Go On

So, a quick thought on the new sitcom "Go On" with Matthew Perry.  It's about a man whose wife dies, and he goes into mandated group-therapy so that he can keep his job.  I find this show absolutely fantastic and hilarious.

Then, as I was watching this week's episode tonight, it occurred to me...

...I don't think I would find this show funny if I were not in a place in my life where I am/was considering support groups.  I find the macabre humor hysterical because I see it in my own life.  I "get" this show.

...as a result of this revelation, I am now very concerned that this show will be cancelled.  I recognize that this is a small blip on the screen of relevant shit (pardon the crassness), but I feel like this blip is meant for me, if that makes any sense at all.

As a side note...it's been ten weeks.  Already.  Ain't that just a kick in the face?

On a positive addendum to that side note, I'm finally, today, getting positive signs that my body is returning to business as usual.  It's funny.  I've been waiting for weeks for this, and now that I'm actually seeing the change, I'm a little sad.  It's like there was a physical part of me that wasn't over losing Charlotte, and now that's back to "normal".  *sigh*  Bright side....focusing on the bright side.

People I have no interest in talking to anymore...

I hadn't made my pregnancy with Charlotte public knowledge before she died.  I had told several people as I saw them, but for the people I don't see as often the news was not shared.  I was going to go public on facebook after our big ultrasound...within a week of her death.

But that's neither here nor there.

The point is, there were several people I held as friends whom I had not told.  It's very difficult to tell someone your child died when they didn't know that child existed.  That being said, about a week after her death I decided to share the information with these people.  I didn't go facebook-public, but I wanted to tell the people whom I actually considered friends.  Charlotte, though not physically present, is now a part of my life and my family, so it seemed dumb to make it seem like a secret.

So I sent out a message to those friends.  I did not have the strength to tell people in person or in my own voice.  I still cry now when I talk about it...a week removed I couldn't even form the words.  Here is the text of that message:

On Sunday, July 22, I gave birth to a beautiful little girl we named Charlotte Olivia, who was too beautiful and perfect for this world. Mike and I are grieving, but we're doing as well as we can and are trying to live our lives as normally as possible.

I know that I hadn't told any of you that Mike and I were expecting our second child, and I debated sharing this news with you all. After a lot of thought in the last day or so, I realized that I am proud to be Charlotte's mother, and I don't want to keep her a secret.

I would appreciate your thoughts or prayers, and I don't mind answering questions about Charlotte's short life if you have any. I just ask that you please try not to say any of those silly placating things we say when we try to make one another feel better.  Well wishes and condolences are welcome.

I sent this to eight people. Two of them gave fairly heartfelt messages of sympathy and offered to get together to talk (though that never happened...but at least they offered once).  Four of them sent me brief "I'm sorry" texts or messages.  Acceptable, if somewhat limited, responses.  Two of them said nothing.

Really?  Nothing?  Not an, "I'm sorry" or a "That sucks" or a "I'm thinking of you" or anything?  Really?  Nothing?

I thought last week...which is two months later...of sending these two people a message saying basically that their lack of response was incredibly hurtful and insensitive...but I realized that it would serve no real purpose.  They clearly should not be counted among my friends if this is how they will treat me in one of my darkest hours.  I also thought of sending them a message basically saying that I have no interest in talking to them anymore and then severing ties.  Again, I realized it would serve no real purpose, as I'm fairly sure these women have no interest in preserving any ties we might have had.

Still, regardless of whether or not these women like me or care at all...doesn't it seem like it would be basic human dignity to provide SOME form of response? 

The one-two punch

So, I just blogged yesterday about the baby shower invitation that knocked me on my rear end.

Just as I was starting to get my balance back, I went on facebook today.  Why do I do that?  Seriously, why?  The things I enjoyed about facebook don't make up for the inundation of things I'm not ready to handle.

So I got an invitation to a private facebook group...which is a support page for one of my friends whose son has a severe speech development problem which just got diagnosed.

Really, God?  Really? 

OK, I do not, at ALL, begrudge this girl her support.  It's amazing.  There are over 225 members on this page, and a good fifty of them have written heartfelt messages of support and prayer on the wall.  Very cool.  I am absolutely thrilled that her brother decided to create this support page for her.  I know she's struggling a bit to find her footing.

