Christmas is 4 days away.  This year, I feel like a bot… Definitely going through the motions of the holidyays.. baking, decorating, shopping etc, but it’s all got a sense of emptiness hanging over it all. I want it to feel meaningful, I want to be excited for my 6 year old, who can’t wait.. Truly, I am anticipating it on his behalf.. But, for me, the holidays will forever be tainted by Isla’s loss. I feel a whole new ripoff in the holidays. Not only is she not here to enjoy them, as a blossoming little 2 year old with curls and probably full on into dollies and babies, as I was, but I am left to imagine what it would have been like…. how she would have been for the holidays. We’d have been so busy with cookies, gingerbread houses, everything so amazing. My daughter and me. Now this wonderful piece of my life, that should by right be here, is gone. Forever. Never will I bake with her, play dolls with her, do anything with her. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Sometimes, I have a very hard time saying yes to this. Sometimes I feel like the pain is too great, and exceeds the joy I experienced in my pregnancy. I feel like the world’s most ungrateful mother, but if someone asked me if I could have my pregnancy, and my daughter for the 13 hours we did, and then lose her forever, or, never have conceived her, and never have known her, I cannot say with absolute certainty that I’d choose the former. I am not the strongest person (as outsiders seem to think), I am not changed in so many good ways by having her and subsequently losing her. I don’t buy all that bullshit anyway, because if you ask any of those assholes who think you’re a “better person” now if they want to trade places with you, see how quickly they line up. As much as I love her,  losing her will haunt me forever, and I am weak enough to say I may have chosen to have never conceived her at all. I’m sorry Isla, it’s not a slight to you, but the pain of losing you is just so great. I am not a strong one. xoxoxoxo mom


Many months later…

here we are, july 31st. On May 14, I delivered a healthy wee baby boy, whom we named Connor Brady. Here is the post I put up shortly after his birth, on a board I frequent:


This is a post I have only dreamed of making for the past 9 months. I couldn’t actually believe I’d get to type it out, but here I am.

On Thursday, May 14th, at 9:02am, our son Connor Brady was welcomed into the world. He was born via cesarean (planned) and was 6lbs, 11oz, 20 inches long. He’s such a teeny tiny (Evan was 8.3, Isla 7.6), and I am overcome.  It is such an overwhelming mixture of emotions. Just before he was born, the doctor said “And here… comes.. Connor!” and she pulled him out. I felt a huge weight lift out of my abdomen as he was held up.   I said nothing. I was completely quiet while I waited (it was when Isla was pulled out that we realized she was in trouble, not before, so I wasn’t reassured yet). He let out some gurgly wails, and all I could think was ‘he aspirated.. he’s in trouble’… I still didn’t breathe. They took him to the side table to clean him up a bit, and I looked over (as I had when I saw CPR being performed on Isla, same place exactly – ugh) I saw they were giving him oxygen; his hands and feet were purple. I still said nothing. I just waited, numb.  A few minutes later, they bundled him up and brought him over to Tim and me, and showed him to us. I quietly asked “Is he really okay?” and they all said Yes! Their faces meant it, they weren’t just saying it. No one was panicking, no one was freaking out.

And then I cried. The tears just fell from my face and I let them.  His face against mine, my tears falling on his beautiful pink cheeks was just so overwhelming. I cannot express the gratitude, the relief, the absolute awe I felt in seeing this new baby. His eyes open and alive, looking at me took my breath away, and I felt like I was dreaming. Months of worry and doubt poured out of me as I just looked at him, almost disbelieving he was really mine.

The tremendous difference in holding him versus holding a baby that I knew was going to die, that I’d have to remember every inch of, give up and never hold again was too much. I get to keep this one, hold him, and not let go. I get to feel his breath, hear his cries, love him and hope for him. NO moment in my life compares to this, not even Evan’s birth, prior to my loss, when I assumed everyone got a baby at the end of 9 months. I am humbled by this little baby, and filled with gratitude. I am reminded of the preciousness and fragility of life, and of just what a gift he is to my family and me.

