Christmas Morning

Thank you all very much for making my Christmas morning so very blessed and full by remembering William with me.

We received and read almost 100 messages from friends and family on Christmas morning. I cried, I laughed, and cried some more. I read William's name over and over and whispered the names of other lost babies on that morning and remembered them, too.

I will keep these messages in his stocking for next year, and in my heart, forever. I will probably read them every Christmas morning from now on until the paper they are written on is yellowed and the type faded. I will hold every one of your gifts close.

I can't tell you how much it means. There aren't words.

Serendipity

Today I went shopping for William's stocking. The first two places had nothing I wanted or was interested in. I had something in mind and wasn't finding it. Then I did:

Right above it, I found something else. Ever since his death, the two things that really make William "real" to me are the lock of his hair and his handprint on my husband's drum. 

I knew it was perfect when I brought it home and looked at M's face when he saw it. And of course, I'd just been saying I didn't even have an ornament for little William. My only regret was that it wasn't personalized with his name. 

Then the most amazing thing happened and in the mail came this from another sweet, kind baby-loss mama who remembered my William:

It's just so delicate and elegant and perfect.

I didn't get to keep my baby, and I didn't get to announce a pregnancy this holiday (negative tests filling my drawer and today it's official, I will be bleeding through Christmas Day, I imagine... *sigh* Back to the drawing board...) but the friends I've made out of these tragic circumstances are truly such a blessing.

That much I did get, and I am so grateful. More grateful than I could ever say.

Friends, I Need Your Help...

I sent this out on Facebook and thought I would ask here as well...

****

My Dear Friends,

As Christmas day approaches I know that it will be a difficult day for me to get through without the love and support of those around us. This would have been William's first Christmas and we feel his absence so very much during the holidays.

Please consider a moment to send an email or note:

I am going to get a special Christmas stocking for William. The hope is to fill it with heartfelt notes from those who wish to help us in remembering our son. Knowing that your child is not forgotten is the best gift you can give a bereaved mother. The notes really have no guideline, just write what you feel. You can write to William, to me, to our family. It doesn’t have to be more than a sentence really. The point is just to remember him with us on Christmas. The smallest gesture carries the biggest comfort and love in the hardest of times. I figured this is a great way for all those around me to love and support me through this holiday without actually having to be here or call me as I know all of us have families to be with. On Christmas morning I will print the notes and we will read them and put them in William's stocking.

I want to say that there is no need to censor your writings or be afraid that I will be sad in talking about William. Nothing makes me sadder than the fact that he is not here with us, and remembering him brings some peace to my heart. I encourage all of you to just write what is in your heart, if you had things that you wish you could have said to William, me, or our family then I ask you to do so. It can help you as much as it helps me. I appreciate any notes or thoughts that are sent. I will hold them all very close to my heart!

So here is how I am going to accomplish this:

Please send me an email to inannajourney@gmail.com with “FOR WILLIAM – DO NOT READ UNTIL CHRISTMAS” in the subject line. I will read them on Christmas Day. I will be checking for the last notes on Christmas morning, so send them any time until then.

Thank you again for everything and helping me remember William and helping me during these holidays when it will be so very hard not to think of him.

*** To all the angel mommies and daddies (etc.) out there reading this, I know that all of us have a rough time during the holidays. I wanted to share this idea with you all. If you are going to do this or something close to this, please send me a message and let me know as I would be honored to write each and every one of you a little note about your baby/babies. Please feel free to copy and paste this letter with the appropriate changes... it isn't mine, it's been borrowed and permission has been given. I hope we all find some peace during the holidays and feel the love of not only our angels but those in our lives too. Thank you again!

The Golden Egg

Sometimes, when you share your dreams, it's like you let the air out of them. They end up sounding silly or strange outside of the space of your soul. Sometimes telling a dream diminishes it.

I don't want to do that to this dream, but it was, truly, too much of a gift not to share.

I gave birth to a golden egg.

