Uncle.

I've found myself anxious over getting pregnant again. Mainly because I REALLY want to be pregnant but I am PRETTY sure I am not. And, I'll be honest. I'm a little angry - well, maybe A LOT angry about it. Isaac already died. I carried that baby for God. The least He could do would to let me get pregnant right away, right?? I'm fully aware that's not how it works. I've gotten the short end of the stick for much of my life.... abandoned by both biological parents and adoptive parents. Molested. Beaten. Abused. Neglected. That was enough right?? Not so. I had to have the death of my youngest child thrown in there to. What's next? Job loss?? The death of my spouse? Something worse? Trust me, I don't rule it out. But. I will tell you this. I. Am. Broken. In pieces. I cry UNCLE. I cried it months ago.

I stumbled across this website this morning: www.recover-from-grief.com. I pulled off the information below:

7 Stages of Grief...

1. SHOCK & DENIAL-
You will probably react to learning of the loss with numbed disbelief. You may deny the reality of the loss at some level, in order to avoid the pain. Shock provides emotional protection from being overwhelmed all at once. This may last for weeks.

2. PAIN & GUILT-
As the shock wears off, it is replaced with the suffering of unbelievable pain. Although excruciating and almost unbearable, it is important that you experience the pain fully, and not hide it, avoid it or escape from it with alcohol or drugs.

You may have guilty feelings or remorse over things you did or didn't do with your loved one. Life feels chaotic and scary during this phase.

3. ANGER & BARGAINING-
Frustration gives way to anger, and you may lash out and lay unwarranted blame for the death on someone else. Please try to control this, as permanent damage to your relationships may result. This is a time for the release of bottled up emotion.

You may rail against fate, questioning "Why me?" You may also try to bargain in vain with the powers that be for a way out of your despair ("I will never drink again if you just bring him back")

4. "DEPRESSION", REFLECTION, LONELINESS-
Just when your friends may think you should be getting on with your life, a long period of sad reflection will likely overtake you. This is a normal stage of grief, so do not be "talked out of it" by well-meaning outsiders. Encouragement from others is not helpful to you during this stage of grieving.

During this time, you finally realize the true magnitude of your loss, and it depresses you. You may isolate yourself on purpose, reflect on things you did with your lost one, and focus on memories of the past. You may sense feelings of emptiness or despair.

5. THE UPWARD TURN-
As you start to adjust to life without your dear one, your life becomes a little calmer and more organized. Your physical symptoms lessen, and your "depression" begins to lift slightly.

6. RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH-
As you become more functional, your mind starts working again, and you will find yourself seeking realistic solutions to problems posed by life without your loved one. You will start to work on practical and financial problems and reconstructing yourself and your life without him or her.

7. ACCEPTANCE & HOPE-
During this, the last of the seven stages in this grief model, you learn to accept and deal with the reality of your situation. Acceptance does not necessarily mean instant happiness. Given the pain and turmoil you have experienced, you can never return to the carefree, untroubled YOU that existed before this tragedy. But you will find a way forward.

You will start to look forward and actually plan things for the future. Eventually, you will be able to think about your lost loved one without pain; sadness, yes, but the wrenching pain will be gone. You will once again anticipate some good times to come, and yes, even find joy again in the experience of living.

Pee already.

Alright ladies.

I am sitting here tonight. It's 11:33pm. I have the STRONGEST compulsion to get a pregnancy test. Actually I have three shoved in the hall closet, but I REALLY want to take one and I REALLY want to see a positive. Trouble is, I REALLY should not be testing until the end of the month. Testing you ask?? YES. Testing. This is the first month Andrew and I allowed for a pregnancy to occur. I was able to start one of my fertility treatments, which showed success, so could this be the month??? Ya think??? Maybe???

Now.

What happens if it is not??

I think I might be a little heartbroken. Maybe even a lot. But. I have a plan B. I can go into my OBGYN and get my hands on the other 2 meds I've needed in the past to produce ovulation. So if not this month. Maybe one soon.

