I've listened to this song no less than 10,000 times...

And these words never meant as much to me as they do now that I've listened to it again, through different ears.

I looked up some people's lyric interpretations...and I was right. Apparently Ryan wrote this song for his friend who had had a stillborn daughter...

And that's why I feel like I could've written these very same words for you, Luke ♥♥♥

Elizabeth, You Were Born to Play That Part--Ryan Adams

For you I'd do anything
Tear myself in two
Just to hear you breathe

Calculate the changes that in time
Turn to nothing and then multiply
Yourself by my pain

Over you is where I stand
I wish I knew why
But I don't understand

I'm waiting on someone that just won't show
And every night it seems like there's no tomorrow
Not that you will ever know

Wherever you are, I hope you're happy now
I'm caught in a dream and I can't get out
I'm caught in a dream
I'm caught in an endless dream

Wherever you are, I hope you're happy now
I'm caught in a dream and I can't get out
I'm caught in an endless dream
And I'm not strong enough to let you go

And I've tried everything
But that
Elizabeth

Cousins

It's taken me awhile to bring up the subject on here, Luke, but I think I can finally get the words out.

You're going to be a big cousin to two little babies soon. This July.

That's right, your Auntie Ali and Auntie Lauren are both pregnant. Yesterday, we found out that Auntie Ali and Uncle Andy will be having a baby girl. We won't be finding out what your Auntie Lauren and Uncle Pooter are having until that cousin actually arrives, since they're going old-school and waiting it out.

It's hard, obviously, looking forward to more nieces/nephews while I'm still missing you the most. It makes me so sad that these two little cousins will never grow up to know their oldest cousin, Luke.

I wasn't planning on bawling my way through the news that my sister and brother were both going to have kids--at nearly the same exact time, but that's what happened when I found this out last November. And I wasn't counting on the fact that I would be the oldest sibling...but also the one with a dead child. No one prepares themselves for that in life.

The first thing that crossed my mind when I found out they were both pregnant...How could this possibly get any worse? Honestly? BOTH of them...I was told they were both pregnant in the same WEEK. Due within 9 days of each other. I could barely stand the sight of a pregnant woman then...But now I was going to have to see my own sister (my best friend for LIFE) and sister-in-law BE those women? I was sitting there...grieving you, and somehow, I was supposed to find it within myself to be happy to be an Aunt again? It was absolutely NOT the way I'd always imagined being told I was going to be an Auntie by either of them. I felt like everything was ruined. Not only had we lost you...but we'd lost the ability to feel the way we SHOULD have felt when we were told the news. I felt like I'd ruined this for my Mom and Dad...that THEY had to be told this so soon after losing their first and only grandchild. It was bittersweet, to say the least.

It was like you were pulling some sort of strings from wherever you are...to tell me that the world wouldn't stop, and that I had to pick myself up and carry on, somehow, without you.

When I first found out the news back in November, everything was so fresh. I couldn't comprehend the idea that more children were going to be coming into our family so soon after you. I won't lie--I thought for sure this would drive me to the point of insanity. This would have been THEE most ideal situation, really, in any other family's reality. Cousins so close in age? A complete and total blessing--they could be best friends. But in our reality? How did it even make sense? Especially so soon after losing you? I thought the world was stopping. And it turns out it wasn't.

I went through the entire gamut of emotions in those two months after losing you, Luke. Anger. Confusion. Fear. Jealousy. Sadness. Happiness. Bitterness. Betrayal. I couldn't believe that I found myself feeling betrayed by my siblings. The two people I've spent the most time with in this world...were moving on without me. I'm the oldest. I was supposed to be the one that had a child first--who could show them the ropes of parenthood. They could have learned from us, Luke. The silly mistakes we would make, being first-time parents.

But that was not to be.

Just revisiting these feelings, today, is making me feel sad again. Sometimes I'm grateful that I went through all of that shock so quickly. Because I got it over with. It was done, the next babies were coming, and we'd all have to find it within ourselves to somehow keep going.

