moving on

The last post

It is said that Hemingway wrote the shortest story ever:

For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

My story has the same ending. Except, over the last year I have used many more words to describe the pain, fear and frustration that comes with the death of a baby. The death of a dream.

It has been a year ago this week, that I started this blog. Last Monday was another Labor day, the day that I went into premature labor and gave birth to our son. Although he hung in there for a good part of the delivery, he didn’t make it in the end. Which, looking back at it, is probably for the best. Our year has been tougher than tough. A loss is never easy. But how hard would it have been if he would have survived at not even 24 weeks? How hard would my year have been, sitting in the neonatal hospital in Boston, for months on end, praying and fearing for his live every minute? Not being able to be there for the rest of my family back on the Vineyard? I remember being so furious with God those first weeks and months. Why me? Why my baby? Don't you know how long we tried to get pregnant? But now that the emotions have settled down some, I am sometimes able to admit that the Creator might have actually saved me from bigger pain and fear.

Of course I still have lots of unresolved issues with "God", because ultimately I should have just been on this blog proudly showing you pictures of my nine month old baby boy with cute dimples in his cheeks like his daddy, rather than crying here. My believes on faith and God have been firmly shaken these last months and I still don't feel completely spiritually aligned. If anybody, it should have been you, God, knowing how much another child is wanted in this family. Aren't you supposed to know all my thoughts and feelings? Didn't all my daily praying for a sibling come through? And why, dear God, did you have to tease me so bad on Labor day this year, by allowing a miscarriage on the day I was supposed to cry for Nolan. Why the double tears? Why all the suffering? Why bother even giving me hope again, only to take it away a few weeks later? And now that we're at it: How come some women have 3 children with 3 different fathers? How come some women have 4 kids already and number 5 is "an accident"? Why do some women get twins and I get nothing?

The WHY WHY WHY is what my biggest struggle is. Still. But I learned this much: do not allow your thoughts to go there. It will make you jealous, frustrated and feeling sorry for yourself. Sure, you are entitled to a pity party occasionally, when yet another friend announces her pregnancy. Or when somebody on the beach casually asks you a small talk question like "ah... don't you miss breastfeeding?" Are you kidding me?

But staying in the victim role will not be beneficial for your health either. What worked for me, is counting my blessings. Over and over again. Sometimes I had to force myself, true, you can't be happy about the upcoming sun every day. But most days it worked. There is still so much to be grateful for. Feeling blessed opens up your heart again to new beauty. And when you are looking for good things all around you, they seem to multiply every day. Take my friendships for example. I have never felt more at home here in this community. The outpourings of love and compassion, practical help and a healthy doses of laughter when I needed it... it was overwhelming this year. And the more grateful I feel for my new friends on this island (and some on the internet!), the tighter my friendships seem to grow.

All the happy mind setting also almost did me in, though. I became too good in pretending that all was excellent with me. I thought that's what people around me preferred. Sure, don’t worry about me. No, I am fine. Really. People around me started giving me feedback saying things like “it’s so good to have the old Jess back” and “thank God you are funny again like you used to be”. Even my own husband would say “I just want things to be normal again.” But what is normal? No matter how many blessings I am counting each day, my laughter still feels hollow. My heart still yearns when I hold your baby. My mind still goes back to that horrible morning every time I pass the hospital. I have dry spells without a single tear, but don’t be fooled. I still feel heartbroken on the inside.

It has been a challenge to find that balance between the real me and the Jessica that I think the world rather sees. But I think I found it. It might sound odd, but I am thankful (here she goes again) for the experience. Although I would much rather have had the baby and the ignorance of not knowing… now that I do know (just a humbling little piece) about heart ache, intense fear, overwhelming grief, deep frustration, impossible patience and death (oh, the long dark nights….), I might just have a little more compassion for other parents going through the same thing. It is no longer a story that I hear. I feel their pain.

I also like to think I learned a thing or two about comforting. Listening is the key word. Not trying to fix it. Most people want to make you feel better by sharing cliché’s. It does not help at all to hear that “thank God you already have one child” or “thank God it happened now and not later” or “You are still young, you can try again”. Oh, I should write a book one day with the dumb words and advice I have heard over the year. Here is some advice: say nothing if you don’t know what to say. Chances are that every word comes out wrong anyway. My best moments of comfort where those were hardly any words were shared. Just sighs, tears, tea and chocolate.

Starting this blog was the best decision I could have made last year. Writing all your feelings and thoughts down helps so much. I highly recommend TALKING about your emotions. Not only does it help you to heal, it makes you a more real person. My sister once lost her baby at nine months. She and her partner didn’t talk about anything. After the baby’s funeral we just never talked about the “incident” again. Until recently I didn’t even know the name of my stillborn niece. Funny enough, it was my sister who encouraged me to not approach Nolan’s death in the same way she did. She strongly urged me to hold my death baby in my arms. She shared with me how she regretted not talking about her daughter at all. It took my sister many years to grief in silence. And although I need little encouragement for writing anyway, I did take her words to heart. I shared. So much so, that it made my husband feel uncomfortable at times. But it helped me.

It turned out it didn’t only help me, but it also helped the people around me to tune into the real emotions of the day. It helped my sister. It helped complete strangers. I still receive e-mails from around the world of women who sadly have gone through the same traumatic experience. They thank me for sharing my feelings on the worldwide web. Thank me! For keeping a journal! All letters have been so dear to me and truly helped me in my healing process.

I don’t think I will ever be the same. But I feel very close to the old me again. Stronger even. Nolan became part of my personal history. A scar on my heart. I like scars. They make you look tough. And weathered. I survived. I dance again. I laugh again. I love again.

I feel the time has come to stop writing this journal. Like the title suggests, it is time to move on. In the near future I will hopefully be combining my dutch blog on daily life with this one in english and continue in a whole new format. I hope you will stop by sometimes.

Thank you for all your support in the last year. It meant the world to me.

Labor day & September 4th

For weeks I have been anxiously anticipating September 4th. I don't know why it was weighing me down so much. I just wanted to get that day behind me, so I could continue with life.

We have no cemetery to go visit his stone. We have no church to go to and light a candle. There are no special rituals we had in mind. The kids didn't even realize it was a special day. Norman and I had briefly talked about it. We didn't want to open up any old wounds, but we also didn't want the day to pass as if it wasn't a big momentum in our lives. Exactly one year ago our world stopped turning. Our dream fell apart. It was the first day of a very intense emotional year. And now that September 4th was around the corner again, there was reason to reflect and reason to celebrate that we were still going strong. That we healed most of our emotional wounds and that we have faith in the future again. Especially since we just found out we were expecting again. It sure took the edge of our pain.

We came up with this plan for the day: we would take a long beach walk on a very special beach, bring the ashes of Nolan that we still never gave back to mother Earth. Say some wonderful prayers, let the ashes go in the ocean, let a balloon go up for Nolan, may be the kids could make a drawing or poem, Imani wanted a birthday cake (and why not). It would be a good day. With just our family.

Instead it went all wrong. This year Labor day was on September 3rd. Somehow this day was harder for me than the actual September 4th date. It's just a date on the calendar, right? First of all... on Labor day I found myself in the hospital again. Miscarrying the early pregnancy that I was so thrilled about. I couldn't stop crying. How cruel to pick this day of all days to make me lose another baby. The rest of the day I was inconsolable.

The next day was September 4^th. We had no plans other than to remember Nolan. Spend some time together. But the repair man for the washing machine – who we had been waiting for for 2 weeks – could not give us an exact time when he would come by. So we ended up waiting in and around the house for him until almost 4.00 pm. We had promised Imani to go see Hairspray at the movies, because we initially thought it would have been a nice distraction after having done our beach ceremony. Now we went to the movies with never having done anything for Nolan. I was sad… but I didn’t want to disappoint Imani. And I surely needed my washing machine fixed.

So… I brought the ashes to the movies. In my pocket book. It felt weird, it made me giggle. I took Nolan’s ashes to the movies, how morbid is that?
After the movies the sky had turned into this beautiful late afternoon orange glow. The breeze was warm. The island was empty because all tourists had left the day before. We stopped at State Beach. Not the beach I had in mind for letting go of Nolan’s ashes. But we walked there anyway. It was nice. After some walking, we sat down and took the ashes out of my pocket book. It wasn’t heavy or sad. We sat in a little circle. We held hands. The red little wooden box in the middle.

Evan was the first to say a prayer that blew me away. Although his lip was trembling a little, he didn’t cry. Imani chose to not say anything. She was visibly uncomfortable and for a second I was in doubt if I should have brought all this back up again for her. Was it fair of me to let her relive this family trauma?

Norman said a prayer. It was beautiful. All I remember is how emotional he was and the one line “… although you didn’t make it into this world, you did make it into our hearts forever!”. The mood was getting a little more emotional now, but I was determined to keep it light.

I didn’t want to say a prayer. But I did want to thank my husband, daughter and stepson for all their patience this last year. For all their support and for putting up with my tears, my mood swings and my anger at times. I shared with them all the lessons I have learned from this experience. And I cried. It was a relieve. It still wasn’t sad. It was good this way. I have a beautiful family.