I was expecting a baby, but I birthed an egg. It was smooth and soft, unbelievably soft, seamless and heavy. I thought it must be solid gold, it weighed so much. I was thrilled and amazed by this change in circumstance, and even more surprised with the egg opened and my baby was inside. It wasn't William--this was a new baby, a tiny little girl, cradled inside the egg. She had an incredible light about her, mostly I think from the egg, which kind of glowed, and when I lifted her up, she didn't cry but her eyes were open and dark and looking straight at me, into me, and for the first time since his death, I really felt William's presence, not his baby-self that I knew oh-so-briefly for the nine months I carried him, but the core of who he was, the "who" he would have been as a boy and a man - the "who" he had been before we conceived him and who he became after his death. I felt him very particularly in the light of the egg surrounding his sister, touching me, that light that had been holding (protecting?) her and it was pure gold, just absolute light and warmth, and I'd never known such peace or perfection in my life.

The baby began to cry, then, and I knew she was fully in and of this world at that moment, and I was glad, but so grateful, so very grateful for the gift of her brother's presence.

I couldn't have been a greater gift this Christmas than this dream. Thank you, William.

Maybe I am carrying his little sister (or brother) even now. What a blessing that would be. I'm nine days past ovulation tomorrow and hoping, again, still.

I'm not asking for miracles.Well... maybe just a tiny one. One tiny little miracle. I hope it's not too much to ask.

Captured

Last night, I dreamed I gave birth.

I was home alone, and the baby was coming. I went into the bathroom, contracting, knowing birth was imminent, and someone had purchased me an emergency birth kit. Except it came in the exact same type of box I'd received as William's "memory box." Inside were all the things a birth kit usually contains... cord clamps, the little hat... but I also noticed there was a disposable camera inside. I was just delighted. How smart, I thought, for someone to think of that!

How full circle... of course you want to take pictures of your living, wiggling, crying baby... to hold that memory... everything so fleeting... of course you'd want to take pictures of your dead one... to hold that memory... everything so fleeting...

It can't be captured. It can't be held. Everything is nothing. Dust through our fingers.

A memory box. A birth kit. Life. Hope. Death. There is no difference, no end, just beginnings, again and again.

Eight Months

Oh William, I'm so lost. It's been eight months, almost three seasons, but it feels as if time stopped when you died, my sweet, forever-baby. I remember other baby-loss mamas saying, "It gets easier... time really does help..."  Funny, it's been backwards for me. Or maybe it's just the holidays. I looked at one-year-old clothes and toys while I was shopping and thought, "I should be buying those for William." One less stocking to hang. I don't even have an ornament to hang on the tree for you, little one.

I think I've pushed myself beyond the edge of reason this year. It feels like I'm moving in slow-motion lately, like I've been trying to run a marathon through an endless desert of sand and oh, god, I'm so tired. I'm just so tired.

I didn't know eight months would feel like this. I didn't know I could miss someone like this. I didn't know my heart could be shattered and still keep beating. I didn't know I could look into the black hole of my dead son's slack mouth, hold his tiny bruised and swollen head in my hand, and still be breathing eight months later. I don't want this, and there's nothing I can do to take it back, to give it back, to undo the horror that is my life without William.

I feel so melodramatic, writing any of that down, but the feeling goes beyond the words. I can't possibly tell you, and for most of you reading this, you already know. The feeling plumbs the depths of my core and comes back with the blackest tar imaginable. The darkness I'm living in isn't deep, it's infinite.

I can't "stay positive" or, as my OB prescribing progesterone today remarked, "Keep fighting the good fight." I don't have any fight left in me. If I could punch God in the face, then maybe. If there is such an entity to fight with... I have a feeling I'd be shadow-boxing. I've been doing enough wrestling with invisible demons. Enough.

Eight months. In a word? It sucks. What's another eight months gonna feel like? What about eight more years?

I don't know if I want to know.

Roller Coaster Weekend - FAIL

First there was this...

Then this...

And if you think you see a line... you don't. Because then came this:

Pregnancy = FAIL

Game called on account of I'm broken... :(