I am so grateful for the support I’ve received from everyone. People have been so very compassionate and understanding and it has made a huge impact on my healing and anticipation of Connor. I cannot articulate just how blessed I feel.

Here are some pictures of our new little miracle: :D


So, it’s been a really emotional journey thus far. While I was pregnant, so much time and energy was spent trying to keep the baby alive and to bring it into the world screaming.  Then that happened, and I was euphoric for a week straight. Sleep deprivation? No problem. I’d rather be up with a screaming baby than not. Absolutely. But here we are at 11 weeks, 1 day. The euphoria and novelty has subsided a bit, and the reality of a very fussy newborn (which I’m still eternally grateful for, don’t get me wrong) has set in. I am having a hard time. 😦 Wow, does it ever feel shitty to say that ‘out loud’. How weak and ungrateful it must sound to others, particularly others who’ve lost and not been fortunate enough to have a sub baby. I remember when Evan was a baby. He was a “good” baby.. Textbook. Didn’t really cry, had a fussy period in the evening etc… but generally a good sleeper, good eater, happy, healthy little baby. Connor is a different baby. He’s much more fussy, more difficult to console, cannot be put down and just overall more needy. I find 99% of the time, I manage well. But then there’s that 1% that  just finishes me. I break down. I am incapable of coping, I just crumble and weep, sob even, and I don’t know why. Grief seizes me all over again, and I ache for my baby girl, and my arms, incredulously, feel empty without her. I love Connor deeply, fiercely, but the pain in my heart is still quite real, and quite strong. Tim always says when I get ‘low’ like this, to call someone, be with someone so I’m not alone. To help me cope. But there are times when I feel so incredibly lonely and empty, because no one understands this pain, this horrible isolation and I can’t be bothered to try to make them. So I don’t call anyone, I don’t be with people. I’ve now called my husband sobbing at work, and he’s coming home. I suck. I can’t even find happiness with this new gift we’ve been given. I think back to before Isla was born, how happiness was a sometimes thing for me, and how I struggled with depression for years prior. And now that Connor is here, the miracle  and wonder of his birth, mixed with grief.. will I ever find ‘true’ happiness? What a cliche, I know, and how unworthy I am of asking that question. Most look at sub babies as the cure. And they certainly do fill those empty arms, but there is no cure for the deep, deep pain and aching grief of loss. No matter what, I will hurt for her till the day I die.  I hope I am able to appreciate all the good, and see all the blessings in my life along the way. Under this black cloud is no place to dwell.  Get home soon, sweet husband. I need to sob in the arms of one who knows, supports unconditionally, and doesn’t judge. God I miss my baby girl.

Deep sadness

The past two weeks have been very hard for some reason. It’s odd, because finally, FINALLY, we’re coming out of winter. The days are longer, brighter, and warmer.  Yet I seem to be sinking into a deep cold dark pit of gloom.  I’ve developed a thick skin over the last year and a half; an ability to see things that hurt like crazy and just hold them at bay.. survive the hurt, just for that day. I pick myself up, dust myself off, and continue forward.  But I am finding this skin thinning out. I am vulnerable to the smallest triggers. It takes little to bring me to tears these days, and I am angry and frustrated by it.  I hate this familiar old feeling of being completely out of control of my emotions, my responses to the world. It’s awful, alienating and lonely.

A 20 month old girl at Evan’s playschool charming the pants off everyone with her curls and her words “shoe” and “Co..” (saying Cole, big brother’s name).  I watched her though it pained me so much to do so.. I imagined my own 18 month old there, playing with her.. wondered what she’d be saying.. would she say shoe too? Would  she say Evan? God it hurt so much. I had to leave, wait outside. The indulgence of imagining her growing up, learning words, her family, existing in the world just blew me apart. She wouldn’t be that newborn baby in my arms anymore.. She’d be walking, talking, laughing, learning. And it’s struck me again what a tremendous loss this is. And how forever I will feel it, and miss her, and be acutely aware of all she is missing out on. All that I am missing out on.