The thing is, this page was just bashing me over the head with how different her support is from mine.  I really don't understand...

My child died. 
Shouldn't you care? 
Shouldn't you want to support me? 
Shouldn't you want to tell me that you're thinking of me?
Praying for me?
Sad for me? 

I have a smattering of texts, a few facebook messages, three cards, and four phone calls.  The number of people who have been TRULY supportive of me when I needed it could be counted on one hand...and I'm including my husband.

I feel really lonely.

I feel like no one cares about me, really, at all.

I feel like I'm going through a lot of this alone.

In some ways this is almost harder than losing Charlotte.  I can mourn for and accept my daughter's death.  I can look for meaning in her life.  I can cherish the memories I had with her. 

But this. 

I feel like maybe a lot of my relationships died a long time ago and I just didn't realize it.  I've lived my life believing that people care about me. I care about them.  So where's the proof that I even know these people at all?

What's wrong with me? 


...as a side note, I recognize that this is a bit of a self-pitying spiral...but I'm ok...if you read this and worry that I need help, I just want you to know that I'm ok...but the thoughts I have need to go somewhere...so here they are.

A place for the things that need a place

It's always been in the back of my head that some day I wanted to get a curio cabinet.  I have lots of little wedding things that I'd like to display...the sand from our sand ceremony, our remembrance candle, my bouquet...etc.  The thing is, in the grand scheme of things, a superfluous piece of furniture like a curio cabinet took a back seat to replacing the wicker (yes, wicker) couch.

Then Charlotte died. 

We were faced with so many decisions in such a short time...the very last of which being what to do with her remains.  What does one do with the ashes of one's dead child when one has a toddler running around?  Seriously.  This is a problem.

So the question of what to do with the pretty, little, heart-shaped, angel box, the box I would have hated exactly one day before she died but then somehow found perfect as soon as I learned my daughter's heart stopped, forced my hand on purchasing a curio cabinet.  I'm actually OK with this.  It came today, and I'm really happy.

It was bothering me to leave her remains in her keepsake box.  I tried to get a nice box, a box that would give the mementos of her life a sense of dignity...but that wasn't good enough for HER...she deserves better than to be boxed away, hidden somewhere.  To do that is to lessen her importance, I think, because one wouldn't do that in any other circumstance.

There's so many times in this where I think, "I wouldn't do this in any other circumstance."  This is a singularly bizarre experience.  So isolating...so confusing....so...I don't even know.

Regardless

So I finally have a place for Charlotte's remains.  She gets her own shelf in the curio...her remains, my favorite black and white photo, hand and foot prints, and a little figurine of an angel holding a butterfly that a friend of mine bought me just because a few weeks ago.  It all seems like such a paltry little collection of things, but it felt good to give her a real home...one that puts her in a place of importance.

Metaphorically punched in the face

I've been feeling pretty good the last few days.  I'm starting to get hopeful about trying again, even though I still am waiting for my period to return.  There's pumpkin flavored stuff out again, which makes me happy.  My house feels nice and cool again.  I still miss Charlotte, but life was starting to feel pretty OK.

Then I got, metaphorically, punched in the face when I got home from school today.  This stealth fist took the form of an innocuous looking bright green envelope in my mailbox.  Baby shower invitation.

This in and of itself is bad enough.  But this is for my shadow.  The shadow of what should be.

When I was 17 weeks pregnant, I got an email from this girl with her first ultrasound picture.  She was 11 weeks.  I remember thinking, very distinctly, that she was brave for announcing herself so early.  Eleven weeks is early to me, having had my first miscarriage at 13.  I emailed her back and told her that we were expecting our second child, and that I was 17 weeks pregnant.  She was of course excited for me. 

Fast forward six weeks.  It's two weeks after Charlotte died, and I go on my facebook account.  There is the facebook announcement from the same girl who is now, as I was then, 17 weeks.  I have since lost my daughter, and here she is exactly where I was the last time I heard from her.  Tailspin.

Two weeks ago she announced that her big ultrasound went great and she's having a little boy. 

Charlotte's gone.