I hate the fact that there will come an end to all of the comparisons that I've been able to have with Ali and Lauren to this point. And the thing is...I ENJOY sharing with them. It makes me feel that your existence is validated, somehow. I can share with them all of my experiences about being pregnant. About what the first, second, and third trimesters felt like. I can give them all the information I researched about baby products and strollers and car seats. I can even share with them my experiences of labor, and actually giving birth to a child. But that's where it stops.

After the birth of their children, that's where our shared experiences will end. Because their children will come into the world crying and full of life, and you didn't, Luke. They will become parents to a child in this world...and we have still yet to have that. I will have nothing to share or compare. We're left with your urn inside your teddy bear and your empty room and they'll be sleep-deprived and overwhelmed by their living, breathing babies.

We wanted to have a family, Luke. And now everyone else is getting to have theirs, but we still aren't complete. I think that's what hurts the most. The jealousy. I don't want it. But for them to get to have this...and not us? When we were supposed to already have you? It's hard not to be jealous. It really really is.

I think the most apparent thing I felt when I heard this news back in November was that I felt left out. And in a way, I still do. Because they have all their hopes and dreams for their children to still look forward to. But for almost 6 months, we've been working on putting our hopes and dreams for you to rest.

If there's one thing I know, it's that we're not giving up on having a family someday. You'll always be a part of it, though, Luke. And as much as I wish you could be here, I know that I don't want to keep feeling this feeling of being left out and jealous for the rest of our lives. I want to know what it's like to be a parent to a living child. I know I'll be trying to figure out how to be a parent to you for the rest of my life, but I want the other side of that as well. Any sibling or cousin you ever have will know about you. You will never be someone whose memory we sweep under the rug to forget about. Even if you never breathed a breath on this Earth.

Maybe these two babies are going to be born into our family so that I can see for myself--that babies ARE meant to be born. To give me hope and maybe confidence that what happened to us ISN'T how this is supposed to go.

It's not fair that this is the way things have to be. So so so so not fair. But I feel like if I can't change it, I'm at least getting closer to figuring out how to live with this. Because the future is coming whether I want it to or not.

Sharing is Caring

First things first, I'm sure that many of you babloss mamas saw the call for this on many email lists/Facebook feeds you may be subscribed to, but if you'd like to participate in a perinatal loss study, please read below:

"Have you experienced perinatal loss (loss of a baby shortly before or after birth) within the past year? Do you know a woman who has experienced perinatal loss within the past year?
New RESEARCH Opportunity - posted on behalf of Jennifer Huberty, PhD - an ASAP member...... pelase consider participating in this important study.....

We are looking for women who have experienced perinatal loss to participate in an interview related to health and physical activity behaviors. If you do not reside in Omaha, NE you can participate over the phone. To participate in the study please contact
Dr. Jennifer Huberty, PhD at jennifer.huberty@asu.edu 602-827-2456 or Katherine Rolfsmeyer at info@befitminded.com"

I'm finding that lately, I feel like it's all I can do to talk about my experience. About Luke. To make him matter. And amazingly, lately, it doesn't bring me to tears. Last weekend, we went to get massages at a local day spa. We'd had a gift certificate there for quite some time, and we finally decided to use it for some fancy massages. I was pretty excited. When I made the reservation, I didn't really care if I got a female or male masseuse--whoever's available, I said.

So of course, Jeff and I get taken away to our separate massage rooms, and I meet my massage therapist. She seems nice enough. We start chatting, and we pass by Jeff and his lady in the hallway. She asks if that's my husband, and I say yes. Then she tells me he's cute. HA!

So we get to our room, and we start chatting. It's funny how some people are very chatty during a massage, and others aren't. I think I tend to project an air of "please talk to me," because it's really what people tend to do when I'm in this situation. I really don't mind, but this time was interesting.

She asks me if we have any children, right off the bat.

This girl was younger--Certainly much younger than me and Jeff. But I made the decision that I'd answer this question from now on with "Well, it's complicated." Because if anything, that's what our situation is.

I told her about Luke. And I didn't cry. She saw my tattoo, and said it was amazing. And then she told me that she had a miscarriage last year. It was only about 9 weeks, she said, but she's still devastated by it. She tells me that she's still struggling with it, and that her husband's parents went out of their way to blame it on her for happening. She said it was a cultural thing...

