but your gone, butterfly

I never thought I’d lose you

Though I never really had you

I miss you

Everyday

I think of you, hurt for you, cry for you

For 8 weeks now

You’ve been gone

And it feels like yesterday

When the angels took you up to heaven

I held you close

And I told you that I love you

Even though you were already gone

I hoped that you would breathe

And I held my breath waiting

For you to come back to me

I had hoped that they were wrong

But your breath and light were gone

So I miss you

And I love you

For now and always

A part of me is missing

And I’m sorry sweet baby if you suffered

I did not know that you needed help

For if I’d known I’d have fought the devil

 

tears, bullshit and butterflies

We loaded the kids in the car, Gabbie too.  Friday was a hellish kind of day anyway and it took us a bit longer to get to camping than we’d wanted but we got there.  We unloaded.  Then I cried.  Or I cried while I unloaded.  We’d not have been there if not for circumstances being the way they are.  Derek says they are unrelated events.  We lost Gabbie because we lost Gabbie.  We went camping because we bought a camper… for us.  It’s hard to agree to that, but there is no argument in it.  If telling himself that works then okay, for me there’s no way the two are unrelated but it is what it is and it can’t be changed.  We did it for the girls, and for us, because of the sadness and the need for change.  And the girls had fun, and Derek had a decent time, and I did too, sort of.  At least it'll get better, the firsts of something tied to her are the hardest.  So… so we went camping and so I cried.  On and off all weekend, I cried, sometimes by myself and sometimes he would know.  I wanted him to have a nice Father’s day weekend.  Father’s day weekend when the man I love doesn’t have one of the precious children to hold that we made in love, together, to love endlessly, because she’s gone.

 “It’s just another day,” he said, “I don’t need a specific day to appreciate them or for them to appreciate me.”

So I cried again, because I miss her to the pit of my stomach that tightens and pulsates where I used to feel her kick, and I wish we had her for him to hold and appreciate.  I wanted to say that I’m sorry… I still feel as though it was somehow my fault, that I should have known, but I can’t say that because he’ll just say, “sorry for what? You didn’t do anything.” And I won’t be able to explain.  I hugged him instead and told him I love him, and I cried.  And I pretend I have fully convinced myself that it’s not my fault. 

Gabbie must have known how I felt about it all.  She’d been around all weekend, and no one but me seemed to notice the orange butterfly that swirled around us on and off all day Saturday.  No one seemed to notice her slipping through the greenery around the puppies that played or the fireplace that still smoked.  He didn’t notice her, I asked him, and neither did some of the others when I asked them if they’d seen the butterfly.  He wanted to know jokingly if I’d created the delusion of a butterfly, and then said with a smile, “Coincidence? Or not? We’ll never know.”  Not.  I know it was her.

Then it was Sunday, yesterday, and time to start my first birth control.  There’s that tightening in my stomach again.  “We don’t need another baby right now, right?” His voice.  Not so much a question, much more like a statement phrased just right to feel out the opposition.  I absolutely do too need a baby right now.  I need Gabbie.  But I can’t have her.  And it’s terribly unfair, and f’d up.  I want to throw a tantrum like this two year old here who has grown far too quickly the last few weeks that she’s hardly a baby.  She was supposed to stay a baby a bit longer.  But he’s right I guess; he’s right that physically I probably can’t handle one right now.  Emotionally, it’s probably not wise to have one now, either.  Not with all the anxiety that will go with it.  But oh how I want one.  I’m exhausted all the time anyway from not really sleeping well, what would be the difference if I were exhausted from pregnancy too?  I know it wouldn’t replace my Gabbie, I just want her damn it!  And I can’t have her and I’m so sad that I have to take something to keep from having anymore right now even though I know it’s probably the best for me.  But it makes me angry too. He said I didn't have to take it if I didn't want to.  And I don't want to.  But I do have to.  I know that as clearly as I know that birthing a dead baby is more than just a nightmare and something that may break me if it happens again. Not that I don't feel broken as it is, terribly shattered and taped back together in little shards that threaten to break apart with the smallest gust of emotion. 1 in 150 births end in stillborn births.  I've been that awful percentile once, why couldn't I be on that side again? So I take birth control partly because I'm terrified to love another one and lose it too. 

