Now I Know.

March 5, 2009

“I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” by Maya Angelou is one of my favorite books.  I read it as an adult and I empathized with Maya, feeling sadness at her pain and confusion but I never really knew the depths of her pain and grief that would cause her to stop speaking.  Now I do.

These past couple of weeks I have found myself slipping into solitude and quietness.  I don’t blog as much, I don’t email people back right away, I don’t call people to chat.  Katie (http://lrcyoga.wordpress.com/) sent me an email which kind of forced me to get out of my own head and share what’s going on with me and I am grateful for that.

When I wrote the post about going to see my MIL and my SIL and her perfect 3 children, I realized that it’s not that I don’t want to see them, in fact, I really don’t care either way.  Honestly, it’s fine.  That’s not what’s bothering me.  It’s the trip.  One year ago, Hubby and I were speeding towards PA in hopes that our unborn sons would be okay.  We soon recieved the news that Baby A was dying.  He died on March 10th.  I feel like no one remembers this.  No one remembers him.  From what I read, this is pretty typical of someone who has lost a child (or two) and so I understand that this is a normal reaction to grief.  It’s just that this trip to PA is serving as a constant reminder of what I was doing last year, of how I was feeling, of the bargains that I was making, the begging I did, the compromise I made.  I’m slipping back into a dark place and I don’t know what to do.

It’s also serving as a reminder that I am still in so much pain.  There is so much pain that it wells up at night and I wake up crying.  I don’t feel any better than I did a year ago and there is no wonderful numbing shock to dull the intensity.  I thought I would feel better by now.  I can’t even talk about this normally without falling to pieces.  I still feel so bad.

And I have no baby either.  I’m not pregnant and I don’t know when I will be and that’s compounding these feelings of loss.

So I get it, now I know what would make someone hurt so bad that they would stop speaking.

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7 Responses to “Now I Know.”

  1. hisaak Says:

    Oh hon, I am so sorry. I found that I slipped back into a very dark place right before the year anniversary of losing the twins as well. I had thought I was doing better, but then the memories of the pregnancy, our hopes and dreams, and the pain of losing them hit with a vengence. Especially when there isn’t the hope of a new pregnancy – that for me was so hard.

    It will get easier, I do promise you that. But know that it is okay to be back in this place while you remember your babies. I will be thinking of you as we get closer to the tenth. We will all be remembering your precious baby boys with you.


  2. Just for the record, I knew the date was coming up, so you are not grieving alone. I am thinking of you! :hugs:

  3. Maricel Says:

    I’m sorry you’re still grieving. (Hugs)) to you. Just hang in there.

  4. KB Says:

    ((((((Martha))))))

    I went through these quiet periods where I just couldn’t even write anything or talk to anyone I was so sick of feeling this way. I know. I hated it. Truly, the only words that came out then were, “I HATE this.” I’ve been thinking about FB all day today. I can’t stop thinking about her.

    And I think about you, each day wondering how you are and what’s going on.

    You’re right about the shock buffering the grief a bit. And the initial grief was all there was. WE all kind of expected to be consumed by it. The grief that continues months and even years after is almost more exhausting, perhaps even more intrusive. Everybody, including ourselves expects us to be done, to be healed, to be over it. Now that we’re back to work, have had a few glimpses of hope, of happiness again, had a few days of joy, have something new to focus on – now when the grief grabs hold agian it feels almost more ruthless. More viscious. Like an unwelcomed guest we kicked out months ago back sitting on the couch, taking up space, cleaning out our cupboards.

    Not a day goes by where I don’t think about how my life has been changed. Even if I get this baby here, alive and well, I’ll always have that deep well in my heart left by the one who couldn’t stay here on earth with me. It is not f****** fair! I guess it means we’ll just have to find a way to be OK living in a paradox of happy/sad instead of reaching for the illusion of either or. I don’t know what else to do.

  5. Jaded Says:

    i get it. after Emi and then after Daniella died i felt like i had to ‘confront’ places and people that i had last seen when they were alive.
    going to the bookstore was more like an internal dialogue in my head remembering that the last time i was there they were alive and now they are not. the hospitals where i give birth are located in the downtown area where i live and everytime i went downtown for any reason the dialogue started up again. and this happened 100’s of times for different circumstances and it was overwhelming. so i understand. i hate that dark place you speak of, i was there a little yesterday morning.
    you will get through this. you will.

  6. stacey Says:

    I am happy to see you writing again. It’s so hard for me to imagine what you’ve been through, having lost all of my babies so early on, but I know that your words still speak to me and to so many others who know right where you are.
    Thank you for sharing things that are so painful to remember. I’m thinking of you and your son today and tomorrow.
    Hugs and prayers.

  7. CeCe Garrett Says:

    You don’t know me… and what I am going to say may sound trite and I wouldn’t blame you for deleting it… Its been a little over 18 months for me and I have learned a few things. I am not fine. I am never going to be just fine. I am changed forever. I know about a hundred fitting Bible verses… but there are days that the only thing I want to do with my Bible is hit someone with it so someone… anyone really.. feels as bad as I do at times. We have been trying to get pregnant for over a year now since losing Eli. And hopefully, next month we will do IVF. Its a very lonely place. A very dark place.

    Its like you are walking on the beach… some days..most days.. the waves of grief simply lap at and touch your feet, reminding you that you have suffered what no mom should. But there are days the waves are those of hurricane forces.. they pull you under, no breath, no sight of the shore, just dark suffocating pain.

    I do know that you are being prayed for. I am praying. Praying for calm waters, peace and God’s great plan for you.

    CeCe


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