Uncomfortable

Why should I have to be the one made uncomfortable?

I have to listen to your comments, too. I have to answer your questions. You don't question whether asking if I have any children will make my heart sink. You don't think before you complain about your child's fussy behavior. You don't consider my feelings when you openly discuss the surprise pregnancy that's so inconvenient for you, or the fear you have of conceiving twins, or your newborn baby who was born on my stillborn son's due date.

You talk openly, without thinking. And maybe that's okay. These are your children. This is your pride and joy. Of course you want to share. And who am I to stop you?

But then--who are you to silence me?

What about my child? My pride and joy? What about when I want to share?

Why should I have to pause before mentioning my son's name? Why should I have to bite my tongue when my son's birthday or due date comes up in conversation? Why should I have to refrain from expressing my own complaints--that I have never had a fussy baby, that of three wanted conceptions none resulted in a living baby, that I have struggled to conceive a singleton and would be overjoyed if I found out I was miraculously expecting octuplets. That I should be announcing my newborn baby right now, too.

I am just as proud of the name we chose for him as you are of the name in your email announcement. I want to tell the story of his name as much as any parent. I am just as proud of my son's features as you are of the face in the photo attached. He has my husband's brow and my upper lip. I am just as proud that he was born, and I treasure his birthday just as you remember your children's births. I have a birth story to tell that to the right listener is more sweet than it is bitter.

I have a beautiful, wonderful son whom I adore. I have experienced intense heartbreak, but that does not phase my love for him. Why, when you ask me if I have children, should I be expected to lie to you?

To make you feel comfortable?

Why should I have to be the one made uncomfortable?

Isn't it enough that my baby died?

My Baby Boy

From the very first day of this year I knew this day, Sept. 9, 2015 would be important.

I thought this was the day my baby would be due. I thought, if I wasn't holding him on this day, I'd be holding him very soon. And it's really easy to be angry that I'm not holding him now, and I won't be holding him soon. But I choose not to focus on that today.

I looked forward to today believing a lot of things would be different. But one thing hasn't changed. I thought that today I would love and adore my son, and I do.

I love him today, and I love him tomorrow, and I love him yesterday. I love him forever.

The love makes the anger sting a little less. I wish things could be different. But they can't be... and if they can't be... I don't want them to be.

My son is incredible. And beautiful. And magical. And I'm as proud of him as any other mother could be proud of her son. I wouldn't change anything about him. If he had to change in order to be here with me, I wouldn't ask him to do it. Of course, I wish the universe would somehow allow him to be here without anything changing, but that isn't possible...

Except that sometimes it is. Sometimes when Kam and I are driving to a family outing, and we're relaxed and enjoying ourselves, I just feel a sort of three-ness. He's with us somehow.

And occasionally, I feel like all three of us are happy about the same thing at the same time. Like over this past weekend, when we went to Bear Lake, and Kam was tubing with my cousin, Ryan, and I was in the boat holding Ryan's daughter on my lap because she was anxious about her dad being out in the water. As the boat sped up, I tried to cheer up his little girl by yelling, "Yay, Daddy!" as he got tossed around by the boat. But I was watching Kam making faces and laughing and taunting the boat driver and thinking of what a goofball of a dad he is, and I just thought Liam and I both were looking at him with love in our eyes and thinking, "Yay, Daddy!"

Today could have been a hard day. Maybe it even should have been a hard day. But instead, it's been an incredibly peaceful day. I've had the benefit of an entire day dedicated to remembering my son. And I've has the blessing of having many loving friends and family members remember him with me. Not even death can fully take Liam away. He will always be our baby, and in that way he will always be with us. Remembering him makes him feel closer. Thank you for remembering him with me.

August Update

I feel grief but not hopelessness. And that is an unexpected, but welcome change.

The past two weeks have been really hard. On top of normal stressors like Kam going back to school (I swear I have a melt down every time Kam has to go back to school) and the dogs getting into trouble, we've been getting confusing and disappointing news from the doctor every few days.

We had reasons to have hope, and then we had reasons to have that hope dashed.

But it isn't. In fact, I feel more hope now than I did two months ago, when all of this started. I have every reason to fear, to worry, to give up. And honestly, two of those three reactions come very naturally to me. But instead I feel peaceful.

Somehow I am still convinced good things are going to happen. Somehow I just know there's a miracle in store for us. I don't know what it is, or how it's coming, or even how I can still believe in it. But there it is in my heart anyway.

It's something like finding happiness in Liam's life even after he died. It comes more easily now, and it surprises me how much joy can come from having him even though he's not here with us. I don't know how it's even possible, and yet... I think of him and my heart rejoices more than it aches. The spot that longs for him quiets in knowing that he exists. It shouldn't be enough. Really, it isn't. But somehow, I'm surviving, and even more than that, I'm living even after he's gone.

It's been a long five months. We've gotten more than our share of bad news, and it seems like any more bad news should cause us to collapse in on ourselves. But somehow, we're bearing the weight.

But things are going to change. It's been a year of trying to get pregnant, being pregnant, or losing pregnancies. A year is a long time to be holding your breath for something. I can't hold my breath anymore.

This next year will be about Kam and Liam and I. It'll be about trying new things. And about rediscovering old things. It'll be about date nights and family projects. It'll be about dog parks and evening walks in the city. It'll be about resetting and recharging. It'll be about appreciating all of the things our little family has to enjoy right now.

I can't say my heart isn't still pained by everything we've been through in the past few months. But pain and joy aren't exclusive of eachother. In fact, most of the sources of pain the past few months have also brought me some measure of joy, Liam being the prime example. But even the trials of the past two weeks have brought me a renewed perspective I might otherwise have missed. It's hard to be grateful for the trials we have faced, but I am grateful for the blessings of peace and understanding that we've felt through these challenges. Being able to survive this at all is a miracle in itself.

We are grateful for everyone's prayers. I can say I've felt the effects of them. The peace I feel now is unnatural in the best way and I attribute a large part of that to your prayers.

Liam's due date is less than a week away. I look forward to celebrating his life that day and appreciate everyone who has shown support for that event. Remembering him is one of the most healing things I can do.

Thanks also goes to those who check for these updates in an effort to better understand how to help us. This post is for you.