My heart broke for her. I'm so lucky, in that I honestly and truly have NEVER been made to feel guilty for what happened to Luke. If anything, I projected guilt onto myself at first...but it never came from anyone else. And I can imagine that just making the situation twice as heavy.

Maybe that's why I feel like I've reached a sort of healing in what seems like such a short amount of time? I don't know. It's probably a combination of my surroundings and my general outlook on life. But I'm so glad things weren't made even harder than they should be by people who should have no say in how this feels.

We chatted a lot about what it's like, losing a child. I'm hoping it was therapeutic for her, because it was for me. When I left, I left her a note in the tip envelope, to remind her to check out the OC Walk to Remember's website. For support and information about participating in the walk itself in October.

I hope we end up seeing her at the walk in October. I wish nobody new ever had to join our cause. But I hope she shows up, at least to share a day with people who understand.

Tax Man

Last Monday night, we got our taxes done.

We've been getting them done by the same guy for a few years now, and we really like him. He's the type of guy that you can sit and talk with and feel like you've been friends for years, but you know, he also does our taxes. We'd probably be friends with him outside of the situation if the right opportunity presented itself.

Anyway.

Last year at tax time, I was pregnant. About 3 months, to be exact. I remember discussing with him how this year would be sweet, because we'd get to take another deduction for our baby! He was pretty excited about it himself, being a tax guy.

This year was totally not as we expected, obviously.

Both of us went to the appointment, which probably wouldn't have been the case had Luke been alive. I'm not sure if he'd made a note in our file about changes for next year or not, but he didn't mention anything at first. Then we inevitably came to the part of the meeting where we discussed our disability pay for the year--whether there was anything we needed to do? I took my full maternity leave, so my W2 was missing a substantial chunk of my pay for the year, which dropped my reported income considerably. We were also sort of confused about Jeff's claim...And oh yeah, are therapy bills tax deductible in any way?

So all of that led up to the inevitable part where we filled him in on what happened in September.

Life presents strange opportunities, sometimes. And the look on his face when we told him what happened was not really what I expected. He seemed to take it pretty personal. And then he told us why. This happened very recently to one of his friends...Nearly the same exact scenario. And it's been hard, because he didn't know what to say or how to act or what to do for them. And then he flat out asked us what he should do, because he's been struggling with it.

First, the fact that he cared so much about doing the right thing at all struck me. Most people blurt out the same tired cliches over and over when they hear someone died. "He's in a better place." "God needed another angel." "Everything happens for a reason." I know in the end...they're all just trying to make you feel better. But the reality is...nothing will make this feel better. All of those thoughts are just cliches to TRY and make us feel better. But they're just words.

I told him that the worst thing he could do is avoid them. And maybe the best thing to say is just "I'm so sorry this is happening to you." I'm not an overly religious person, and it bothers me when people play the religious card in death. The bottom line is that life equals death, in the end. We're humans, and that's all there is to it. There is no rhyme or reason to the order in which these things happen.

I told him to really, honestly, try not to make any discussion with them be about how he feels. Inflicting your thoughts and beliefs onto them...at this time of incredible pain, is mostly just self-serving, so don't make it about you. I've now been the shoulder that people cry on--ABOUT US--a few times, and I can't tell you how awkward that can feel. Sometimes I feel like joining them. But then it also angers me that I'm having to be strong for them. It's my life they're crying about...and I'm the one getting cried on?

I told him to try not to be afraid to talk to them about their child. Their child was real, just like Luke. And bringing them up doesn't make us sad...because we're already sad. That part is forever. They're at the forefront of our minds 24/7. There's no "bringing them up" because they're already there--a constant. So don't feel like you mentioning them is going to make us hurt. That part is already done.

Getting all of this out--to someone that genuinely needed the guidance--felt so good. I hate that we're getting asked for advice in this scenario, but if our experience can help someone be a better friend, or family member, or person, then I'm all in. All in. Because grief isn't spoken about enough. It's something people sweep under the rug...trying to avoid the inevitable pain that already exists in our hearts.

But it never really goes away. It just becomes a part of our existence. Luke will always be a part of me, and to share his story with others gives him meaning...

5 Months

I ain't afraid of hurt
I've had so much it feels
just like normal to me now...