We divided Nolan’s ashes over our four hands. We rolled up our pants, stepped in the ocean with our feet. And let him go….

It was good.

Next we went to finally see the stone that my dear friend Lexi had organized to be placed at the Children’s Lighthouse Memorial. The sun was setting, Imani and Evan were playing around,

Norman and I held hands while staring at the stone. Lexi had been there before us. She and Noah had put flowers and shells on his stone. It all felt so warm. The sunset, the flowers, his name on a stone. We smiled at each other,Norman and I. We hugged.

And it was good.

Feeling fragile

I have been extremely emotional since yesterday, for no other reason than that the pain of my loss is flaring up big time. I am as surprised as anybody. I felt good, I felt happy, I felt confident that the future would have beautiful things in store for me.

But without the slightest warning, like a slap in the face, I am feeling a deep deep sense of loss. I am panicking. I am not ready for closure. The world is moving on too fast. Everybody is pretending this never happened. I don't want to forget about Nolan. Or, let's rephrase that (because I still re-live that horrible morning often and I think about him - in spirit - ALL the time, I even catch myself talking to him during the day). I don't want others to forget about him. He was a person. I held him in my arms. My arms ache to hold him again. The only other person who keeps him alive, is Imani, who talks about him freely ("if Nolan would be alive now, he would be sitting here on the beach with us, wouldn't that have been so much fun?") and in a weird way... that is very comforting to me. Knowing that in the most mundaine moments, she thinks about him too.

It might seem so long ago for others, but it was only yesterday for me. I don't know how to bring it up myself. Gow would I say "I feel like talking about my baby"? What is there to talk about. So occaissionally I cry. Still. But that never give me a satisfied feeling, of course. I don't want to remember him in a sad way only. Besides, all I get in return are very well meant words that only get me in a deeper funk. "You'll have another baby one day". Really? How do you know? Because you don't know about my infertility issues. You don't know that it took my almost 3 years to get pregnant with this baby. And truth of the matter is: I don't want just any other baby... I miss HIM. You never met him, so I can't blame you. But what if I would take away your child away and would tell you "oh you can have another one someday". It's rather insulting. It makes it sound like MY boy was just a random doll that I lost and I can go to the store to buy a replacement any day. And no matter how well all people mean, I don't want to hear about one more miscarriage. "Oh, I had a miscarriage too!" Is that supposed to make me feel better? I don't even think they compare. I feel for all your losses (and appearantly many people had miscarriages, because I get these "words of comfort" way too many times). But seriously? I had to give BIRTH. I had to name my baby. I had to have him cremated. I was lactating. DO NOT say "miscarriage". Please. I'm not saying my loss is worse. I am just saying: you don't have a clue how traumatic it is to actually hold your baby and than give him back to the nurse, knowing you will NEVER EVER hold him again.

All these words are meant well, I've learned that now. But you're better off saying nothing. How about a hug instead?

I can see how people feel uncomfortable around me when there are babies around. So for everybody else's sake I pretend to be just fine. Really. I got so good at pretending to be fine, that I feel all confused emotionally. I am all smiles on the outside. I am all tears on the inside. I am starting to get used to it. Every now and than I loose it (mainly around my period, because the reminder is just so painful). But I'll quickly go back to acting happy. "People" prefer that.

In the meantime I'll keep working on myself and my healing in private. Quitely.

Yesterday I met with an energy worker. It was amazing. I sobbed so hard, I tought I was going to choke on my own tears. What a relieve! She was so awesome. She didn't personalize it ("I had that happen to me too" or "my neighbours friends mothers wife's cousing knows someone who had that too and now she has 12 kids") and she didn't try to make it go away ("Don't cry, it will happen for you soon"). She just showed sympathy and compassion the way I had NOT felt it from anybody yet. May be my mother or sister if they would be closer. I wish my husband was there, so he could have taken notes. THIS IS HOW YOU HELP SOMEBODY LET IT ALL OUT!

I felt much better when I left there. Unfortunately I feel that the wound is open again. But at least I feel acknowledged in my pain. I don't have to rush. I don't have to pretend. Her advise to me was more nurturing and more being present with the pain. Letting go of the guilt feelings around it. Feel more supported.

I can do the nurturing, I guess. I am working on the "be present with the pain". I am working on letting go of the guilt. But how in the world am I supposed to feel more supported? They only way I know of how to GIVE myself suppurt, is to get a new sports bra. Isn't support something you're supposed to GET?

Hi from St Maarten!

The gaps between my posts are getting bigger. Which means that the gaps between my tears are getting bigger too. It's not that I don't think about Nolan so much anymore. Because I do. Every day. But just like all the cliche's promised me: it becomes part of you. Like a new wrinkle or another big patch of cellulite on your already covered behind. You don't cry about it all day, every day anymore. You learn to live with it.

I still cry though. Not about the wrinkles or the cellulite (well, this week I did). But about Nolan. And how blissful it should have been. Mostly I cry when something unexpected happens. Like the woman at the passport agency who chose the empty chair next to me to sit on, naturally, while there were at least 20 other empty chairs. On her arm she had her 4 month old baby boy. I could have just changed seats. But I felt paralyzed. And yes, my mind ran of with the tought that I too could have had a 4 month old boy now. Boohoohoo.... explain that to a strange woman!

And sometimes I cry because I DO expect it. Like going to St Maarten this week (I am sitting behind the laptop on vacation!). I just knew I was going to hate the first day. Driving by the pharmacy where I bought the pregnancy test. Sitting on the bed where I read the big fat positive. Eating in the restaurant where Imani told the waitress that "mommy will be having a baby!" (thanks to Imani this never met before waitress knew our family addition before my parents even did).

And I did hate the first day of our holiday. Not only was I greatly disappointed because I still don't have a baby or even a next pregnancy. On top of that now I also hated looking in the mirror (which our timeshare has too many of, all fullsize too!) because my body and face show a year worth of grief. Is that really me in that mirror? Why do other people stop eating out of misery, but I just start eating double? It all stuck to my hips and belly. Of course... I was super-inactive while on bedrest. I have more stretchmarks because of the belly and inflated boobs filled with milk. And I ate eat away all my stress and sorrow. A familysized bag of M&M's each day since September. And I am not sharing with the family. Go figure (well, no more).

The second day of our vacation I found this book at the bottom of my suitcase. My sister-in-law had sent it to me and I had gotten it in the mail a day before we left for St Maarten. She even Fed-exed it. Which... looking at the title... concerns me a little. "Battlefield of the mind" by Joyce Meyer. Does she think I am crazy? Is she reading this blog (which will explain all)?   

I am not sure if I am liking it yet. But I will continue to read. For starters, just by lookoing at the title I realized that the struggles are all taking place in my head. So somehow I was able to turn it around on day 2. Or it could be the pina colada's and rum punches. But I am much more relaxed, which means that the rest of my family is now also finally having a good time.

There are still some moments that hurt. Imani has been doing a lot of asking God for Nolan to "come back". Which makes my eyes fill up. And when she makes new friends on the beach, Nolan will be one of the first things she wants to tell them about. How do I know? Well, she met this 8-year old girl from from The Hague (where my parents live!) and when the girl came to sit on our towl for a little chit chat, this cute little 8-year old says "Imani told me you had a dead baby". What??? "Yes" the girl continued, "she told me she has two brothers, that one over there (pointing at Evan) and one who died in your belly!".

Now you understand why I am still reading that book my sister-in-law sent me? And now you understand also, why she felt compelled to Fed-ex it. So I could deal with little nosy 8-year olds on the beach and not fall into a deep depression on holiday. Of course any depression on St Maarten will only last until the next happy hour starts!

Quite reminders

Even though it is pooring down raining here (and no better forecast for the coming week), I decided to pack the winter clothes away in the basement and bring up the bins full of summer stuff. We are going to St Maarten next week. I feel some anxiety about that trip (because that's where I found out I was pregnant with Nolan, and because we have a timeshare there, we will be in the exact same appartment, same week). I try to not let that ruin a week of fun in the sun. It's all a matter of controling your mind.

So. Unpacking the summer stuff. I always like that. Over the course of the long cold winter, you kind of "forget" what pieces you have in your wardrobe, don't you? Every top I pull out, is "oh I forgot about this one". Like shopping in your own closet. I was happy going through all the white shirts and bright flirty dresses. Humming a song, even though it is so depressing outside. Who cares? I'll be on the beach next week. Wearing this. And this. And oh... look at this! I could already see myself strolling down the boulevards of the French harbors, holding Norman's hand and feeling pretty (because that's what sun tans do... they make you feel prettier). This is fun. I picked up another pair of pants that I didn't immediately remember. I unfolded it, held it up in front of me, arms stretched out, to examine it a little better. And than it hit me...  LAST YEARS PREGNANCY CLOTHES! My clothes from last summer. Shitty, horrible, traumatic last summer. And with it were his tiny outfits and the little onesies my mom had brought me from Holland. Still in the plastic. Never worn.

