One Month

When words fail me, I let the music speak in my place.

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Picture of You

Mr. Hudson & The Library

It's always the sunny days that bring me down

When I'm reminded that you're not around

Friends try and fail to make me smile

But I had the answer with me all the while.

I've got a picture of you

Wherever I go

A sweet reminder from you to me

I'm never alone.

Sometimes at night I wonder watching all the faces

Knowing I won't see you

No there is no other face that could replace

The one that's gone

No one could be you

No

I've got a picture of you

A sweet reminder from you to me

I'm never alone.

Green Means Go

In my recent visit to the OB-Gyn he told me that we can begin preparing my body for implantation of our 4 remaining embryos as soon as I get my period.

That soon?

While we have discussed the possibility of having more children, specifically going back for the 4 embryos we still have, I hadn't really thought about it happening so soon after Ines passing away. In fact, yesterday marked the 1st month of her birth. Tomorrow will be a month since she passed away.

I don't know what to feel.

I have to admit that I'm scared. Scared that what happened with Ines will happen again. Scared that something else might go wrong.

I also want to go back for the embryos that are still there. For me they are already babies so there was never any question of going back for them, especially after Ines was gone. I'm just not sure if I'm ready to go back for them now. But I worry that if we wait too long to go back for them, they might not survive the thawing process.

And I don't know if I should take a break. For Pilar. For my body. For my mind.

John of course just wants us to get it over and done with. So that we can move on --- pregnant or otherwise.

Argh.......my mind is about to explode with all these thoughts. 

Random Musings

The saxophonist for the Dave Matthews Band died today. In remembering him, Dave Matthews said: "Its easier to leave than be left."

After the loss of my Dad and Ines, I'm beginning to see that there's a lot of truth in that statement.

It's always up to the living to pick up the pieces, try to put life back together and move on.

Life has moved on. Things have kind of gotten back to normal.

And it because of the return to normalcy that I find myself lying awake at night, wracked with guilt, wondering why it hurts less to think of her now than it did a few weeks ago.

Does it mean I did not love her so much? Or is it because I never got the chance to know her and therefore not have enough to miss that things seem to be getting better?

What's in a Name

I read this in one of the many child-loss articles that I've been reading, and I find it a very appropriate question:

A woman who loses a husband is a widow.

A man who loses a wife is a widower.

A child who loses his parents is an orphan.

What do you call a parent who loses a child?

The Unshaven Man

He sleeps. Snoring contentedly away. 

Well, he has to go to sleep early - he has to work tomorrow. I on the other hand am contemplating evading the mommies and other curious folk at the preschool and staying at home to sweep the room and put away 3 weeks worth of laundry (if I'm not sidetracked by Guitar Hero).

Tonight, while having dinner with friends, he constantly had his arm around me. He would rub my shoulder or hold me close. Without words he lets me know: I am here for you. Let me know when this gets to be too much. 

He is trying to protect me from the pain I might feel from awkwardly posed statements or too-probing questions.

And this is why he is the love of my life. This big bear of a man. Quiet, shy, and of few words --- no one could be more different from me. But no one could understand me more.

He has not shaved for almost 3 weeks. It freaks people out. Most of them think its a "new look" that he's trying to cultivate. But he stopped shaving when Ines passed away. This is how he expresses his grief. He doesn't cry. He doesn't write long blog posts. He doesn't search the internet for local support groups or contemplates putting up his own.

He wakes up at odd hours in the night. He searches for poetry on the net about grief and loss. He edits the handful of photos we have of her. And he doesn't shave. He said once that it feels so strange to have our lives change so much and have everything still the same.

So perhaps the beard is a mark. His quiet way of saying: Something happened to me. My life is no longer the same. So I don't look the same. See Ines, you are not forgotten.

As scratchy as it is, I gently kiss his bearded cheek.

A League of Our Own

It's not the sort of club I'd ask my friends to join. Sometimes its hard for me to understand how I got here. And yet, here I am.

A parent who has lost a child.

In the weeks following Ines' passing people have been opening up to me, sharing with me their stories of loss and love. 

Friends (and friends of friends) have shared similar experiences about losing a child, either to miscarriage or death following birth. 

Complete strangers have opened up to me, sharing their pain, their hopes, and encouragement. Yes, complete strangers. One was a tele-marketer for Dr. Edward's bottled water for kids. She called one day to follow up if I received my starter pack from the hospital. I tried to gently tell her that I didn't get anything (since we were in the Neonatal ICU the entire time Ines was there). But she kept pushing, asking since we were home already if my baby had tried the water already. So I bluntly told her: "Miss, I did not get to bring my baby home. She died in the hospital". She got quiet, then she started crying on the phone. Seriously. After a while she told me that she started crying because hearing about Ines' passing reminded her of her own baby's death last year. Due to hydrocephalus.  And then she spent the next hour sharing with me her own tragic story, and the eventual birth of her healthy baby who just turned one this June.

How I wish we we shared other things instead.

Their stories bring me comfort. While I would never want anyone to go through what we've been going through the past couple of weeks, it gives me hope to know that people do go on. Life goes on.

And yes, you can be brave enough to have more kids.

Although its a conversation I'm not ready to have yet, I no longer have the urge to give away the things I bought for Ines. I'm no longer afraid to open that special closet that I set aside for her --- the one that has her new clothes, her feeding bottles, her bibs, and the tiny mittens that John and I bought  a week before she was born, then passed away.

These things can stay in the closet. And hopefully one day, I can open that closet and dust off those things because a new baby has come into our lives. 

That is the story I would rather share with you all.

Letting Go

I am afraid to let go of the pain and the sorrow

The milk has dried up

My stomach has shrunk

I have lost the 10 pounds that I was supposed to gain

Even the calluses

From playing Guitar Hero to put her to sleep

Are starting to peel

All that is left

Are the new baby clothes

With the price tags still on

The new high chair

Still in its box

And the blood

The blood still flows

But even that 

Will soon be gone

What will I have left of her then?

So I hold sorrow and pain close

Wishing they were her instead.