Saturday, January 14, 2012


I'm spent. Four plus years of this death, of this fight to survive and dare to thrive in the aftermath. What remains is the natural human wish that it were different. Acceptance is a myth, integration is my hope. Still struggling to become the mother Caitlin deserved, but I sense others don't like who I'm becoming. Still judging the decisions I make and silently condemning my attempts to expose an open heart and articulate a reasoned mind. It's isolating and lonely being the mother of a dead child, with lessons learned only from experiencing the beginning and end of parenting within one's own life span. I don't recommend this path to insight. Ah, I wish I could have folded her into myself, and kept her there forever, and protected her from her life of tubes and saved her from death. I'm spent.

Friday, January 13, 2012

Leaving the Table

Around the table, we sit, a bunch of professionals chatting between presentations with our coffees, donuts, and the red-herring-orange slices. And the talk steers at it always does to a "safe" topic--children. I'm pretty good at this and for the most part I'm genuinely interested and sometimes even, I contribute. Yup, me, dead-baby-only mama, I do have some things to say. Sweet 20-something begins by asking each person at the table, "And how many children do you have?" Innocent and naive to assume that each of us has children and that we enjoy the opportunity to count them. So kind of her not to leave anyone out. She began with the 40+ woman on my left, then the seasoned father, and when it came to her, she told us how many children she would have. I was relieved, after all it opened the supportive comments to her about how "it would happen" and "it's OK to wait," and "enjoy your freedom now" followed by chuckles. I thought that we would move on, because I assumed her needs were met. I was wrong. She was still interested in everyone else, belying her generation. She continued around the circle methodically, "And you?" When the older gentleman to my right began his proud personal family census, I found myself quietly leaving the table. 

God, this is never going to stop sucking. Never. Make peace. Grow. And Still, the pain of it prompts me to exclude myself. The awkward never fitting in to anywhere is making me nuts. The impossibility of having some aspect of my life not colored black by death, is distressing.