Life has decided that it’s not enough for me to have a c-section and to have my body wrecked by a baby that I can’t even show off to feed the vanity that is totally lost now, but also to now have to take birth control that initially makes my body feel like garbage until it kicks in.  Let me just say that the headaches, the nausea, body aches, the crazy-bi-polarish mood swings oscillating between anger, tears and angry tears are more than I can handle with any amount of grace. 

So awesome, I get to feel like shit, to not have any babies, and not have MY baby to hold close.  Super f’n awesome. 

with or without "her"

I was thinking of things to pack.  Tomorrow is Thursday, and we’re leaving for the camping trailer’s debut Friday.  I have to be packed.  Trailer is set; the food shopping is nearly done, now to pack clothes and whatnots.  Is it silly that I want to pack HER too?  I know that she is with me.  I KNOW this.  But, how do I leave HER behind?  The logical side of me knows that they are only ashes, that the “real” her is all around me.  But that’s not logical either.  Where is there logic in that?  “All around me,” “Real,” “With me.”  None of that is logical.  What the hell?!  How do I leave her behind?  It is only camping.  It is only for a couple days.  But, but… but… She should be there too.  We would not be there if she were here, we would not have bought the trailer if she were here.  Shit.  I’ve just realized how hard this weekend is going to be.  We should not be there.  We should not be there without her, or at all.  Yet we are, because we are without her.  And how do I leave her, the substance of her, at home?  I don’t want someone to tell me not to bring her.  I don’t know who would but anyone I guess.  Yet I want someone to talk pretend logic into me to tell me not to bring her so I can rage and cry and say “She should come too” because it’s not logical and nothing is logical.  And I never really raged and threw stuff or exploded or imploded even though I should have. 

None of this makes sense. 

This weekend is supposed to be fun and relaxing and family time.  It will be.  I will make sure the girls have fun.  But, I don’t want to be far from her for so long.  I know it’s not long, but it feels long.  We’ve stayed away similar amounts of time.  (But she should be with us.)  Maybe it is because of what it is?  That we wouldn’t be there if we had her?  (But she should be with us.)  I have no response to “how long will I want her close.”  I have no response… forever?  Until the fifteenth of some unknown month at some time in the distant or not distant future… but no… the fifteenth is too close to the 25^th, so is the 26^th.  I have no idea. 

I know she is not alive.  I know that there is nothing that I need to do with ashes that require them along.  But what if I want to hold her and cry and she’s not there.  She already isn’t there… my arms will be empty… again… anyway… 

It’s weird having a baby that you don’t really have.  And then what if I bring her and don’t cry at all… still no sense. 

None of this makes sense and suddenly I’m lost all over again and still have no idea what to do with Gabbie or without her. 

My messenger...

Monica has cancer.  She gets up every morning, she fights her body as it tries to bring her down.  But her heart soars above the pain.  She has three girls, a husband, family and friends that love her deeply.  She gets out of bed each morning for them.  She thanks God.  She thanks him for blessing her with all the things that keep her moving, and keep her fighting.  Monica has courage.  Monica has a heart the size of the ocean.  She has concern for me.  For me?!  Noble, courageous, faithful, loving Monica.  I’ve only got a broken heart Monica.  It takes some courage for those who are left behind to get up every day, true; but it takes epic amounts of it to continue with a smile when faced with such a demon as the one that stands before her.  And still she thanks God.  I did not thank Him when he took my Gabbie.  I did not thank him, I blamed him.  Yet she blames only her body.  I am envious of her strength and her courage and steadfastness of soul.  I am honored by her heart and friendship and her concern of me. 

My best friend Cyndy made a point, perhaps it was not God who took her, but the Devil instead because he was trying to make me question God and myself.  She says that he has failed.   God stepped up and made her an angel in Heaven because it was not right for the Devil to take her from me . And his plan backfired in his face! My relationship with Derek is stronger ... I appreciate Sky and Gracie more ... I am praying more ... I see signs from Gabbie. The Devil was trying to weaken me ... all he has done is made me stronger!  Maybe she is right. Maybe, although I did not get to keep her, I got something even greater.  

I’ve cried fewer tears lately.  I think my soul is in shock of life.  We’ve been so busy that it’s provided me little opportunity for sorrow to take hold.  We picked up our new camper, we plan on filling it tonight and dropping it off for camping this weekend.  A relaxing weekend will be nice.  It hurts to think that the camper would not have happened if Gabbie could have stayed for a life with us. Our house has an offer and the inspection tomorrow.  It will go well.  It has to.  Life cannot be filled with constant disappointments.  We will be deciding where our life will take us after Wednesday.  I still believe Gabbie helped us get that offer.  I think that she will help the inspection go well too. 