Bye bye happy summer feeling.

I am not crying. But just in case, I will wait a few more days before I sort out the rest of the summer clothes. I am fine wearing my winter stuff for another week. It's rainy and cold anyway.

Again already?

Got my period. Again.

Somebody take my computer away and put me in a straight jacket for the week before I start blurring out mean, nasty, ugly and things again. I have PMS bad. My negative dark sides come up. My poor, little me takes over. I’ve always been intrigued with the following thought:

Does PMS let out the REAL me – you know – like how children and drunken people say what they REALLY think and feel? And for the rest of the month I just act and behave domesticated, how one is supposed to be (behaved, friendly, patient, strong, with a smile)?

Or am I a TRULY one of those Stepford-kinda wives (you know, eager-to-please, overly-submissive, and trying to be ever sweet and beautiful) but once a month my hormones (which my ex used to call 'demons') take over and I can’t help but feeling blue and sorry for myself and yell at the world because it's all your fault. And God's. Because, hey, why did it take so f#$%^ng long to get pregnant (I mean, I've waited 4 years, I think we're done testing my patience) and then my baby had to die?

Ai, PMS is already taking over. I better hurry, wrapping this up before it gets too ugly.

So, this week I will try to not turn to my computer and cry, until the demons hormones have settled down again. Even though I feel a huge breakdown coming up. It’s almost April. Last April I discovered I was pregnant. God, I remember as if it was yesterday. I was on holiday in St Maarten and so happy I wanted to scream from the rooftops that I was pregnant again (I might actually have done that). I was SO relieved. Finally. A sibling for Imani. We had been trying for so long.

But now? A whole year later. April again. And what do I have? NOTHING. Still no second child. Not even pregnant! And that's what hurts most. Still not even being pregnant again. Oh God, I’m going to cry right this minute. Where are my pills? Where is my straight jacket?

I better check out for a few days. I'll be back when I am all happy and in spring mood again!

Four seasons for grief

Things are getting better, definitely. I am so excited about spring! Last year I hardly had a summer. I spent it inside for the most part, worrying sick about my baby while being on bed rest. At least I minimized the wrinkle damage (there is always a good side to everything :-) but I skipped the good season.

I can't wait to catch up this year and soak up al the healing sun I can get. It will be the first summer that I don't care how I will look in bikini. Seriously, I have learned a lot over the last few months. And among all these lessons was defenitely an insight (well, that is too heavy of a word, Oprah would call it an aha!-moment) about wasting too much time being obsessed about things that are not worth my neagtive energy. And about instead being grateful for my health. Even if that includes cellulite. 

I love the sun. You don't realize how much asleep you are all winter, until the sun comes out in spring. Your whole body tingles, there is excitement in the air. I guess that's why they call it "spring in your step". You feel so much more alive. Life just seems it a little easier with the sun on your face. 
I noticed how the sun helped me to stay in this feel-good spirit last Saturday. We were at a birthday party and there were lots of children. And babies. And women who were pregnant 'with' me last summer. We all sat outside, in the grass. I WAS FINE. Really. Of course it is hard work "being fine". I've learned that by now. It's all a matter of just not letting your mind "go there". Thoughts like "I should have been walking around with a baby too". "That should have been me, sitting there nursing my child." Or: "I should also have been in that picture on the fridge, with them all having full blown pregnancy bellies" don't help you much in your healing process. Of course I think them, but I don't dwell on them anymore.

I am finally getting used to the concept that out of the five pregnancies last summer in our extended circle of friends and friends of friends, one pregnancy went terribly wrong. I guess statistically that happens all the time. But that one statistic was me. It was my boy who died. It's me at this birthday party who is trying really really hard to NOT think about it. And at the same time trying to be sincerely be interested in the other women who did have a fullterm baby. Even holding these babies, with love.

I kept it dry around all these glowing women. I kept it dry when Imani held baby Clementine and kissed her on the head. I kept it dry when later that night she prayed during diner, saying "I hope Nolan is listening and I hope he is picking out a new baby for us". If anything, I felt just grateful for the girlriends that I have here. They are sensitive to my feelings. Still. A little wink of understanding, a little pet on the thy, a quick check in "are you okay?". Yes, I am. And the one moment that I accidentally DID let my thoughts drift off to what could have been. I decided I had done really well and it was time to go home. I was proud of myself. I came a long way.

So, it surprised me that the next morning, after a relaxing Sunday brunch at home, the tears came after all. It was brief.

Norman

held me and said all the right things. And that was that. I truly feel that I am literally in the 3rd season of my grief. Pfff..... what a long road that was. I hope I am not getting too cocky here, but I actually even cancelled a doctor’s appointment for today. Doctor? Why? I am fine. No, I am great! Spring is here.

I like the symbolism of how my grief parallels the seasons. Nolan died in fall; I was in total denial that this was the end (of "my summer"). Than the realization came that it was really over. With all the hardship came winter. I felt cold and alone. I have struggled through most of my raw pain, frustration, fear, anger and despair, and now it feels as if the snow and pain are melting to make room for the new. Being grateful for the new things in life. New insights. Deeper feelings of love and compassion. Flowers popping up. Birds returning. And it's only the first week of spring. I bet it will still rain sometimes. Even in spring. I can't wait to see what summer will bring. I know summers can still have thunderstorms, sometimes. But the world always looks more refreshed and more green after a good rain...

---------------------

I receive e-mails weekly from women I've never met, who contact me because sadly they went through the same loss as me. They are only in their first season of grief. To them I want to say: please hang in there. I know that sounds simplistic, when all you want to do is hybernate. Never wake up again. But it WILL get better. Even though your 'summer' might not be until winter, you will feel passionate about life again. It's my promise to you.

Guess not.

Well, that was quite a week. I am learning so much these days. Mainly to sympathise with other people. Before all this I could not really FEEL their fear, pain and despair. The last half year has humbled me so much. I now know that "having children" is not just something you want and do. I mean, I KNEW that of course. But I can FEEL it now. I really really feel for other people. I can also relate more with people who are depressed, have anxieties and even a tad bit with people who are very sick. Not that I am, THANK GOD THANK GOD THANK GOD. But having these anxiety attacks at night, tossing and turning in the dark, and just THINKING I might die any moment soon, let me brush with fear of death. The insecurity. The powerlessness of it all. It is overwhelmingly terrifying! And mind you... I don't even have a medical reason to feel this way (although I truly believe otherwise in the middle of one of those severe anxieties). Like last Tuesday morning during workout class? I felt my heart pounding so heavy during stretches (during warm-up guys!) that I kept thinking "oh my God, if my heart is already beating this fast, what will happen to me later on in class, when things really get intense?". I got scared. I was doing my squats and trying to stay sane. I was looking around me. Nobody seemed to notice a thing. At least I am not turning blue. I kept going and telling myself to "get it together". But all I could see was myself in the ER. This is a little awkward for me to share here, because I know what others think (I know my own husband does): what is she talking about? Is she losing it? I hear you! I used to think so about others. I mean, I believed them to some extend. But I could never understand why they couldn't "just" think differently. Snap out of it already, will you?

Well, let me tell you: you can't. I left the class to sit in the lockerroom for a few minutes. Or so I thought. I just wanted to take a few deep breaths and feel better. Resume the class. Instead, the few deep breaths only made it worse. I started crying. Out of the blue. And then I started sobbing. I felt so sorry for myself. What the hell is wrong with me? I got up this morning feeling just fine and now look at me. Called the doctor from my cell phone, in the lockerroom. Still uncontrollably sobbing, I asked him if I could just come over and sit there in his office (which, conveniently, is in the hospital, right next to the ER). I just wanted to be there. Just in case. That was the only thought that calmed me down. I just want to go to the hospital and be there. That's all. Can you see it now? A hysterical woman in the corner of the docter's office, just sitting there. And other patients asking the doc "who is that?". "Oh, THAT?" Don't mind her, she just wants to sit here all day. Makes her feel safe."
Of course I didn't do that (even though they said I could, I love this smalltown hospital!). Instead I grabbed my stuff and went home. As soon as I got in the car, I already felt better. It had disappeared. The overwhelming feeling of losing control had vanished... and I was left wondering what the hell that was. And how a normal, healthy and relatively happy person like me, can feel like this. Out of the blue, at any given moment, without a warning. Am I going mental?

That must be it. Because the doctor ran some medical tests this week and my heart beat is normal (although rapid) and my bloodwork is fine too. The only thing that they DID find during an abdominal ultrasound was new ovarian cysts. Isn't that just great? But at least I won't die from those. Not tonight.

Now "they" want me to have a repeat ultrasound in 2 months. I don't know if I should freak out or not. Remember last time they found a cyst, which is less than a year-and-half ago? It was so big it had "eaten up" my left ovary. Even though the new cysts are small and not anywhere near the size of a grapefruit this time around, I am not very pleased with the news. Since you only get two of those things, I don't want to lose the one remaining ovary. It's very precious to me. I want to keep it. The doctor reassured me that it could very well just be because I was ovulating at that time (which, hurray, I was!). So before I freak out again, let's just wait another 2 months to see if they have disappeared.

