Why "Baby Loss Crap"?

I chose this unconventional name after hearing myself say to close friends "yes, we're still doing this baby loss crap".

Or to a new family "yes, it is not fair, it's unexpected, it's messy, it's hard and at times, it's total crap".

Sometimes, when I'm feeling like I need to be totally truthful with the person standing in front of me I'll call it "baby loss crap".

There is no sweet phrase to describe this journey. I tried for years to make sense of it and to ask out loud the big question "why?"

I chose my words carefully, to spare the rest of the world the pain of knowing what this is truly like.

But being authentic is important to me and living one part of my life to meet the expectations of everyone else is taking too much energy.

This is the year that I promised myself I would take off the mask and show my true self.

And part of my true self is being authentically comfortable with my own journey, not just those I help.

So there it is: baby loss crap, the good, the bad, the ugly, but always true!

Mothering Bretton

I mother you from afar. Your touch is non-existent, your scent foreign to my senses. I have no idea if the picture in my mind of what you look like is accurate. Everything about you is a guess and a wish.

I mother you from afar, because in this world, you do not exist. You live only in my dreams and those vanish in the morning light. I dream of blonde curls and big blue eyes, dimples on your cheeks and at the top of your little round bum. Grubby hands and ripped jeans. Toys on your bedroom floor and books scattered across your bed. Pulling your little sisters hair and teasing the dog. Wanting to tag along with your older brothers but at 11, not quite old enough to be in their league. You dream of the day you can drive the car, like Brady. You pluck the guitar and wish you could play, like Brodie.

I mother you from afar because on the day you left, I made a promise that I would still be your mother. It may seem strange to others but the simplest act brings comfort to my soul. The chocolate cake with your name on it waits on the kitchen table for all of us to gather and sing your song. You are not here to enjoy the taste but we hope you are here to enjoy the  melody.

I mother you from afar to hold the ache in my heart at bay. Somehow, the act of mothering you makes this lonely journey a worthwhile process. My gut twists with envy when I hear another mother scold her young son for getting dirty or talking back. I wish, even just for a moment, to see you, to hold you and to hear your voice; too old to be a baby anymore but still young enough to fit into my arms. I would give anything for that chance.

I mother you from afar because it keeps me alive, day after day. They say that time heals the hurt of loss, that we soon forget and move on. But that hasn't happened yet Bretton. I remember every moment of our journey together and I know I will never, ever forget what you have taught us and the gifts you have provided.

I mother you from afar because I cannot mother you any other way. It is the least I can do and the most I can do. I am grateful for the support, the space and the time offered to me to be your mother, if only for a moment in time and a lifetime of wonder.

I mother you from afar now, with the hope that one day, I will mother you in person.

*In loving memory of Bretton-Elijah Lucas, born still on Tuesday, March 25th, 1996 @ 2:20 a.m. into the arms of his loving family. Written on the eve of Bretton's 12th birthday, March 24th, 2008.

Sensitive

Experiencing the death of my baby has affected every part of my being. How I view the world, how I react to others, how I now envision the rest of my life.

Experiencing the death of my baby the second time has made the affects even more intense. Anything that I have lived since and continue to live now have been totally guided by these two heart wrenching  experiences.

Experiencing the deaths of six small babies that were born so early, we don't even know if they were boys or girls. Many people don't know we've had this many losses. It hurts to know that they often have strong opinions about how many children we should and did have. To have to say, one more time, "I'm sorry to tell you we lost another baby" meant often, we didn't tell. Bretton's death, followed by Ciara's death, marked the time in my life when I began to hear "she's very sensitive, be careful" and "sorry, we kept that from you because you're so sensitive."

I am sensitive. I’m sure I came out of the womb feeling sensitive to everything. The lights, touch, smells, the air. I can remember being a very young child and reacting to the emotions around me. For most of my life, others have described me as sensitive and each time I hear the term now as an adult, I cringe. I cringe, because it is never delivered to me as a positive attribute but one that I obviously need to work on, one that holds me back from moving forward and one that I have to carry as a descriptive burden of my personality. Loss has exacerbated these to the point that it takes me forever to let anyone in to my life and even then, those relationships may not be solid and long-lasting. I no longer trust, no longer try and no longer truly care.