Not Sorry

Weston died seven months ago today. "Lucky" seven. I can't believe it's already been seven months. I can't believe it's only been seven months.

Grief has become my friend, my steady companion. She is always around. Sometimes she intrudes, sometimes she hovers in the background, but she never leaves. Sometimes she is the only thing I hear and see, and sometimes she is drowned out by other sights and sounds. I usually see her when I look in the mirror.

To the post title. I am sorry about a lot of things. I am sorry Weston died. I am sorry that my placenta failed him so horribly. I am sorry that I didn't spend every second of his life by his side, and I am sorry that Caroline doesn't get to grow up with her little brother. I am sorry that Shannon and I have been robbed of the experience of raising our son.

I am sorry that my writing is so lazy that I am going to break a cardinal rule and start most paragraphs in this post with "I."

But there is an equal number of things I am not sorry about. Possible over-generalization alert: I believe that women, in general, apologize way too much. We apologize when someone else gets in our way or inconveniences us. We apologize when we can't hear someone. We apologize to strangers when our children act like children. And on and on.

Being a litigator, which is still male-dominated (although increasingly less so), I learned pretty quickly that apologizing all the time was not going to cut it. So I stopped doing it so often. And that was a warm-up to what I'm experiencing now.

For the Christian reader, this attitude might seem inconsistent with the teachings of Jesus. After all, he instructs us to turn the other cheek and love our enemies. But I think this truth can be pursued without turning into a doormat. This does not mean it's acceptable to scream at the person who cuts you off at the grocery store or in traffic. But you can still let them go ahead of you. I'm just saying it's not necessary to apologize. It's not your fault someone else is blind or a jerk. (I had another word in mind, but it doesn't belong in a paragraph about being like Jesus.)

The same logic applies to grief, I think. I am not who I used to be. My priorities have changed: I have less energy for some things and more energy for others. I forget things. I cry a lot, sometimes over seemingly random things. And I am not sorry for that.

I am not sorry for crying in front of you. MY SON IS DEAD. There is nothing worse. I am going to cry a lot, and I can't always control it. It is a natural, human reaction.

(I have actually gotten very good at not apologizing for this one. If I cry to the point where I have to stop talking, I simply say, "Pardon me" or "Excuse me.")

I am not sorry for ignoring your baby. It does not mean I don't care about your baby. But if I'm ignoring your baby, it means that you and I are together, and we are together because you (and your baby) are someone I care about. (And if I have already ignored your specific baby, you probably know who you are, and you know how much I treasure our relationship.)

I am not sorry for ignoring or flaking on your social invitation. In addition to my heart, I swear Weston took a large portion of my brain with him when he died. I have probably forgotten that you want to hang out. Or I do not have the emotional strength to do so right now. If I haven't seen you since Weston died, I WILL cry when I see you. And even though I am not sorry about that either, sometimes I just don't feel like crying. I do appreciate the invitation and will take you up on it someday (if I remember).

I am not sorry for saying or doing "inappropriate" things. If you have not lost a child, you have NO IDEA (thankfully) of the unspeakably awful thoughts that go through my head all the time. I can't always keep a lid on them, or I will go crazy. I AM NOT THE PROBLEM. Cultural expectations to keep my thoughts and feelings bottled up are the problem.

I am not sorry for being selfish. Well, maybe I am. But I have little capacity to change that right now. I do try. Grief is inherently selfish (have I said that before?), and it is so exhausting. My heart is too broken to be able to take on anything else right now. There is a lot of empathy hidden deep in my soul, and I am confident that it will show itself someday. But, right now all I really care about is that you know I have a son named Weston and that he is deeply, deeply loved and missed.

I am not sorry for not feeling sorry for you. Your house is too small? You have wrinkles? Your kid pulled all the toys out of the closet and made a mess? Someone pissed you off during the Oscars/Super Bowl/whatever? Your phone died? I DON'T CARE. My son is dead. CAOS, stillbirth, prematurity, SIDS, cancer, genetic conditions, accidents: they exist, and they take the lives of our children. And you're upset because your feet are too big. I'm not saying you can't vent to me, but...seriously, do I really need to explain this paragraph further?

(I'm realizing that each one of these "not sorries" could fill an entire blog post itself, but I'll spare you all right now.)