I don't think I will panick though, not now, not tonight and not in the gym. Because my homeopath gave me a new remedy yesterday. To help me with the unexpected anxieties. I don't know what she gave me this time, but boy... I feel GOOD. Even the news from the doctor this morning didn't bother me. Her wonder pills really make me feel better. That, or may be it's the whole bowl of chocolate easter eggs I just inhaled. Just in case, I'll have to stay on both remedies.

Let this be the last little bit.

Turned 36 this weekend. And guess what I got?

HEART PALPITATIONS.

That's right! Three days after my birthday - not THAT old - I was sitting in the hospital between the 70+ folks who were getting their heart monitor attached to their bodies. And so was I. Wires everywhere. My heart is being screened for 24 hours, to make sure I am not having any unusual heart thing going on (or - more likely - to prove that it's all between my ears).

The doctor suspects post-traumatic anxiety. Once he heard my story (it's a new doctor for me), he replied "Oh that's YOU that delivered in the ER? I've been working in the hospital for 30 years and nothing like that ever happened. I wans't on duty that night, but the doctor who was, has been upset about it for days!".

She was upset? I didn't know what to think of this response. So I cried instead. If it made that much impact on the doctors, may be it isn't so strange after all for me to still be dealing with the aftermath six months later.

For 5 days I felt my heart going crazy. But the moment they attached the monitor, it stopped. Go figure, I walk around looking like a wired undercover agent and my hear starts beating normal. Dangit! Now I feel foolish. Not that I want to prove that anything is wrong wit me, but I also don't like to see doctors for false alarm.

Really doc, last week my heart has been acting up. Heavy poundings, quick flutterings, irregular beating. Hot flashes. Dry mouth. I was scared. I thought I was dying. And now that you are monitoring me, nothing happens. Don't you hate that?

I guess I should just be grateful that the palpitations stopped. They were so freightning. I woke up from it, in the middle of the night, honestly thinking I was having heart attack! I know what you're thinking... classic symptoms of anxiety. You don't need a monitor. And may be you're right. But the thing is: I was peacefully asleep! No anxiety.

Yet, everything points in that direction. And if I didn't have anxiety last week, I defenitely got it now! I can't remember having been this scared in a long time. I haven't slept a wink all week, staring into the darkness and "listening" to every beat of my heart, pounding way too fast and way too loud. I was compulsively counting my racing pulse while looking at the red lights of the alarm clock, wondering if I was dying. Yes. Really. Does it take long, or is it quite sudden? Will I have time to wake Norman up or will it be when he is gone on his business trip tomorrow? (looking back... I think what might have triggered all this, was the fact that Norman was leaving for a few days and subconsiously it might have brought back ANXIETY - yes - of being home alone ... just like the night that Nolan died, I DO have some fear around being home alone and something happening to me)

Pleasant thoughts for the early morning hours, huh? Try falling asleep with a racing heart and a racing mind. Once you start paying attention to your heart beat (which, by the way, is impossible NOT to, once you FEEL your heart), things get worse. Did it skip? Did it skip? Is it still beating?

I think I am doing pretty good. Considering. I am still not seeing anyone (as in 'shrink') and I am still not using anything (as in 'anti-depressents'). Even though I did see a EFT practitioner today. I returned the monitor to the hospital today. The palpitations have gone, so I assume that I can now officially scratch "heart attack" (thank you God, really) and add "anxiety" to my repetoire of grief symptoms. According to my friend "Google", this is a perfectly normal reaction. Isn't that nice to know? Freaking out in the middle of the night is perfectly normal.

Thank God that is over with... for now.

Will anybody... ANYBODY... tell me to stay away from the computer when I am on my period next time? No, even better, just lock me up for those two evil days. Or put duct tape over my mouth. The things that come out of there during those days... I don't even recognize myself. Afterwards, but that's when the damage is already done. When I already hurt my husband. Say mean things. Feel utterly sorry for myself. What's up with all the drama?

Next month, I vow, I will refrain from any posting during hormonal fluctuations.

Thanks for taking me with a grain of salt yesterday.

I want my mom.

Norman is back. My period is back. I can't stop crying.

While sobbing, the best thing my husband could do was to pet me on the back. PET ME ON THE BACK. What am I? A dog? Okay, I know it is his clumsy way of showing concern about my tears, telling me he loves me, but could he not just hold me? Stroke me over the head? Rock me in his arms?

This is what I don't get about men. Well, may be your man is different. But the men that I have known in my life are all so uncomfortable with a woman crying. A grown up women that is. Because when his daughter is inconsolable, my husband wil immediately pick her up. Hush her and comfort her, kiss her tears away until they all disappeared. Reassure her that ALL will be fine again and let her feel safe in his big arms.

So, how come he can't do that for ME? I am inconsolable. He doesn't have to pick me up - he would only end up at the chiropractor - but I do want all the other tender stuff. There is a little girl in me, and she feels so alone! She wants her baby back and no matter how many times people tell her to stop crying over it... she can't.

Hormones talking

Granted... I had a few very very good days last week. I even heard myself answer "fantastic!" when my mom was asking me how I was doing. And I meant it.

But today... oh boy. Today is not good. It's raining. I'm crying. I got my period. And I am mad at Norman! I know it is absolutely unfair, but I blame him for having only one child. He has two, he is "all set". I wanted four. I have always wanted a big family. I have said that to my ex (who agreed, sarcastically enough) and I have said it to Norm. I was clear on that at any beginning of a relationship.
I wish I had grown up with more siblings. I never understood why my parents kept it at two. I want a bigger family. It has been my wish for as long as I can remember. Other girls dream of their wedding day. Not me (which is probably for the better, because I am still waiting on that one too...). "All" I wanted was a big family. All I still want, is a big happy family.

I haven't really given up on my dream yet. But it is coming to an end rapidly. My husband will be 48 this year. I will be 36 next week. I don't think a big family is really in my future anymore. On top of that: I have ONE ovary. I am over 35 (which the doctors remind me off every time I see them, thank you very much) so my fertility is dropping fastly each month. And to top that all of: I have endometriosis, which causes infertility in 30-40% of the women. Oh, and don't forget that there is still that 30% chance of placenta abruption again. And a husband who is not rushed at all by any of these factors (even though the doctor told me -just yesterday- to not wait too much longer with trying). Add it all up and it does not look that I will get pregnant anytime soon, does it? Despite all this, and the deep longing I have been having for years now, my dear Norman is not very likely to "cooperate". He is taking his good ole' time thinking about it and insists that "circumstances" should be better. That I should be better. He probably measn very well, but it has the counter effect. The bigger the baby wish, the harer it is for me to find peace within me.

I can already hear Imani asking, twenty years from now. "Mom, why don't I have any brothers or sisters?" And I will probably be answering that "your dad is still waiting for everything to be perfect!". No, scratch that. I will probably be answering "That's why I left your wishy-washy father. He would tell me one thing one week, and another thing the next week. He blamed it all on me not being emotionally ready, but the real truth was that he first wanted to make a new carrreer, move to a bigger house, wait till we were spiritually re-connected and then... then my dear... I was in my menopause!".

Sigh. These are the hormones talking. I hope you understand. But I like to think that hormones -just like children and drunks - always speak the truth. It's that one moment of the month where you forget your manners and let the child in you come out. Abd that child is pissed. I feel like a little girl, stamping her feet, because she can't get what she wants because her mommy says "NO". Or her husband, in this case. Or God, depending on how I look at it. After all, the one time I did get Norman to be excited about another child, God took it away. But mostly I am mad at Norman. Nolan is gone, I need to move forward. But it takes two to tango.

You know what I am most upset about? That the age difference between Imani and a possible sibling (you see that I haven't given up hope yet) is just getting so HUGE! To show you how obsessed I am over the age gap, here's what inner conversations I have with myself:

Hmmm.. didn't get pregnant again this month. My husband isn't ready! May be next month? Oh God, if next month I would get pregnant, I will be having the EXACT same pregnancy months as with Nolan. The due date might even be the same. Oh, I'm gonna cry. I miss him so much. But wait a minute.... if it doesn't happen next month, I will not even have a baby this year! What's worse? I won't even have a baby until 2008. Two-thousand-and-eight!!! That is seven whole years later than Imani was born. She was born in 2001 and ever since that year I have been wanting, longing, hoping, trying to get pregnant again. Why is God so cruel? Why is Norm so cruel? Life sucks... boohoohoo... nobody loves me... boohoohoo...

And this - dear internet - is just ONE example of how I can work myself up from being perfectly fine, to deeply depressed within minutes.

The age-thing just makes me want to cry. I wanted Imani to have somebody to play with. To giggle with. To go to school with. All the things my sister and I had. All the things Norman had with his FOUR other siblings. But our daughter won't be having that. No, so far she is pretty much an only child, unless her much older step-brother comes over. Today she is sitting in front of the TV, because she has nobody to play with on this God-forgotten island. Oh boy, here I go again, into another mental spin...

