Rays of Sunshine

In the time since Morgan's death, many things have changed.  On one hand, I have no patience for other people's crap.  My husband has a friend from college whose biggest issue is apparently deciding whether to attend a wedding or a comic book convention on the same weekend.  Must be nice if that's the toughest thing you have to deal with.

On the other hand, I now take time to see things that I completely missed out on before.  Every day, the sun rises and sets, without fail.  Our bedroom has a huge eastward facing window, so I can't miss it. But since losing Morgan, I now notice the brilliance of the sunrise.  Just before the sun reaches its full glow, this beautiful deep pink stripe fills the sky.  I like to think of it as a sign from Morgan.

A few nights ago, I cried myself to sleep, missing out on all of the things we should be experiencing with our little girl.  Usually, when I have a bad night, I also wake up in a bad mood.  This day, I woke up one minute before the alarm, and rolled over to a very intense, focused ray of sunlight shining directly on me.  And I was in a good mood!  Several days later, on a wet, soggy morning, I was laying in bed telling myself that I needed to get up.  Out of nowhere, that focused beam of sunlight broke through the clouds, then went away.

Some babyloss mamas talk about butterflies suddenly landing nearby; I've got my personal ray of sunshine.  As I write this, I realize it's pretty fitting.  I call my husband Sunshine, and I use to joke with him that our kids would be little rays of Sunshine.  I guess that part of the story actually came true.

When Do We Get OUR Little Girl?

I had a happier post planned for today, on the little "signs" from Morgan that make my day.  But, after another announcement of, "It's a girl!", that post is on pause.  Maybe tomorrow.

It's hard enough when every other pregnancy around me results in a happy, healthy take-home baby.  It's worse when, almost every single baby has been a girl.  Where's my little girl? Why did MY baby girl have to be the one to die?

It's hard to be happy for others without being sorry for myself.  Just when I think things are going OK...WHAM!!! Something comes along to knock me down.  For the most part, things are OK, I guess.      I've adjusted pretty well to the constant sadness that Morgan's not here.  But then, simple things like watching "Biggest Loser" bring up the huge, heaving sobs of inconsolable grief.  Or, maybe it's because we're coming into the point where, this time last year, we found I was pregnant.  I thought that after her due date and the holidays, that emotions would even out until my birthday and Morgan's birthday/death.  I guess I'll be up and down through April, then again in July.  When does it stop?

Wondering why 'Biggest Loser" made me cry?  This season there was a contestant with an infant at home.  When he got kicked off the show, they showed him at home with his son, about 6 months old.  Simply put, the baby laughed.  It was probably the first baby laugh I'd heard in a long time.  That laugh represented EVERY. SINGLE. THING. we will never do with Morgan.

You Don't Know How I Feel

You Don’t Know How I Feel

Author Unknown

You don't know how I feel--please don't tell me that you do.

There's just one way to know--have you lost a child too?

"You'll have another child"--must I hear this each day?

Can I get another mother, too, if mine should pass away?

Don't say it was "God's will"--that's not the God I know.

Would God on purpose break my heart, then watch as my tears flow?

"You have an angel in heaven--a precious child above."

But, tell me, to whom here on earth shall I give this love?

"Aren't you better yet?" Is that what I heard you say?

No! A part of my heart aches--I'll always feel some pain.

You think that silence is kind, but it hurts me even more.

I want to talk about my child who has gone through death's door.

Don't say these things to me, although you do mean well.

They do not take my pain away; must go through the hell.

I will get better slow but sure--and it helps to have you near,

But a simple "I'm sorry you lost your child" is all I need to hear.

Are You There God? It's me, Angela.

This post isn't directly related to my grieving for Morgan, but it's one that has come to a head since her death.  It has to do with faith, religion, spirituality, Christianity, and all of the other nuanced variations getting at the same topic.

As any one reading this blog or who has experienced any type of tragedy knows,  the religious platitudes flow like the river as people try to comfort you.  Ones you hear a lot: "It's God's will", and "Trust in God".  So, to be clear, you're telling me that God wanted my baby to die?  And, you're also telling me to trust in a God I trusted would let her live?  For people who've not lost a child or a loved one, they probably don't understand the true pain those words can cause.  There's no comfort in them.

Before I go there, I'll share a bit about me and my religious background.  As a kid, I went to a private Christian school where we had Bible class daily, and went to church on Sundays.  I think it's fair to say I got more church in the average week than most people I knew.  According to my mom, I even wanted to be a missionary at one point.  I believed in God and considered myself to be a Christian, but was somewhat lukewarm on some of the "accessories".  By accessories, I mean those actions that designate the Holy Rollers from regular folks.  I also felt that what I learned at school (watered down, as it was, for the elementary aged set) and what I learned at church didn't always mesh.  Anyway, I continued to go to church throughout college and for a while afterwards.  But one day, I realized I really didn't like the church I was going to, and simply stopped going without looking for another.  That was nearly ten years ago.