In many ways, I see this girl and her pregnancy as the ghost of what I should have had.

The kicker?  The shower is the day before my birthday.

I haven't decided if I'll go or not.

A thank you to LLOST (no, I didn't spell it wrong)

When the haze started to clear after Charlotte's death, I spent a lot of time looking through all the materials and books and mementos we were given at the hospital.  At the time, I assumed that this was part of a package given by the hospital in cases like mine.  It seemed logical.  Women like me went to the hospital.  If we weren't coming home with a baby, we had to leave with something, right?

In looking through my materials, though, I realize I'd taken a lot of things for granted.  I later realized that what the hospital provides is a bright yellow pocket folder with (badly) photocopied bereavement support information...most of which doesn't apply to me.  I can't go to a group for parents who've lost their children.  While I lost a child, I think we can all agree that it's just not the same thing.  Regardless...

Inside the book I found most helpful, I found a simple sticker that read, "Donated in memory of those we love: The LLOST Foundation".  When I looked them up online, I realized that all the things I now cling to for remembering Charlotte came from them.  They donated the tiny blankets and hat and clothes.  They donated the kit to make the mold of Charlotte's tiny feet.  They donated the tiny box with the prayer card.  They donated the books.  They are a very small organization located in Northern Virginia whose goal is to provide support for people like me.

Things won't make Charlotte come back...but the things these strangers gave me allowed me to hold my daughter with a sense of dignity...to take a precious memory of her home with me....to find solace in other people's words.  I've tried, periodically, to think about how my experience would have been without them...

Charlotte would have had no gown to wear.  She was far too tiny for even the bittiest preemie outfit.  She would have been wrapped in a standard hospital receiving blanket...so oversized as to be laughable if anything were funny.  Her poor little head would have been uncovered.  We would have taken home just a paper stamp of her feet.  I would have had nothing to read and take comfort in because I would never have bought a self-help book for myself...not even in this circumstance.

I'm overwhelmed with how much these people have helped me.

I've since made a donation of several copies of the book I read the most (Empty Cradle, Broken Heart...yes, it's a ridiculously, heinously bad title...but it was a really helpful book), and I think I will continue to make small donations on days that have special meaning.  I like to think that maybe I will make someone else's horrible experience just a little bit easier to bear...as they did for me two months ago.

Should you have a desire to learn more about LLOST, here is the link to their website.

Anger

I have a lot of anger. The problem is with me.  I can't explain who I'm angry at.  I can't explain what I'm angry at.  I can't tell people why I'm angry.  I can't even tell myself.  I have this desire to lash out at those around me, and I know they didn't do anything worthy of my emotional whipping.

Am I angry at my family for not mentioning Charlotte or saying her name?

Am I angry at my body for still being messed up two months later?

Am I angry at my friends for skipping along with their lives while I still feel stuck?

Am I angry at my husband for being too patient?

Am I angry at my daughter for throwing her food on the floor?

Am I angry at my dog for waking Mia up from her nap?

Am I angry at my cat for peeing in the hall?

Am I angry at my coworkers for getting worked up about things I no longer care about?

Am I angry at my Charlotte for not fighting harder to stay with us?

Yes.  The answer, at some point, to every one of these questions is yes.

No.  The answer, at some point, to every one of these questions is no.

So on whom do I unleash my anger?  None of them deserve it.  It's a fierce, sharp whip.

But if I don't unleash it, it does the damage to me.  It's like caging an overly energetic dog who is ripping my emotional living room to shreds.  That's an awful analogy.  I don't care.

My "give a shit" factor (GAS) is really low.  I just don't have the energy to care about the things that used to make me happy, sad, excited, upset.  They don't seem worth my emotions any more.  And yet, I am happy, sad, excited, upset.  So if I truly have no GAS, then why do I have the emotional speed?

The really annoying thing is that I don't think I could ever explain why I'm angry.  I just know that I am.  I don't have words, even for myself, to place my anger...hence the rambling blog post to explain what I just admitted I can't explain.  Another reason to be angry.

And so my whip cracks...at no one.  I'm like Indiana Jones as a kid...hitting himself in the face as he tries to tame the lion.  The lion didn't eat him, though...so maybe there's still hope for me.