spotting which never happened with Ben. I had cramping. I had an ER visit and multiple vaginal ultrasounds in the beginning with Aaron that I had never experienced with Ben. I was scared. I thought I was going to miscarry. Yet, pregnancy progressed and the spotting stopped. I went a whole trimester without any bleeding or concerns, except for watching my blood pressure and weight gain. I was worried about my blood pressure because my OB with Ben prescribed medicine and did urine checks at each appointment; with Aaron, I did urine checks sporadically and wasn't on any meds. With Ben, they did tons of ultrasounds monitoring him and making sure he was developing well. With Aaron, once I stopped bleeding, I had one ultrasound with him. And on the ultrasound they found cysts in his brain, that could be linked to developmental delays. Again I say, being pregnant with Aaron was stressful and I worried for my baby so much. I just wanted him to be ok.
Well, life carried on. I stopped bleeding. Stopped cramping. I thought I was out of the woods. I gave the cyst situation over to God and came to peace with the fact that even if my baby has some sort of mental retardation or delays, I would love him regardless. He is my child. Though I was fearful for his well being, I had to let go and let God take control.
September 28, 2012 I had a 25 week check-up. My husband and I got into a fight and I told him, "Fine. I'll just call J and tell her not to come and you can stay home with Ben and I'll go to the doctor by myself." Praise God that we made up and this did not happen. We check in and we are sitting in the waiting room. I tell Tyler that my back is starting to hurt. I thought it was from our long walk to get there but it continues to ache. I walk back with Tyler and the nurse and she does regular checks on my weight and blood pressure. She asked if I was in any pain and I tell her some. About a 4 on the pain scale. We then go to the room and wait for the doctor to come in. I use the bathroom and when I look, I notice there is blood in my underwear. I become very worried, thinking, oh no, here we go again with the bleeding. I tell Tyler and he says we will tell the doctor. I also am feeling back pain more strongly and I told Tyler, I think I am having contractions. The doctor comes in and I tell him about the bleeding and the back pain. He says he will check me. I am 2 cm dilated already.
Being pregnant with Aaron brought a lot of worries and stress. It was different than when I was pregnant with Ben. I had spotting which never happened with Ben. I had cramping. I had an ER visit and multiple vaginal ultrasounds in the beginning with Aaron that I had never experienced with Ben. I was scared. I thought I was going to miscarry. Yet, pregnancy progressed and the spotting stopped. I went a whole trimester without any bleeding or concerns, except for watching my blood pressure and weight gain. I was worried about my blood pressure because my OB with Ben prescribed medicine and did urine checks at each appointment; with Aaron, I did urine checks sporadically and wasn't on any meds. With Ben, they did tons of ultrasounds monitoring him and making sure he was developing well. With Aaron, once I stopped bleeding, I had one ultrasound with him. And on the ultrasound they found cysts in his brain, that could be linked to developmental delays. Again I say, being pregnant with Aaron was stressful and I worried for my baby so much. I just wanted him to be ok.
Well, life carried on. I stopped bleeding. Stopped cramping. I thought I was out of the woods. I gave the cyst situation over to God and came to peace with the fact that even if my baby has some sort of mental retardation or delays, I would love him regardless. He is my child. Though I was fearful for his well being, I had to let go and let God take control.
September 28, 2012 I had a 25 week check-up. My husband and I got into a fight and I told him, "Fine. I'll just call J and tell her not to come and you can stay home with Ben and I'll go to the doctor by myself." Praise God that we made up and this did not happen. We check in and we are sitting in the waiting room. I tell Tyler that my back is starting to hurt. I thought it was from our long walk to get there but it continues to ache. I walk back with Tyler and the nurse and she does regular checks on my weight and blood pressure. She asked if I was in any pain and I tell her some. About a 4 on the pain scale. We then go to the room and wait for the doctor to come in. I use the bathroom and when I look, I notice there is blood in my underwear. I become very worried, thinking, oh no, here we go again with the bleeding. I tell Tyler and he says we will tell the doctor. I also am feeling back pain more strongly and I told Tyler, I think I am having contractions. The doctor comes in and I tell him about the bleeding and the back pain. He says he will check me. I am 2 cm dilated already.
Monday, January 7, 2013
28
My baby died. A baby I carried inside of me for 25 weeks. A baby who was moving and healthy and active the day they ripped him from my womb. Unconscious, I lay on the table not even hearing him cry. Not holding him in my arms for the first time. Not being the first one to touch him and talk to him and welcome him into this world. No, I lay drugged up on the table, naive and unaware of the journey we are about to embark on. Unaware of the agony and pain and death that would creep upon us in 28 days.
28 days. That's all that was given to my baby boy.
28 days. That's all that was given to my baby boy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)