The Room

November 2, 2009

It’s there.  In the house.  The room that was to be the boys’ room.  It’s filled with baby boy clothes, toys, a crib, a car seat, broken dreams, dashed hopes, lots of sadness.  I haven’t set foot in that room since we moved in.  The crib was never set up in there, the decorations never hung on the wall, the walls never painted.  I can’t even tell you what the closet looks like in there – the last time I saw it, I was pregnant and we didn’t own the house and now, I can’t really remember life before April 8th. 

I walk past the door about 14 times a day and I think, “I’m never going to get in that room.”  I lay in bed at night and I can see the door from where I lay and I think, “I’m never going to get up in the middle of the night, pad across the hall, scoop up my crying baby and rock him back to sleep.  It’s never going to happen for me.”  I lay there, not sleeping, staring at the door.

This is my life now.  Trying to live with my disappointment.  Trying to survive this loss.  I thought I was doing okay but really, these last few weeks…I’m not.  I’m not okay.  I want so badly to look at the people around me and say, “help me.  Please, help me.  I’m hurt and I can’t go to the doctor to fix it because it’s deep down inside….they won’t know what to do for me…Someone please just take me in your arms and hold me, let me cry…”  I have conversations with people about the weather, books, shopping, whatever but my eyes are searching their faces, begging, “please, ask me how I am…ask me about them…ask me if I’m okay….but only if your prepared for the answer…I can’t freely give this information if you don’t mean it when you ask the question, if you are not prepared for the answer then don’t ask…”

But I don’t.  I’m supposed to be better.  I’m supposed to be moving forward.  The people around me, they have lives, they can’t be taking care of me.  I have to take care of myself and Hubby.  I’ve always taken care of myself.  Always.  I have to be strong, I can’t fall apart again.

I want to get into that room…I want a baby to hold and cuddle and love who will live in that room but I fear that will never happen.  I want my boys and I KNOW that won’t happen.


9 Responses to “The Room”

  1. Kelly Says:

    ((HUGS)). I’m so sorry. I know what you mean about having meaningless conversations with people and dying on the inside for them to ask how you’re doing… and for them to really mean that (so you know you can say more than just, “I’m fine,” and have a real conversation with them). I have those all the time. They feel so fake and it’s not helpful. Hang in there.

  2. Malou's Mama Says:

    Forget all about those “shoulds”. They don’t mean anything. People who don’t know may think you “should” be moving forward, “should” be better, but the people who know, know better. Grief is filled with ups and downs, and sometimes it seems you are forever stuck in a down period. I personally think grief combined with unsuccessful attempts at TTC is one of the worst combinations in the world. It is such a dark, depressing, hopeless place to be. But hold out for the light, the light that maybe you only get glimpses of now, but which I hold hope will become brighter and brighter for you. Thinking of you and ALWAYS thinking of your boys and hoping they will have a healthy sibling soon.

  3. Kelly Says:

    I’m here whenever you feel like crying. I hope you know that. And I’m always thinking of how you feel and knowing that it still sucks. Everyday. But I don’t always ask, because I hope that for one little minute, at that particular instant that talking about something else really does provide a mini escape. But it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about how you’re doing and about the boys and fruitlessly wishing that everything hadn’t happened the way it did. And I still hope so hard for you, even when I know you’re feeling hopeless.

  4. Amy Says:

    Oh, Martha, I want to hug you and let you cry on my shoulder right now. I’m sorry Despair has a hold of you and won’t let go. It sucks. Sending tons of love and ((((hugs)))) until I see you for a real one.

  5. Allison Says:

    Yeah I know exactly what you mean. I am tired of hearing you are so strong. I want to yell you dont know what you are talking about. I’m broken and I dont know if I will ever be able to be put back together in any semblance of the person I was before, and honestly dont know if I want to. My daughter changed my life and she was only with me for 19 weeks. I have never felt so much love, and I dont know what to do with it. I feel empty and alone and I want people to ask about how I’m doing, but they dont.

    It’s got to get better right. Thats what I keep telling myself anyway. But I dont know if it ever really does.

    May God Bless you and be with you

  6. Christy W Says:

    I am so, so with you. That fear grips you…but the knowing…the knowing that they will never come back. That breaks you. That feeling that you might wake up from this and have it be a dream, it becomes less and less possible each day. It sucks. I’m just so sorry that you are dealing with ALL of this. With the dumb bt and the stupid economy coupled with the price of adoption. I just wish there was something I could do.
    Thinking of you

  7. jaejdavis Says:

    I truly am sorry for your loss. I understand what you are feeling. I have had four miscarriages, three consecutively, and yes it is difficult. I lost three boys myself. I know what it is like to just sit and wonder. Man…I remember those thoughts as if it were yesterday. If I may offer you some encouragement it is this. Although you are in pain, Jesus loves you and I do too. If you would like to talk more please visit my blog at It is about encouraging women like us who know what it feels like to lose a child(ren). God bless you and your family. I pray you will find healing soon.

  8. kc Says:

    Knowing this pain all to well. I haven’t even had my 6 week postpartum appointment yet, and I know this is only the beginning of the pain. I know that need for wanting someone to ask you how you are so you can explode with your feelings. I have found blogging to be quite helpful. I have faith that God is with you in the dark places. I am sorry for your loss and it angers and saddens me that anyone knows this pain. Praying for you.


  9. Just saw your comment on B’s blog, which brought me here. Your writing is raw and so expressive. My condolences for your losses…

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