Monday, November 21, 2011

Shot to Pieces.

Yesterday I was so upset about the hat that I completely forgot to tell yall about my visit with the hospital. Maybe that was part of what was upsetting me, in all honesty.

I had to see a doctor in Flight Medicine last week to check up on my asthma. After everything was done, I walked down to the other side of the hospital, where the OB clinic and Labor & Delivery are. I walked out three times before I could muster the courage to walk down their hall. I found someone that could direct me to the right person to talk to. My chest was so tight I'm surprised I could even talk.

"We already have a bereavement program in place. We even have a monthly support system."

Wait. WHAT?!

I tried to hold back tears as I explained to her that we had lost our baby in April and nothing had been available to us. (Or as it seems, nothing had been made available to us.) I told her about creating these memory boxes so that parents would have something.

She was nice. She apologized that no one told us anything was available for us. She showed me the boxes they have, and she told me I could keep one if I wanted, even though she knows it doesn't change anything.

But it seems like it's a no go on donating our boxes.

I'm super bummed. Probably about this more than anything else that's going on or making me feel crappy lately.

I'm trying so hard with this project. I felt like another face, a simple statistic, when I lost my baby. I didn't want to hear generic textbook "this is how grief works" references. I wanted to know that my milk was going to come in and that it was going to hurt like hell, and I wanted to know what I could do it make it stop. I wanted to know that I could at least try to find out what was possibly wrong with me or my baby and how to be more watchful for signs in the future. I wanted to know about funeral homes and services because I was terrified of how much that was going to cost to bury my baby with dignity. I wanted to know that therapists were available who had experience with this kind of loss, even if I chose to not talk to one. I wanted to know that I would continue to bleed and pass huge pieces of tissue for several weeks and that I would end up sleeping with puppy pads on my bed to keep from ruining my sheets. Most of all, I wanted to know that my baby was real. Not a fetus. Not medical waste. Not a miscarriage. A baby. A baby that deserves blankets, stuffed animals, and lots of love, just like any other baby. I needed to know that there was hope beyond this crippling loss.

I want to change that for other families. I want them to have the information they really want and need. The help that those pamphlets can't give them. The answers to so many questions they don't know to ask. I want them to know that they are not alone, that there really is hope in tomorrow, even though today hurts so damn bad and tomorrow seems so far away.

I feel like several months of hard work were shot to pieces in a matter of minutes.

But I'm trying to keep my head up. I have a check up next week to make sure things are still going well down there. At the risk of being shot down again, I'm taking one of my boxes in with me. The RN in the clinic is the one in charge of the support program I was told about, so I'm going to talk with her about it too. I've never been good at taking no for an answer. It's worth a shot, right?


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