On Becoming a Rainbow Mother

They call a child conceived after a loss a rainbow baby. It's the beauty after the storm.  I embrace that terminology, mostly because it's the commonly accepted vernacular.

I don't think it's the baby himself, though . The death is the storm, but not the baby.  No stillbirth mother, to my knowledge, views her child as a storm. The death is the storm. The chance of new life, the happiness and joy being, at least in part, restored by a new pregnancy, a new baby, that is the rainbow. The Mama finally feels the rainbow. To be clear, the rainbow doesn't erase the storm, nor does it make us forget. The rainbow is simply a moment of beauty and grace.

I hate, with a passion, when people, consciously or not, dampen the spirits and happiness of a rainbow mother. 

A "normal" mother is showered in love and happiness and excitement. If anyone even thinks of miscarriage or loss, they would never say it. You just don't say that to a pregnant woman. Ignorance is bliss. It's all hugs, and kisses, and congratulations, and tears.

A rainbow mama, particularly a stillbirth rainbow mama, doesn't get that. She's scared, but this is her rainbow. She deserves celebration and joy as much, if not more, than the "normal". Why, then, is it so hard to come by?

Voices are hushed. In lieu of exuberance and excitement there is a quiet promise to pray for you. In lieu of congratulations and hugs there is a worried look in the eye, a tightening of the mouth, a pitying tilt of the head. In lieu of joy there is doubt. In lieu of hugs there is a distant arm pat.

This is bullshit.

We are not broken. A rainbow Mama NEEDS to celebrate. A rainbow Mama has already lost a child. Why must she lose her hope and joy as well? Why must she be made to fear more than she already does? Why must she get less? Why must it be this way?

Please, just hug the rainbow Mama. Tell her congratulations and MEAN it. It's not that hard.

The journey doesn't end

Right after Charlotte died, in the midst of all of the haze of anger and sadness, I got this feeling that I was embarking on a long journey. Like each day living with and coping with my grief was a footstep that was taking me somewhere. Months later, I started to feel like you do on a trip....so anxious to get there so that you can enjoy the beach or wherever it is you're headed.

I've recently realized that this journey doesn't end. There is no beach, not really. I did set out on a journey, but it's one that just goes on. The scenery has gotten nicer. The drive has become more comfortable.  But there is no destination. (I am illogical bothered that in my last paragraph I talked about it as a journey of steps but have now mixed my metaphor by placing myself in a car. Once an English major, always...)

I don't mean this as bleak as it may sound. It's not that life is this unending journey of pain. Far from it. It's just that there is no end point. There is no point at which I will arrive at the end of my daughter's death and say, "I'm here!" The journey of grief is one that becomes a part of my journey of life, and that's ok.

I still miss Charlotte every day. I still think of her every day. She's my daughter, and being her mother is as much a part of me as the color of my eyes.

I love being her mother.

That said, some days the journey is still hard. Some days I need someone to remind me that I'm still moving. Some days it's harder to appreciate the scenery.

The journey doesn't end. It just goes on. I'm learning to embrace that.

Tiny moments

When I feel really down, there's almost always a tiny moment that redeems me.

It was cold, windy, and damp this morning. I'd stayed up too late to finish The Fault in Our Stars, with which I was thoroughly underwhelmed. I was assured over and over again (granted, by students, but still...) that it was wonderful and would make me cry SO hard...and, despite a few quiet tears, I just found it a little depressing. No real cathartic sobbing, as I was promised. I had a bit of a tiring day yesterday, so two hours sleep felt pretty paltry. We had four delayed openings right on the heels of a two week winter break, so the 5am alarm was even more jarring. Long story short (too late) it was a rough morning.

In the dark of the driveway in front of the day care lady's house, Mia asked, "Is Charlotte watching out for me, Mama?" So simply, as if she'd asked why it's dark out or where is her grandma. It's too cold for butterflies. I don't know what her little head was thinking about. I quickly answered, "Of course, sweetheart. She's always looking out for us, isn't she?"

She nodded. "Yeah," she said, "Charlotte's nice."

Yes, she is, Mia. You're right.

