Monthly Archives: May 2013

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Goodnight

It’s night time again and everyone around me sleeps. My online friends slowly dwindle as they head off to bed. They have been a comfort, chatting with me as lie here in need of a distraction. The memories of that day continue to come back to me. It is so bittersweet. I want so badly to remember the time we spent together in that hospital room. The few hours I held my son and kissed his sweet forehead. But, at the same time, I want to forget about how painful and heartbreaking it was to hold my son’s lifeless body. It’s so contradicting. It’s so hard to remember something so wonderful and devastating at the same time.

I am wide awake. The insomnia I suffer is relentless. I can lay here in the dark, and try to think of other things. I can listen to calming music and meditate on the things in my life I should be grateful for. I can watch tv or read a book for distraction.

But I cannot escape those memories. They are constantly surrounding me, going through my body like waves. I close my eyes and I’m in that room again. The cart they put newborn babies on for their first exam. The scale used to weigh them. The rocking chair in the corner. The blanket with blue and pink feet on it. I remember the taste of being sick after hearing those awful words. I hear the silence of that ultrasound machine, telling me my boy is gone. The silence is so unbelievably loud.

Could I take something to help me sleep? Yes, of course I could. But it wouldn’t make it all go away. It’s a part of me now, I might as well embrace it. Take it head on. That’s what people keep telling me, that I am so strong for facing this. But I do not feel strong. I am not a warrior. I am just an unwilling participant in this journey.

So here I will lay, late into the night, playing out what has become my life in my head like a movie. Over and over again. Perhaps it will make my empty arms not feel so empty. Maybe the hole in my heart will shrink just a little bit. I just hope that as I do finally drift off to sleep that Bennett will come sit next me, right on my pillow. Come visit me, my sweet boy, and please help my dreams be of peace.

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Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is this weekend.  I am not looking forward to it.  To start, I have not been the best mommy for Brooklyn lately.  I find myself getting frustrated and overwhelmed when I am with her.  She has that “I’m 3 and the world should revolve around me and I should get everything I want, when I want it” attitude.  Its exhausting.  I have no patience for the whining and crying.  I love her with all of my heart and cannot imagine my life without her, but she drives me nuts.  Despite all of my efforts to “fake it ’till I make it” for her, I am feeling like an inadequate mother to her.

I also have this ache to hold all of my babies this Mother’s Day.  I am so lucky to have Brooklyn here with me, as I know that some mommies who have lost have no baby to hold.  But I still have a missing piece.  Mother’s Day just isn’t the same, and I suppose it never will be.

I will go through the motions.  Breakfast, going to the park, visiting the cemetery, going to Grandma’s house to celebrate.  But it won’t be the same.  I am a mother, but I am missing two children.  I’m not really sure what there is to celebrate in that… 

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My Story

My name is Lauren and I am the Mommy to an Angel.  I did not chose my story.  In fact, my story chose me and I wish that I could refuse it; to say that this is not part of my life.  But we don’t get to chose our path, God does that for us.  At times, I want to scream that God’s plan is stupid.  God’s plan doesn’t make any sense.  There is no reason I, or anyone, should have THIS as part of their story.  I share it with you only so that you may somewhat relate to the agony I have lived through.  I lost a child.

My baby boy, Bennett Allen, was born on March 13, 2013.  What was supposed to be a day filled with joy and excitement for the future quickly turned into a day of darkness and dread.  Those words repeat in my head over and over.  “I’m so sorry, there is no heartbeat. Your baby has passed away.”  Sometimes when I’m thinking about that day, it replays in slow motion.  Everyone’s voices are deeper and they move slowly around the room.  Other days, the entire experience is in fast forward, everyone is moving quickly.  Either way it replays is unbelievable and painful.

“What now?” I asked.  “You will give birth to your baby.”  That’s impossible.  There is no way I can possibly give birth to my baby boy.  He is dead.  What you are asking me to do is impossible.  I can’t do it.  I don’t want to be here.  I can’t believe this is me right now.  But it was me.  And I did give birth to my baby boy.  Bennett was born at 8:09pm on March 13, 2013 after a 24 hour labor.  For 24 hours, I sat in that hospital bed, knowing that when my son was born, I would not actually get to meet him.  We said goodbye and hello at the same time.  We would never see his eyes or hear his cry.  I would never get to comfort him in the night.   Or sing him a lullaby.   His sister would never get to play with her brother.  His Daddy would never get to teach him about baseball.  I would never get to teach him how to love and care for others.  He was already gone, before he even got here.

It has been 8 weeks and the pain is still with me every day.  There is no pain like this one.  My heart aches to hold my little one.  My arms are empty.  And it hurts.  I force myself to put a smile on my face and go about my life.  But part of me is stuck back on March 13th, and it’s like I’m being ripped in half.  I long to go back to that day and hold my dear boy again.  To stroke his tiny cheek and count his tiny fingers and toes.  If I’d known how quickly that moment would have passed, I’d have held him longer.  But I had to let go.  I had to say goodbye.

I can’t believe this is my story.  I want to give it back.  To choose another path.  This one is dark and lonely and filled with sadness and emptiness.  I want to go back and feel Bennett moving in my belly again.  I want to hear his heartbeat and feel one with him again.  But I can’t.

The house is quiet and still
Here I sit, alone
The world keeps spinning
I’m stuck in this place

My body aches
Arms, belly, heart
Empty
Longing to hold my dear one

Phantom kicks
From the inside of my belly
But he’s not there
It’s all in my head

Close my eyes
Remember his peaceful face
Tiny hands, tiny feet
No breath, no life

Who would he have been?
What would he have become?
Questions I’ll never get answered
I’ll never know my dear son

I don’t want to wait
“’Till we meet in heaven”
I want him now!
I want him here

“It was for a reason”
“He was meant for more than this life on Earth”
I don’t want to hear these words
They don’t touch this agony

I’m confused and lost
Why me?
Why my baby boy?
It’s not fair.

There’s a hole in my heart
Nothing will fill it
And I’m all alone
In this house, quiet and still.