5 Months

Another month has passed. Soon Owen will have been gone longer than he was with me. Now, if that's not a dubious milestone I don't know what is.

As I've mentioned before, I've been working really hard to deal with what is and not what might have been, but in moments like these I can't help but dream of the family we might have had...........

Peace

Since Owen died, I've found that my wishes are simpler. Instead of grand plans for the future, I just want to get through the day complete- or complete enough. I don't always wish for perfection or even happiness, just survival. It's something that has made me very sad. I really don't want to just survive. I want to glory in my life. But I am afraid. Do you think one can make a conscious decision to be hopeful again? To dream big while knowing that the worst can happen to you? I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this, but during this holiday season, I've found myself coming back to the same phrase, time and time again. A friend wrote to me that she wished for me to find "the peace that passes all understanding." It has stuck with me. I think that's really what I need. Peace even when there should be none. Hope when it doesn't make sense to be hopeful. Joy in the midst of sorrow. I wish that for all of us this holiday season.

* That Story

In my post 'The Other Side' , I mentioned a story that Dr. M told at Owen's burial that I truly believe helped me survive that awful day. I want to share it with you, but first I need to give you some background. My mom passed away in February 2006 after a brief and awful illness. She started not feeling well around Christmas, was diagnosed with cholan*giocarcinoma in January, and was gone by the end of February. In two short months, she went from being this amazing, caring, full of life woman to someone who could not walk from her bed to the bathroom reliably. My father cared for her until the very end and she died in his arms. She died the day before I was coming to help Daddy take care of her. I think that was on purpose. I don't think she wanted me to have to care for her, she wanted to be taking care of me. My mom was, at the risk of bragging, everything one could ask for in a mother. She loved us unconditionally and with her whole heart, and we knew it. Needless to say her death was the worst thing I had ever experienced. Until I lost Owen.

The night I spent in the hospital laboring with Owen, I had a vision of my mother. She was walking toward me from down a long dark hall and as she got closer, I could see she was holding something in her arms. She pulled away the blanket and showed me the tiny baby in her arms. She leaned over and kissed him and we locked eyes. Then she turned and walked away. That moment gave me the strength I needed to carry on. However, over the next few days I lost my certainty of what I had seen to my all encompassing despair. I didn't tell anyone what I had seen.

At the service, Dr. M (the minister of the church I grew up in) began by saying that something had happened to him that he felt compelled to share. He told us that the day before the service, he went into his office at the church to gather together some materials. Dr. M.'s office is packed from floor to ceiling on pretty much all surfaces with books. He reached up to pull one book down and a card tumbled to the floor. As he told the story, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. This, he said, is what I found. It was the prayer card from my mom's burial service, held nearly a year and a half earlier.

Still Here

Just a quick boring post to let you know that I'm still around. I've been ridiculously busy with holiday stuff and trying cope with the overwhelming sense of anxiety and stress I'm feeling. I'm anxious about everything and I hate it. Just dealing with the small stuff is taking everything I've got these days.

I miss my baby. This sucks.

Scars

Owen's autopsy revealed some evidence of abnormal bleeding, especially in his brain, which is believed to have led to his death. There really is no explanation for this bleeding which is usually the result of severe trauma (for example, a major car accident or if someone beat the cr@p out of me), cocain.e use, some sort of bleeding disorder (either mine or his), or the oh so satisfying "unknown etiology."
Since we could easily rule out the first two, the doctors suggested that, while it is highly unlikely I have any bleeding disorder given my history of no bleeding problems and two healthy living children, I consult with a hemotologist. So, given my insane need to try and find a reason for all of this, we decided to go for it. I met with hematologist/oncologist several weeks ago. She was nice but her office is in a major cancer center. She ordered a whole slew of blood tests, the last of which I had done this morning. You know your life really sucks when the bald, emaciated cancer patients in the waiting room are tearing up and telling you how sorry they are for you. These particular tests required drawing what felt like half my blood volume for platelet testing and then something the lab tech called a bleeding time test. This was great fun. Basically, he put a blood pressure cuff on my arm, pumped it up, gouged my forearm, and stood there watching me bleed. I guess it went well. After the test was over, he was bandaging me up and commented, "You are so fair, this definitely going to leave a scar. You'll probably have it the rest of your life." I replied, "At least this one will be visible."

Animal Instinct

I remember reading a story a long time ago about a gorilla at a zoo that had a baby that had been born dead or died shortly after and she continued to carry it around with her- the zoo-keepers thought she didnt realize it had died, but now I'm not so sure. Sometimes, I think that if it were an option, if I weren't afraid of other people committing me, I would have brought Owen home with me and carried him around with me until there was nothing left. Even now the urge to have him with me physically is so strong that I sit caressing the tiny spot of blood left on his gown. That stained gown is one of my most precious posessions. It's all I have of him.

Fortitude

I was passed the flame of fortitude by C. over at My Resurfacing a few days ago. I'll admit it took me this long to figure out exactly how to display it and how to pass it on (technology has never been my strong suit.)


As C. stated so eloquently, "The flame represents strength, resiliency, perseverance, and honours those who share their struggle and their journey - regardless of how difficult - with so many others. "

With that in mind I would like to pass the flame to three women who inspire me:
Yummy Sushi Pajamas
Missing Micah
Southern Bella


I have been blessed by the women I have 'met' while blogging. Just knowing you are out there has gotten me through some days when I felt the fight had gone out of me. It is because of you that my flame still burns.

A Sore Spot

Last night, JD was talking about something and referred to our empty bedroom as Owen's room. I about bit his head off and snapped "That's not Owen's room. It never was." I surprised myself with my vehemence. Later, I apologized to JD. I guess I still get really angry when I am reminded of what might have been.