I am not sorry for being human. Before Weston, I was literally unable to complete a thought about losing a child. It was that horrifying. I know I wasn't alone in banishing the worst-case scenario from my head. Now, I am living the nightmare, the completed thought, every day. Frankly, it's a miracle I have held onto my humanness and that I am actually functioning within my family and in society. Grief is messy, it's complicated, it's multi-faceted, it's paradoxical in every way; in essence, it is a microcosm of the human experience. Ultimately, it is the expression of undying love. To grieve is to be vulnerable is to love.

These slips of the mind, these emotional outbursts, these uncomfortable exchanges: they happen because I love my son. I will never apologize for loving Weston.

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

Yesterday I came home from New York City, where I spent the weekend with my sister's family, including her brand new son born in November. The one who was supposed to be three weeks younger than Weston. They were supposed to grow up together.

Last week, a few days before I left, I suddenly realized that my sister has a baby boy, and I was going to see him in the flesh. So I started getting pretty anxious about the trip.

In my last post I mentioned that I hadn't been thinking much about Weston lately. I am not handling my sadness very well these days, so sometimes I just put him out of my mind. This is never a healthy strategy, and it inevitably ends, usually involuntarily, after a few days. Last week it ended Wednesday, the day before I left for New York.

Wednesday dawned gloomy and rainy. It was identical to the weather on the day Weston died, except it was 50 degrees cooler. And just like July 28, 2012, the sun appeared briefly later in the day, and there were several rainbows spotted around the Valley. When Weston died, the rainbow had the courtesy to appear in our backyard, and I haven't seen one since. Many others have, however, and have sent me pictures, for which I am ALWAYS grateful. Wednesday was no exception: Facebook and the local news showed me a few rainbows. I do not think it's a coincidence that I myself have not seen a single rainbow since Weston died. I believe that particular rainbow was Weston letting me know he was safe on the single worst day of my life. Hope is hard to come by since then, so I guess I don't have the capacity to see rainbows right now.

(It also snowed in Scottsdale. In other words, hell froze over. But the days all run together, so I don't remember if that happened last Wednesday or before.)

Anyway, the above is the context of the news I received. During a particularly dark and rainy moment outside, I checked my email and discovered that a friend recently dreamed about Weston and me. He was a normal-sized baby in the dream, and I was holding him. I cried for a few reasons, one being the unfairness of only being able to hold my baby in someone else's dream. But, more than anything else, my mental picture of this dream was quite comforting. I believe it was God's way of letting me know that Weston is safe and that he knows I love him. As a mother, I have no greater desires for my children than these. Hearing about the dream was a different type of rainbow.

I've mentioned before that I have only dreamed about Weston once, before he was born. I have since learned that parents rarely, if ever, dream of their dead children. This was devastating news: the unfairness continues.

I believe (and others agree) that, because our children are part of us, they are too close to us to dream about. This brought me little comfort for a while. (To be completely transparent, I didn't come up with this belief myself. At the time, I did not have the mental and emotional clarity to make such a conclusion. After ruminating on it for months, though, I have to agree.)

Upon thinking through it further, though, I realized that I never dream about myself either. Sure, I'm a participant in my dreams, but I have never observed myself in a dream. And, I have also had exactly one dream about Caroline. I dreamed about her birth before she was born. When she was actually born, she looked exactly as she had in the dream.

So, the content (or lack thereof) of my dreams is consistent with the theory that I won't dream of Weston. Although the overwhelming majority of, well, everything is sad beyond description now, there is some bittersweet in there too. The reason for Weston's absence from my dreams is one of the bittersweet nuggets of life as the parent of a dead child.

So I took this bittersweet comfort to New York with me. And the weekend was wonderful. It was very difficult, but it ended up being better than I had expected in some ways. In talking to my mom today, I figured out it was because of Jude, my older nephew, who is almost three. Simply put, he is the best. (So is his baby brother, but you know what I mean.) He was excited that I was there, and he is so much fun that I couldn't help but smile, laugh, and genuinely enjoy myself around him.

We all had a lot of quality time together, I cuddled the baby, and I got to experience some things in New York I hadn't done before. And I even got to sneak away one morning and go running in Central Park. I've always wanted to do it, so I braved the rain, 38 degrees, long subway ride, and tender knee and headed over there. And it was completely worth it.

Although it was a good trip, I'm glad to be home. I will always feel closest to Weston here, and I got QUITE the homecoming that made me smile for hours from a certain three-year-old girl. Not to mention a great dinner on the grill, courtesy of Shannon.