Normal. It's different now. It's been different for 5 months now.

I miss being pregnant with you, Luke. I've been feeling a lot of phantom kicks lately, and it's weird. I miss being happy and looking forward to all the changes that you would bring to our lives. I miss the naive optimism I had about how things would turn out for us. I miss being a normal person that looked at pregnancy as a happy, exciting, fun time. I miss those times when my biggest fear was having to take the 3-hour blood test for gestational diabetes.

I miss looking forward to your future. I miss being able to read back through my past journal entries without feeling like I'm missing something. It's like I spent the past year preparing for nothing. I know I was doing what any Mom does...but to have done all of that...for nothing? Hurts.

I miss my life before this neverending sense of underlying sadness and heartbreak crept in. It's forever.

I feel so jaded. We've experienced the worst thing a parent can experience. But we have so much more life to live.

I just want something to look forward to. To be excited about. I wish I could be excited about you turning 5 months old today, but I can't. Today I'm wistful. For the life that we should have had. On the outside, I feel mostly normal. But I'm different. You're missing.

5 months seems like so long...and yet completely not. Missing you today, my sweet boy.

Inked

I did it.

I've been thinking about getting a tattoo for what seems like forever. I'm not really one to take these things lightly, though. I REALLY felt like I needed to be POSITIVE about putting something so permanent onto my body forever--It had to be something that meant the world to me. I used to want to get something Ryan Adams related...maybe the rose he uses all the time? It'd be something any fan would get.

That all seems so trivial now?

But when all this happened, I knew exactly that my first tattoo would be for you, Luke. I just had to figure out what to do. But that came to me pretty easily too. The quilt that I had made for you--with chibi Star Wars characters--seemed obvious to me. A baby Luke Skywalker.

Last weekend, I met with a local tattoo artist, and I got good vibes from him. He said he'd draw it up for me, and if I wanted, we could get it done that Wednesday. I left him my ideas, and spent the next 4 days anticipating what it would look like when he gave me that drawing. I got there on Wednesday night, and he handed it to me--It was EXACTLY what I pictured. To a T. So it was time. I sat down in the chair, and got ready for what I figured would be a LOT of pain? Turns out, no. Not at all. I don't know if that's because I've probably lived through the worst pain possible, but honestly, getting a tattoo is no big deal. I was borderline shocked at how simple it was. Mostly, I was nervous about how it would come out to look ON me. I decided to have it done on my right chest, above my heart. When Josh finished it up, and I went to look at it in the mirror, my eyes welled up.

It was perfect.
Now you'll be with me--forever, as much as possible. Just looking down at it there makes me happy. It's every bit adorable as I know you'd be.

For some bizarre reason, it's almost a relief that I have this done. Like somehow I wasn't complete without it? I don't even know how that makes sense, but it does to me right now.

Healing. I think that's kind of what this is.

But I'm still a Mom (?)

So much of life is based on definitions.

It tends to make it easier for us. Categorizing and giving names. If you have lady parts, you're a woman. If you fix cars for a living, you're a mechanic. If you have a child, you're a mother.

Right?

I struggle. In therapy, I feel like this is one of my biggest struggles that's come up. How am I still a Mom? I never got the chance. I had Luke. I carried him for 9 whole months. He was ready to join us. And then he died. I was his mom? Our time was cut so short. I was the only living person he got to know in his short life. And I know deep down, I am still his Mom. But I find it so hard to be able to call myself that. So hard. How can I be labeled something when I've only been able to experience a tiny percentage of experiences that typically qualify someone to be a Mom?

I am a Mother to a son that I will never know. A son that never got to see my face or how happy he made me.

It was so abrupt. One minute, there I was, being his Mom. Then the next, I was no longer going to need to feed him or bathe him or dress him. I was going to have to figure out how to be a Mom to an angel. To be his Mom in this world, while he occupies another.

I have figured out how to be a big sister. A daughter. A captain. A good employee. A wife. But this one? Being a Mom without my son? I do everything I can to remember Luke and give his short existence meaning. But by far, this has been the hardest role I've had to embrace in my life.