Assumptions on Stillbirth Funerals

I got a Kindle book yesterday. Have been reading more over winter break. Since I have amazon Prime, I decided to try the free book borrow feature, and I found one that was a stillbirth mommy memoir. This is apparently a genre. A small genre, but a genre none the less.

The book begins with the funeral. Here is where I need to own up to my assumptions. I jumped to the conclusion that, since they were having a funeral (casket, readings, burial, etc), she was a full-term stillborn momma. She wasn't. She was just like me. Well, not just like me, but like me in duration of pregnancy....two weeks less, actually, which is technically a late term miscarriage instead of stillbirth. No one will ever say that to her, but it's accurate. I don't know why. It's a stupid distinction, if you ask me, and I maintain that mothers be allowed to feel and mourn however they want. But that's not the point...

We didn't have a funeral for Charlotte. I didn't want to. There is no decision more painful and surreal than deciding what to do with the body of your dead child. It was literally a consious step-back moment that I remember from that day in the hospital. How do you even explain that to a funeral home? No one ever expects to make that decision, so it's a very absurdist situation. Or it at least feels it.

I felt like no one really knew her or loved her the way Mike and I did. I didn't think people would understand. I didn't think people would understand how to mourn for her in the way I needed to mourn, so I didn't want to see them screw it up. No one ever questioned our decision.

I found myself jealous of this random writer-woman and her funeral with a tiny casket. Charlotte was cremated. That was my choice. I couldn't understand or handle the thought of having her be away from us. I wanted to keep her with me. The first few days were the hardest, when we waited for all the paperwork to process and her body to be sent to the funeral home for cremation. I just wanted her with me. I brought her cremains to the beach with us when we went to the beach two weeks later. I just wanted her nearby. The closest we had to a funeral was placing her cremains in the silver heart box I picked out and later arranging her shelf on the curio cabinet. No mourners, besides her parents. No casket, just a little box. As a side note, there is a catalogue of urns that the funeral home had of all shapes and sizes, including cremain jewelry: keep your loved one with you (quite literally) every day. Nope. Not me. I considered a tattoo, but that's as far as it went. She's with me beyond physical, I know.

But still...I was jealous of this woman and her funeral. I wonder now if our reticence to have a funeral made it seem like we didn't want to mourn in a traditional sense. I wonder, if we had a funeral, if people might have understood more. I wonder, if we had a funeral, if maybe it would have legitimized or at least formalized our pain that I'm still so surprised people just didn't understand.  I wonder, if we had a funeral, if things might not have been so lonely and disappointing.

I wonder, if we had a funeral, if people still wouldn't care or wouldn't get it. I wonder if people would even come. I wonder if that would be worse.

I don't know if I'll read the rest of the book.

On Being Annoying

So, every time I try to think about verbalizing this, I think of the Muppets (the recent movie) and i think that might invalidate the depth of my feelings on the subject. There's a moment when they go to get Animal out of therapy, and Jack Black whispers, "we don't use the word drum...it's his trigger word."

"Annoying" is my trigger word.

It doesn't even have to be verbalized. When I know someone is annoyed by me or thinks I am annoying in general, it triggers me. Instant shame spiral: dark emotions swirling, self-doubting pit. I can't stop it. I wish I could.

This happened to me yesterday. It wasn't verbalized, but then, it doesn't have to be. I got the meaning, and the darkness swirled.

I'm still in the pit, a bit. I don't want to be in the pit. I don't want to have trigger words. I don't want to constantly question my status in every relationship I have.

I do, though.

It's that whole adolescent scarring thing rearing it's ugly head again. I hate HATE being perceived as annoying. It just makes me feel....unlovable. Unloved. Alone. Hopeless. It puts a filter on my life for a few days until the darkness clears. It's like the ani-rose colored glasses, and it sucks. A lot. I question everyone and everything.

I'm trying really hard to claw my way out of my pit today. Hence the rambling post. I want to enjoy Christmas with my kids. I found myself snapping at Mia this morning when it wasn't her fault, and I don't like that about myself.

Can I get a little divine intervention, maybe? Could use a butterfly today. It would be a great day for a sign.