Weston's presence in my life, in my heart, is just as real as Caroline's. They will both always be a part of me. Sweet dreams, indeed.

Are You Grieving? Have a Pill.

I am pretty numb these days. I find myself not thinking of Weston very much because it is just too painful when I do. Probably because I had just discovered I was pregnant this time last year, my body is playing tricks on me: my scar hurts constantly, and I feel kicks several times a day, as if I was several months pregnant. So I'm going to talk about something a little removed from Weston today; it will just be easier. This is actually a very important topic that will probably be applicable to everyone at some point in their lives.

The DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual) is widely used by psychiatrists to diagnose their patients' conditions. The fifth edition, or DSM V, has just been released. It is quite controversial in that it pathologizes normal human experiences ranging from toddlers' temper tantrums to grief over losing a loved one.

Now, I would take the DSM and hit over the head with it any psychiatrist who dares to diagnose Caroline with some kind of disorder because she has tantrums. But obviously, it is this second human experience that I am going to discuss here. First, some background.

Most of us know that clinical depression exists. It can be a life-changing diagnosis/condition that is often treated with medication (another topic worthy of much discussion, but one with which I have no personal experience). The DSM lists certain symptoms associated with clinical depression, such as sleeplessness, loss of appetite, extreme sadness, thoughts of suicide, etc. Psychiatrists can then diagnose depression and develop a treatment plan for the patient.

At issue with the DSM V is the bereavement exclusion. Practitioners noticed that many of the "symptoms" listed above were experienced by people who had lost loved ones. Further research has confirmed that the loss of one's child presents unique and extraordinary "symptoms" that usually take many years to resolve. So, earlier editions of the DSM provided a bereavement exclusion, which meant that patients who had lost loved ones were not diagnosed with depression. The DSM III provided a one-year time period. In other words, a patient would not be diagnosed with depression unless his/her symptoms persisted beyond one year of the death. The DSM IV shortened the time period to two months (!), and the DSM V has shortened it again to - wait for it - TWO WEEKS.

Therefore, if I were to visit a psychiatrist right now, less than seven months after Weston's death, I would probably be diagnosed with major depressive disorder and sent home with a prescription for Prozac. The same would have been true halfway through August last summer.

(Please note: I do not mean to generalize or demonize the practice of psychiatry. I have almost no personal experience with it. I only point out that, if used in the way described, the DSM V will be very harmful to bereaved parents, and probably many others.)

What is wrong with this, you might ask? Well, additional research has shown that medication is, at best, ineffective at "treating" grief and, at worst, quite harmful.

My child died. I am sad. Being sad does not make me mentally ill. Popping a pill will not make my sadness go away; it will just numb me so that I cannot experience the range of emotions that accompany grief. Grief is part of the human experience. It is an unpleasant part, but a part just the same. Grief is an expression of love; why would I want that taken away from me?

What we bereaved parents need is not a bottle of pills, but listening ears and non-judgmental support. I have experienced both alternatives to some degree.

On the day I turned 22 weeks pregnant, I received very bad news while lying in my hospital bed: my condition was worsening. I was probably going to go into labor early, and my baby would die. There was no predicting when it would happen, so we just had to wait it out. I had to wait for my baby to die. Obviously, I was devastated, and I'm sure my perinatologist did not enjoy the conversation either. However, he ignored my distress and offered me a sedative and/or sleep aid to "wait out this uncomfortable situation." Then he left. I was left to process this devastating news alone.

I was completely hysterical. Who wouldn't be? But I didn't need a damn pill; I needed to talk to someone. I was not mentally ill; I was grieving the probable loss of my CHILD. I was acting human.

Thankfully, my nurse came in later that morning, and we talked. I swear, that woman is an angel. My words will never be able to express how grateful I am for her love and words of encouragement.

But I was also still pregnant, and Weston was still alive. I was very hesitant to take a pill. I ended up taking one sleeping pill, because I had hardly slept the night before (my ultrasound had occurred the day before, and I knew the results were not good).

Meanwhile, we all know that Weston did not directly succumb to the predictions: he was born alive, and we had him here for three weeks.

Fast forward five weeks to an infinitely more awful day: the day Weston died. (I still think it's all a bad dream sometimes, that I'll wake up with my chubby little baby boy beside me.) By then, I was not a patient anymore, and we were in the care of the NICU. At some point during that nightmare, the NICU social worker handed me a folder of papers. Knowing that I would not be able to read them for a while, she said something like, "The MISS Foundation is wonderful. You should look at their pamphlet."