Days go by, weeks even, where I feel like I am finally back on track..things feel so normal… then out of the blue comes a week or two where I just can’t cope with her not being here. It’s such a huge hurt, I can’t cope. I can think of  a thousand reasons why I should be happy and grateful, yet not one of them matters because my daughter is dead. And that casts a shadow over every joy, every gratitude, every happiness in my life.  Sometimes I just want to give up the fight. A lifetime of pain,  hurt and yearing is just unfathomable. God I miss you Isla. Your life has left such a hole in my heart.

I love you.

Long time…

…no write… So, it’s been awhile. I’ve come and written a few words, only to abandon them, for lack of desire to continue. I’m at a point now (28 weeks) where I’ve almost given up control. I spent so much time on what ifs… and fear. Now I am basically numb. What is, is. I cannot even muster up enough confidence, or assurance that things will go well to convince myself. Baby is active and busy in there, and sometimes I don’t know how to feel about the kicks.. Sometimes, when it’s been a few hours since I noticed, I think  ‘okay.. the baby died.. now I just need a few more hours of stillness to confirm, then go to the hospital”… and there’s almost a sense of relief, like it’s over.. I can stop holding my breath.. I can move on, and be done with this. Then when I get a set of kicks, I feel overcome with relief. I guess I’m protecting myself, or feel like I am, and in doing so, pretending I don’t really care about this baby. It’s weird, I don’t think I’ve bonded well with this little bean at all. It feels what I suspect a surrogate pregnancy would feel like. Acknowledgement that yeah, there’s a baby in there, but it’s not mine.. or I won’t get to bring it home, or somehow, I’m not connected to it. With Isla, I was very bonded. I spent literally hours daydreaming, preparing, just imagining life with my 2 kids.. Now, even when we speak of times beyond my due date, we still only speak as a family of 3. I can’t actually imagine my life with another baby. It was weird to do so with Isla too, but this is different. This feels like I’m dreaming, and will wake up any second, and not be pregnant, or with a dead baby. I don’ t feel at all like I have 9 (!!!) weeks to go to deliver this child. Bizarre. I visited a friend in the hospital who just gave birth to her sub baby. She lost a girl (and had a sub boy) and I literally grilled her on how she was feeling afterwards… grief for her lost baby, joy for her new one, the works.. So far, it’s about what I expected.. lots of love and joy, but many tears too. I suppose nothing ever really ‘fixes’ one from a trauma like this. Anyway, I have so much more to say, but will save it for another day. Suffice to say, the next 9 weeks are going to be the fastest and the slowest of my life.  Not sure if this is a good or a bad thing.

Sometimes, you get so far in your grief, you have so many normal days.. then a day comes where you just can’t shake the cloud over your head, and you almost don’t know what’s bugging you.. then it hits.. oh yeah, my baby died.. and it’s like it’s brand new, all over again. The enormity of it, the permanence, the complete unbelievability of it all. Days like this are becoming less frequent, but they sure do hurt when they hit. 😦

Maybe it’s just the January blahs, it seems like lots of us are feeling a renewed sadness this week. I’m sad for all of us, whose dreams of our lost little ones will never come true. I miss my baby girl. She seems so far away these days.  On the one hand, I’m grateful to be slowly returning to a ‘normal’ kind of lifestyle, but on the other hand, it’s really lonely in ‘normalville’. They don’t really know what happened, they don’t get it, they don’t want to spend a lot of time near my pain. It makes them uncomfortable. Understandably. I’d probably be the same, I guess. I feel like I’m pretending to be normal, with a big secret that I am trying to pretend doesn’t exist. It only works for so long, until I feel so out of place, and I’m missing her so much.

Miss you baby girl. That’s all. Wish you were here.

