I haven't been here in a little while. Much of that has to do with the busyness that comes with two kids in school and getting into a new routine...and at the same time, it has nothing to do with that.
I haven't wanted to write.
Last night, I wrote my monthly piece for Still Standing Magazine. I waited until the very last minute to write it (it's due 2 weeks before it's published online), and last night it needed to be done. This is the first time I've really put this off. This is the first time I've avoided the feelings that come when I put my pain into words.
This is the first time I was bitter about writing.
I came downstairs after about an hour of typing. I hit "save draft" and sent a message to my editor that it was done but it was bad. I felt so irritated. With myself for procrastinating, with my kids for being loud while I was trying to think...but mostly I was bitter about my topic.
I never wanted to write about dead babies.
I sat across from Jamey and put my head in my hands. I looked up at the pictures of all four of our babies on the walls. Jamey...I just want to take these black and white pictures down. I just...I want to pretend they never happened. That this isn't our story. That we wanted a little boy and a little girl, and that's what we got and that's what we have. I wish we hadn't had a desire for more and I wish we had been spared this pain and knowledge. Most of all, I wish I didn't feel this way.
When I first started writing about our experience with Gabriel, it was healing. I kept reading the comments and messages saying, "I just am in awe that you're able to write this way in this moment," "You are so strong. This must be so painful," and I would smile because it really wasn't that bad. In fact, every time I wrote something new, I felt a sense of release. I felt validation in my pain and in my anger. I lived the grief every moment of every day and it felt good to talk about it.
This last month in a way...my focus has been elsewhere. Our life has been 'normal'. My grief has been pushed to the side as I make room for new endeavors. I haven't even had time to think about the fact that my son died just 5 months ago.
So to go back to those moments, those days, those feelings...it cut open a wound that is never going to fully heal. My heart pounded as I typed, as I imagined my little 1lb 14oz baby in my arms the day after he was born. The day his little body started to break down and fluids started to pool under his skin. The moment he got squishy and I knew I would need to say goodbye sooner than I wanted to. I cried as I read through notes that I had written just days after his birth so I would never forget the details. Putting him in a fridge, being led back to my room. Having so much medication in my system and being so exhausted that I fell asleep sitting up on the couch in my room while a new room was prepared. Not remembering falling asleep.
Waking up shaking uncontrollably in a pitch black room and having forgotten that Gabriel was dead.
I haven't gone back to these moments in quite awhile. I realize as I go back and read that I never really 'finished' his story. And now, all those comments about how painful it must be for me to write, while not true at that time...are true now. Now it hits me like a ton of bricks when I open that little box labeled "grief" in my brain when I sit in front of my computer screen. I realize that this is all part of the process (and no one is forcing my hand to type out my thoughts).
And despite the bitterness, the not wanting to write, the sadness about the topic that chose me...I still love it.
This conflict is fierce.
I still love sharing the lives of two little boys who grew inside of me, one for 9 months and one for 7.5 months. I'm still their Momma. I have 4 little ones but only 2 in my arms...and I am still not okay. I'm not going to be "okay" for a long time. The people closest to me know that, and they love me still. When I told Jamey I just wanted to pull down all their pictures off the wall, he said, "Kaila...this does not make you a bad mom. I wish I could fix this for the both of us but I know I can't. I do love you and I am right here next to you and I understand." This man. He is such a gift.
I am still here. Still hurting. Still grieving. And we are now entering the season of milestones that no family wants to enter after the death of their baby. The one year anniversaries of finding out we were pregnant and announcing to friends and family. The first Halloween, first Thanksgiving, first Christmas without him. We've done this before, so we know we will survive.
But we've done this before.
I haven't wanted to write.
Last night, I wrote my monthly piece for Still Standing Magazine. I waited until the very last minute to write it (it's due 2 weeks before it's published online), and last night it needed to be done. This is the first time I've really put this off. This is the first time I've avoided the feelings that come when I put my pain into words.
This is the first time I was bitter about writing.
I came downstairs after about an hour of typing. I hit "save draft" and sent a message to my editor that it was done but it was bad. I felt so irritated. With myself for procrastinating, with my kids for being loud while I was trying to think...but mostly I was bitter about my topic.
I never wanted to write about dead babies.
I sat across from Jamey and put my head in my hands. I looked up at the pictures of all four of our babies on the walls. Jamey...I just want to take these black and white pictures down. I just...I want to pretend they never happened. That this isn't our story. That we wanted a little boy and a little girl, and that's what we got and that's what we have. I wish we hadn't had a desire for more and I wish we had been spared this pain and knowledge. Most of all, I wish I didn't feel this way.
When I first started writing about our experience with Gabriel, it was healing. I kept reading the comments and messages saying, "I just am in awe that you're able to write this way in this moment," "You are so strong. This must be so painful," and I would smile because it really wasn't that bad. In fact, every time I wrote something new, I felt a sense of release. I felt validation in my pain and in my anger. I lived the grief every moment of every day and it felt good to talk about it.
This last month in a way...my focus has been elsewhere. Our life has been 'normal'. My grief has been pushed to the side as I make room for new endeavors. I haven't even had time to think about the fact that my son died just 5 months ago.
So to go back to those moments, those days, those feelings...it cut open a wound that is never going to fully heal. My heart pounded as I typed, as I imagined my little 1lb 14oz baby in my arms the day after he was born. The day his little body started to break down and fluids started to pool under his skin. The moment he got squishy and I knew I would need to say goodbye sooner than I wanted to. I cried as I read through notes that I had written just days after his birth so I would never forget the details. Putting him in a fridge, being led back to my room. Having so much medication in my system and being so exhausted that I fell asleep sitting up on the couch in my room while a new room was prepared. Not remembering falling asleep.
Waking up shaking uncontrollably in a pitch black room and having forgotten that Gabriel was dead.
I haven't gone back to these moments in quite awhile. I realize as I go back and read that I never really 'finished' his story. And now, all those comments about how painful it must be for me to write, while not true at that time...are true now. Now it hits me like a ton of bricks when I open that little box labeled "grief" in my brain when I sit in front of my computer screen. I realize that this is all part of the process (and no one is forcing my hand to type out my thoughts).
And despite the bitterness, the not wanting to write, the sadness about the topic that chose me...I still love it.
This conflict is fierce.
I still love sharing the lives of two little boys who grew inside of me, one for 9 months and one for 7.5 months. I'm still their Momma. I have 4 little ones but only 2 in my arms...and I am still not okay. I'm not going to be "okay" for a long time. The people closest to me know that, and they love me still. When I told Jamey I just wanted to pull down all their pictures off the wall, he said, "Kaila...this does not make you a bad mom. I wish I could fix this for the both of us but I know I can't. I do love you and I am right here next to you and I understand." This man. He is such a gift.
I am still here. Still hurting. Still grieving. And we are now entering the season of milestones that no family wants to enter after the death of their baby. The one year anniversaries of finding out we were pregnant and announcing to friends and family. The first Halloween, first Thanksgiving, first Christmas without him. We've done this before, so we know we will survive.
But we've done this before.
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