As any regular reader of this blog knows, the MISS Foundation provides support and companionship, not pills, to parents who have lost children. I somehow made it to one of their meetings three weeks later, and the rest is history. They matched me up with a counselor, who has never offered me a pill. The emotional support I have received and continue to receive in the wake of Weston's death has been lifesaving and life-changing.

No big deal, you might think: I would just refuse any offer of pills. This is infinitely easier said than done. Anyone who knows me well knows I have no trouble standing up for myself and speaking my mind. In the midst of extreme grief, though, this resolve is gone. I would have done anything anyone told me to do. I am still vulnerable to that, especially if I am not constantly working through my grief, either from this blog or talking to my counselor and others.

For example, around the same time as I got the bad prognosis at 22 weeks, my midwife suggested further testing so I could terminate the pregnancy if something was wrong with Weston. Normally, I would have given her a piece of my mind and fired her on the spot. Instead, I just meekly assented to everything she was telling me.

And I took the sleeping pill. In retrospect, I would probably do that again; Caroline was coming to see me in a few hours, and I couldn't let her see me in that state. I got some much-needed sleep and was more clear-headed afterwards. Medical staff continued to offer the pills, and I refused.

If, after Weston's death, I had been offered Prozac instead of the MISS Foundation, there is no doubt in my mind I would have taken it. I did other things I would not normally do as well. I just had no resolve, no presence of mind to think for myself. As a fellow bereaved parent recently said, "If someone had told me to walk down the street naked, I would have done it." Ditto.

I have said over and over that I simply got lucky. Or, God was watching out for me. Whatever interpretation you prefer. Because I have no doubt that I would be infinitely worse off if I had been on medication all this time, rather than walking this horrible road with wonderful people.

Removing the bereavement exclusion from the DSM V will have devastating consequences. In addition to living with the death of their children, the parents who are diagnosed with depression will (1) not get the help they need; and (2) possibly suffer from the stigma of being diagnosed with a mental illness. (The stigma attached to mental illness is a wholly new, and vitally important, topic.)

If you want to know more about the DSM V and the many problems with the removal of the bereavement exclusion, read this, from someone who has been walking this road for eighteen years and has devoted her life and career to walking with other parents who have lost children.

To end, I'll borrow a quote from the above link:

The mere title of "doctor" is no criterion; a real doctor is one who is a true servant.
~Gandhi

This Time Last Year...

...we told my in-laws I was pregnant with Weston. We had just found out ourselves, but we were comfortable breaking the news early to our families. I ran out and bought a "Big Sister" t-shirt for Caroline to wear to the family gathering. That t-shirt has since been lost and found, but I couldn't bring myself to take it back.

Tonight, for only the second time since Weston died, I went to a gathering with all of my in-laws. Of course, no one remembered what happened "this time last year" except for the couple of people I told beforehand. But I was thinking about it, and I was also worried about how I would fare in a big group. We were celebrating several birthdays tonight.

I have been feeling very sad, yet very far away from Weston lately. I don't even know how that's possible, but it's how I feel. Life ran on autopilot this week. The week included Mardi Gras (unobserved by us), Ash Wednesday (unobserved, although I am doing something for Lent), and Valentines Day (observed in our own unique way). My Lent "exercise" is resulting in a lot of introspection, which is difficult yet sorely needed. The more I blog, the more I realize that, although it is therapeutic, it is not truly introspective. After all, anyone with an Internet connection can read my blog, and I am quite aware of that when I write. So I edit and censor myself somewhat so as not to completely offend the masses (and the lucky ones with no dead children). For example, the f-bomb makes more frequent appearances in my vernacular and in my head (especially in my head), yet I cannot bring myself to actually type it out here.

Also, I haven't been able to run as much lately because my knee is bothering me. Today I ran seven miles, but it got progressively worse until I was actually limping by tonight. And I haven't written as many blog posts this week. So I didn't/couldn't do what I normally do to feel close to Weston. Maybe that's an explanation for my contradictory feelings.

Today went very well, and I am so relieved. We finally decided it was time to potty train Caroline and talked it up all week. But this morning she threw a two-hour tantrum when we started. Then, remarkably, she stopped crying and used the potty for the rest of the day, and even at the restaurant tonight. She did not have a single accident all day. So, the key to successful potty training is...laziness! Losing Weston pushed potty training to the very bottom of the priority list. And no one really gives a crap about how to potty train a three-year-old girl, so I will move on.