Still bitter…

So, I belong to a board of women, mostly moms now. Just a message board that began as a wedding planning board, and evolved as we all entered motherhood. This past week, 4 healthy baby girls have been welcomed into the world. I am bitter, angry and jealous.  How is it that these women just assumed they’d get their healthy babies, and they did. Not one of them said “Thank god she arrived safely” or “we’re just so relieved nothing went wrong”. They were the standard baby announcements… “so and so arrived at x weight, y length blah blah blah..” Why would it have been any different? I hate hate hate that. Why can’t people realize what a god damn gift it is to birth a healthy, living baby? Why can’t they be more grateful for it when it happens? Why do I have to be the one whose baby died? Why indeed.

Even as I sit here halfway through a subsequent pregnancy, progressing seemingly well so far, I am bitter and jealous of them. It’s not just their pregnancies, obviously, but their naivete. I hate that I’ve been alerted to another entire way of living through pregnancy. I wonder will there be a heartbeat at the next appointment.. will the baby be immersed in a swamp of mec like my daughter was, when they do my c section? Will this baby be stone cold silent like she was? How come I have to worry about these things? Why can I not just wonder how his/her eyes will look as they stare into mine for the first time? Why can I not just be curious about fingers and toes, instead of brain damage and umbilical cords wrapped around necks?
I feel so robbed of the opportunity to enjoy this very special time. Try as I might to just “be” in the moment, I fail.  I just can’t throw caution to the wind and assume all will be well.. There are no guarantees, and sadly, I take this very much to heart. I hope the baby can’t feel all my anxiety, bitterness and anger, as my therapist believes, because if so, it’s going to be one fucked up little soul. 😦 I just want to know everything will be fine, and dive into pregnancy bliss headfirst.

Yet I can’t, and it just makes me so sad.

Ah, therapy.

After a day of feeling pretty well, it’s only natural for me to crash. Such is the night before my long awaited therapy session with a birth trauma therapist, who has experienced baby loss herself.  The night before our appt, I dreamt about the most diffiicult part of my loss. The part I rarely visit in my own mind, let alone speak out loud of. The midwife.  I went and saw the midwife to ask her about the ultrasound I had at 36 weeks. This is the crux of my grief. The most difficult part to accept.  I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or not that I had this dream the night before my session, but it certainly made for a difficult day leading up to the appointment…The ultrasound… The wondering, the dreading.. did she screw up? I had an ultrasound at 36 weeks, to be sure of baby’s positioning. That was the *only* reason for that scan. So we would be prepared for a homebirth, not worried about breech. That scan revealed some ‘concerns’, namely, low-normal amniotic fluid, low movement.  It took a long time to get the scan done, and the radiologist had to come in and do some of it herself. Isla still scored 8/8 on the bpp, so my midwife wasn’t worried. The doctor told me I needed to see my doctor (I told her I was seeing a midwife, and she scoffed a bit, and asked if there was a doctor too, and I got my back up).  Because, she said, ‘this is a sign that baby isn’t doing well’.  My mw couldn’t figure out why they thought that, when the score was 8/8.  She left the choice of a follow up ultrasound to me, and didn’t want me freaking out over it, as I had had such a traumatic birth with my son, and wanted to be calm and ready for this new labour and delivery. So we didn’t do anything. This is the hardest part of my whole experience. We may have missed a chance to do something for her. When I went in at 39 weeks with no movement, and the delivery revealed a tragedy beyond what anyone was expecting, I was rocked. What had we done? Had I done this? Had my midwife? This is where I spiral out of control, every few months. This is what I cannot handle, and so please be gentle with your comments, as it is so very tender. My mw ran her notes by the physicial who delivered Isla, asking if she’d missed something, or if he’d  have done anything different. He had no problem with her notes, and said he’d probably have ordered a stress test, which probably (at the time) would have been fine, based on the bpp results, and a follow up ultrasound a week later, which also probably would have been fine, since the “trauma” had probably just happened 3 days prior to delivery,  (after the follow up US would have been) based on the mec- stained placenta. I NEED to remind myself of this over and over again. Like a broken record. For the first 3 months, my husband had to tell me several times daily. I just can’t stop thinking about how that ultrasound was a warning, a chance we weren’t even supposed to have had, as it was purely a positioning ultrasound.  I can’t fathom that my baby girl was in distress, and I chose not to do anything about it. I want to die when I think of that.

