I'm still here...

So I think this is the longest I have ever gone without a post. I have so much to write, so much to say. The babies are doing great. I am feeling good just tired - and while I would love to blame it all on pregnancy fatigue, I know the looming date of Peyton's birthday on the calendar has it's hand in my mental exhaustion as well.

I remember being so touched last year at this time by a post by Cara at Building Heavenly Bridges where she wrote:

"I can feel the hollowness reattaching itself to me.
I can sense sadness nearby readying its attack..
I can smell memory beginning its annual journey to possess me."

Her post talked about how Grief Season comes for us, even when we don't go searching for it, and how year after year, though we wish it would, it doesn't get any easier. It was an amazing post that has always stuck with me.

Grief season hit me last week, as Peyton's due date approached, and a rush of emotions came with such force out of the blue that I felt thrown back to those early days. It was an ugly scene. Me, wrestling desperately with a guilt that I thought I had put to bed, and the time of year taunting each memory that I wish I could forget, back into my mind.

I think there is no avoiding Grief Season. Even if I banished every calendar from my home- my mind, body, and heart would feel the days coming to be: her due date, her birth date, the day she started chemo, the day the infection was discovered, the day we said goodbye, the day of her funeral. Each of these hits me with the unrelenting reality: Peyton is gone. She was destined to it before she was born. She is never coming back. Even though we wish it weren't the case, there are no guarantees in this life, and sometimes it is just so cruel.

I am trying to find balance over these next weeks and months. Next Saturday we will attempt to honor what should have been Peyton's 2nd birthday, knowing all the while that anything we try will just somehow fall short.

I am hoping to find a way to breathe through this season. I have so much to feel grateful for this year, so much love and beauty in my life right now - two amazing, miraculous blessings.

But at the end of the day it is not I who chooses how that day will feel. It is my heart, and the memories of all that she was and should have been, and try as I might, wearing a smile through the reminders of such a huge loss is hard.

She is my daughter. Always will be my daughter. And I miss her.

"Blissfully" pregnant or not, there is just no way to sugarcoat that.

He's Baaaaaack!

I don't even know what to say except that I am furious.

The asshat that I talked about here, and here, is back.

Yesterday I went up to see Peyton with my cousin and discovered little souvenirs that his dog had left around her grave. I didn't have anything on me to clean it up with, so I headed back up there early this morning with bags in tow. What I found broke my heart. There was enough dog waste around Peyton's little grave to fill three plastic doggie pickup bags.

I looked around at the other graves and found nothing. It's like he walked it over to her spot and placed it himself.

What kind of a person can do something like that to a little baby's grave? As you all know, I have already gone to the police. I don't know where else to turn because they can't have someone stationed there 24/7.

I really don't need this...

What grief looks like at 16 months - Mel's Show & Tell

This is Peyton’s room.

It has been sixteen months since Peyton left this world, seventeen since she entered it, and eighteen since this room was created. Entire cycles of seasons, holidays, and milestones have passed, and yet, stuck on pause, both this room, and I, sit waiting.

Not much has changed about Peyton’s room. Nothing at all since her death.

Books wait to be read. Toys to be played with. Diaper creams and lotions now nearing their expiration date, sit below a changing table waiting to be used.

Piles of wrapped gifts remain untouched.

Her clothes from the hospital sit in a plastic bag by the dresser.

“They are toxic,” the nurses warned, made so by traces of chemo in her spit-up. "You have to take special care in washing them." 

This little bag has kept me up so many nights, panicked over what to do. Unwashed, the poison still remains. Washed, her scent of mint and milk is lost forever. 

When we put the finishing touches on this room, I sat in this chair, folding onesies, socks and blankets, while hubs hung shelves and pictures. I had never been so happy in all my life.

The last time I sat here, just days before Peyton was born, worry took hold of me, and floods of tears came. 

I flash back to that moment a lot, to the way panic gripped me. I had never been scared in my pregnancy. I never had a reason to be. I was a planner. I was healthy. I had everything under control. 

It came as a complete shock when through tears I told hubs how scared I suddenly felt. How worried I was that I would screw this up. That I might screw her up. That I wouldn’t be a good enough mother, love her enough or know what to do should something go wrong. 

“This is all normal,” he reassured me. “All new mothers probably feel this way. It’s okay.”

I think about that day a lot, about how inconsolable I became for seemingly no reason.

Did I know?
Did something deep inside me know?

The other day I ventured into this little yellow room, this room where nothing changes, this room that time forgot, and made a painful discovery. Dust.

