I have failed as your mother. I failed at the most primal thing that as a woman, I am expected, supposed to, wanted to do. I failed to keep my child alive and safe in my womb.
In February I failed. In August I was finally able to process that failure. To take the grief out of my pocket and examine it. It probably should have stayed there. Or been put in a box and locked. But the grief, it sat there in my pocket, heavy and cold for 6 months. I took it out, and examined it. Looked closely at it. My grief is not different from any other grief. It's not unique. It's cold and bitter and angry and empty. My grief has a name and it's called dead baby.
Everyday I awake, tired from nightmares, and disoriented. Thinking I should feed my baby, change my baby, love my baby. Then I remember and it rushes back to me like a punch to the chest. I remember that my baby is dead. I cannot nurse her, only nurse my grief. And I do. I do nurse it. I chain smoke my grief like it's going out of style. I took it out of my pocket, now I have to deal with it. I have to measure it, and examine it. I have to feed it, change it, love it. It's mine and it's what I'm left with.
I know I have much, much more. This husband. This family. But it's not her,and I know I have failed, am a failure, so I cannot allow myself to feel the happiness of those things. Cannot allow myself for one moment to be okay. I am not okay. I failed. I failed her, and them and him, and me. I know that. I carry that with me too. My twins,grief and failure.
What am I supposed to do with this grief? Am I supposed to turn it positive and change the world with it? Or am I supposed to let it eat me, consume me? He sees me not fighting and thinks that I've given up. Another failure. But he doesn't see my internal fight. My minute to minute second to second fight. I am battling with myself all day everyday. It's not your fault; you couldn't have done anything to save her. REALLY? How do you know? . I knew from the second this child was conceived that something was wrong and I didn't couldn't didn't say a word to anyone. That is my failure. My body failed me and I failed her. It's so beyond repair right now. I know I should see someone, reach out. But I cannot. I am drowning here, and cannot will not cannot see land.
So I hold my grief, now in the open, in the palm of my hand. It's black and hard and cold and angry. I carry it on my hip, jiggle it,rock it, sing to it. My grief is my baby. I must care for it, not fail it,the way I did her.
Her. A she. A tiny baby girl, a miracle baby girl. A light in me. My hope, my safety. And I let it slip away,in the night. I knew in my guts that she was not okay, knew it in my cells that she was to be born early and not okay. But didn't have enough faith in myself to tell anyone. Maybe that is the only way I failed. The not believing in myself? Maybe that is my lesson here.
Some days I'm so positive, knowing she had a mission and a body and came for a reason. Then there are the cold dark days. The days where I scream and cry inside myself. The day sthat I want to lie down and give up. The days where there is no hope, only this deep penetrating sadness. My body betrayed me. It betrayed me! It let me down and let them down and let her down. It stabbed me in the heart with this, and now expects to be okay. It robbed me of my child and made me have to have this ugly GRIEF this saturation of hurt hate cold that consumes me. I'm not all angel mommy in the arms of Jesus lala happyville. I'm angry. No one else is angry. I'm so mad! There is no peace to be had, not yet. Not until I've nursed this grief until the well dries up. Not until I've parented this grief, raised it and given it the tools to survive.
This is my emotional mind. My rational mind knows better. It knows where my child is, it knows that this too shall pass, it knows it knows it knows. But I want to be childish and allow my emotions to rule me right now. For 6 months I played the part I was expected to play. Now it's my turn to angry! I will scream and shout and curse and cry and gnash my teeth until all this rage is purged from me and I'm left with peace and light and happy flower kitty land thoughts! My rants are the thoughts of the crazy, the deranged, the locked up forever in a padded room. That is my inner turmoil and it must be spoken. I make you uncomfortable. That's okay. This grief is in us all, and we, all of us need to mourn and hurt and rant and scream and yell until we have vomited all of this pain and grief out of our bodies. We must get it all out if we have any chance of being whole ever again!
I will purge this, I will speak this way, and it will make everyone around me very uncomfortable. But I must, and I will. And it will come out, and we will, I will, my family will be okay.