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Eleven months later
15 years ago
General
And I don't want the world to see me Cause I don't think that they'd understand When everything's made to be broken I just want you to know who I am
Goo Goo Dolls - Iris)
Goo Goo Dolls - Iris)
Eleven months later my thoughts still are not clear. It doesn't seem to matter what I do there are days that this seems like nothing more than a nightmare. I am still fighting to wake up. Even thought I know that this is reality I still fight to wake up. I am not sure if it is that I cannot accept this life as my reality, or if I just don't want to. Probably both. Yet I know this is my reality. No matter how much this seems like some horrible nightmare that I cannot escape...this is my reality.
I remember checking into the hospital for delivery. Standing at the nurses station waiting for my paperwork to be processed. There was a bassinet behind the nurses station with a little boy being monitored. I remember staring at him. He was so cute. I think that was the second I realized I wouldn't be bringing a baby home. I choked back the tears. One or two were able to slip, but no one noticed. I couldn't believe I wasn't going to be bringing my son home after all of this time.
The pregnancy was rough anyway. I didn't want to be pregnant to begin with. I was pissed that I was pregnant. my husband wasn't working, and showed no interest in going back to work with a fourth child coming. I knew there was no way I could afford the baby. By the time I was seven months along I was no longer freaking out. It hurt to stand, walk, lie down, and sometimes even to sit. I can't begin to describe the pain, but most of the time I wished I was dead so I wouldn't have to deal with it every second of every day. The pregnancy progressed to term, and the pain was worse. I could barely walk without crying and wanting to scream. I didn't complain though. I couldn't...no one would listen anyway, and even if they did I would be considered a whiner.
The biggest thing I noticed about Evans birth that was so different was the silent birth. With my other three children everyone in the operating room was talking (all of my children have been c-sections). This time everyone was silent...totally silent as he was brought out into this world that he would never take a breath in, or open his eyes to. Everyone kept looking at me as though they expected me to lose it. I guess I am too bullheaded for that. I was the strong woman that everyone expected me to be...even more so than anyone expected. Somehow I smiled when they brought him to me to see. I was staring directly at my little boy, and softly stroking his cheek totally disconnected from the entire situation.
I was taken back to my room for recovery afterward, and Evan was handed to me to hold. I took him wanting to hold on to every second I could have and trying to make an imprint of his face on my mind I would never forget. Sadly that memory is cloudy only 11 months later. Pictures were taken. The only way I have left to remember my baby's face. I held him for nine hours, and handed him to the funeral director of my choice personally. I had to do that myself, and that was my own heart driving me to do it. I was his Mother, and he was my responsibility.
My husband had left the hospital at 6PM the day he was born (on a Tuesday), and I didn't see him again until Friday night at my Mothers house. The funeral director showed up, and I made the plans to bury my Son. Still smiling and laughing at times. I must seem the cold hearted bitch, but this is what I was raised to be. I show very little emotion, and this case was no different. Hell when I called my Mother to tell her Evan wasn't alive anymore she was the one losing it on the phone. I was a stone as usual. I always seem to be. I guess many times I am too strong for my own good. I spent from Tuesday night to Friday night in that hospital alone left to my thoughts. I recall tears slipping twice, but never really crying. In the words of my Father..."cry and I will really give you something to cry about". Somehow this didn't qualify as a time I was allowed to cry.
Sunday was the funeral. What would have been my parents 40th anniversary was now my Sons burial. There was actually a lot of laughter. I stood there watching my Daughters, and my Son sitting on the grave of my first husband chattering and laughing. I couldn't help but laugh seeing them. They were all so cute together playing like that. Thinking back I can't think of much that would be more morbid, yet I giggled. I had just buried my youngest. Only three years before I had buried my second child's Father and Husband of five years.
I came home to a filthy house (he would not help me clean at all, and didn't do a thing while I was in the hospital), to sit in front of my laptop...just lost. I wasn't allowed to do anything really. Only sit, and walk some. My incision became infected and I was put on 4 more weeks of rest. Six weeks I sat here drowning myself in websites and chat, fully disconnected from the reality of life. I updated things bluntly that Evan was gone. Condolences came in. I had no clue what to do with that. I hadn't accepted it as reality. I watched women leave the hospital with babies, and I left with a small box containing the clothes that wouldn't fit him, footprints, and a lock of his hair. Somehow that doesn't seem very fair to me.