 I’ve thought a lot about Monica and Gabbie lately.  I have two girls who need me here on earth.  Monica has three.  Our courage and drive comes from our girls and for our girls.  Since I cannot hold one of my girls and only be held by her, I can at least ask Gabbie to keep Monica safe, and give her strength and courage; I can be thankful to have an angel on my side in heaven whose soul was too old and wise to live here on earth and whose beauty was too much for me to keep.  For surely an angel whose name means messenger from God who heralded the birth of children, would bring the grace of God to someone whose heart is so big and soul is so kind and who needs to take care of her babies on earth.  Maybe my loss of something so beautiful and old can be Monica’s gain.  She beat it once she can beat it again to live to be beautiful in old age.  And it doesn’t hurt to pray. 

Reaching...

              I posted a status update about messages or signs from loved ones in Heaven, to let us know they are there.  My friend Christina commented that she knows they respond to questions spoken out loud.  Throughout the day on Monday I felt somehow I’d been given signs.  I wrote about it in blog post about Angels and butterflies.  She said if I asked a question I’d be given an answer, but what kind of question do you ask that’s worthy of an angel?

                So I sat on my bed at 9:30 at night on Monday, and I looked at Gabbie’s bear.  “How do I know you’re there?” I asked aloud.  I didn’t expect a response.  Pulling the blanket over me, I turned out the light and fell asleep.  10 minutes into being out cold, (so just before 10) Derek came into the room with the computer and showed me the screen.  We’d just received an offer on our house.   Our realtor said it just came in. 

                Maybe this isn’t a sign at all. But who makes an offer on a house at 10 o’clock at night? Maybe it is a sign.  Gabbie was born just before 10 pm.  I asked her how I’d know.  Maybe I’m reaching.  Maybe I just want it to be a sign.  Maybe I just want it to be her so bad to know she’s close to me.  I’m educated.  I know the definition of random, coincidence and variability.  But maybe…?

                Part of me is sad that I am trying for a connection to her.  Can’t I just accept that she is gone? The answer to that is no.  My baby should not be just “gone.”  Gone from here?  Gone from me?  Forever?  To never hold or hug or see?  I want her close.  So I reach. 

                My friend Allison tells me to stop questioning that she's reaching out to me and just accept that she is. 

                I got the mail today.  A package from the hospital arrived; it was a “Certificate of Life” for Gabraella Joy Swader.  NYS doesn’t count her as having life unless she takes a breath outside the womb.  But she was alive to me.  She moved, had a heartbeat, blinked, hiccupped, sucked her thumb, kicked, so who gives a shit that it wasn’t outside the womb.  Her “Certificate of Life” is the closest to a birth certificate I’ll ever get. But I birthed her.  I have the scar to prove it.  I have the scar across my body and the one across my heart to prove she’s gone too.  “It’s just a paper,” said Derek, “It’s just a paper.”  He’s right, I know. But it’s more than a paper too.  If I’d had her the day before she would have breathed and then she would have been alive? A day sooner? Given a birth certificate?

                I hope she still has “Life” and is near me, somewhere in this universe that gives and then takes away.  And so I reach. 

                 

angels and butterflies

                A couple days ago I had a conversation about a terrible single car accident in which a young girl died but the other passengers (her parents) in the car lived.  I was, and still am, struggling to accept the randomness of life and our inability to control any of it.  The story has stuck with me of the sadness of losing a young girl to something so random, and now how terribly hurt her parents must be by the loss.  Randomness , like a baby dying only days before she was scheduled to come out, and a teenager dying so suddenly a day before her birthday are things that I just can’t wrap my head around. 

                Yesterday, in honor of my Gabbie, I recreated a bracelet, that my sister had given me when I was still in the hospital, to reflect the memory of my baby.  I changed the beads of the bracelet to soft pink, opalescent crystals, silver, crystal butterflies and her charm instead of the deep silver that they had been.  My sister, the one who gave me the bracelet has always believed that our grandfather showed himself to her in the form of butterflies.  I thought what harm could it do, maybe gramps is watching out for her. 

                Today, my husband and I received a small painting in the mail accompanied by a letter.  The painting was that of an angel and butterflies.  The letter mentioned that very accident that I’ve often thought of.  She mentioned, too, that a medium had told friends of the family that the girl didn’t suffer but was taken to heaven by angels who surrounded her like butterflies.  The medium also claimed that the girl was given the job in heaven of helping young children to cross over. 

