Detached

I feel so detached

    Detached from you

    Detached from this new life

    Detached from reality

    Detached because of fear

         Fear is so incapacitating

         Its icy fingers grip my heart

                    My mind

An uncompromising grip

I wish I felt differently

I wish this fear didn’t taint my thoughts

      Hinder my grieving for you

      My bonding with your sister

I’m so sorry, babies

                            But, I love you through this fear

                                                   I just hope that you feel it

You are my heart.

After having woken up with vivid dreams of Shiloh on the brain, feeling very emotional and missing my Shi so strongly, I walked out of my front door last weekend to find this watermark on my porch:

Thank you for letting me know that you are always near, Shi. I love you to bits. 

Afraid

I’m so tired of being afraid all the time. I wish I could just go to sleep and wake up seven months from now with a live, healthy baby in my arms, and my 2 year old Shiloh running around the house. But no. Instead, I’m always expecting the worst, in everything. If Andreas isn’t home in time from surfing, I picture him unconscious, face down in the ocean. If he is late from work and doesn’t call, I automatically assume he’s at the hospital because of a car accident. If I sleep on my right side, instead of my left, I worry that something will happen to Shiloh’s sibling if caught up in the cord. I’m even afraid because I am verbalizing my fears. What if they come true because I say it out loud? Am I jinxing myself? G-d forbid anything else happens in my life to drag Andreas and me down. I don’t know that we’d survive it. We are barely surviving as is.

I’m so tired of being afraid all the time. Will this ever change? I’m not able to enjoy one of the most enjoyable times in my life- pregnancy. I feel so robbed. Robbed because I don’t have my daughter, robbed because I don’t have my father, robbed because not only have these vital people been ripped away from me, but my happiness and hope have been ripped away as well. I don’t want to talk about “when the baby is born” (I actually get angry when people bring it up!), I don’t want to know the sex, or buy maternity clothes, or give the child a name, or set up a nursery, or put my name on the waiting list for daycare one day. I can’t do it. I did all of this for Shiloh, and look where it got me…. look where it got her.

I’m so tired of being afraid all the time. And it’s only going to abate once I deliver a healthy, live baby, not abort. Then I’ll be sleeping on the floor of the nursery, listening for breathing, worrying about SIDS instead of SADS (like a friend recently informed me). I’m fearful of even talking about this, so I’m going to stop now. 

I will though, be so bold as to say that fear is equally as encompassing as grief. But just like I don’t want to have to grieve anymore, I don't want to be afraid anymore. Unfortunately, neither of those wishes will come true. Like my grief, my fear will be perpetual, my fear will be on the forefront.

The baby that isn't here

Life carries on, whether I sink or swim. Nobody is waiting for me to catch up, to catch my breath. It seems like nobody talks about the baby anymore. The baby that isn't here. The baby that would have been a year and five months soon. The baby that could fill this gaping, ragged hole in my heart. The baby whose loss created this hole. 

I've been having new bouts of grief. I've been missing Shiloh so intensely lately. I cry at the drop of a hat- every ridiculous commercial, every dramatic show, every minute reminder of baby Shiloh, makes me ball. It's almost a relief though. I've actually been sort of angry and disappointed in myself because I haven't been able to dedicate as much time to Shiloh as I have in the past. I'm avoiding the pain because it makes me feel hopeless. To say hopelessness is a terrible feeling does not do it justice, and if you've never felt it before, I mean, really felt it from the deepest darkest pits, then you just cannot comprehend the utter unwillingness to live. But, maybe you can somewhat grasp why I attempt to avoid (emotionally) going back to this past. 

I look at my life now (busy, busy, busy- back to work, school and reintegrating myself into society) and contrast it to my life from October '08 to March (refusing to get out of bed, incessantly crying, hating everyone and everything), and I can't believe the complete 180 I've done. I can listen to music and enjoy it. I'm able to shoot the shit again. I can go to parties. Food doesn't just sustain me, but tastes good. I can sit at my office at school and actually be productive. I can (sometimes) hug my husband without thinking about the baby that isn't filling our arms. 

I'm actually kind of progressive. I've come a long way. But that doesn't mean that I miss my sweet baby Shiloh any less. It doesn't mean that I don't think about her every minute of the day, even when I sleep. It doesn't mean that I don't want people to bring her up in a casual conversation. It doesn't mean that I am emotionally stable, even though I may look it. It doesn't mean that people should ask me how I am and expect a superficial answer (don't ask me how I'm feeling if you don't want to know!). I guess I just want people to talk about Shiloh more. Just because time moves on for everyone else, doesn't mean it does for me....

My trooper, Bear

An entire day in a cat cage at the vet.

General anesthesia.

4 teeth gone.

Other teeth cleaned.

Down to the root.

Shaved leg patches for IVs.

A catheter.
A swollen face.

A bruised ego.

A broken heart.

Copious pain.

Indefatigable moaning.

He truly is a Simon.

Overcoming adversity is our motto.

The Secret Garden- January

For the first meeting of the month we thought we would speak about the holiday season and how you coped. What was it like for you? Did you do anything special in your child's memory?


As we expected, the holidays were harder than any normal day. Dec 12-Jan 2nd is the time when families come together to celebrate each other, and of course, we weren't  able to do that. Shiloh is always in our hearts, but she isn't here with us. It wasn't our first holiday season without Shiloh (she was born in Oct 08), but it was the first time that we were able to not only mourn her loss, but to enjoy the time that we spent with her, to relish in her beauty, her perfection, and to feel grateful that we did have her, if only for a short time. It was also the first time that Andreas and I celebrated a holiday all our own- Chrismukkah/Weinukkah. We hung Shiloh's (and dad's!) photos and lots of angels, on our Weinukkah tree and hung up a baby stocking (with Hanukkah gelt) for her. My mom even got baby Shiloh a stuffed animal Hanukkah doggie (he wears a yarmulke and holds a dreidel in his paw!). We are just now really learning how to make Shiloh a part of our lives (albeit, not how we wanted), by occasionally putting aside our grief, and appreciating the gift she gave us- the gift of her brief presence. 

Shiloh's Totem

a ladybug crawls across

my sunglass lens,

out of focus, from the inside

I take them off to get a look at her,

she crawls across my hand

so tiny and so perfect,

no spots on her shiny back

I smile at her and make a wish

she flies away,

up to the sky

up to the day

* This poem is from my wonderful friend Sara. She gave it to me for Shiloh’s birthday in October and I’ve been reading it once a week since. Thank you Sara, for being there for me through these last 15 months. Your friendship has been an unyielding force (in a good way, of course!).