New York was great! (once I got out of my own way)

You know what is so difficult about keeping a blog on grieving? There comes a point in the process where you don't feel heavily depressed anymore, yet also not extremely happy either. Everything has been said about my son, my pain, my apathic attitude for the last few months. So what else is there to report here? That I bought these gorgeous new cups at Starbucks for half price in New York? No.. that wouldn't fit this blog.

There are actually days, 6 months further, that I feel JUST GREAT. But I won't write about it. First of all, it is only one day. Tomorrow (heck, this afternoon) could be completely different. And the truth is, I only feel compelled to write about my "moving on" proces on days that something has upset me. Or when I have upset myself.

So where does this leave me? With a totally depressing blog, that is only read by people who feel good about reading the misery of others (so their lifes don't look so bad after all)?

I can't only write about my pitfalls. YOU might think that my life is one big valley of tears, one huge struggle to survive... Trust me. It is not. Anymore.

So, therefore I am not going to tell you today about the huge blow-up I had with my dear husband last weekend in New York. Technically speaking it was about the breakfast restaurant that he had picked out and I didn't like (and of course, I expect him to be a mindreader on what restaurants I DO like and he should KNOW these things by now). But between you and me... the real damage had happened a few days before, where he decided that I was still very unstable and not anywhere near ready to conceive another baby yet. Any night would have been okay to discuss this. But not THAT particular night, the one night of ovulation. The one night where there is no time for talking, but only time for action.

The ironic thing is: I don't even think I want to be pregnant right now. I want to "work" on myself first. Norman is absolutely right. I am still very emotionally unstable. Not healed by far. But it had rubbed me the wrong way that he decided that "we" weren't ready yet. When did he become the sole decisionmaker of our future?

But internet, this time I won't bother you with all these semi-depressing details. You might think that I don't make ANY progress. That all I do is pick on my patient husband. But I did move forward.

So I won't share the restaurant-drama from last Saturday. Nor will I give you the embarrassing details about me crying in front of hip New Yorkers, and worse, my own kids. I won't tell you how unreasonable I was, and I won't blog about the fact that Norman was about to walk out of the restaurant and leave me and my hysteria right there. Probably with the check too.

I knew that I had gone too far. I had almost ruined the whole NY-trip for everybody, just because I felt so damn sorry for myself. Almost. I could turn it around right then and there, by apologizing. That simple. But I couldn't. I felt so damn sorry for myself. I should have been in NY with a stroller. And a hip new diaper bag. Shopping for cute little boy clothes. And the after-pregnancy pounds would not have bothered me so much. Because hey... I have a baby. Now I only have the frustrating belly-flab.

Yes, I felt REALLY sorry for myself. But I won't write about it. You won't hear me talk about all the tears that followed the rest of the morning. In the taxi. In line at the museum. And for at least another two hours, once IN the museum. Poor Norman, he is so supportive and sweet. I love him so much! But not until we went to the butterfly exhibition and one butterfly sat on Evan's hat, did I manage to smile...:

I had felt so sad all morning. And I still don't know WHERE it came from. For no appearant reason the tears kept flowing and flowing that Saturday morning. The worst part is: I wish I had not lost control so much in front of the kids. At one point - in the taxi - Evan puts his arm around me and says "I know how you feel". And what did I do? (oh gosh, if I tell you this, you will report me for verbal child abuse). I snap back at him (after all: I was in my deep drama roll, sunglasses on a clowdy day and all, defenitely Oscar worthy stuff) crying "No you don't. YOU never had a dead baby!".

I said that. I said that! OMG. What a bitch I am. To my sweet stepson, who is already walking on eggs around me. "No, I didn't" is all he whispered back.

Good thing I am not blogging about any of that depressing stuff today. Nope. I said I was planning on showing you that I am actually quite balanced in my emotions lately.  Did I tell you I got beautiful new cups on sale at the Starbucks? They make me so happy!

Here is another thing that gives me a little smile everytime I pass by it:

My brother-in-law made it for me. It represents all the things I wrote about in this post...

Thank you Joel, I LOVE it. I love you.

(see? I am still capable of being nice)

I should be happy for them.

It didn't hurt me last Saturday when somebody in the store asked me how my baby is ("dead" I said). It didn't even hurt me when yesterday some telemarketer from Pampers called me to asked if I liked the baby-freebies that they've been sending for our baby (which now I know Norman has been throwing away everytime he collects the mail, so I won't have to see it). But it does hurt a little (no, a lot) to see this video in the news today:

http://abcnews.go.com/Video/playerIndex?id=2886441

My mom told me she had seen this baby on the news in Holland. I hardly believed her when she mentioned "as small as a pencil" because my son was bigger than that and didn't survive. How could a pencil-size baby survive? This baby was 21 weeks gestation, 10 ounces. Mine was 23 weeks and over a pound. I used to find comfort in the medical fact that he was just too small, too light-weighted (and believe me, I have questioned myself for a while, thinking if only I had been eating more during pregnancy, he would have been heavier and had a better chance of survival) and born just too early. Now I see that God makes exceptions for even smaller, lighter, earlier babies. I am happy for this couple. I really am. God knows they had their share of pain, fear and worries. There is new hope for all parents of premature babies. But I can't help but feeling sad at the same time. We were so close... closer than this baby.

Should I be alarmed?

Is this the face of a depressed person? (and I don't mean Imani, she was just grumpy because I made her wear OVERALL snow pants, and those do not go with her sense of style).

No. I didn't think so.

This picture was taken today, while outside skating with the kids.

Yet, earlier today I did an online test for the symptoms of depression. WHY, you ask?

Well, because a few weeks ago, in Holland, my moms friend Ber (hi Ber) affectionately pointed out that I show some signs of depression. "Mwah... I don't think so!". And on and on I rambled to convince her that I might not be the happiest camper around these days, but depression? Me?

Last night Norman carefully suggested that I would go talk to someone. Because "it" is just too much to deal with by yourself. Why Norm, you don't think others have hypochondriac thoughts all the time?

This morning I was on the phone with my friend Carlene and I was telling her how I had yelled at Norman in front of the kids earlier during breakfast. And then I yelled at the kids. I was so angry. Over nothing. Over everything. After she listened for a while, she kindly suggested the same thing: "could you be depressed, Jess?"

Sigh. Could I be?

So I just Googled it. You know me... there is a Google answer for everything!
But look at the symptoms, I f#cking got them all (they should add 'increased cussing'):

*Sadness through out the day, almost every day
* Loss of interest in or enjoyment of your favorite activities
* Feelings of emptiness or hopelessness
* Feeling stressed, nervous, overwhelmed
* Trouble concentrating or making decisions
* Feeling worthless
* Excessive or inappropriate feelings of guilt
* Irritability or restlessness

And all this shows physically: lack of energy, sleeping too much, change of appetite and weight, aches and pains, back pain, digestive problems, dizziness.

I swear I have pretty much all of this. Yet I ab-so-lu-te-ly don't think I am depressed. I thought it was just PMS!

Back home, wherever that may be

Back on the island that I love and hate.

Being back here is both hard and nice. Hard, for the obvious reason that I feel I came back to "nothing". Everything here on the island and in the house reminds me off the pregnancy. My bedroom has never been the same. It just reminds me off all the bed rest. All the long days during summer, filled with worries while others were frolicking at the beach. My bedroom also reminds me of all the sleepless nights full of tears. Even looking outside, seeing the cold crisp weather and the watery sunshine, makes me think of how I should have been pushing a stroller today. With my baby all bundled up and snug against me in the Baby Bjorn. 

It is also good to be back. For the mere reason that I am ready to make a change. I need to start taking better care of myself. Enough with the chocolates. How long can you continue to eat out or pity? And enough with the wine too. It never did numb me the way I was hoping for. It always took the edge of, though. Enough, also, with being sloppy, lazy, aphetic and passive. Sure, I was trying to just get through the days in the beginning. But than it turned into an excuse for not living my life. This is not how I want to continue my life. Unorganized, uninspired and unaware of the rest of life. It's a vicious spiral that I need to break.

The tears have been flowing freely since I am back. Not all day long - thank God. But at unexpected moments. Quick and short, but always intense. And that's okay. It's almost as if I am now finally letting go. Letting go of the mourning process. I am saying goodbye to my daily pj’s. I am no longer using my "situation" as an excuse to slack. I am letting go of the beat up attitude. I am letting go of the pity for myself. I need to be in my power again. Well, I’ll try. Because damn, those chocolates are so good. And they DO give you a quick fix of happiness when you feel anything but good about yourself.

So, I'm going to turn my life around. Don't really know where to start. But this is the perfect time to do it. The island is in a state of hibernation. People are either gone or preferring to stay in their own homes. Social live is on the backburner. It is time to read, sit by the fire with my family, reflect on what has happened and slowly reintroducing the healthy habits. Like exercising. Meditation. Picking up my diary again (and actually write in it). Looking for a job or study may be? And turn off the computer more often, which will be a hard habit to kick. Last night Norman was telling Imani stories by the fire. She sat on his lap, with this look of admiration in her eyes. I was sitting in another room, behind the computer. I could hear her laugh out loud. That's when I realized: I am no more fun! I am mourning one child, but I still have another beautiful child that needs attention. Much more undivided attention than I give her these days. Months.

