Yesterday it finally came. Someone asked me if I had only the two girls.
I have thought about what I would say when someone asked me that question and I am pleased to say that I said exactly what I hoped to.
I answered, "I have three kids; my son was recently stillborn."
The lady knew someone that had lost a child as stillborn so we talked about it for a bit. I feel bad when I have to tell someone "the news". I feel bad for them because it's not what they expect. The first time someone asked me "how is the new baby?" was the day after Austin's funeral. The girls' ballet recital was that day and I couldn't miss it. I felt very vulnerable but I was brave and had Janna as my guardian. So a mom came up and said "I see you had your baby!" I nodded and walked away. Janna explained to the poor lady because I felt bad for being rude. Now I matter-of-factly explain to people who ask what happened. It's not hard for me to say the words anymore but I am sorry for the effect it causes. The last week of school last year I only had two weeks left so everyone last saw me as huge. Now that school has begun again many moms have asked about the baby. I tell them and get different responses. One mom cried, one mom quickly changed the subject.
I hate awkwardness. I hate pity. I hate being avoided. I feel avoided everywhere I go (including church) so I am grateful for friends that I know I can look at and they won't look away. I am grateful for friends that I can talk to about Austin and they respond. They comment about him. He is a person to them, not a scary thing that should be avoided at all costs. I'm grateful for the loving comments I have received on this blog. I am actually surprised by all the kind responses I have had. I hope when I see you in person you will respond the same way. It's been two and a half months but I still need reassurance that I matter and that my son matters.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
To those with babies
Okay, so now I've been thinking that maybe some people might be uneasy about seeing me after reading my blog. Because I am so sad about my baby and write very candidly about my emotions I thought someone might not want to talk to me in person if they have a new baby. Yes, seeing new babies does make me sad, but it also doesn't help for me to pretend they don't exist. So if you have a new baby, please, you can talk to me!! I'll pay more attention to you than to your baby but please don't avoid me.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Second Day
Okay here goes.
Mostly all I think about is my beautiful baby. So that is what I will probably write about the most. There's a lot of people that I'm not sure how they feel about me talking about my baby Austin, but I need to talk about him. I need to tell people about him. This will be a good way to me to get my feelings out but not make anyone have to be awkward in front of me. Hopefully this will help others to feel comfortable talking to me about Austin and asking me questions. Feel free to ask me questions!
So yesterday I was feeling that there are a few people (not anyone I know personally but have read a bit of a blog) that don't feel that having a stillborn child is as terrible an experience as losing a child later. I think about things more than they should be thought of, but I felt as though I still shouldn't be mourning. I only had 9 hours with my son and I mourn all the milestones that I won't have with him now. There is so much ache and loss in my heart because I never had any time with him alive outside the womb. I never even saw his eyes. I think that's something to mourn for right there. I am still mourning and it will last my entire life.
I've struggled with how to explain my emotions because it is such a roller coaster. I found on the same blog as above a great analogy of grief. It describes really well what it is.
You don't get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.
You don't want to get over it. Don't act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child's life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you'd fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere inside you, you know that.
The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.
Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it's still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.
The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.
But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.
You learn to play that piano. You're surprised to find that you want to play, that it's meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief -- together -- begin to compose hope. Who'da thought?
Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you're 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child's life mattered.
You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play.
Since Austin died I have only played my piano a couple times. Usually I pound on it every day. Slowly, I am beginning to play again.
Mostly all I think about is my beautiful baby. So that is what I will probably write about the most. There's a lot of people that I'm not sure how they feel about me talking about my baby Austin, but I need to talk about him. I need to tell people about him. This will be a good way to me to get my feelings out but not make anyone have to be awkward in front of me. Hopefully this will help others to feel comfortable talking to me about Austin and asking me questions. Feel free to ask me questions!
So yesterday I was feeling that there are a few people (not anyone I know personally but have read a bit of a blog) that don't feel that having a stillborn child is as terrible an experience as losing a child later. I think about things more than they should be thought of, but I felt as though I still shouldn't be mourning. I only had 9 hours with my son and I mourn all the milestones that I won't have with him now. There is so much ache and loss in my heart because I never had any time with him alive outside the womb. I never even saw his eyes. I think that's something to mourn for right there. I am still mourning and it will last my entire life.
I've struggled with how to explain my emotions because it is such a roller coaster. I found on the same blog as above a great analogy of grief. It describes really well what it is.
You don't get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.
You don't want to get over it. Don't act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child's life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you'd fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere inside you, you know that.
The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.
Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it's still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.
The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.
But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.
You learn to play that piano. You're surprised to find that you want to play, that it's meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief -- together -- begin to compose hope. Who'da thought?
Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you're 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child's life mattered.
You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play.
Since Austin died I have only played my piano a couple times. Usually I pound on it every day. Slowly, I am beginning to play again.
Wow!!
Wow, the power of Tiffani. Are you sure you want to read??? It might get hairy and scary and sometimes sad and dreary!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The First Day
I will go back later and review some happenings in the past, but for today I will only write about today.
Today I chose a headstone for my baby. Something I never imagined doing, so I had to think about this for a while. What do you put on a slab of rock about a baby that you never really knew? I didn't want it to be cutesy but I also didn't want it to be formal. I think it will be just right. We are putting Austin's picture on it (which costs $500 for that alone). There are two other small images on it, but if you want to know what they are you will have to go visit him at the cemetary in two months and see it for yourselves. Headstones cost ALOT. More than the funeral and the cemetary plot combined. Our heads are spinning slightly from the price, but I wanted it done exactly the way I wanted it. This is a lasting tribute to my son and also one of the extremely few things I can do for him. It's terrible that everything costs.
I might like this blogging. Sometimes I don't feel heard, so this might be a way to feel that maybe someone might be listening.
Today I chose a headstone for my baby. Something I never imagined doing, so I had to think about this for a while. What do you put on a slab of rock about a baby that you never really knew? I didn't want it to be cutesy but I also didn't want it to be formal. I think it will be just right. We are putting Austin's picture on it (which costs $500 for that alone). There are two other small images on it, but if you want to know what they are you will have to go visit him at the cemetary in two months and see it for yourselves. Headstones cost ALOT. More than the funeral and the cemetary plot combined. Our heads are spinning slightly from the price, but I wanted it done exactly the way I wanted it. This is a lasting tribute to my son and also one of the extremely few things I can do for him. It's terrible that everything costs.
I might like this blogging. Sometimes I don't feel heard, so this might be a way to feel that maybe someone might be listening.
This is a test
Tiffani Harker told me I should start a blog. I said no one would read it, to which she laughed. Okay, Tiffani, prove me wrong.
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