911 Days Late

Some people come into your life, just to teach you how to let go.

Holding on to things is an endless struggle in the mind of a grieving parent. You never win, you only try to justify why said object or emotion is worth holding onto. The tangible has become easier to let go of over time, frankly because I don't have the capacity to tote around an entire nursery of "what ifs".   But the emotions...the guilt and regret and anger and sadness and blame, those are very much attached, like extra limbs that I don't necessarily want to part with, for fear of not knowing how to function without them. There's this paralyzing fear that if I have no one else to blame, it falls on me. Babies don't just die. Someone needs to be held accountable.

On the one year "anniversary" of Isaiah's death, I faced two fears; getting a tattoo and reading his autopsy report. (I will have you know that I wasn't afraid of the pain of getting a tattoo, I'm just too indecisive.) The autopsy was sickening. The descriptive narration of exactly how his body was taken apart and looked at, much like a science experiment, made my stomach, the very place he was knit together for 9 months, turn.

But worst of all, the very thing that could have saved him, the epinephrine which was supposed to be administered intravenously was said to have been "laying loosely in his leg". The people I was so thankful for this entire year, the first responders who ran in while my world was collapsing as I quickly came to the realization that my feeble attempts at resuscitation weren't working, they were now to blame. As I huddled over my lifeless boy, my eyes met my daughter's, who despite my pleas and screams to go back to bed, witnessed what complete desperation looks like; yet we shared a hopeful unspoken moment, when they carried Isaiah out of the room. They knew what they were doing, I thought. They could surely save him.

But it was in black and white. The words on that paper didn't lie. The improperly placed IV placed my blame elsewhere.

There have been hundreds of conversations between myself and three little people who question what more could have been done, and I've always reassured them there was nothing, everyone did the best they could...but secretly, I didn't believe that. I don't want them to know a world where they question the expertise of emergency responders who they deem their heroes.

And now, coincedentally, 911 days later, I finally believe those empty words I've been speaking. Sometimes you meet people who inadvertently and unknowingly bring closure to a place you didn't realize was still so wounded. I never thought about the men who were most likely sleeping while I scrambled for my phone at 4:08 in the morning, who jumped up and met me in my darkest hour, and even for the briefest of moments, gave my family hope. Their presence was enough. It's safe to let go.

P.S. I love you Mama's Mans.

Why I Didn't Light A Candle For My Son

I'm no good at facades. I wish were, because grief requires some sort of make believe every so often in the hopes of not appearing psychotic. I'm supposed to be this strong, yet honest figure of what it looks like to continue to live after a part of you dies...or at least that's what I've told myself. I don't have a choice on the part of me dying scenario, that was just handed to me, much like my lifeless baby being not so gracefully placed on my lap at 4 in the morning. 

I didn't light a candle this year. I didn't post anything about my sweet boy. It's not because I've forgotten him, or because I don't hurt. It's not because I don't believe in spreading awareness about infant death. It's because I'm sick of it, at least at this moment in time. The only candle I want to light for my precious, beautiful son is the one that sits on top of a birthday cake. 

Sometimes, actually most times, I can go about my life with as much normalcy as I am capable of. But there are also these grand moments of defiance. It's like being a teenager, without all, ok most, of the acne. You know when you're over that particular sport that you beeegged to sign up for? The one that your parents spent a bazillion dollars on, and now you hate it? You cry and whine and now beg your way out of said sport, but your mom is all like "you are sticking this out. You are not a quitter. I've spent a lot of money on this, and you will go, because I'm your mom and I said so." But you don't want to play badminton anymore, so you purposely start sucking in the hopes that mom will see what a waste this is, and you'll be off the hook. 

Sometimes I just want to suck at being in the dead baby club. Maybe if I'm not good at it, God will be like "hey, you're clearly not cut out for this because you didn't light a candle and post a picture of it on Facebook, so, surrrprise, here's Isaiah, you can have him back. You did good for awhile, but now I see that you're over it." *pats me on the back* 

See what I meant about having to put on a front in order to not appear psychotic? Because this is crazy. But it's the real deal. 

So here's to the moms of gone-too-soon-babies who suck at honoring their babies sometimes. Your lack of public announcements doesn't equal a lack of love. Don't feel obligated to grieve any other way but honestly.

*Disclosure, this may seem insensitive to some, but I assure you, there's nothing more in the world that I'm most sensitive about. There's no way to sugar coat infant death, and even if there were, I'm just not cut out for wrapping ugly things with pretty bows.*