So, lot's of new resolutions. Two of my friends are fasting right now. I won’t go that far. Not this year. After all, I still cry a lot (no, I totally don't see the parallel with fasting either, but I figured I would use my excuse one more time). Even if I just cut out the chocolates and wine and start exercising again, that will be such an improvement from the state that I am in now. Damn... I am almost getting excited.

Almost.

Officially crazy

The good news is: the extremely blue feeling I had in Paris, has lifted and is now reduced to just a few daily tears of dispair. I guess you could consider that "back to normal". After all, my new "normal" is with a few tears each day. I don't even think much of it anymore.

The 'bad' news is: I think I am suffering from hypochondria. Ever since Nolan's death, I've been o-b-s-e-s-s-e-d with dying. Especially in the beginning, thoughts of death would paralyse me. Thoughts of my daughter dying (that would be unbearable for me), or what if I would no longer be here (Jezus, Imani would grow up without me, and nobody loves her more than I do). Or what if Norman dies right now? I would go crazy, he is my everything. My best friend, my lover, my rock. And yes.... before I know it, I am arranging funerals in my head, wondering if Imani would still go to Holland a lot if I'm not alive anymore, and may be Norman can marry my friend Lexi one day, because she really loves Imani and she is from Europe as well, so she understands that overseas connections are important (plus, she is hilariously funny and has great legs). Gosh, if Norman would die, what the hell would I do on that remote island, without any single men? And no job? But than again, our lifes are there now, our friends, her school, her half-brother, who she adores. Would we just leave?

Told you. OBSESSED.

I am a firm believer in the power of thought. What you think, becomes true. You shape your future with the thoughts that you think. Think positive thoughts, and they'll manifest. Think negative thoughts, and that's what you'll attract. So REALIZING that I am fearing death, that I am thinking of worst case scenario's, I got scared even more. "Jezus Jess, now you are creating bad things for yourself!". Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Ever tried to tell yourself to NOT think about something? Doesn't work. You'll think about it even more. I have known that from the first time I started my first diet. The moment you are not allowing yourself to eat chocolate, that's ALL you can think about.

I couldn't just tell myself "It's okay, sweetie, it's normal that 'death' is on your mind. Your foundation has just been severely rocked and you've experienced first hand how fragile life is. This too shall pass, just be in it". Because... being IN it, might mean that I think about it too much, and thinking about it too much might mean I am starting to 'create' something.

What does all this have to do with my newly (self) diagnosed hypochondria? Well, I've finally gotten to a point where I can replace any thoughts of Norman re-marrying some cold hearted new mother for Imani (since Lexi is actually already married), with happy thoughts of us being far in our nineties and having 10 grand children who all visit us every Sunday and we live long and happily ever after. I thought I was in the safe zone again. I am healing, I am getting better.

Not. Now I FEEL things. Physically, I mean. My left breast has this on and off nagging pain, radiating to my arm pit sometimes. Instantly I think I have breast cancer (don't worry, I just had a clinical exam last week, to check it out). I am tired all the time (Oh my God, I must have lymphatic cancer). And recently, since I'm in Holland, I am having cramps in my lower belly. I am not imaging the nagging pain, it really is there. And Google-doctor as I am, I've come up with the conclusion that I must either have another ovarian cyst (and therefore will lose the one ovary that I have left) or that I suffer from returning endometriosis (which was removed only a year ago during my ovary operation). In both cases I will end up with infertility. Or may be it is cervical cancer after all? Jezus, why even get dressed today?

Of course it could also just be a stomach bug. But that doesn't linger for more than 14 days, does it?

This morning, I was walking up the stairs. I almost fainted. I got dizzy and my heart was beating so fast, that I nearly thought it couldn't cope anymore. "Should I wake Imani up and teach her the Dutch 911 number?" (which is 112 by the way, should you ever come here).

I am feeling better now. Except for the belly cramps and the constant (and false) urge to go to the bathroom to get rid of the stomach bug, that isn't there.

My mom says I have too much idle time. That I should get up from the computer and take a long and refreshing beach walk. Norman says I should "see someone" in Holland. They're both right, probably. But I just can't get myself going. I have been in Holland for 2 good weeks now, and I hardly do anything. I am most happy in my pyama's all day, reading books on health. Yes. Health.

I should probably stop reading and go take that beach walk now. But I can't seem to get excited about it. And that's the whole thing: I can't get excited about anything anymore. I just go with the flow, all automatic pilot. I go to a party with friends. Have tea with another friend. But I'm not fully enjoying it. Like I used to.

It's not because of the sadness or grief. That is not dominating my days anymore. It's just this overall paralyzed feeling of not knowing where my life will go from here. I feel useless. And uninspired to change that.

Well, there is one thing that I am excited about. Tomorrow I am going to this national gathering of alternative therapists and paragnostic healers and readers. I know, only loosers and extremely insecure and instabile people go to fortune tellers. Only the ones that can't look within for answers, let somebody else "read" them. Oh my, did I become one of those people? I guess. Because I am really hoping for some sort of a break through. A sign of God. And since (s)he is not really talking to me, I figute I would go try the channelers. If only one person there can "channel" with my son, if only one person can give me some answers why all this happened to me. There must be a reason, right? What I am supposed to do with the rest of my life? Get pregnant again, or just forget about it and move on? If ony I know, THAN I can get up from the sofa and get dressed again. Feel inspired again. Fully enjoy life agan. Look within myself again... and know that all is well in my life. I just want to know that all will be well again. Because I don't like who I am right now.

Feeling blue in Paris

I am in Paris right now. Sounds wonderful, doesn`t it? Yet, I can`t seem to fully enjoy. Imani and I "stopped" in Paris, on our way to Holland, to see our friends who have been here for almost 3 months. All ingredients are present for some great days, with great people, in one of the worlds greatest cities. And what do I do? I cry.

I`ve cried about 6-7 times since I got here. Which was only a day-and-half ago. I cry under the shower, in bed before I fall asleep and in bed as soon as I wake up. I donùt think my friend is noticing. I hope she isn`t. I even cried in the toilets of the restaurant last night. Only to regroup myself, put on my happy face and walk back in the restaurant as if life couldn`t be better. Because seriously, aren`t we all tired of my sadness and heart ache by now? I know I would be, if I were my own friend. Which I am not, obviously. It is hard to make peace with the fact that I will be 36 in 2 months, have one ovary, lost my baby boy and am nowhere near pregnant with a second child. I am OBSESSED with the age gap between Imani and a possible next sibling. So obsessed, that I tell myself it`s almost not worth it anymore.I am thorn. I also know, deep in my heart, that I just say thi to protect myself. Resting in my situation (will I ever?) is safer than the disappointment each new period brings. Not to mentin the fear that would overshadow any new pregnancy.

I am overwhelmed with emotions. Tomorrow I will be in Holland. Where 2 off my best friends just had their babies. I am anxiously anticipating to see them. I am happy for them, of course, but I can hardly handle the unfairness of it all. Why me? What did I do wrong? I have been longing and trying so much harder. So much longer. Why me, God? What did I do wrong?

I was going to have a baby this month. Instead I am in Paris. Also nice. I guess. So, why can`t I stop crying then?

Pink skies and a box of ashes

Yesterday was Nolan's due date. Somehow I had been anxiously anticipating this day as if I were facing the guillotine.

The day came. And went. I woke up without the big knot in my stomach. I didn't feel the heavy sadness all around me. It was just another day. Imani woke up between us and sat straight up in the bed. "Look at the sunrise!", she said. The whole sky was pink. So beautiful. (Did I ever mention I have water view from my bedroom?). I felt like Nolan was saying "hi" from above. "It's good up here, mom, I'm okay". If anything, it just warmed my heart. No tears.

It was a school day. We just did our normal daily stuff. I made lunch boxes, brought te kids to school, procrastinated cleaning up the house, I even watched Annabel for an hour and after that I picked up Imani from school. She had a play date at AnneMarie's house. Norman and I had planned on finally picking up Nolan's ashes.

His ashes had been at the funeral home for 3 months now. In the beginning we just couldn't bring ourselfs to go pick them up. And later, it just didn't seem so urgent. And honestly, the fact that we had to pay a good $800 wasn't a big incentive either. But hey....  we can't leave his remainders there forever and his due date seemed like a nice symbolic day to go pick "him" up.

On the way over, in the car, Norm and I just talked about work. Not a second was there a heavy moment. Like.... as if you're on your way to a funeral home to pick up whatever is left of your baby boy. We did not reflect on our loss, our pain, our empty crib. After all, everything has been said before.

In the funeral home we even joked. About the smell, about the ashes ("how do we know it is really Nolan, for those $800, and not somebodies fireplace dust?"). When we finally left the building, me holding the little box in my hands, Norman said "don't drop it!". The idea of me flat on the pavement with the ashes all around me, was just hilarious!

