Stupid Situation #5: One Year After Stillbirth

On Sunday, June 5th, I passed my son's one year angelversary. This was after a grueling flight back from my brother's wedding in Hawaii. I stumbled through the day, somewhat thankful for the jet lag that wouldn't let me think too much. I learned that even though jet lagged, it was impossible not to relive every second that I lived one year ago on that day. The fear and the pain linger on, and as I go through this week, my ears remember what it felt like to be calling funeral homes and making arrangements. My body remembers the heat and the mugginess of the day I buried my child. My heart remembers what it felt like to shatter. We held a beautiful balloon release for my son, and all I could think of was that I hoped that the balloons made it past the tree line, because I was damned sure if they didn't, I would be yelling at my husband to get the ladder to send them on their way.

People say that it gets easier. I'm here, a year later, and some things have gotten easier. I can grocery shop by myself without hiding and deliberately taking alternate aisles to avoid pregnant women and babies. I can go on vacation and put up with droves of people, instead of hiding away in my house. But what I have noticed, is that I'm angrier. I can be around these people because I feel hatred, jealousy and envy. Those emotions are stronger than ever. Perhaps this isn't the healthiest way to go about my life, but for now, it's a security blanket. When I am too upset, I wrap myself up in my anger blanket and hate away the world.

In the midst of this hatred, and one day after my son's angelversary, I buried my third child. It struck me that I don't know if things would be easier if I hadn't kept experiencing death again and again and again. I don't know if I would be able to hold conversations with the women who kept their babies when I had to give mine up, instead of ignoring them and losing myself in my own little world.

I do know that burying one child is something sick and unimaginable and shatters your heart. Burying a second child shatters your spirit. Burying a third child shatters your soul.

Somewhere in here, I'm supposed to have hope. I'm supposed to believe that even though I've been tested for everything and everything is absolutely fine, that this, then, is just "bad luck". I'm supposed to believe that this will happen, and that the nursery that is complete upstairs will one day have a baby in it, instead of dust. I'm supposed to smile and get my work done, and keep cleaning the house.

I can't do any of these things. But what I can do is be the cockroach. The cockroach, impervious to a human boot, and impervious to a nuclear holocaust. Because that's where I am right now, in the middle of a war zone. But in the dust, and in the rubble, I will continue to scuttle with purpose.

And hopefully, one year from now, I will have joined the winning team.