So, the therapist, how I love her, helped me reign in my mental storm and redefine everything. She picked up on a pattern I had been employing; that by blaming the mw, I was blaming myself, because I  had hired her. Ergo, I was responsible for my daughter’s death.  She says that as a mom, I am not responsible for the actions of my mw. And my job is to be ‘the mom’. Her job is to care for the pregnancy, and be an expert in her field.  I cannot be responsible for her responsibilities.  I know this. Yet, if I’d been under an OB’s care instead, perhaps they’d have intervened sooner, as they are wont to do, and she’d be here now. Why did I need to have the less interventive route, and have it cost me so much? Again, there are no guarantees it would have been any different; when Isla was born, no one was running around, it wasn’t an emergency, the heartbeat, though a bit wonky, was there on the nst. They checked me for an induction, nope, posterior cervix, and slowly got ready for a section. The OB told me directly that he never expected what he found. He never anticipated for a second that there would be so much meconium, and that that was such a ‘floppy baby’ (a horrible thing to say, but I know what he was getting at). Her heart stopped when they cut the cord. The resuscitation gave us 12 precious hours.

I desperately want to let go of this. I hate that I keep coming back to it, finding ways to make it my fault, or ‘what iffing’ myself to death. Obviously, nothing is going to come of it. I won’t magically find the answer and Isla will be back with us. So, why must grief be so torturous sometimes? Why can I not resolve this? I hate that it’s my husband’s touchpoint too. I wish he was absolutely certain of it all, instead of this being his one sticking point, because at least I could take comfort in his certainty.

I did feel better leaving the appointment.  Things were straightened out again, for now. I hate hate hate that this keeps coming up. I just want some peace with this.

relearning joy

Lately, something strange has been pulling at me. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in a long, long while. It’s something like the feeling of a Saturday morning, when Tim would get up early, brew a pot of coffee, and run out to buy newspapers for us. We’d read and (I’d) sip contendedly in bed for an hour or so.. this was a peace in my heart and soul that disappeared after Evan was born. His birth brought a whole other set of feelings and emotions, as I adjusted to motherhood. I never really got that quiet, peaceful feeling back. After Isla was born, and died, it went away completely. I was in the depths of grief for a very long time. I couldn’t stand being by myself, I couldn’t handle still time, peace. It wasn’t peaceful, it was torturous. I had to be reading, usually baby loss books. I had to be watching inane tv. I had to be very near my husband, physically. He couldn’t go to the bathroom without me standing outside the door… When he went back to work a month after Isla died, I was a wreck for weeks.

Now I am coming to a place that feels like an old friend. I make coffee now, and stop to truly smell it, and appreciate the aroma. I look outside, and treasure the sun warming my face. I see Evan playing with his toys, and my heart swells with love and disbelief at all that he is, and is becoming.  Suddenly, I like me time again.  I like a chance at a drive through the country alone. The thought doesn’t send me into a panicky tailspin.  I welcome it when I drop Evan off at school and I can go shoot some photos alone. I am relearning to appreciate quiet tranquility.  A change is happening in my heart, my soul, and for the first time, I am deciding to welcome it.