Trust

I sent my husband a text last night (he was working) that I think sums up my life fairly well. The true measure of how much I trust someone is if I choose to open up to them about Charlotte, with bonus points for those with whom I share my blog. Most people don't have something that concrete. It wasn't really a conscious thing...until my epiphany last night, that is...but I literally can count the people that I really trust. There isn't a grey area. That said, I can count on two hands the number of people I put into this category. I don't know if that says something good or bad about me. I suppose it's good that I'm selective, yes? I'll just gloss over the paranoid, untrusting background and go with selective. Yes. I'm selective.

*My messed up moment of the day: as I wrote the above paragraph, I actually paused, concerned that my writing this would make the people on the trusted list uncomfortable. By definition, those on the list are the ones that would read this.  You know those people who think they're a closer friend of yours than you thought? The ones who want to hang out when you were really just study group partners? The ones that are the clingy girlfriend who wants to send out Christmas cards together before you've reached the appropriate stage of your relationship?

Yeah....I don't want to be like that. Then again, I literally JUST said that the people on that very short list are the people I trust. I think I need to trust that they're cool being on my short list. So...you don't mind sending a metaphorical Christmas card with me, do you?

Due date +2 years.

It's been two years since Charlotte should have been born.  She would be two.  Wow.  

I was in Richmond today.  It was an hour and a half drive.  I listened to Christmas music the whole way (thanks to my wonderful husband finally putting music on my phone and my awesome bluetooth stereo in my car), but I had a lot of time to think.  

It's funny, really.  The first year, her due date was ridiculously hard.  It was symbolic.  It should have been her birthday.  It was representative of everything that should have been and so very clearly wasn't.  But it's been two years.  It's not her birthday anymore.  Her birthday is in July.  The fifth of December only has meaning in that it helps me mark time.  I'll be honest: I actually had forgotten the exact date until I saw my timehop this morning which had a few images I posted on facebook two years ago.  

I don't know how to feel about that.  A paranoid piece of me worries that it means I'm forgetting her. I know that's not true.  I know that I think about her every day.  I know that I listen for the wind chimes all the time.  They're blowing right now, as a matter of fact, and I can hear them as I sit in the office.  

I know it's just that the day she was born, the day Mike and I got to spend with her, is her celebration, and so that is the day we remember her.  We choose to celebrate her life, not mourn what should have been.  This is why the 22nd of July is so important and the 5th of December has faded a bit.  The 5th of December is really kind of arbitrary, as she was actually born four months before that.  The date was just the symbol of the life that never was.  A part of me feels guilty for that, though.  A part of me WANTS to still mourn and moan and cry and be tortured.  I mean, I do still cry.  For everything and nothing, just as it was two years ago.  But it's different.  I can't explain it.  I feel compelled to try, obviously, but I don't seem to have the words.  

In the months after her death, I was angry.  I'm still angry in a lot of ways, but it's not as it was.  I was mired in this pit of self-doubt and fear and anger.  If anyone had cared to notice, I was pretty severely depressed.  I'm not sure too many people noticed...and I'm not going to dwell on that thought too much, because nothing good will come of it.  

Now, today...I'm still sad.  I still mourn for my daughter.  But I work on celebrating her as much as I can.  It's absolutely beautiful to hear Mia talking about her Angel Sister.  She is starting to understand a little, and that really warms my heart.  Ethan will grow into it as well.  Mike and I said from the outset that we wanted it to be a normal part of their lives.  It's not scary or dark.  It's not a secret.  Charlotte is their sister. She's just an angel.  We are lucky enough to have an angel sister to watch out for us and protect us.  That part has won out over the should haves.  

I'm starting to feel like maybe I've earned some of those comments people made two years ago about how strong I am...I didn't feel strong then.  I felt weak and powerless and hopeless in a lot of ways.  I got through, with the majority of my dignity and sanity intact, and now I'm actually managing to follow through on what I said I would do, really believing what I told myself I had to believe.  It took me over two years, but I'm starting to truly be grateful instead of bitter.

I'm still sad. I'm still bitter.  I still want things to be different in so many ways.  Two years later, I'm finally  not drowning in those feelings.  Two years later, I can breathe a bit.  Two years later, while the shore might not be in sight, I have hope that this part of my life, my family's life, will actually be the positive more than the negative.

I still miss her every day.  I miss her today.