Time Marches On

When I was at the grief conference last week, I met a lot of people who said that the first year or two after they lost their children are a blur. Five, six, seven years out, they can't say what they did to pass the time. Maybe it's a protective mechanism of the brain: life after losing a child is so awful that memories of day-to-day life are erased.

(Make no mistake, these parents DO NOT forget their children.)

Looking back over the last 10.5 weeks since we lost Weston, I feel the same way, somewhat. Our week in Park City is a blur in my memory. I have pictures to prove we were there. Our two weeks in Connecticut is fuzzy. What I do to get through the days now...????

So, I am that much more grateful for this blog. When (if?) I finally pull myself together, I will be able to look back at this time and at least read about what I have been doing.

It is October: my due date month. Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. The changing-of-the-seasons month. Weston's three-month birthday, and the three-month anniversary of his death (I HATE using that word to mark his death. But I don't like angelversary either. If anyone comes up with something better, let me know.). I just realized that the three-month anniversary of Weston's death is two days after my due date. Wow. Another level of suckiness.

I should be almost 38 weeks pregnant now: full term. I had Caroline one day before my due date, so I probably would have carried Weston about that long. Today, I saw a late-term pregnant woman and a mom with a brand new baby boy. I could actually feel my insides tightening up, and I had to look away. Any late-term pregnant women I see now probably have a due date very close to mine. That is very hard to take.

I should be HUGE. Instead, I have been running five days a week, doing yoga, and otherwise working hard to get back in shape. It is a good distraction, running is a good outlet, and-call a spade a spade-I want my pre-pregnancy body back. I just never dreamed I would be there so close to my due date.

Today I was able to wear a pair of my normal-sized shorts. I should be happy about it: I'm feeling stronger physically than I have in a long time, my body is responding positively, and I'm not limited to a small fraction of my wardrobe anymore. But it is another cruel reminder of time moving on: now my body, which gave Weston life (for a much-too-brief time period), is unrecognizable from that life-giving period. It's almost back to "normal," although I never will be "normal" again. Except for my c-section scar. Who knew that a big old scar across my abdomen would be my only physical reminder of my baby, and that I would actually be glad it's there?

So, in the interest of recording my life for my future self, this is what is going on. These days are also some of my first true stay-at-home-mom days, so I should keep track of them. Today, Caroline and I went to the farmer's market and Trader Joe's. We used to not go to Trader Joe's often because Sprouts is two minutes from our house, and TJ's is a fifteen-minute drive. Yes, I'm lazy. But, in addition to their awesome food, TJ's has kid-sized carts. MARKETING. GENIUS. Caroline LOVES it. And it's adjacent to the farmer's market, so we go there now for our midweek grocery run.

It is too much for me right now to have long periods of unstructured time at home with Caroline. I just end up crying. I don't know which is worse for her, but I'm going to venture that moping-around-the-house-and-not-interacting mom is worse than running-the-kid-ragged-with-millions-of-activities mom. Yesterday I broke down crying while reading her a book ("The Invisible String": it's a good one that talks about the love that connects everyone, including the dearly departed), which made her start bawling. So, I squeezed in yet another activity today and took her on the light rail for her first time this afternoon. She loved it.

We took the light rail to Target and ran into a friend there whom we last saw at Weston's memorial service. It was very good to see him, and I didn't cry at all, which is a big deal for me. He asked how we are doing (thank you, K). It's hard to know how to answer truthfully without making the asker regret asking the question, but I think I answered it pretty honestly today (and K didn't try to bolt): I can get out of bed, function, do fun things with my daughter, and look "normal." But what is written here on my blog: that is how I really feel and how I really am doing. So maybe that is what I'll tell people now.

Last night, I was hugging Shannon when he got home from work. Caroline ran over and wrapped her arms around our legs. She seriously is the cutest. I yelled out, "Family hug!", and we had a little...family hug. Except it wasn't a complete family hug. We will never have one of those again as long as we live. (We never got to have one with Weston either.) And I will think of that every time we have a family hug. Or take a family picture. We don't have a single picture of the four of us. Right now, what used to be little moments of joy are completely overtaken in my mind and heart by sadness.

But, for those of you still reading, I actually have a funny story from today. First, please excuse the kid bragging. Generally, I try really hard NOT to brag about my amazing daughter. Nobody really wants to hear it. (But I will brag about my son forever. People can easily observe Caroline's charming self, but the only way for them to experience Weston's beautiful spirit is through our sharing him with the world.)

Now, I know I am not biased or anything, but Caroline is positively head-turning gorgeous. Today, in Target, these two women were just falling all over themselves over her. Inside, I was the beaming mom, but I generally try to keep that in check, because I don't want Caroline to grow up thinking outward beauty is the most important/best thing about her. Anyway. This woman said she could be on a magazine cover. I thanked her, etc. Then, she looked hard at me and asked, "Is she yours?" a little incredulously. Thanks, lady, I needed a good laugh! I'm chalking her "confusion" up to (1) my newly dark hair (Caroline is blonde, like I used to be); and/or (2) my relatively flat response to her compliments to Caroline.

Speaking of Caroline, she is having serious sleeping issues now. Last night we put her to bed around 8:30, and she didn't fall asleep until 10:30. Her behavior has changed a lot over the past few months. I don't know if it's a normal developmental thing (she just turned three) or her way of processing the loss of her brother, or a little of both. And I now have ZERO patience, which makes me feel horrible. I have learned my lack of patience is quite normal for a bereaved mother, but it doesn't make the situation any better. Kids start forming long-term memory around three years of age. If her first memory is of bereaved-acting Mommy, I will never forgive myself. And before this, I was the confined to the bed or couch/living in the hospital/living in the NICU mommy. Sigh...In addition to the grief counseling I need, I also need to start saving my pennies for the fix-what-Mommy-screwed-up therapy she will inevitably need.

So, this is the mostly ugly truth about how time apparently "marches on" and how I fill the endless days without Weston.

Despite the dark-sounding lyrics, this is a beautiful song that reminds me of both of my babies.

No One's Gonna Love You
~Band of Horses

It's looking like a limb torn off
Or altogether just taken apart
We're reeling through an endless fall
We are the ever-living ghost of what once was

But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do
No one's gonna love you more than I do

And anything to make you smile
It is my better side of you to admire
But they should never take so long
Just to be over then back to another one


But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do
No one's gonna love you more than I do

But someone,
They could have warned you
When things start splitting at the seams and now
The whole thing's tumbling down
Things start splitting at the seams and now
If things start splitting at the seams and now,
It's tumbling down
Hard.

Anything to make you smile
You are the ever-living ghost of what once was
I never want to hear you say
That you'd be better off
Or you liked it that way


But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do
No one's gonna love you more than I do


But someone,
They should have warned you
When things start splitting at the seams and now
The whole thing's tumbling down
Things start splitting at the seams and now
If things start splitting at the seams and now,
It's tumbling down
Hard.

Weston, no one is ever gonna love you more than I do.