But.

I REALLY want it to be this month. Don't you REALLY want it to be this month for me too??

Life changes.

I need something from YOU!!

Life changes, doesn't it, after you experience a loss?? And I'm talking all loss - - a parent, a friend, a spouse, a child. Let's get grieving out in the open. This is how we're going to do this.

ALL comment are to be shared anonymously. I will change my settings for this specific post. This is what I am looking for: I want to know how your life has changed during your grieving process. It's all out there: marriages change, friendships change, your family dynamic changes, your personality, feelings, dreams - - it ALL changes. It's private. It's heart breaking. It's hard to talk about it, share about. It is for me. The really secret stuff.

This is your time to let it all hang out. Tell me how your life has changed. After all the comments are in, I'm simply going to post them.

Let's not travel alone in this.

I'm ready to share, are you??

I mean this.

I wanted to further explain something I wrote in my last post.

I was not meaning to blow off the few friends I have that have done their best to be here for me. I have had a friend being meals into my home. I've had a neighbor bring bread and flowers. I've had care packages in the mail. I have a friend that curled up by me on the couch as I cried for my sweet boy. I've had emails, a play date or two, a phone call from time to time.

What I wanted to explain is what I have needed, that another bereaved mother has provided to me in friendship:

1. I don't have to worry about talking about my son too much. I don't have to worry about making some one feel awkward.

2. I can talk to her about how my marriage has changed.

3. I can talk to her about this sadness has changed every day life.

3. I can talk to her about how much I love my boy, but she understands how much I hurt because I miss him.

4. She can understand that the constant care, and checking in, and cute emails and notes is something I love. I need people to remember, because I hurt every day.

5. I know she won't tire of my journey because she is journeying the same one. I know she is patient with me, and understands why I would and still do hurt. She understands that it's possible to hurt, even if you have faith in God, and she understands it's possible to hurt, even if you have moments of joy. I don't feel judged by her.

It's not that I don't appreciate what others have done for me, but I appreciate having a friend, too, that is in my same boat.

I'm sorry if I hurt anyone's feelings. I guess it's just how it is sometimes.

Letting it all hang out.

You know it’s one of those bad kinda nights, when it’s just you and your three year old up at 11 and you turn to her and say “Hey, Livvy, you wanna go buy some chocolate cake?”. She agreed, so off we went! While I was at Albertsons a homeless man approached me in the store, and asked if he could have a couple bucks. I normally wouldn’t grab my wallet in this kind of situation, where he was close enough to grab all I had and run, but there was a clerk nearby, so I proceeded. As I opened my wallet the man says: I LOVE you. I smiled. He notices I have a 10, and says: How about that 10 instead? I gave him the 2 bucks and off he went.

Some days I wonder why I blog. It is really in my best interest that I wear my heart on my sleeve? Bare my soul? Let it all hang out? I think it’s best that I have an outlet. I also think it’s best that I share in case some other bereaved mother happens across what I’ve written and doesn’t feel alone. That’s the real reason. I feel alone now. Someone else should not have to.

I generally don’t throw pity parties for myself. I was raised to “shut the hell up”. You don’t cry. You don’t complain. You don’t moan. You are not weak. You pretend what is happening is ok. You look the other way. I’ve had a lot of practice being closed off, pretending not to hurt, keeping my tears in. I found myself over 2 facebook chats tonight being honest. I reached out, over my chocolate cake, and admitted how lost I feel. And then the chatting turned into me sobbing like a maniac over my computer screen. And for a moment, I felt a little better. God made facebook for me. He and I aren’t really on speaking terms right now, so He gave me facebook chat, right?

I was talking to one of my greatest friends tonight. She lost her Noah to Anencephaly like I lost my Isaac, and we met through blogging. She is one of my greatest blessings. We talk often on the phone. We laugh, we cry, we curse, we empathize. We were talking about our friendship today, and I said to her: You know why God gave you to me? God gave you to me because I would otherwise have no one. I don’t really have any one else I can talk to about the baby. I fully admit I have trust issues. What I really want someone to do is hold me like a baby so I can cry like one, but I just can’t let myself be that vulnerable. It’s hard for me. It takes me a long time to learn to trust someone. I have spurts of bravery where I can reach out. Then days of hiding in my home. I needed her. She is my gift.

