Time flies when you're growing a human

Exactly 2 years to the day that our beautiful Leta Blue died, her tiny brother came into this world, screaming. Benjamin Blue was early, but healthy! He had a broken tibia in utero, but so far he's doing quite well.

I am smitten. I am in love. I am peaceful.

Healing theory. Or how to lose your mind in 434 days

I've been working on my healing theory. Trying to find new footing on unsolid ground. Lately, though you wouldn't know, I am DECIMATED with grief. Honestly if it were not for this zoloft/xanax combo I wouldn't get out of bed.
Sure, I paste a smile on and carry on, for the sake of my family. Mommy has to hold it together, as everyone else falls apart. But mommy is tired. Exhausted.
The smile, patience, and energy brought to you by zoloft.
But it's there. The grief monster. Right there under the surface. Trying to get out. Trying to strangle me. Trying to take me under, and suffocate me with its black tarry HURT. That punch in the gut, that take your breath away, that knowledge as you open your eyes every morning that you are existing on a planet without your child. Without your CHILD. The absolute MAGNITUDE of that. How do you swing your feet out of bed, rub your bleary, tear swollen eyes and get up? How do you BREATHE knowing that such a huge part of you is GONE? How have I, me, survived the past year? How am I still here, functioning? How will I continue in this world without Leta. How is my child dead, yet I am not?
How, why. What on earth? The loss is so complete, so ACHING. So cold. How am I not...I don't know.. Just. It's just too big.

Burning black holes in dark memories

It's been an unforgivably long time. I know. I've been busy helping mend broken bones and yes even broken hearts (my own).

That is not to say I'm "over it". Because we all know just how arrogant, and untrue that statement would be. No. I'll never be over Leta. But. But. I have reached an okay place. A place where it's not so dark and cold and scary. I've been to dead baby land, and I've built my own, our own castle here. I'll always be a resident, but for now, now I'm facing away from the pain. Now I'm looking towards the sun. I'm allowing the sun to beat it's tattoo upon my face once again. I'm allowing myself to see, feel and hear the beauty around me.

The weight of losing Leta, and yes it is a weight, The weight of losing her is still there. It's a part of the fabric that makes me. But now it's becoming a thread, a PART of me, but not the WHOLE of me. It's a black shimmery thread woven tightly against the other more brightly colored threads.

I cried in target one day. Lost it. I cried a little on Christmas thinking of all the should have beens. But I'm not the tear stained mess I was once. I'm a little less of a xanax covered mess, and more of a, well I'm not sure....But I think it's better. I hope it is.

I'm at a place in my grieving where I can listen to music again without crying. And that is a huge thing for me, music.

Today I have my Itunes playlist on, just randomly playing on the background as I go about my work.
When the song "Rise" by Eddie Vedder came on I stopped and listened. The words "Gonna rise up, find my direction magnetically" Stood out to me today. Because that is where I am. That is what I'm doing. I AM going to rise up. And instead of feeling my way blindly through this grief, I am going to FIND my direction. I have, I think started to find my way. This is part of my healing. This is part of me. I've tried to capture the beauty around me. I know how soon that beautiful things are lost and gone. This is me. This is my year in Photographs.

Please....

Please Keep Katie in your thoughts and prayers as she prepares to give birth to Rebecca today. She is just shy of 24 weeks. Katie is one of the most amazing women I know. Having met her through my support group for babylost parents, she has showed such peace, strength and faith during her harrowing ordeal of the last few weeks.

She lost her son Jimmy at 36 weeks, just a little less than a year ago.

Masks we wear (writing challenge for faces of loss)

The mask I have worn for the past 8 months has been a fright mask. One contorted in pain, tracks of tears visible down my face. One that looks as if I'm screaming in silence.

Sure I've covered the mask with my "I'm fine, look, I'm wearing pants!" mask.

The other night I had a conversation with a very wise man. One who, in the beginning didn't understand why my pain was eating me alive. Didn't understand exactly what the last 8 months have been like. During our conversation, which had me in tears, I explained to him that our daughter had died in my womb, that my body had failed her. That we labored and delivered our child, the one who's bones were broken. The one who's ribs were all fractured. We delivered her into silence. I think he understood why I am the broken one now. I think he got it.

He picked his words carefully and with great weight and meaning. He told me I need to open my heart, and let her go. Not forget her. Just let her go. I have been desperatly holding onto Leta, this child that I never met, this child of my body. I have been clinging to her. I need pray, and I need to let her be in peace.

Now anyone else saying this to me would have fighting words. It would have raised my hackles and I would have POUNCED. But this man, is a wise one. I respect his words, his truth, his peace. So I listened.

What I took away was there will be a time that I am ready to say goodbye to Leta Blue. To "Let her go" To give her to a higher power. That time is not now, but I feel that it will be soon, has to be soon.

So my mask will remain, both of them will. The terrible scary heartbroken one that I show only to a few. And the "I'm okay, lookatme i'm wearing pants" one that I show to everyone else.

I do see, in the future the mask that I will wear. I see the peace on her face. I see the acceptance. I see the faith. However, that mask will come complete with an empty baby shaped spot in my heart. I can let her go, but I can never, ever forget her. My baby. My Leta Blue.

Being an agoraphobe has it's advantages. Or how to lose friends in 8 months

Again I sit at a loss for words. I've lost my baby and my ability to speak, apparently.
Sunday at church, every Sunday, this one couple invites us for dinner. So thoughtful and lovely of them, really. But. But. They have a passel of kids. Mostly 3 and under. Girls. And I can't. I just cannot. So we've begged off. Too many times. Not wanting to be rude and appear as a bunch of jerk faces, Jim took the husband aside and explained to him about our loss, and that I have massive social issues of late and cannot be around tiny children right now. He was so very kind about it. But I wonder what he said to his wife. I wonder if SHE understood? Or if they now think I am a total freak. (I am, but that's a different post)


There is such a paradox inside of me right now. I am broken and torn, and miserable and just a giant ball of ICK. But I also, at times have this wonderful positive tiny spark of hope. I hope we will conceive again. But no. I hope we will BRING a baby home this time. I hope I don't ever have to tell my kids again that their sibling died. That I failed.


I can't talk to people. I can't pay attention to what they are saying. I can't DO anything lately. All my friends and family are losing patience with me. I'M losing patience with me. My pain is so on the surface and palpable right now, more than ever before and it makes people uncomfortable. I cannot keep nodding my head, smiling and saying I'm fine. No one wants to hear how unfine I really am, and I cannot really talk about it anyway. I can write, sure, but I cannot speak about Leta right now. I just cannot.

I can't talk about how imaginary she feels. Where is the proof that my Daughter existed? It sits in a blue urn. In a box filled with obituaries, and tiny buntings. In my heavy, broken heart. That's all I have.

Leta Blue.wmv