For a while now, these feelings have been hinting at their presence. I denied them, ignored them, and refused to acknowledge them. Because to do so would (seemingly) be admitting that I’m moving on from Isla. I’m not ready to leave her behind. But something has happened. I think I’m realizing that grieving Isla and experiencing hope and joy again can coexist peacefully in my heart.  I want to look at baby clothes, I want to daydream about this new life inside me,  and bond with his/her little kicks. I want to love this baby completely, and I don’t want to feel guilty or unworthy of doing so. So I am.  I am allowing myself to buy a few onesies. I am dipping my toe in the baby sections of stores again. And you know what? It feels nice. It feels giddy, and kind of silly, like I’m faking it.   I think it’s because it’s all so new again, and not fraught with grief. These are new baby things, for new hopes and new dreams. I feel buoyed by hope on the horizon. It sometimes hovers on delirium.  Finally.  Finally,  my heart is willing to open up again.

Isla is something that I will never ‘move on’ from. She is with me, always. When I’m sad, and missing her desperately, she is there. When I am celebrating Evan, or this new bean,  laughing at something funny, shopping for baby things, she is with me. She is there regardless, and so I have decided to stop torturing myself by disallowing myself to enjoy this pregnancy. It is time to believe that what will be, will be. I don’t have any control over what is going to happen between now and May. I obviously hope for the best, but realize that my worrying, panicking, celebrating or indulging is not going to affect the baby or his/her outcome.

So, bring on the sun, I am ready for some hope, some light and warmth. It doesn’t mean I’m ‘moving on’ or have forgotten my daughter.  Au contraire, it means I’m expanding my heart again. By opening up to risk, heartache and pain, I am opening up to love, hope and joy.

And it  is completely worth the risk.

It’s a…

baby! There’s actually a living, breathing(sorta) little human being inside me, and I’m really quite suddenly amazed by it all.  Just before my doctor checked for the heartbeat,  she paused, grinned and asked me if this baby was going to give her any trouble today. I laughed and said hoped not. It only took a few minutes, and she found it, loud and clear. And, bless her heart, she let us hear it for a good long time. It was the first time I’d actually heard it, per se. I’d been told it was 144 on ultrasound, but couldn’t hear it. There is was, pounding away, sounding like a little freight train, a healthy 160 bpm (doctor says girl!) and I just cried. I  still can’t believe at times that this is actually happening. That I might be allowed to hope once again, to imagine holding another of my babies in my arms. It is very surreal, and I feel tremendous gratitude for this pregnancy, and thankfully, haven’t taken a second of it for granted. I feel like I”m walking around with a winning lottery ticket in my pocket, and only I know it. I feel humbled by my gratitude. Hope and joy flit around, and try hard to penetrate the dark cloud of  fear and anger that is my grief. It’s getting easier. I don’t know why, I assumed it would get harder. I imagine this is an upswing of grief, and I have no illusions of being ‘done’ with grief, by any stretch. Just for now though, I feel fortunate, lucky, and blessed even (by whom, I don’t know) to have this baby inside me, and I think I’m starting to love it.

After pulling as many strings as she could, and even being successful at getting the ultrasound people to divulge the sex, the tech was unable to tell. 😦 I’m sad about that, but have been looking for an excuse to hit the states for some shopping anyway. I have to go back for another ultrasound in a month, in order for them to see a few things they missed, so we’ll hold off on our trip until then, but if they still can’t tell, it’s southbound we’ll go. I think I’m actually a little surprised at my reaction to not finding out. I mean, I wanted to know, and still do, but truly, hearing the heartbeat, seeing the body on the ultrasound, having the little bean wave at us, (opening closing of fist right at camera, just amazing), I am truly content. Boy or girl, this kid is wanted so very much, and we just can’t wait to hold it, should we be so lucky.  It breaks my heart when Evan asks “will it be alive?” How many five year olds ask that of their siblings? I feel sad for how much he’s had to grow up, but he’s learned a hard lesson at an early age, and I hope it eases the losses he’ll face in his future.

So overall, a really, really good appointment.