It's probably pretty silly for me to call myself a Christian, so for now, I'm just a lapsed Baptist, I guess.  The past couple of years, I was feeling the urge to go back to church.  My husband (his upbringing was eerily similar to mine) and I had both been in a neutral region where religion was concerned.  Since Morgan's death, he has made a direct, and sharp left away from God.  In the first few weeks, I also felt abandoned by God.  It was as if we'd gone through one of those team building trust exercises, and the partner who was supposed to catch us, dropped us.  For a while, I was stuck in the same neutral holding pattern, and am now again feeling a gentle pull to the right.

You're probably wondering what the problem is.  Just go to church.  It does sound simple, and I want to go.  In fact, I need to go.  I need to hold on to ...something.  I need to know that I'll see my baby girl again, in heaven.  I need to know that we'll have a house full of living children some day.  To get there, I've started reading the Bible daily.  For whatever reason, I chose to start with the New Testament, and am up to Luke.  It's actually been comforting to know that the "accessories" I mentioned above are actually frowned upon by Christ himself.  Several examples are given in Matthew, regarding prayer, and fasting.  So many people act as if the louder and longer you pray, the "better" your prayers are, the easier it is for your prayers to be heard.  We all know people who, when Lent rolls around, let everyone know what they're giving up, and complain for each of those 40 days about how hard it is to go without.  I've been to churches where you're not a "real" Christian if you don'y jump up, shout, and wave your hands in the air.  Folks, I'm not a hand waver on a good day.  I'd rather let the light shine from within; more quiet, spirit filled actions than loud, neon colored words.

As I realize this could be a VERY long post, I want to ask the parents who've lost a child, yet remained strong in faith: where does your faith come from?  How did you grow it such that it could hold you on the worst days of your life?  I don't want to become the "If you keep this plane from crashing, I'll go to church on Sunday" kind of person.  I feel that maybe I'm returning to God because it's what I know, and because I don't have anything else.  If this is the case, does it matter how you get there?

Born in Silence Video

I just wanted to share this wonderful video segment, "Born in Silence", produced by the Global Alliance to Prevent Prematurity and Stillbirth (GAPPS).

Every 21 minutes in the US, a baby is stillborn.  Yet, no one talks about it.

The "Professionals"

I guess I'm back on the theme of walking in others' shoes, and the fact that you never know a person until you walk in their shoes.  In general, I think that we find that our friends and family don't know what to say to us.  I'm now starting to think that the "professionals" also don't know what to say.

Recently, the Ricki Lake show featured a segment with a couple grieving the loss of their newborn son.  I saw this clip when it started making its round through the babyloss community.  Per the usual, there was a counselor/therapist to provide some guidance to the couple.  This particular segment featured Mike Dow.  Have you heard of him?  He's the current reality show therapist du jour - "Freaky Eaters" on TLC, VH-1's "Couples Therapy", or "Diet Rehab".  Well, this guy comes to talk to this couple, and tells them they're "stuck" in the grieving process (Kubler-Ross's Stages of Grief) and "need to move on".  I'm not saying that "Dr. Mike" isn't a highly trained professional; his website lists a whole slew of degrees and specializations, primarily in the area of couples and family therapy.  He is not a grief counselor.  He has not experienced the loss of a child.

In my own life, for about the last year or so, I've been working with a psychiatrist on a research project.  At our last meeting, a question was raised by my advisor regarding a separate project.  She wanted to know about measuring depression and other psychiatric illness in women who've experienced stillbirth, and when it goes from grief to something more serious.  The psychiatrist didn't know about any research into that specific question, but shared what he knew about PTSD after stillbirth.  He ticked off a number of behaviors that could possible represent PTSD. Well, ya'll, I guess I have PTSD, then.  And, it would be my guess, that every other woman whose lost a pregnancy or living child does, too.  One example he mentioned was changing OBs so that you don't have to back to the office where you found your baby had died or not having to deliver at the same hospital. He listed a few other items that I know are very common.

I bring this all up to say that, really and truly (from my point of view at least) that even the professionals don't know what it's like.  They know what those very thick, expensive medical texts tell them, and they know what "normal" is.  I guarantee that no textbook has told them what the "new normal" is.  Thought: would it be fair to limit the position of grief counselor to those who have grieved?

Grrrr...

I've been feeling pretty good lately.  Little things here and there get me down for a minute, but overall pretty good.  But sometimes, some things just piss me off.  Truly.  My husband checked the mail today, and lucky me, the only piece of mail was mine.  It was from the Department of Psychology at my school.  Hmmm,...what could this be?  It turned out to be a letter inviting me and my "new baby" to participate in a research study.  Where did they get my name?  If I find it was from the hospital/clinic (also affiliated with the school), heads are going to roll.

To be honest, I was already a bit weepy this weekend, thinking about how things were supposed to be. Just last night, I realized how many times last year we thought, "This time next year...".  Instead, we'll be thinking about "this time last year".  Maybe this time next year will be better. For real.