Blue.

A few posts ago, I told yall about the blue hydrangeas by our stairs that just refuse to give up their color.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It snowed briefly a few days ago. Winter is here in the Pacific Northwest, whether I like it or not. (I don't, for the record.)

And these guys?

Still there. Still bright as ever. Still not letting go.

They make my heart happy.

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?

One Day at a Time.

 

I bought a knitting loom. I made a tiny baby hat with it. I was so excited and proud of myself. And then....I started crying. 

I hate this. Knowing that babies out there are tiny enough to fit this hat. Knowing so well what these babies look like. Knowing that when most people think of pregnancy and new babies, they picture a healthy, full term baby kicking and screaming its way into the world.....and when I think of it, all I can see is a silent, tiny baby just big enough to fit across both palms.

I hate being here, in this world of being a mother but not quite a mother. I hate that so many of you know exactly what I'm talking about because you are right there too.

I've been seeing a lot of prenatal issues and infant death articles in the news lately. I hate those too. I'm happy that someone is pushing the issue, don't get me wrong about that. But I get so mad when I read them because it sounds like the issues are being pushed for all the wrong reasons. And the statistics and facts sound so misleading and unimportant. I hate that I can tell the people writing them have most likely never lost a child.

There's an awful lot of hate in this post today. But it's the truth. Hate and depression. I don't have the energy motivation to get out of bed most days, especially on days that I have to go into work.

My flashbacks at work are getting worse. I started noticing a trend with them. The worst ones always happened when I was having to use a ladder. And then I realized that the last thing I did at work was on a ladder. My boss argued that I could do this particular job because it was in the hangar, since I wasn't supposed to be allowed on the flight line. He completely ignored the fact that I had been told I should be completely pulled from maintenance at this point, but he said I still had to do something since I was still in the shop, at least until they could find something else for me to do. So at five months pregnant, I spent about half the shift standing a ladder, trying to help them route a heat sensing element (it's a thick wire that runs through the engine compartment to sense an overheat/fire). It hurt so bad. I would get off the ladder to throw up and then have to go right back up. I hurt in muscles I didn't even know I had. I held my aching back and tried to hold back tears. I started spotting that night. The ER found loose blood in my uterus, but they couldn't tell where it was coming from so they sent me home. I followed up with my OB, who said there was no blood and that everything was fine. Within four hours of being home from the OB, I was delivering my son in my bathroom floor. I left work 5 months pregnant and miserable. I came back a month later not pregnant and even more miserable. And now every time I climb onto a ladder, that entire weekend replays in my head.


I really need a new job. But Bryan is still in school. Until he graduates and gets a decent job, my job is the only thing we have keeping us afloat. So I can't do anything but keep dragging myself out of bed and forcing a smile onto my face and making it through, one day at a time.