U Day…

Tomorrow, I’m having my 18 week ultrasound. I had one at 15 weeks, but not routine (horrible no heartbeat scare I wrote about earlier).  I’ve never had an ultrasound on schedule before. Both other kids were over 25 weeks, due to my gross procrastination. This one is right on schedule, give or take a few days. I am desperately hoping to find out the sex.  I need to know for me whether or not I can lay my hopes of mothering a daughter to rest forever or not. I don’t want to deal with the grieving of that while holding a new son. It’s not fair to him. Plus, it would give me another 18 or so weeks to bond with him, and learn to accept that a daughter isn’t in the cards for us.  I realize it may sound selfish to even profess a preference, but what the hell.. just because I’ve lost a baby doesn’t mean I’ve given up on all my dreams. I would like to have a daughter, this side of life. I don’t think that’s such a bad thing. So, my amazing doctor is talking to the US tech in the morning, before my scan, in hopes of swaying her to reveal the sex to us, which is against hospital policy (something about prolonging a test in an already time strapped office… yadda, yadda, yadda…). I hope she’s successful. I’d hate to have to drive all the way to Spokane to get a 3D one done (but I’d still do it).

I’m also anxious about the scan itself. I’m mentally checking off all the things I’ve done since discovering this pregnancy… folic acid, check (most of the time), prenatal vitamin, check (ditto).  Caffeine, held to a 1 cup day limit, check… all good so far.. no need to fret. Yet, fret I do. Because hell, anything can happen. Sadly, membership in the deadbabyclub opens your eyes to the kaleidescope of things that can go wrong in the 40 weeks on the inside. So, yeah, I’m nervous. I hope all is well, and I think I’m feeling some movement…maybe… so I do hope. But I’m well aware of all the possibilities, in a way that I never have been before.  I guess that’s a bit of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I’m now burdened with all that knowledge. On the other hand, I’m armed with all that knowledge. Keep your fingers crossed for a healthy heartbeat tomorrow.

I have been reading on other blogs, and comments about families and friends reactions to subsequent pregnancy news. Especially the ones where the announcement isn’t made in the first half, or even until the birth of said sub.  I am relieved somewhat, to learn that my own extended family and circle of friends is not that unusual. It seems lots of people don’t really acknowledge the babies who’ve died, and yet are all too anxious to celebrate the new birth, as though the ‘other one’ never happened. I can’t tell you how much this infuriates me. I feel such a rage for our babies. Like, how DARE they not acknowledge them, extend support and love in our darkest hour, but rather hide in the shadows and hope it all ‘blows over’ and we’re back to ‘normal’ soon… and that with a sub baby, now they can finally approach us, and act like nothing ever happened. Fuck that. FUCK THAT.  I have all but written off people in my life who have reacted this way. I actually don’t give two shits that “it” has made you uncomfortable and you “don’t know what to say” so you say nothing, and completely avoid me. I am shocked, though I suppose I shouldn’t be. Perhaps I should be grateful that finally, after all these years, I am seeing these people’s “true colours” and learning what they’re really all about. I’m learning that I have very little tolerance, patience and desire to be anywhere near people like this. I admit, hindsight is 20/20, but I know I would never have abandoned a friend or close relative in their darkest hour. Never. I can’t believe they’d think I wouldn’t notice.

So, yeah. If they find out through the grapevine, and feel slighted because I didn’t tell them personally, fuck them! Holy shit it makes me so mad I see red. The nerve. The absolute nerve. One gift from Isla is that I can truly see through the bullshit now. And there’s a tremendous amount of it. I am also eternally grateful for the people who DID stand by me, during the most horrible times, held me, cried with me, loved Isla and said so, out loud. They are the angels among us. There is no price on that. It is something I will cherish until I die. Their honour to my little girl, despite their own discomfort or pain. I want to say “Bless them” but what can an atheist say, instead? Thank [insert deity of choice here] for them? I am very grateful. The truly meaningful people in my life stand out in all of this. There is no faking it. That is a gift from Isla. What a treasure she was. How lucky I was to have her, and learn from her.

How many people make that much of an impact in 12 hours of life?

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