I am continually told that I'm still a Mom. But it's something I have to convince myself of everyday. What exactly does it mean when you're robbed of your child's existence at birth? In some ways, I wish we had other children before this happened. At least I'd understand then, what it means, to be a Mother. But Luke is our first child. I don't even know what it's like to hear your own baby cry and feel that in your heart. To deal with feeding your baby every 2 hours for those first weeks of life. I don't know the ins and outs of folding a stroller or buckling him into a carseat. He simultaneously filled my heart with love, and broke it, at the same time.

It's so hard for me not to discount myself. If anything, I feel like I should be called a half-Mom or something. I'm not weary from staying up all night with a colicky baby. I work full-time. I get to go to happy hour with my friends. But I'm still a Mom.

Saturday I had one of my first awkward moments...talking to someone that's not a total stranger, but not a close friend. She'd mentioned how I didn't have any kids yet (she wasn't aware of everything that had happened to us this past year)...and I'm so proud of myself, because I corrected her, and told her actually, we did. Luckily, she was the type that could identify with me from her own experiences, and didn't waive me off. But it felt good to be able to say that. Just to get it out. And be proud to be Luke's Mom.

The physical world plays tricks on me...and tries to fool me into believing that I'm not a real Mom because Luke isn't living. Because he has no physical presence. Sometimes he seems like a complete figment of my imagination.

I started writing this entry last week, and oddly, today, Still Standing posted this article...Which is exactly what I'm feeling.

Coming to grips with the fact that this is something I will be trying to figure out for the rest of my life is a mindfuck.

I'm doing everything I can to be your Mom, Luke. I just wish there was a way I knew you knew that. And I'm gonna spend the rest of my life trying to figure this out, as best I can.

365 Days

January 13, 2012.

365 days ago, we learned of your existence, Luke.

I had a shopping list that went something like this: Cereal. Toothpaste. Toothbrush refills. Pregnancy tests. We'd just bought tickets to Coachella, and I was seriously freaking out about being pregnant and going to Coachella. The things I worried about then...

Oddly, it was Friday January 13. I'm not really one to be superstitious in any way, ever, but looking back on it now, that part sort of makes me wistful. What if I'd taken that test on January 14?

The rational part of me says that's absurd. I know it's absurd. It's just another what-if question that we'll never know the answer to, but probably wouldn't have made one bit of difference in how things played out.

We couldn't believe it happened so fast--getting pregnant. We knew we were ready, but didn't expect it to be that easy or quick. We called your grandparents and aunties and uncles and told them the good news. Everyone was so excited (and probably scared for us, let's be honest).

One year ago, we had all the hopes and dreams in the world that parents have for their children. You were so small then, and we were so naive and optimistic. Oblivious to the possibility of what could happen to you.

I'm so glad I got to spend all 9 months with you, though. I miss you so much, but I'm so glad I at least got that.

And now I'll probably spend the next 9 months referencing my other blog to find memories of our short time together...when I wish we could just be making new ones.

I miss you, Luke. I wish things didn't have to be this way.

We're trying to get through. And I feel like we're doing alright. But that doesn't change my yearning to have you here. That's never going to change.

Four Months

How has it already been four months since we lost you, Luke?

Sometimes I wonder how the 10th of each month will feel in a year. Or 10 years from now. I know the hole that you left will always be in my heart. But today, things feel easier. I don't know why. And I almost feel guilty that they feel that way.

Lately, I've felt a peace with you. I feel like you're embedded in everything I do, somehow. I think about you constantly, and it doesn't mean I miss you any less, or obsess about you, but there's just more peace now. I want to live life the way I'd want to for us. I will never be over you. You're engrained into my consciousness, and you'll be there forever.

My sweet boy--I wish this never had to happen to us--Being separated. But I can feel your spirit, and I know it's been carrying me and your Daddy every day since we lost you, and will for the rest of our lives.

For all the hours here that move too slow
There's all this letting go
that won't pass...

We'll always miss you, Luke.

Tiny Gifts

Monday night, two pretty awesome things came my way.

I got home from the gym, and Jeff had left out a Christmas card on the table. He handed it to me, and it was a card from his his brother's family. Inside, was a check. No small check. And they told us to do with it whatever we wanted.