But I have probably jinxed myself. The minute I hit "publish" on this post, potty training hell and regression will ensue.

So, back to tonight. My first reaction when I learned of the plans was to not go. But I decided about a week ago that I should give it a try. I told Shannon I would go sit in the car if I got upset, so I had my out. But it actually went very well, and I had a good time. What helped enormously was the good-sized dance floor with the live country band adjacent to our table.

I might be biased, but Caroline has some serious rhythm. That girl can dance. And dance she did, for most of the night, with her fellow girl cousins. If I was feeling sad, all I had to do was look at her dancing, and I couldn't help but smile.

So I made it until the end of the night, until someone said something very sweet to me that made me cry. It was a reminder of how blessed I am to have such a wonderful daughter, here with me. But there is no pure sweetness in my life anymore; it is always accompanied by the bitter. I imagined Weston, a year or two from now, out there on the dance floor with the rest of them. On Shannon's side of the family, the only other boys are teenagers, so Weston would have been the lone little boy tagging along with the girls. It would have been worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting. He is every bit as wonderful as Caroline, yet he wasn't there tonight, and he never will be. So, I cried.

But I kept it together. There were balloons from the celebration, so Caroline took some. As we left, she wanted to release them, and we made it a little impromptu release for Weston. There were three balloons: one for each of us to send to him. I hope he saw them. And I hope he knows he is always with us.

Mortality

Yesterday I convinced myself for much of the day that I am dying. I have had some aches and pains since my half marathon about a week ago, and I went to the doctor yesterday. Sparing the details, my blood work showed that everything, pretty much, is low. In other words, my immune system is severely depleted. It's no wonder I was sick for almost a month.

The good news? I discovered that I was a little sad about dying. I guess I don't really want to. Now, before you run out and call Mental Health Services on me (maybe for the second time), please note that wanting to be with one's dead child, aka-dare I say it?-wanting to die, is a very normal feeling for a parent. And it is NOT the same as being suicidal. Of course, now I can't find the link to the academic article discussing the above. But, I promise I'm not making it up. Actually, you're hearing it straight from the horse's mouth, because I'm living it.

Anyway, I don't want to die. Not wanting to die = progress for a bereaved parent.

I'm generally healthy. But, all did not go well at the doctor's office. First, my iron was perfect. I fought anemia for months when I was bleeding so much during bed rest and well after Weston was born. Why is good iron count a bad thing? Because anemia would be one step closer to who I was physically when Weston was with me. Because I was pregnant this time last year, the fact that there is very little physical evidence of his existence now is especially painful. There is only my scar, which almost no one will ever see.

The other thing, which only matters during pregnancy: I have a genetic mutation that prevents the absorption of folic acid. Why is this a bad thing? Folic acid is absolutely crucial to a developing fetus...and a developing placenta. I took folic acid before and during both pregnancies, but apparently my body can't absorb and utilize it very well. However, already-converted folic acid exists in the form of a pill. So, maybe all I had to do was take a different effing pill, and Weston would be with me today.

Yes, I know I had a normal pregnancy with Caroline. Yes, there could be a million other reasons why my placenta failed my son so horribly. Yes, millions of mothers never take a single milligram of folic acid, and their babies turn out fine. Yes, millions of other mothers get drunk, inject illegal drugs, and otherwise abuse their bodies during pregnancy, and their babies turn out fine. But the fact will always remain that Weston was in MY body. I was the only human responsible for his well-being during that time. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but A PILL? Was the only thing standing between life and death for Weston a little tiny pill?

Speaking of dying, my lower back has been achy since the half marathon. I even read in Runner's World magazine the other day that lower back pain is somewhat common in runners. But yesterday I convinced myself that it is actually kidney pain and that I have cancer throughout my abdomen.

The thing is, once you lose a child, life becomes a series of awaiting and expecting the (next) worst case scenario. Like kissing Caroline every time I buckle her in the carseat. Like scrutinizing the hook holding up the heavy chandelier every time we sit down at the dinner table. Like panicking when Shannon is running late on his way home from work and not answering his phone. Like lower back pain. Daily occurrences, everyday objects, and physical twinges turn into horrific accidents, items that can kill you, and cancer.

