regrets

Blessed are those who mourn, they will be comforted. We lost our angel Kathlyn Joy before she had a chance to bless this earth. We don't know why.


That was the message I sent to approximately 15 friends via text message mid-afternoon on July 30, 2009, still pregnant with the lifeless body of my precious baby girl. I ended it with "no calls please." I had nothing else to say. She was gone, and we didn't know why. I had given all the information that I had. The recipients were now as informed as we were.

I still don't believe it. Do you?

Do you really believe that I had nothing else to say? Essentially that text message was my first entry to a collection of thoughts, feelings, and questions after this loss, that has turned into a completely uncensored written journey through grief.

The journey that continues with my current second pregnancy is already in full swing. People are already asking about names, what gender they think it is, what gender do I want it to be, how am I feeling, physically, emotionally, what are my doctors saying, the outpouring of support is familiar in quantity and quality to the support I got directly after Kathlyn died... just in the completely opposite tone: utter happiness and joy instead of unrelenting sadness and helplessness.

It is all very much appreciated, but I'm still trying to figure out exactly what I'm being congratulated for. I havent really done anything, except be intimate with the person I married, which is completely natural and religiously acceptable. If I had failed out of nursing school, but then got back in, and people congratulated me for that, I would stop them. "No no. Thank you for the support, but congratulations arent in order yet, not until I graduate this time, and don't fail again."

I still feel like I'm batting zero at the whole pregnancy thing. Get pregnant: check! Times two, even. STAY pregnant: check! Times 1, and so far so good second time around. Bring a baby home: fail. Miserably. Pun intended.

With all the questions and support though, and what I feel is undeserved Congratulations, it is clear that this will be a very long 8 months for more than just me.

Congratulating someone for getting pregnant is just automatic, I guess. I think "I'll be thinking of/praying for you every day" is more appropriate, and I suppose to be fair, most people say that too. Another automatic statment is "how are you?" and this is often discussed between the bereaved. I want people to know the absolute agony I go through when asked this relatively simple, well meaning, and otherwise harmless greeting. How am I? You've just put me in a horrible predicament. Fine? Am I fine? That same afternoon of July 30, I was putting at least one coherent sentence together... I will never be the same... I have lost a child. There is no way to understand this unless you've been through it.. I don't think I can ever be "fine" again. OK? Am I OK? or alright? Not too bad.. but not too good either. Part of the predicament is to just lie, and when I say "I'm ok right now" that's probalby only half a lie, depending on your definition of ok, but the other half of the predicament is that I really, really have no desire to ask you back how you are, unless we have about an hour and two drinks to actually discuss it. Whether you have a dead child or not, I dont think "fine" or, heaven forbid "I'M GREAT!" is ever true. So most often, my response to "HEY! How are you?" is just a sheepish "hi.." And then I feel like I was rude. I think in my case, most people really DO wonder how I am, and would be willing to listen if I answered "totally miserable..".. but these are the thoughts that run through my head whether I think the asker is being genuine or not. So how about not asking me how I am? Is that ok? I know it's JUST a simple question, but look what it does to me! I'm sad. Because my baby died. I will never be the same. That's my answer.

I still cry most days of my life. I have been told by a few people, one being my psychiatrist, that this isn't normal. (BTW, I dont like him. He reminds me, in his physical features, of a clown, and he shares a first and last name with one of the most famous American football coaches in history. It seems like a joke. A big one... and I'm the butt of it.) Some days I just wake up with tears in my eyes. Some days I cry when I read something sad. Some days, I only cry to myself looking at her pictures or talking to her. Some days, I sob until there are no tissues, paper towels, or toilet paper left in the house and I have a headache that could span to Saturn.

Most of the time, I cry at home alone, but sometimes I cry at the most inoppurtune times, such as 6:30pm on my way to work. I did this the other day, and my eyes were not hiding what I had just been through in the car. I was expecting to see a group of my closest coworkers... who would have been so supportive and loving, but would have taken on my sadness for themselves and we would have started the shift depressed and on the wrong foot. So the fact that when I clocked in, I noticed I was floating to another floor, I considered it a good thing. I could focus on settling into an unfamiliar environment instead of my grief. Except that when I arrived at their report room, they all thought I was crying because I had to float. Sigh. I dont mind floating. But I didnt really feel like telling them "I'm crying because my baby died, and I'm upset because I have a lot of regrets about her funeral and the time we spent with her at the hospital." So when they said "it's good to see you! Been forever! Aw, what's wrong?" I looked the one who asked in the eye, blinked twice to think of the right answer, and said, in a kind, but big fat lie: "nothing."

Nothing is wrong.

Except something is terribly wrong with a world where babies die.

I dont really know what made me think of her funeral at that moment in the car. I just wish that I had held her at the funeral home. I didnt know I was allowed to. I wanted to so badly, but it wasnt until I read later, that some people actually do this. Someone had to hold her post-autopsy, and those someones were the funeral home staff. They had to have dressed her, and then placed her perfectly into her snow white casket. Pink on white. They could have gently lifted her and placed her in my arms. I would give anything to hold her again. And that was my last chance. And I blew it. I didnt know. They dont teach you these things. Funeral planning is not one of the chapters in "Your Pregnancy Week by Week." And even the funeral director admitted that he hadnt done very many baby's funerals yet. He was the grandson of the owner, about to take upon the family business. He said that if they did this very often, meaning funerals for babies, he "would have a different job."

I also regret the closed casket. Typically funerals for children are closed caskets, but the difference is, no one EVER saw my baby. She was beautiful, perfect, and peaceful. There were two rooms... if someone didnt want to come in, they wouldnt have had to. But I think many people would have been touched to see such a beautiful site. I never took her picture either. I didnt unwrap her blanket to see her dress, sweet little tights and socks.

Regrets. So many regrets. I didnt know.

And so this pregnancy is laced more often with the things I would do differently at the baby's funeral, instead of imagining the swing, bouncy seat, and high chair back in the main rooms. A new home for the memorial box, instead of the bassinet? Hmm... I just dont see a baby in that bassinet... I still just see the memorial box. DIRTY diapers in my house? It can't be... baby laundry? Bubble baths? Crying from someone under age 29?! This house has not heard that sound.

How could it not be Kathlyn? How could she have died? How could I have failed her so miserably?

I love this new baby. I wouldn't trade this baby for Kathlyn... I want them both. I just want this baby HERE, as I want Kathlyn here, but it's too late for that. I want to curl up and sleep for 8 months. I want to dodge the disease, worry... the questions, the how-are-yous, the daily phone calls to the OB, the wait.

I want my baby...