Friday, December 26, 2014

Right where I am.

I've been reading a lot of other blog posts entitled "right where I am."  In 2011, there seemed to be this group of baby loss mamas that all blogged and all talked and all responded to this prompt.  I like reading them, figuring out right where they are how many days or weeks or months later.  (And I wish they could be my bffs).

And two days ago, when my sister didn't ask how we are doing and didn't give me a hug, I realized I need to think about right where I am.   Because she said I didn't want those things.  And I realized that I didn't --- 7 weeks ago.  Seven weeks ago, I felt violated and I didn't want to be touched, except maybe by my husband, and a couple weeks after that, I wrote that I hated the question "how are you?" because I just wanted to answer "fucking terrible."  But here's what I know about grief now that hopefully my sister will never know: it evolves.  Every day.  Hell, every minute.

I guess I can't expect you all to be mind-readers.  I can't tell you what I want or need and then change my mind and expect you to know when I change my mind.

But sometimes I don't even know what I want or need.  I don't realize that it's changed.  Until my sister didn't ask how I was doing and didn't give me a hug.  And then I was like, WTF?  Until my mom reminded me that that's what I had asked for... 7 weeks ago.

A lot of people say things like, "just let me know what you need," as if I can figure that our for myself.

A time machine?

I should stop making that comment; she's not coming back.

It's not really helpful for me to imagine she might.

Right where I am: I am so comfortable talking about my daughter, even talking about what happened to her.  I'll tell you what the research says.  I'll tell you, dry-eyed, about what happened to her.

I talked to an old friend (old, because we're been friends a long time, not because she's old, but she is my friend's mom) today for hours about my daughter.  I didn't cry.  Being able to talk about Lydie felt good.  After that, I went back to my parents' house where my dad casually mentioned my sister's friend who is pregnant... and I lost it.  Stormed off, cried by myself, cried more when my sister tried to talk to me.  Told her her friend should not count on having her baby... living, that is.  Told her if she does have her baby... living... then it's just another example of how I got fucked. 

Right where I am: I can talk about my daughter, who she could have been, would have been, should have been, dry-eyed for hours.

And then my brother-in-law makes some comment about him "living the dream" as he tries to dress  his one-year-old daughter and I want to scream.  Scream, scream, scream.  I wonder how I am ever going to integrate myself back into the real world again.  Can I wear a sign that says , "My daughter died, so please don't complain about your children to me?"  I want to isolate myself.  And if I can't do that, I want to move to a community where every single person has lost a child, just so people get me.

So this is at this moment.  I assure you that tomorrow will be a different story. 


  1. I am so sorry I didn't ask how you were and I didn't immediately give you a hug. I am sorry people make casual complaints that cut you to your soul.

    We are all learning how to live without Lydie and to accommodate this deep grief, which hits you and Justin harder than any of us can contemplate.

    Just know I love you. I love Lydie. I love Justin and Ben. And I really do want to help however I can.

  2. Oh, Heather. I just saw your comment on my blog and I am so, so sorry about Lydie. My heart sank as I clicked over to your blog and read the words that are painfully familiar. My first Christmas without Eliza was just impossible, but of course you're enduring the holly-jolly madness for your son. Sending you so much love. Just keep breathing. It will never be okay that Lydie's not here, but it will get easier to go on without her. I know it feels unimaginable now, but it will get easier.

    1. Thanks Brooke. It is so good to hear from you. Thanks for the love. Sending it right back, and thinking of Eliza too!

  3. Sigh. All those post in 2011. That was me. My first ever blog post was about 1 month after Camille died. I desperately searched to find women who fit my demographics, who had walked the path before me. How could this happen to me???? The question sent me looking desperately for others. I felt so alone. I was glued to my computer sometimes reading for hours on end. I needed connection and understanding. Sending big love.

  4. Almost 4 months later, I'm still not over the, "My daughter died, so please don't complain about your children to me," mentality, and hope I never am. I had a serious talk with one of my co-teachers yesterday when she complained about only getting 3 1/2 hours of sleep because of her children.


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