So, I did the only thing that calms me down: I went for a run (ironically, my body is finally rebelling at all of the running: hello to achy knees and goodbye to immune system). It was dusk, it was cold, it was cloudy, and it was windy. I played The Civil Wars and zoned out. And I missed Weston terribly, as usual. But, it was during my run that I concluded that my aching back is probably not cancer.

Today is Mardi Gras. It is also two days before Valentines Day and the birthday of another baby who died way too soon. (People remembering Weston's birthdays means the world to me, so I try to do the same for others. Sadly, my calendar is full of such birthdays.) I'm not feeling very festive, although I am going to drink some cheap off-brand Irish cream and eat some chocolate in about five minutes. I bought some little Valentines Day goodies for Caroline, and Shannon and I will figure something out in the next couple of days. And, of course we're observing Valentines Day with Weston, in this way:

That's why I'm not feeling festive. But I'm glad to be alive today, and that's a good thing.

Nudges

Recently, things have caused me to take a hard look at where my life without Weston is headed. Some of them are outward expressions of my love for Weston, which I talked about here, but others are more inward-focused, relating more to the evolution of a new perspective on life. Which could change daily. Nevertheless, I will call them nudges, and I believe these nudges are coming from God.

Things have been hard in a different way lately. I have been missing Weston even more than usual lately, and my c-section scar hurts almost daily. With help, I put it together that I was pregnant with Weston this time last year, although I didn't know it yet. I knew the one-year milestones were about to begin, but my subconscious reminded me that they have actually already begun.

But, on to the nudges. The first one I have already mentioned: a certain person unexpectedly reached out to me recently. It is someone I see semi-regularly, but we are not close and have hardly anything in common. The communication revealed that this person clearly cares deeply about how I'm doing, which, frankly, surprised me. It shook me to my core, in a positive way.

Then, last week I was at Starbucks. What is it about me and profound experiences at Starbucks? Anyway, we are members of a fairly large church with a new-ish pastor who has been there a little over two years. I saw the pastor waiting for a drink at Starbucks. I had never met him, but I recognized him immediately. He did not see me. My initial reaction was to go introduce myself. (Pre-Weston, I would have done this without hesitation. Remember, I am an extrovert.) Then I hesitated, and around and around I went.

A few posts back, I mentioned that, since Weston died, I hide from people I know when I see them out and about. And I don't even know the pastor. So the fact that my initial reaction was to go talk to him is quite out of character for the sad new me.

I should also mention that I do not agree with a decent chunk of what this pastor says. He is clearly smart and educated, and his sermons are well-researched and well-prepared, but I simply have some different views than he does. One of our differences is on an issue that is very important to me, but it's not enough to make me want to leave the church.

But I decided to listen to my initial reaction/gut instinct/God and go for it. He was very pleasant and seemed to recognize both my face and my name when I introduced myself. Then he tried to remember how he knows our family's name (I think over 1,000 people go to our church, so I certainly don't expect him to know everyone). And then I dropped the bomb: "Our name probably sounds familiar to you because we are the family that lost our son last summer." If you can drop that bomb on anyone, it should be a pastor.

And then my tears started. I was crying in the middle of Starbucks to a virtual stranger. This is the unbelievable reality of my life. But I was very pleasantly surprised by the pastor's reaction. So many people try to hide behind the typical Christian platitudes of "God has a plan", "This was God's will," "God needed another angel," etc. But he didn't. He actually said the opposite: "I'm not going to spout off any platitudes to you, because I know they are not helpful. I am just so sorry." He wanted to know if the church had taken care of us in the weeks surrounding Weston's death (it had), how we are doing, whether we need to talk to someone, the details of Weston's medical issues, etc.

Coming straight from bereaved parents themselves, the research indicates spiritual leaders are quite ineffective in the face of such tragedy, or worse, are downright hurtful. This is a huge issue, one that I am not going to tackle in this post. Fairly or not, I might have been expecting the worst from my pastor as well.

So, these two encounters have left me quite humbled. One person cares far more than I thought. And the other, a virtual stranger, offered true comfort and was willing to be with me in my uncomfortable sorrow in the middle of a busy Starbucks. People care, and no one is intentionally trying to hurt us further. With these two encounters, I think God is trying to tell me to give people a break. They care more than I know, and most sincerely want to help. I don't always have to be so scared and expect the worst. Intellectually, I have always believed this, but now my heart is lined up with my head on this issue. Today, at least.