Eleven months later I hold tight to those few mementos of the Son I never got to meet. I try to remember what it was like to hold him. My arms ache to hold him again. My late husband never opened his eyes in the two weeks before he died, and Evan never opened them at all. Ironic all I ever wanted from both of them was to see them open their eyes. I sit late at night all alone and remember. The memories flood back on me painfully. Yet I still wonder if it was all a nightmare. I hope it was a nightmare, and soon someone will shake me awake. Still I know this is my reality, and I won't be waking up, because sadly I am not asleep, and somehow I have to face that this is my world...the truth despite what my mind would love to believe.
I remember checking into the hospital for delivery. Standing at the nurses station waiting for my paperwork to be processed. There was a bassinet behind the nurses station with a little boy being monitored. I remember staring at him. He was so cute. I think that was the second I realized I wouldn't be bringing a baby home. I choked back the tears. One or two were able to slip, but no one noticed. I couldn't believe I wasn't going to be bringing my son home after all of this time.
The pregnancy was rough anyway. I didn't want to be pregnant to begin with. I was pissed that I was pregnant. my husband wasn't working, and showed no interest in going back to work with a fourth child coming. I knew there was no way I could afford the baby. By the time I was seven months along I was no longer freaking out. It hurt to stand, walk, lie down, and sometimes even to sit. I can't begin to describe the pain, but most of the time I wished I was dead so I wouldn't have to deal with it every second of every day. The pregnancy progressed to term, and the pain was worse. I could barely walk without crying and wanting to scream. I didn't complain though. I couldn't...no one would listen anyway, and even if they did I would be considered a whiner.
The biggest thing I noticed about Evans birth that was so different was the silent birth. With my other three children everyone in the operating room was talking (all of my children have been c-sections). This time everyone was silent...totally silent as he was brought out into this world that he would never take a breath in, or open his eyes to. Everyone kept looking at me as though they expected me to lose it. I guess I am too bullheaded for that. I was the strong woman that everyone expected me to be...even more so than anyone expected. Somehow I smiled when they brought him to me to see. I was staring directly at my little boy, and softly stroking his cheek totally disconnected from the entire situation.
I was taken back to my room for recovery afterward, and Evan was handed to me to hold. I took him wanting to hold on to every second I could have and trying to make an imprint of his face on my mind I would never forget. Sadly that memory is cloudy only 11 months later. Pictures were taken. The only way I have left to remember my baby's face. I held him for nine hours, and handed him to the funeral director of my choice personally. I had to do that myself, and that was my own heart driving me to do it. I was his Mother, and he was my responsibility.
My husband had left the hospital at 6PM the day he was born (on a Tuesday), and I didn't see him again until Friday night at my Mothers house. The funeral director showed up, and I made the plans to bury my Son. Still smiling and laughing at times. I must seem the cold hearted bitch, but this is what I was raised to be. I show very little emotion, and this case was no different. Hell when I called my Mother to tell her Evan wasn't alive anymore she was the one losing it on the phone. I was a stone as usual. I always seem to be. I guess many times I am too strong for my own good. I spent from Tuesday night to Friday night in that hospital alone left to my thoughts. I recall tears slipping twice, but never really crying. In the words of my Father..."cry and I will really give you something to cry about". Somehow this didn't qualify as a time I was allowed to cry.
Sunday was the funeral. What would have been my parents 40th anniversary was now my Sons burial. There was actually a lot of laughter. I stood there watching my Daughters, and my Son sitting on the grave of my first husband chattering and laughing. I couldn't help but laugh seeing them. They were all so cute together playing like that. Thinking back I can't think of much that would be more morbid, yet I giggled. I had just buried my youngest. Only three years before I had buried my second child's Father and Husband of five years.
I came home to a filthy house (he would not help me clean at all, and didn't do a thing while I was in the hospital), to sit in front of my laptop...just lost. I wasn't allowed to do anything really. Only sit, and walk some. My incision became infected and I was put on 4 more weeks of rest. Six weeks I sat here drowning myself in websites and chat, fully disconnected from the reality of life. I updated things bluntly that Evan was gone. Condolences came in. I had no clue what to do with that. I hadn't accepted it as reality. I watched women leave the hospital with babies, and I left with a small box containing the clothes that wouldn't fit him, footprints, and a lock of his hair. Somehow that doesn't seem very fair to me.
Eleven months later I hold tight to those few mementos of the Son I never got to meet. I try to remember what it was like to hold him. My arms ache to hold him again. My late husband never opened his eyes in the two weeks before he died, and Evan never opened them at all. Ironic all I ever wanted from both of them was to see them open their eyes. I sit late at night all alone and remember. The memories flood back on me painfully. Yet I still wonder if it was all a nightmare. I hope it was a nightmare, and soon someone will shake me awake. Still I know this is my reality, and I won't be waking up, because sadly I am not asleep, and somehow I have to face that this is my world...the truth despite what my mind would love to believe.