Layers upon layers of dust so thick that I could write her name in them.

She is being lost to time. Covered up. Buried. Sprinkled in a muted veil as if the universe is trying to hide her existence. Trying, with all its might, to hide the ugly truth that things like this happen to beautiful little babies.

Some may think I am overreacting to something that could be wiped away with a rag, but to me it signifies so much more than that. I see the bigger picture. I understand what enough time will do to Peyton, that though she will always beat in my heart, with enough time, to the world, nature, the universe, she will be forgotten. 

To see what others are Showing and Telling, go here.

"You're numb right now"

Writing has been a huge release for me through this loss, but on the heels of last week's news, I have found myself struggling for words. This latest blow has left me back at square one in terms of exhaustion, and quite frankly, my creativity has been a bit tapped out.

In an effort to get some emotional release, and try to break this writer's block,  I went to Borders today to be in the presence of other writers (I had met a very interesting author who I knew would be there today) and write. There is something to be said about being in the presence of other creative folks, when trying to get your creative juices flowing.

While there, tapping away at my computer beside this female author, a man came over (another author) and began talking to us. This is a portion of our conversation.


Man: What are you writing about.
Me: I go back and forth between a few things. I have written a memoir about my daughter who died of Cancer, and also work on this silly little chick-lit book when I need a pick me up. I also write a blog about my grief.
Man: Your daughter died. I am so sorry. How old was she?
Me: 28 days. She was born with Leukemia.
Man: 28 days? Born with Leukemia... Oh, my. When did this happen?
Me: Yeah, the chances of it happening were one in fifty million. I'm just that lucky. We lost her October of '08.
Man: Was she your only child?
Me: Yes, and having her made it so I can't have any others.
Woman Author: She just found this out last week. Can you believe she can even talk about it?
Man: Oh, my.
Me: Yup.
Man: You're numb huh?
Me: Numb?
Man: Yeah numb. You're numb right now.
Me: Why do you say that?
Man: It's just, you're telling me something so horrific, but when you say it you are so matter of fact.

Me: Well then, yeah, I guess today you could call me numb.

This conversation really got me thinking.

Why is it that this loss has stripped me of that former sense of self preservation where I would only share good details about myself with those I encountered? Why can't I sensor what I say, even when I know I am sharing too much? It's as if it all flows, unchecked, from my heart to my lips. I can't stop it. Is it because it is all I can think about?

To this man in Borders - "My baby is dead. I am infertile." To the woman at the Post Office - "My baby is dead. I am infertile." To every person who stops to ask me for the time, or to comment on the day, or the weather, or the latest movie they saw, I turn to them lost, repeating the only truths that I know... "My baby is dead. I am infertile."

Sometimes the words come with tears, and I watch the discomfort wash over the face of whichever poor soul I am speaking to. Sometimes the words come with a resigned muffled laughter, a pathetic attempt at laughing at my misfortune or making light of my luck, and the shit-storm that has swirled unrelenting around my attempts at having a family. Sometimes, like today, the words present themselves as bulleted facts. Talking points delivered with little to no expression.

Some take this to mean I am doing well. "She can say this without crying. Look how strong she is." I know it is just the opposite. I know that regardless of the expression on my face, or the inflection in my voice, I am lost. My heart is broken.

Perhaps it is the shock, or the PTSD. Perhaps it is my mind's way of trying to process all that has happened. All that I have seen and done. All that we went through, or worse, all that Peyton went through. She was just a baby. A poor, defenseless, little baby. She endured things that no child should ever endure. Things that no mother should ever bear witness to.

Maybe if I say "My baby's dead, and having her left me infertile," enough, out loud, to everyone I meet, I will finally accept or make peace with the irony and pain impregnated in those words. Or maybe tomorrow I will wake up once again in this world of disbelief, without the luxury of feeling numb, and those words will bring with them the return of my tears.

Regrouping... again

Or at least attempting to. I feel like that is what my life has become, setback after setback requiring us to regroup based on the universe's rules. Well you know what. I am pretty tired of it really. The utter irony of learning this week that my tubes are shot to crap as a direct result of a c-section that I had to bring a dying baby into the world. Oh, that's just hilarious universe isn't it? You really got me on that one.

If Peyton had been born healthy, if she was here, a laughing fifteen month old, of course I would feel this was all worth it. But she isn't is she? She was born to suffer through chemo, procedures, and surgeries that would make a grown man cry, and for what? For an infection to take hold of her after one month!