And I was finally able to go to church again, today. I came late and quickly slipped out the side door after the service was over so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone, but I was there. It was very, very difficult, and I almost left as soon as I got there. Finally, I took off my coat, reasoning that it would be harder to leave if I had to go through the extra step of putting my coat back on.

The last time I went to church, Weston was alive. I remember so clearly: there I was, avoiding people again because I didn't want to answer a million questions about how Weston was doing, and I left early to take my dad to the hospital to meet Weston.

Today, everything hurt. And when I thought it couldn't get any worse, the pastor told a story about his daughter, who was born barely three weeks after Weston died. But it became tolerable after that, and I made it through. I don't necessarily know if I'll be able to go back regularly yet, but going today was a huge step. It was quite unlike my first trip to church after having Caroline: I had no baby to show off today (or that one time last summer). Just empty arms, and a still-broken heart. I am grateful for these nudges; they help me put one foot in front of the other.

Second Guessing

Today was an extraordinarily difficult day with Caroline. She is my firstborn, so it's the first time I'm raising a three-year-old. And my only experience raising a three-year-old is colored by this particular three-year-old losing her brother.

I was really excited about today, and so was Caroline. We met good friends at the puppet theater and then had lunch at Pita Jungle. We all had fun, and everything went smoothly. Until, I kid you not, we all split up to go home and were out of each other's sight. Actually, I think Caroline might have gone home with our friends, and Caroline's defiant twin came with us.

Fortunately for Caroline (and anyone reading whose eyes glaze over at specific, detailed descriptions of other children's behavior), I'll spare the details. I will just say that an epic battle of the wills went down, and everyone lost.

This is becoming a daily occurrence. Friends with older children have always said that three is more difficult than two. Caroline's behavior has definitely changed since Weston died. But I don't know if it's normal developmental three-year-old behavior or acting on her grief, or a crazy hybrid of both.

Hence, the second guessing. In addition to the above, Caroline was never raised by two parents who lost a child until six months ago. Everything about me has changed, including my parenting. Are things difficult for her because her brother died? Because her parents lost a son? Because she is three? I don't know, but, like any other American parent, I'm wondering if it's my fault. And worried that, if it is my fault, that I am irreparably screwing her up. I should just convert her college fund to a therapy fund. Or, just require that she major in psychology. (Yeah, choose my child's college major for her; there's some more healthy parenting.)

My feelings started catching up to me this afternoon. I worked on my piece for the MISS Foundation newsletter (that I talked about here), and it just opened the floodgates. Caroline actually wanted to hang out with me after her nap, so I couldn't just sit around and cry. It has been a long time since emotion over losing Weston has affected one-on-one time with Caroline. Usually I am able to keep myself under control until naptime, bedtime, or when Shannon is at home and I can go in the other room (or I cry in the car when she can't see my face). It took EVERYTHING in my power to get up and play with her. I was able to talk her into taking a walk around the block in her stroller. The fresh air helped us both.

**Please note that I am not suggesting that it is better to hide emotion from young children. I actually believe doing so is very unhealthy. Even very young children are much smarter and much more perceptive than we think; they know something is wrong, even if we try to hide it. In my humble opinion, children need to know that it is acceptable to cry and have emotions. Displays of emotion can provide opportunities to talk about feelings. But, it depends on the individual child and on the situation. Caroline is VERY sensitive; seeing me very upset always makes her sad. Today was so difficult that I just wanted us to have fun together.

I had to cancel last week's counseling appointment, so tomorrow's appointment will be the first in two weeks. And tomorrow night I will go to my first support group in well over a month. It's time. I don't realize how much I need those two outlets until I go without them for a while.

Weston would be seven months old tomorrow. If he had been born on time, he would be about 3 1/2 months old. He and Caroline look so much alike.

Caroline at birth:

Weston in death:

And, the sad juxtaposition of the two previous photos and their captions is duly noted, thank you. Anyway, I don't think it's too much of a stretch to say that infant Weston would have looked like infant Caroline. So, maybe Weston would look similar to this right now (Caroline at 3 months):

I'm missing him so much right now. I can't look at these pictures without crying. Second guessing everything, not just my parenting, is yet another cruel aspect of losing a child. I'm not able to end on a hopeful or profound note tonight. Just another day in the life.

MISSed Opportunities

My heart and soul have been quite busy lately. How to be Weston's mother at this point in my life is coming into clearer focus. This is a very good thing, although it doesn't make living without him any easier.