First, it made me cry. Everytime I've received a card this holiday for Luke...I've cried. And not out of sadness, I don't think? I think it's more about being thankful. Thankful that everyone remembers him along with us. That people write his name down and acknowledge that he's our son. That he really happened. I hate that it scares people to talk to me about him. I can't guarantee that talking about him won't make me cry, but it makes my heart full. And sometimes that just triggers tears in my eyes.

So we decided that that check would be going into a college fund for Luke's potential brother or sister. We can't even thank them enough.

Then I opened an email from my sister...and well, it pretty much made me bawl. She told me about how she'd been to a book club meetup Sunday. She was casually invited by a friend, and that she actually hadn't even read the book, but decided to go anway, in a spell of spontaneity that she rarely exhibits. They discussed a book by a woman named Cheryl Strayed, who is also sometimes an advice columist on The Rumpus as Dear Sugar. Anyway...Ali mentioned that the girl next to her mentioned a passage. One that strongly resonated with her personally, as someone who'd been through many miscarriages.

Someone had addressed a letter to Sugar about the stillbirth of her daughter at 6 months. Any baby-loss parent should read this here. Because it's...everything. EVERYTHING.

Here's just some of it...

"Though we live in a time and place and culture that tries to tell us otherwise, suffering is what happens when truly horrible things happen to us.

Don’t listen to those people who suggest you should be “over” your daughter’s death by now. The people who squawk the loudest about such things have almost never had to get over any thing. Or at least not any thing that was genuinely, mind-fuckingly, soul-crushingly life altering. Some of those people believe they’re being helpful by minimizing your pain. Others are scared of the intensity of your loss and so they use their words to push your grief away. Many of those people love you and are worthy of your love, but they are not the people who will be helpful to you when it comes to healing the pain of your daughter’s death.

They live on Planet Earth. You live on Planet My Baby Died.

It seems to me that you feel like you’re all alone there. You aren’t. There are women reading this right now who have tears in their eyes. There are women who have spent their days chanting daughter, daughter or son, son silently to themselves. Women who have been privately tormented about the things they did or didn’t do that they fear caused the deaths of their babies. You need to find those women, darling. They’re your tribe.

I know because I’ve lived on a few planets that aren’t Planet Earth myself.

The healing power of even the most microscopic exchange with someone who knows in a flash precisely what you’re talking about because she experienced that thing too cannot be over-estimated. Call your local hospitals and birth centers and inquire about support groups for people who’ve lost babies at or before or shortly after birth. Read Elizabeth McCracken’s memoir An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination. Find online communities where you can have conversations with people during which you don’t have to pretend a thing.

...

This is how you get unstuck, Stuck. You reach. Not so you can walk away from the daughter you loved, but so you can live the life that is yours—the one that includes the sad loss of your daughter, but is not arrested by it. The one that eventually leads you to a place in which you not only grieve her, but also feel lucky to have had the privilege of loving her. That place of true healing is a fierce place. It’s a giant place. It’s a place of monstrous beauty and endless dark and glimmering light. And you have to work really, really, really fucking hard to get there, but you can do it, honey. You’re a woman who can travel that far. I know it.

...

You will never stop loving your daughter. You will never forget her. You will always know her name. But she will always be dead. Nobody can intervene and make that right and nobody will. Nobody can take it back with silence or push it away with words. Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can’t cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away. It’s just there, and you have to survive it. You have to endure it. You have to live though it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal. Therapists and friends and other people who live on Planet My Baby Died can help you along the way, but the healing—the genuine healing, the actual real deal down-on-your-knees-in-the-mud change—is entirely and absolutely up to you..."
Dear Sugar: July 15, 2010--How You Get Unstuck

I read this with tears. I've read tons about the process of healing, but I don't feel like anything has hit me as hard as reading this has. In a bit of serendipity, I'd mentioned to my sister yesterday that I'd started reading that book Sugar recommended above, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination and that I'm really connecting to it...Not knowing that they'd discussed this the day before at the book club meeting.

It helped us both feel that we're still somehow connected to Luke. Maybe he's doing something from wherever he is that pushed my sister to go to that book club meeting so she could find this guidance and share it with me--from him. That's how I like to think of it, anyway.