On the way  back in the car I felt a little more aware of his death and the fact that he COULD have been born today. Instead I was holding a box with ashes. I didn't cry. It was more a strange sort of observation of it all. But for a brief moment I did feel a little more sad. We were done joking. We were done acting "airy". Now we were on our way back. With a box of ashes on my lap. The weird thing is... I felt such LOVE and affinity for the damn box. People, we're talking about a box! With in it a little bag of ashes. I wanted to hug it. I-wanted-to-hug-a-box! That's as close as I could feel to Nolan on a 'physical' level. I didn't, of course. I was embarrassed just thinking it. Hug the box. But later, when we were at home, I saw Norman place a little kiss on the box. So I guess I'm not that crazy after all. 

The rest of the day was normal. We didn't do our beach ceremony, like we'd planned, spreading his ashes in the sea. We'll probably wait another 3 months with that, knowing us. We just aren't ready for closure. We just don't want to say goodbye. Yet.

Norman went back to work, I booked a ticket to Paris and Amsterdam for next week. If anything, I felt good. Not sad. People had called me, to see how I was holding up on this hard day. My family e-mailed me from Holland. I got flowers, cards and even a book as a token of compassion. God, I feel so loved and supported. I am so blessed with sincerely good friends and a wonderful family.

When I came home from picking Imani up, Evan had made a little shrine around Nolan's ash-box. He placed candles all around it, special stones and his picture was there too. Not the picture of Nolan after he is born. I still haven't shared that with anyone but Norman. But his ultrasound picture.

Evan went through all this trouble. But I didn't feel tears welling up. To be honest, I didn't really like the altar thing. But I didn't want to hurt Evan's feelings. He seems to be very intrigued with the death of his baby brother. I have more sympathy for Imani and her innocent curiosity about Nolan's deaty, than I have for the teenage drama approach around all this. But I want to be a supportive parent. Young adulthood is hard. I remember those years. Every major event seems more intens when you're a teenager. But a shrine? In my living room?

So now I have a table in my living room with stones and candles and a box of ashes and Nolan's ultrasound picture. How long should I leave that up, before I can gracefully take it down without hurting his feelings?

Also, the ashes got Imani upset. I was planning to just stuff Nolan's box somewhere in the back of a closet, until soon we would be ready for that beach walk. Imani wants to make a drawing and hang it on a balloon. That idea is sweet. Innocent. She feels that the balloon will go up to God and the angels. I can handle that. It's symbolic. Not so graphic, like, eh... a box of dust standing in your living room! But now Evan had put that box in the middle of an altar and of course my curious 5-year old wants to know what all this is about. So he tells her, before I can collect my thoughts on this, "those are Nolan's ashes!" That's more than I had intended on sharing with her. She knew that Nolan's soul (she calls it "his little light") went back to God. She never thought about the physical body. Until yesterday. She started crying. "Really mom, is that Nolan?" pointing at the box.

Sigh. What to do? What to say? Here I have a teenager, who is intrigued with the ceremonial part of death. And a little child, who I want to keep as pure and innocent as possible, for as long as possible. They were both staring at me. I had no choice but to explain, as child-like as I could, what was in that box. And if that wasn't enough... Now she wanted to see it. So I opened the box. Out came a velvet pouch. "What's in the pouch, mom?" So I opened the purple bag with golden letters and out comes a ziploc with dust. A ziploc! Thank God for 5-year olds. All she said was "Ehhhww". I took that as my cue to quickly close the velvet pouch and the box. "Can I watch TV mom?". Yes please, let's all get back to normal. But now with a box on our table.

So. The day wasn't extra sad. Not any more sad than the day before. Or tomorrow. Looking back at it, it was just a date on the calendar. What else was there to say? We had talked about Nolan hundreds of times before. We didn't have anything new to add yesterday. Yes, he COULD have been born yesterday. Yes, we miss him dearly. And yes, we would do anything to have him back. But it is what it is. A bunch of ashes. That's all.

When Norman turned off the lights at the end of the day, he turned over to me and said "That pink sunrise this morning? That made me think of Nolan". I know, honey. So many things make me think of him. Hummingbirds. Monarch butterflies. And now pink skies...   

Yes... finally! A new year.

Happy New Year! Gelukkig nieuw jaar!

These last few days have been full of very high "ups" and very low "downs". Norman and I had our share of emotional struggle. We were trying hard, but somehow we couldn’t really connect heart-to-heart, mainly about IF and WHEN to conceive again. I won’t bore you with the details anymore, because it’s all starting to become a repetition. But with every fight, with every tear shed, with every peace-offer hug, we are getting a further down the healing ladder.

The last day of the year started out so sad. We both were in bed crying. Imani held us both, trying to comfort us in our pain. “Don’t worry mom and dad, I don’t NEED another baby brother or sister, I’ll have my friends and you two!”. That made

Norman

break down even more. It is just so hard to deal with the reality of our situation. We are NOT going to be the parents of a new baby this week. We are not welcoming a new sibling in our family.

But a few hours later, we were singing and dancing around the house again. Last night we were hosting a surprise party for our dear friend Lexi, who is turning 40 in a week. She had no idea that on New Years Eve all her friends got together in her honor. Norman and I turned our living room in a restaurant-like set up and everybody brought delicious meals. And lots of wine and champagne. We had such a good time. After diner we all went to a New Years party to dance until

midnight

. We danced, drank too much and just felt carefree. What a contrast to how the day started.

All week I was afraid I was going to break down during this highly anticipated evening. You HAVE TO HAVE FUN on New Years Eve. I was sure I would run away from the dance floor like a Cinderella, bursting out in tears during the balloon drop or some other emotional moment where I would normally cry at. But I am getting really good at controlling my mind. Of course I thought about Nolan a lot during the party. No matter how many glasses of wine champagne I drank. Actually, every minute of the day I think “I should have been sooooo big now”. But I didn’t let my mind go there. Not last night. As long as my mind doesn’t go “there” (to Nolan, to God, to the unfairness of it all), than my heart won’t follow.

Yes, you could call that total suppressing of the feelings. And yes, that is probably very unhealthy. But I don’t care for now. At least I had a fun night and didn’t walk around in a party dress, looking like a raccoon from crying my mascara off. Those suppressed feelings will come out some other day, unexpectedly. Hopefully when I’m not wearing make-up.

So, there you have it. Another holiday survived! We started the year relatively great and I am very hopeful that 2007 will bring more joy, more happiness, more health and more healing! Except for today… today I am having a huge hangover.

Christmas without tears!

I shouldn't be too cocky (because there are still 4 hours to go before Christmas is officially over), but:

THE DAY CAME AND WENT WITH NO (!) TEARS.

Yes, dear internet, this long dreaded day, that I was sure I would spend under the tree sobbing and feeling sorry for myself, was actually... well... nice and relaxed.

We kept it really low key. As a matter of fact, it didn't feel like Christmas at all. It could have been any given Saturday or Sunday, chilling at home with the kids. Except for the holiday songs in the background, the tree in the corner, the cookies, cheeses and wine and other delicious treats and of course the presents for the kids. Oh the joy of being a child! 

Good thing I'm not in Holland. Christmas is two days over there. But here we're almost done with it. Less than four hours to go... I can do that. I'll put the kids to bed, watch a nice movie with Norm by the fire and drink one more glass of wine. Unless the movie will make me weep, or I drink too much wine, will this day go by in good spirits. MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY.

It is worse.

They're here... the long dreaded holidays. There is no denying it anymore. Even in my own home, Christmas is all around me. I have been fearing these days from the moment I lost my baby. But in the back of my mind I thought "may be it won't be so bad". I mean, it's been 3 months now, and I did have some very good moments in those 3 months. May be, just may be, I will be fine during Christmas. May be I will have accepted the loss. May be I'll be able to fully enjoy life again around Christmas time. May be it won't be so bad.

But it is worse.

I can't stop thinking about him. What could have been. What should have been. I am an emotional wreck and the newest thing is: I wake up crying! It just tells me that this hurt is deep. Deeper than I ever thought and is only now slowly starting to really sip out from my heart. The tears I've shed in the first 3 months, were merely the tears of shock, anger and disbelieve. Now the real pain is surfacing, the pain of his absence. The love I had for this child was so big, so true, and I really miss him.

My poor husband doesn't know what to do to "fix" the situation. The kids ran out of resources to cheer me up. They all just let me be. And that is what I am trying to do too... to just let me be.

Oh Christmas tree oh Christmas tree

Look how far I've come! I swore I was not going to celebrate Christmas this year. I vowed that I would be away for the holidays, somewhere warm and distant from the sentimental times of the year.

But I'm still here. We even have a tree. I am trying to be very matter-of-factly about it. It is for the kids. I can't expect them to be doomy and gloomy these days. They're all excited. About the presents, mostly. But still.

I did, however, buy a little ornament for Nolan. It said "baby's first Christmas". That was painful. But I scraped the letters off, with sandpaper. I am planning on painting over it, just adding his name there. I haven't gotten to it. I might still do it. But for now it is just an ornament of a little baby in a crib. A dark baby, holding a teddy. I picture that this is him.
Imani asked me, after looking at the ornament "mom, how do you know if Nolan is black?". I smiled. "Because I saw him sweet heart, because I held him in my arms. Because he had a dark skin, like your daddy". I did not mention the fact that the skin of dead babies always turns darker after a few days. That I can't be a hundred percent sure that he was dark like his daddy. But I like to think so.