                There is no way the friend could have been privy to any of this.  She could not have known about my conversation regarding the accident.  Nor could she have known about the butterflies.  Yet here is this letter and painting referencing both. 

                Is it possible?  Might these be coincidences?  Am I reaching?  Or is Gabbie reaching out to me?  I so miss that tiny face.  My stepfather and mother gave me an angel necklace, because she is my angel.  My father and step mother sent me a teardrop necklace to remind me that there are no tears in heaven.  I wear both hoping they are true.  I have cried so many tears down here, without her.  I just wish… I miss holding her and watching her sleep.  I miss cupping her tiny head with my hand to feel her fuzzy hair; she had so much hair.  I just wish I could have heard her cry, watched her chest rise and fall.  I wish I could have seen her eyes.  I said in my last blog that I have stopped asking why and “The answerless question has been replaced by a collection of butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach.”  Now I realize how heart wrenching this quote is if she’d been trying to show me she’s been there the whole time. 

sorrow

Gracie saw a picture of a baby on Facebook the other day and asked me if it was Gabbie.  My heart flipped, “No, Baby Gabbie is in heaven Gracie.”  She nodded and went about her day.  I’ve been thinking about it now for days.  I am surrounded by babies everywhere except in my own house.  I want to hold them but am afraid to weep over their tiny fuzzy heads.  I’m afraid my heart will grow so swollen it will burst out of my chest, or shrivel up from the pain so that I it’s hard to breathe.  I have given up on asking why I don’t have mine.  The answerless question has been replaced by a collection of butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach. 

 Sorrow is exhausting you know.  It drains, and squeezes, and interrupts the day like an unexpected guest or moves throughout the day like the air you breathe.  It is violent and piercing like a storm, or soft and aching like the sunshine with a warm breeze, burning you without knowing until you sit down on your bed at night and realize you’re hot and painful to the touch.  Sometimes I go the whole day and a thought comes on me like a door closing in my face, striking and painful.  Other times I wake up and the pain is there like a muscle ache tweaking all day long.  Sorrow makes your grow older too quickly, and tired too soon.   I wonder if I look older.  I feel old.  I feel old and sad and abused by sorrow.  When people look at me do they see in my eyes how old my soul feels?  Do they hear it in my voice? I’ve always been told I have an old soul.  I wonder if it’s old and crippled, bent over like now. 

I have found myself on my knees in prayer lately.  I am not even sure what it is that I pray. People say you bargain to Him when you’re in grief.  I don’t.  What is there to bargain with for a god who can have anything and control anything that he wanted?  He’s already taken what I wanted most desperately and I refuse to give up the things left here that keep me mostly sane. I have wondered if I’ve done something wrong in my life and should be asking for forgiveness.  But how can that be?  I’ve made mistakes but I’ve always tried to live my life by doing the right thing.  I’d think that is what he’d want.  I try to ask for help to make this sorrow lessen, and perhaps he’s listening.  I mean I have less tears most days.  Or maybe I’m just out of them.  I ask to make time hurry but then I take it back.  I don’t want my girls to get too big too soon.  I read on a grief support cite that “God is just as angry at your loss as you are.”  Do I think that’s true?  I’m not sure.  That creates way more theological questions than I can consider answers to right now.  If it were true than how could it happen?  Why would children suffer and die?  Why would there be tiny angels?

People ask me how I’m doing.  I say “okay.”  I don’t know what they expect me to say.  I could say great, and lie my face off, maybe they’d feel better with that answer.  How can I ever be great? One of my babies is in heaven.  I still can’t say “dead.”  I don’t like that word.  I usually say “okay.”  To some, who can guess any way, I tell them “I have good days and bad days”.  That is the truth.  Telling them that my bad days make it hard to get out of bed and even harder to give a crap about what I have on or how I look, seems cruel.  Telling them that the only reasons that get me up on bad days are the girls and Derek, would probably make them more concerned; no one wants to hear that.  Not when they are moving on, and want to get past it, and want to think that I’m past it.   So I tell them simply that I have good and bad days.  And that is true too.  Truthfully, the pain is less extensive.  I can go about most days with only the aching sadness not the sharp stabbing painful kind and I don’t cry so much that my eyes swell nearly closed, at least, not usually.