This latest development has me thinking alot about Peyton's birth. Alot about why the c-section was proposed, and if it would have been kinder to let her pass in childbirth. That would have been kinder to her, no doubt. She wouldn't have had to learn just how cruel life can be for a baby born with cancer. I am so glad to have held my baby girl, to have loved her and nursed her and known her. But at the end of the day she is gone. Just as she would have been had I birthed her. The only difference is, I wouldn't have known all that I am missing. I wouldn't have known how much I need to see her smiley face again, or how beautiful an experience it is to breastfeed her. In that way, perhaps it would have been kinder to me, too.

The truly crappy thing is that they had no idea about Peyton's cancer, so the recommendation to have the c-section, that was based on something else. What exactly? I couldn't tell you. They wait until you are in the throws of labor and then say, "it's time to get that baby out, she is in distress." What does distress mean? Her heart was healthy, her lungs. What distress brought on this surgery? A surgery that birthed a dying baby, and then wrecked my tubes through infection, and my chances at other children? I will never lay down with the man I love, and make a baby again. This is a devastating reality for me. DEVASTATING.

I am sure there are those who will read this post and judge my thoughts. I am sure there are others who will think I am callous or cruel. I can't apologize. I am not sorry that I feel this way. I am 29 years old and feel like my book is closed, like I am the punchline to some ridiculous universal joke. I married the right man. We had a safe, secure home to welcome a child into. Where did I go so wrong?

This time it is different because I recognize the stages that I am going through, I have been through them before. They have been unwelcome companions on this fifteen month ride through grief.

Shock & Denial.
Pain & Guilt.
Anger & Bargaining.
Depression.

These four have become like second nature to me, it's the last three that I have never quite been able to master.

The Upward Turn (I thought I was getting here, really I did. When we decided we were ready to try again.)
Reconstruction and Working Through.
Acceptance & Hope.

Where is the hope in something like this? How can I accept this irony? It is too cruel.

I hear Shakespeare's words, "I am fortune's fool!" ringing over and over in my mind, and believe they were written for me.

These last two days have been like those early after losing Peyton. Eyes swollen with tears. Head pounding. Not answering the phone. Not getting dressed. Not going out into the world. I have not even been able to bring myself to go see Peyton's grave. My sweet little girl who I love so much. I feel awful for this. For feeling the way I am feeling. It hurts to look at your child's grave under any circumstances, these make it especially difficult.

Most people get pregnant and know that changes are going to come. They are supposed to be happy changes... not this. Pregnancy, child loss, infertility. Where does the shit storm end?

I wrote the title of this post, "regrouping... again" with every intention to write something that says, "Listen up world, I will get through this, I will overcome this." The problem is, I don't believe it. And if I don't believe it, I can't write it.

Shock and Awe

I remember in the early days of the Iraq War hearing alot about "Shock and Awe," the practice of overwhelming the enemy with force rapidly as a means to stun them into submission and break their will. I think that is where I am tonight, in the "Shock and Awe" stage. There are so many realities beating me down that I wonder if our dreams of having a family are even a possibility. Tonight I feel overpowered, like I am failing this battle on two fronts.

First, there is the ever present battle with my grief, its rapid succession of images, memories, trauma, flashbacks, anger, sense of loss, frustration, sense of overwhelm, sadness, reminders of all that we are missing out on, sense of feeling robbed, feelings of isolation, anger at a disease with no known cause, anger at having to watch my child be that 1 in 50 million, sense of fear about losing future children to Infant Leukemia etc. that go along with missing my Peyton. My sweet, sweet Peyton who Cancer stole from me. She should be here with me. She was my child. I can't get over missing her.

Then there is the second battle front, the infertility front. I got the green light to TTC several months ago. My first two pregnancies came so easily, and still, at the end of the day, my home is empty of children. That's a bitter pill to swallow. I have carried life within me twice and have no children to show for it. Now, when we have already waited so long, when our arms ache to hold our child, now is when my body has decided to become infertile... Why? I don't know how to process this reality, the "we are really struggling with infertility" reality. I don't know how to make peace with being dealt this hand too. The sense of unfairness is smothering me.

So tonight I sit here, pounded, broken, staring in shock and disbelief at these last two years since hubby and I decided to start trying, and wondering how this happened to us? We were prepared. We had so much love to give our daughter. We were ready to provide her a safe, loving, stable and nurturing home. Why do our attempts at having a family need to include so much pain at every twist and turn? Will this ever get easier? Will we ever get OUR chance at bringing home healthy children? Nothing that I thought, envisioned, expected or dreamed on has come to be. When, I must ask, is it our turn to be happy, beaming parents? When can we step off this battlefield?