When I tell you I am ok, I’m really not. My heart is weary and I am really tired. I hurt deeply, and I don’t want to have to justify my journey to anyone else. I don’t want to explain that really what I am doing is most healthy. I just want someone to squeeze my hand, and accept me for where I am at. I want someone to do something for me to make me smile. I just want to be something. Something I can’t even explain.

I blog so someone else feels like they have someone else that understands.

And now…. Now I’ve got a date with chocolate cake and my kid. ‘Til next time.

In the sand.

Healing, aren't they? Thank you Celia.

Think again.

I'm sitting here bopping my head to Olivia's techno piano playing. Those electronic pianos. The louder-than-necessary, have-to-play-it-all-the-time-or-I-will-die key boards. Oh yes. Those ones. Bring it on.

I have a new talent. Now this one, I have REALLY perfected. It involves my mouth and my foot. Get the picture?

I find myself feeling a little irritated tonight. I've been reading through my normal set of blogs, but some how missed some posts. Dude. Don't even get me started.

Where am I at now? I'm kinda at that faze where every one else has forgotten about Issac, and most people are tapping their fingers in anticipation for me to "get over it" already. You have the well-meaning folk that think they "understand" where you're at, and think they can some how just hurry you up through the process. Then the others that still hide from you in fear that - heaven forbid - you mention you dead child's name. And then you have those friends - you know, the really good ones, that have managed to stick by you, through thick and thin, just letting you be - ya know - your "new" self.

Let me take a stab at explaining what nearly 5 months means to me. Isaac will have been dead for 5 months now on September 8th. It still seems like yesterday I placed him in his casket for the last time.

I have now endured 5 months of endless heartache. I still miss my baby, still wouldn't mind taking him back, still cry for him every day. It is still hard for me to see other babies. I still cry nearly every time I speak about him. My heart still aches, it physically hurts. My mind wanders to him many times a day. I am still grieving.

I still like my house the best. I still like, for the most part, not seeing people. I like my safe place, even if does not include many people around me. I hate feeling like I'm being hurried up. I hate the impatience I see, the irritation of not being "myself" yet. It angers me, like I should have to explain to some one else that has no clue, that how I'm doing, is just fine. My children are cared for and loved. I work 25 hours a week. I keep a tidy home. I prepare healthy meals for my children. I play card games and basketball and take walks and chat on the phone and read and blog and laugh and play. I do all those things, and yet my heart is still broken.

I find it offensive when another would question my faith in God, because I still grieve for my son. Make no mistakes friends, I know where my child is. I know he lives. As much as I know that he lives, I know that I must learn to live my life with out him here in my home. And for one second, imagine it for yourself. Imagine carrying your baby for 25 weeks, and then being told he would die then be willing to carry him for 15 weeks more. Love him, feel him alive, then plan his funeral. Plan his funeral and plan how to say goodbye. Figure out how to watch your children's hearts break. Figure out how to manage their sorrow and then your own. Give birth to your baby. Meet him. Feel his heart beat. Watch him die in your arms, along with all of your dreams of raising him. Feel your love for him, you love him no less than your other children, but know his life was meant only to be a fleeting moment because your Maker and your son's called him home. Come home empty handed and broken hearted. Feel your body heal, but realize your heart isn't. Place your baby in his casket, listen to your children sob, feel your body heave with sorrow. Imagine your child arms length under ground. Figure out with all your might how to move on. Figure out how to grieve so that you don't alarm your children. Figure out how to keep your grief hidden. Miss your child. Dream of him. Remember him. Remember that he's dead. Imagine how it was to carry a child to term, and in one breath say hello and goodbye. Don't for one minute think that my journey has to meet your expectations, it's barely meeting mine.