Off the emotional wagon

I just can’t keep doing this. I just can’t keep being OK all the way up until I’m not OK at all.

I’m not OK, and that’s not OK.

Long story very short:

I got drunk

I cried

I embarrassed myself

I suck

I’m sad

So there are a few things that have to happen here. First, I have to identify what is actually wrong beyond dead babies. Dead babies will always be the thing that’s wrong. End of story. But the emotional stuff that kind of lives around the dead baby emotional stuff is the stuff that is the problem right now. Got it?

That stuff includes:

Forgiveness of my family

Forgiveness of my husband’s family

Forgiveness of myself

Letting go of guilt on SO MANY LEVELS

Being able to be in a room full of people without needing pills or even wine to cope

I was a little stunned to realize that I have not seen a counselor in two years. No talk therapy for TWO YEARS. Stupid deferred emotional maintenance. Keri (my counselor) quit and I just stopped going. So basically, I was diagnosed with PTSD and my response to that was to stop therapy. Not smart.

OK, then.

So back to therapy.

A big question: do I need medication? Inside, I say yes. I need help. This is bad. It can’t keep getting good and bad like this. I’m almost OK with being always sad, but having these very random, very unpredictable emotional breaks is exhausting. Would medication even the ship a little bit? Or capsize the whole thing?

And the forgiveness…well…I’m going to work on it. There are certain emotional cinder blocks that I have to carry with me wherever I go. The boys and the terminations and the sadness – I can’t put that cinder block down. But if I am going to emotionally move forward from the me that I hate so much, I have to be able to forgive people even when they are not sorry. I can’t think of anything harder, to be honest. But I know that I have to do it for me, not necessarily for them.

Forgiving my family for treating my boys as if they didn’t exist is going to nearly kill me. Forgiving my husband’s family for treating my boys like their lives weren’t as important as children who lived is going to kill me.

Not forgiving – or at least not moving on – is killing me.

How much of this is about the boys? How much of it is about thoughtless family members? How much of this is about me?

It’s time to find out. I don’t want to be the girl I hate so much anymore.

Three years later, on my own terms

For nearly three years, a tiny urn sat next to our family picture in the living room. I would often pick it up and hold it in the palm of my hand, and I would remember the day I lost my little Drew. I can close my eyes and remember the absolutely wonderful nurse at the Special Birthing Center - how she asked us if we wanted to see him and we were stunned. It wasn't possible for us to see John and we somehow didn't consider that we would be able to hold Drew. I was so surprised that I almost declined - I had already been through so much.

But that moment when we held him - so, so tiny - was one of the best, most magical moments of my life. A moment of heartbreak and grace. A moment of grief and motherhood. I got to hold my son. It means so much to me, even now.

And maybe that's why I delayed burying Drew's silver urn with John's marble one (I'm beyond pleased that they have such different urns - it's the little things for Dead Baby Mamas). Everyone told me that I should bury John's ashes right away. I might never do it if I don't do it soon, they said. It helps you get on with the healing process, they said. But it felt rushed. I wasn't ready and I was pushed. And maybe "everyone" was right and I just didn't know it.

But Drew was different. I wasn't going to be pushed to it. I kept the urn downstairs in an out-of-the-way place. I kept quiet about it. Then I got pregnant with Clark, and not knowing if he would be healthy or not, we saved our money for medical expenses "just in case." There were no leftover dollars for burial and headstone.

So we waited. And somewhere in those nearly three years, suddenly, it was time - my heart was ready. It was time for Drew to be with John.

So a few weeks ago, we ordered his stone and organized the burial with the cemetery. We got dressed up - just me, my husband and our children, and we talked about Drew and about our love for both boys. I wrapped the urn in a baby blanket with monkeys on it (Drew's spirit animal). And we said goodbye.

I will admit, I nearly chickened out of the entire thing when I saw the cremation vault. I so clearly remember when we buried John, thinking that I would never see that vault again - it was only to be opened after my death to put his urn in my casket. And there I was, and there it was, like a cruel joke. And, beyond all reasoning with the Universe, the name of the company on the side of the vault was the Clark vault company. I can't make this stuff up.

The feeling now is really peace. If this is how my life story is supposed to read, then the boys are supposed to be together. And now they are. I'm very glad we did this on my terms, on my timeline. There is some closure. There is some comfort. This is a reminder of how blessed I am to have their little spirits around me always.