Recently I was asked if I have ever felt any nudges from God or if I have felt led to do anything. My answer, unfortunately, was that I had never felt led to do anything until Weston died. But this is not entirely true. I loved my job and career, loved being a working mom, and thought I would do it forever. Looking back now, I am certain that my sudden desire to stay home was a nudge, or calling, or whatever you want to call it. There is no doubt in my mind that I am right where I should be. And that I was right where I should be, career-wise, during bed rest, my 27-day hospital stay, Weston's three weeks in the hospital, and the hell that has followed.

But lately there have been some different nudges. I have talked about the MISS Foundation before: the nonprofit that supports parents (and grandparents and siblings) who have lost children at any age from any cause, and how much it has helped me. Well, recently I became aware that MISS needs contributors for its newsletter that it issues every other month. My initial reaction was, Do it! So I sent an email stating that I'd like to help. Within half an hour, Dr. Joanne (the founder) responded and said YES. So, you're looking at (the typed words of) the newest regular contributor to the MISS newsletter!

I am very excited about this opportunity (and a little nervous). I'm excited because I will be able to tell Weston's story to a wider audience. With the target audience being bereaved parents and the professionals who help them, hopefully my contributions will be helpful and/or comforting. I'm excited because more people will read what I write about Weston. And I'm nervous because more people will read what I write about Weston. 

(By the way, my responsibilities also include obtaining content from others. It can include poetry, photography, whatever. If you are a bereaved parent, aunt or uncle, grandparent, friend, etc. or professional that works with bereaved families and are interested in submitting something, leave a comment or message me.)

About a week later, another opportunity (or nudge?) arose. MISS puts on annual walks for bereaved families to honor their children and raise awareness. The March of Dimes walks are coming up. March of Dimes is HUGE (and wonderful), and their walks attract a lot of people and raise a lot of money for prematurity awareness and research. Besides, y'all know I am obsessed with running.

So, I was thinking that the MISS walk should be as big and money-making as the March of Dimes walk. I kid you not, I got a message less than ten minutes later from a MISS board member asking me to help with the walk this year, which is going to be changed up from previous years. Once again, I said yes.

I suppose, then, that my post title is a little misleading.

Life has been, and continues to be, extraordinarily difficult since Weston died. It is still hard to talk about Weston without crying (unless I'm talking to family or close friends who hear about him all the time anyway).  I still need so much help and support. So, before seizing these opportunities, I wondered if is it too soon to take on responsibilities of helping others when I am still such a mess myself. (To be fair, I didn't think very hard about writing for the newsletter. I have been writing on this blog for months and already know how helpful writing is for me.)

But my gut instinct was to say yes, to help out, to offer whatever I can of my shared experience of losing a child, and my unique experience of losing Weston. It has been six months, and I have met many people who have lost children since Weston died. Sadly, I am no longer a newbie. Well, I guess I'm an old newbie. But I am convinced that at least part of my purpose on this earth now is to keep other bereaved parents company as they walk this horrible road. And the favor has been, and continues to be, returned.

I don't want to become complacent in my grief. Right now, I feel a sense of urgency that my life needs to change drastically, and I need to act on it. Especially when the opportunities arise as obviously as they have. Even though I am emotionally fragile, there is no better place to have a meltdown than at  the MISS Foundation. I will be in a safe place.

My contributions to MISS are my way to be Weston's mother. Mothers have primal instincts when it comes to knowing what's best for their children. I am firmly convinced that these instincts don't disappear when a child dies. Weston's death does not change the fact that I am his mother. That I will ALWAYS be his mother. Being the parent of a dead child is the hardest job in the world, but I have to do it. To fail at this job would be failing Weston. I still have my mothering instincts, and I am following them.

I have felt other nudges lately, but this post has gotten long enough. Karen, my BFF, was here over the weekend, and we had a really great time. We were worried that her visit would be very difficult, because she was last here when Weston died. But it was so wonderful to be together. Her presence was a much-needed distraction from my daily, oppressive grief. And, I must add that we ROCKED the half marathon on Saturday! Karen came within a minute of her personal best, and I blew all of my goals out of the water (and came within about four minutes of my personal best). We ran through the desert and saw the sunrise. Weston was with me. It was an unforgettable race.

My daughter is wide awake. I would normally be quite frustrated (it's after 9:00 pm), but she's in bed singing "Happy Birthday" to Weston. I can't help but smile.