I absolutely love this ornament. With the risk of sounding utterly sentimental (something we Dutch women aren't too good at) I feel that he is there now. There, in our tree. And every year when we unpack the box of Christmas decorations, I'll see his ornament again. And each Christmas, the pain will be a little less, and the memory of him a little sweeter.

Merry Christmas, my dear babyboy, wherever you are!

An oh so cheerful update.

I've been keeping myself REALLY busy these last 10 days. Projects like cleaning out the basement (which had not been done yet, since we've moved here, now a year ago) and finally straightening out Norman's office, going through each and every paper he has collected over the past 5 years.

The office is almost done, the basement half on it's way. You can actually walk in it again.

Also, I have been doing a lot of web surfing, looking for Christmas presents for the kids and making a detailled study out of electronic drum kits that don't cost $3,200 but would actually fit within my holiday budget.

All in all, I hardly noticed Christmas was here. We have a tree, but even the decorating was a non-event. If it wasn't for Imani's contagious enthusiasm about the upcoming Christmas, I would have skipped Jezus birthday this year. But oh well... she is counting the days on her Advent calendar, so what can I do but celebrate and pretend to be merry?

Actually, I was quite merry these last days. Until I went off island this morning for some actual shopping. It was rough! Rough. Rough. Rough. Everywhere I went was Christmas. The music, the bells, the decorations. All I seemed to run into, where brand new babies. And every other shelf had baby stuff on it. Bibs with "baby's first Christmas", ornaments with the same announcement, little Santa heads for 3 month olds. Everywhere! And what's up with the total strangers that feel compelled to wish you a merry Christmas? With every purchase you make, the cashier wishes you "happy holidays". They should FORBID them to say that to every customer. Who knows what the guy behind me in line has just been through? He could have just lost his wife a month ago. Or the lady in front of me? She might have just found out she is terminally ill and only has a few more days to live (than again... would she go to the Walmart on her last days?) and here is this 18-year old, with a big grind on his pimple face, wishing her - and all of us in line - a merry Christmas! Or may be that lady isn't even Christian, but Jewish, and therefore doesn't even celebrate Christmas. I swear, I am going to write a letter to all the big department stores, demanding their staff to stop wishing me a good Christmas. Because this Christmas is not good. It will take a lot of spiked eggnog for my Christmas to get any better.

So, I got little accomplished. I couldn't think straight. I had 10 hours and a long long list of things to buy. I forgot that list at home, of course. I also forgot my cell phone, so I couldn't touch base with Norman during the day. Which was bad for two reasons: I needed to cry, whine and feel sorry for myself and he was just the person to call. To listen to me while I would release some emotions, before I could face the next store with more Christmas craziness. Preferably he would say something like "go buy yourself something really pretty, really expensive!". And also, I needed to speak to him because he needed to remind me of the most essential things on our list.

The rest of the shopping I will have to do online tonight. But the crying I got done on the way back to the boat. A friend of mine had lent me some spiritual CD's of the Agape church and the words moved me to tears. Well, I had been holding them in all day, of course.
You know those REALLY GOOD CRY SESSIONS that you can sometimes unexpectedly have? I had one of those all the way from Hanover to Woodshole. I kept putting on my windshield whipers, only to remember that the blurriness came from my own eyes. Now, don't feel sorry for me! It was a good cry. I needed it. I only had about 6 tears left for Norman when I came home. Which was good, because he just does NOT understand how walking in stores all day, being reminded of how glorious my Christmas could have been, gets me upset. His answer to my 6 remaining tears was "there is always tomorrow!". Wrong answer honey. I don't want tomorrow. I want now. I wanted last year. The year before that even. I am obsessed with the age-gap between Imani and "the baby" and to casually remark that "there is always tomorrow" does not sooth my pain. To me it sounded like "don't cry, I'll buy you a new one tomorrow". You know, what you say to your kids to shut them up when they cry over a broken toy. By the way, nothing will be happening tomorrow. Because on top of everything, in the middle of those depressing department stores with Jingle Bells in the background, I just got damn my period.

Guess that explains all.

Nobody cares anymore

WARNING: THE NEXT POST IS TOTALLY ABOUT ME FEELING SORRY FOR MYSELF.

I went to the hairdresser a few days ago and because 'my' regular girl at the salon recently moved off island, a new woman cut my hair. She did a nice job. But within minutes after I sat in her chair, she started talking about how she had just found out she was pregnant and blablabla.... joyjoyjoy. I wanted to say "shut up", I don't give a damn. Or even better: "don't get too excited, honey, you might just loose it". But I didn't, of course I didn't. Instead I nodded, asked a few polite questions about her pregnanacy and then pretended to be really focussed on the magazine that I was reading. Just so she would leave me alone. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about babies with her. But when it was time to rinse my hair, she asked me about my children. And then she asked me if I was planning on having any more kids. Now... up until then I had not really felt the desire to burst her babybliss bubble by telling her that I lost my child at almost six months pregnancy. Why would I unnecessarily scare her? But she was asking for it. "Do I want any more children? Oh my, sure! But it isn't that easy, you know, I was supposed to have MY baby in less than a month!". She dried my hair and looked at me with big questionmark eyes, saying "what do you mean?" Well, MY baby died 3 months ago. That surely got her quite! She still had to cut my hair though... and after 10 minutes or so, she happily continued her baby blabla. Whatever. I need another magazine!

I didn't cry that night. It got me upset, but I didn't cry.

Then today Imani had a birthday party. And on that party was some mother that I had never seen before (you wouldn't think that was even possible on the island) with a seriously big belly. She looked like she was about to deliver any of these days now. Just like I would have been. And I couldn't stop looking at her. THAT'S HOW BIG MY BELLY WOULD HAVE BEEN ALSO!

But what upset me more than her bursting belly, is that nobody mentioned that mere fact to me. Surely somebody must have made the same connection between that woman's belly and my due date?! Especially since a few of these mothers now damn well what I've been going through, still go through. Why didn't they put one and one together and ask me if I was okay? Not even my friend, who was also there. So I brought it up myself. "Oh yeh, right!", they replied understately. And turned around to feed their kids more pizza.

It doesn't take much to comfort me in moments like that. A smile, a quick hand on my arm for a second, showing that YOU know how I feel right now. It doesn't have to be a drama. I won't break down in hysteria. I promise.

But it's not about that. It's not about them feeling uncomfortable with my grief. At least, I don't think that's what it is. I think that they just don't remember! They don't remember that 3 months ago I was still pregnant. That seems like just yesterday for me. But they forgot.

I have a few friends (well, I can only think of 2 actually!) who still are sensitive to my thoughts and feelings. The rest seems to be more comfortable pretending it never happened. They never bring it up anymore, they never ask me how I am doing. Really doing. And they defenitely don't read this site anymore (my Dutch friends and Lexi exlcuded). Even though this is where I really show my feelings. Not at the coffee place. One girlfriend casually asked me the other day "are you still writing that blog?". And I thought "Duh, am I still in pain? Of course I am still writing 'that blog', why don't you check every now and then?"

On the one hand I totally understand. Really! Who wants to read a depressing diary? I don't even think my husband reads regularly. I don't hear feedback from him. Or from my friends. And that's fine, I guess. I didn't start it for them. I started it for me. But if you look in my heart... it makes me feel as if "they" don't care about me too much. The REAL me. The one behind the daily pokerface. I feel that I am the only one keeping the memory of Nolan alive. Well, those two friends excepted. They are not affraid to mention his name, to ask me if I want a ceremony for him, and they do put their hand on my leg when somebody continues to talk about babies in my presence. They give me the feeling that they will love me in good and bad days. THAT I call friendship! And for that I will love them for ever.

I am learning so much these days. Like how to value friends differently. Some people have just disappointed me. They'd rather talk about their own stuff, their own baby problems (hey, at least you have a baby), their Christmas presents, being broke, their next holiday, than ask me how I am feeling these days. Yet with other friends I feel more connected than ever before. I even made a few new friends after Nolans death. A few women have reached out to me - and keep reaching out - that I never was close with before.

Being close friends is not about how often you have tea together. It's about feeling a heart to heart connection. Sharing a simple smile, when you think I am in need of some sympathy. Or just whispering to me "Are you okay?" on a birthday party, when you see me staring at another pregnant woman, who clearly is due around the same time that I was. Because obviously... that is an unexpected confrontation with my pain and NO... I'M NOT OKAY, BUT NOW THAT YOU SHOWED ME YOU CARE ABOUT ME, I DON'T FEEL SO ALONE. Thank you. Instead, I felt upset when I left the party. Thank you.

Yes, I know. I feel sorry for myself and I am unreasonable. So, in case these moms at the birthday party did decide to go read my blog  all of a sudden, I apologize for being supersensitive.