15 Weeks.

Grief.

It takes different forms almost moment by moment.

There are times when I grieve with hope, knowing Luca is with us, watching over us, and amazed by the impact that little man had in our lives.

When we hear a song on the radio that I connect with, one from his birth, one that speaks to my heart. When ‘My Name is Luka’ comes on the radio as we are pulling into the hospital parking lot. Like when G and I go to Whole Foods and where I park on the street, we get out of the car and there is ‘LD’ written directly outside of our car door.

When someone asks me about him, and I get to talk about my son, I know he’s there. All these moments remind me that his spirit is with me, with G, surrounding our little family.

Then there are times where I grieve, and feel in utter despair.

Life goes on all around me, yet I feel stuck in this hamster wheel, where every time I stop, there is one constant; this being that came about by the love I share with G, and the wanting to expand our family, has gone.

He is gone, and I can’t fake being happy. He is gone, and I can’t fake like everything is ok. He is gone, and every minute when we are walking around in circles, we think, he is supposed to be in our arms.

How does one just move on from this? How do you just pick yourself up by the boot straps and get on with life, when he was life? When he was going to be our lives. When he had already become our lives.

We planned for him for years. We wanted everything just so, so we were ready to welcome him into a stable and loving environment, and took our time to make our world ready for our baby. I carried him full term. I labored with him for almost three days.

So tell me, how do I just get happy again? How do you suggest I not worry? Something as completely random as losing your baby because of an undetectable and severe variation of preeclampsia makes you think about what else in your life that you have that can get taken away. Because if this happened to him, then what else? WHAT ELSE????

There is an anxiety now that I have to swallow everyday.

And the silence, in so many ways. Hurts. People don’t want to say his name to us because they don’t want us to cry, or because it makes them uncomfortable, still. But do you know that mentioning his name validates us as his mothers,  and makes his presence known in our seemingly empty world? Would you step out of your comfort zone for a moment, to make us feel good for a second in our grief and support us?

Say his name.

Written on my skin.

Written on my skin.

Heart Bombs

They are everywhere, these heart bombs. Sometimes they appear with a memory, sometimes they show up when I look in the backseat where there is an empty space that once held a car seat.

Sometimes they  sit on my chest and stop my throat when I see a newborn in a wrap, or most specifically a baby boy in a Tula.

Other times it happens when I step out of the shower and see this great big scar under my belly, a scar I would take 100 times over if I could get more time with him.

Today at the market, we saw a women from our birth class and her baby boy. She was due just a week after me. We passed her pushing her sweet pup in his stroller, looking so proud of her child, so proud to be a mother.

I wish I could be her. To be so proud and loving, the fierce mama that I want to be, to a living child, a living Luca.

All these milestones, these events, these sights. The pictures of friends and their newborns, those who were going to be a part of Luca’s life. The silence from people around me who won’t speak his name.

They set off these explosions in my heart. They crack me open, leaving me exposed, raw. Lonely.

I’ve been told this contraction that my heart is feeling, is going to one day allow for this magnificent expansion. Think about it…….. our muscles contract and then expand, tighten and then loosen. From this hurt and loss, will come so much love and compassion, because our hearts will be so much bigger that we got to love him and be his mamas.

And yet, I can’t wrap my head around this, because at just three months out I get caught up in the why? Why did this have to happen? Why him? Why us?

Still, with all the sorrow and pain, I feel such immense love and gratitude for having had the opportunity to be Luca’s mother at all.

Grief

It’s been some time since I’ve written. I’ve wanted to write. I’ve had so much to write, but I often feel like it’s the same thing.

I’m broken.

My heart. My soul. My motivation. My love for this life.

I grieve.

For my son. For my family. For everything we will never experience with our beautiful little boy.

G said to me the other day- “I wanted to buy him shoes and comb his hair”.

Knowing that the love of my life hurts just as much as I do, is like getting drop kicked directly in the chest. Knowing she will never get to brush his beautiful little head of hair or buy him shoes, makes me want to quit.

And I feel as if I sound like a broken record. But I can’t help to feel this way when my life is like Groundhog Day.

Everyday we wake up to the same reality, and the same replay in our head of those 9 months before that Sunday, and the blur of the 20 something hours that Luca was alive.

We stare at the pictures of him, because those are the only pictures we will ever have of him. Not one of him in the onesies that my cousin made for him to wear on his month birthdays. Not of his first tooth. Not of G dressing him up in all those crazy outfits. Not of him and his mommy in the park, soaking up the sun.

None of them.

We have pictures of him sleeping in our arms, before his huge spirit left that beautiful little body and entered another realm.

There are many times when I think it would have been easier if we would have left with him.

I understand far too well now how uncomfortable grief makes people. Especially this kind of grief, because, well, let’s face it…..babies aren’t supposed to die.

Grandparents, parents, pets, they all die eventually. It’s somehow more easily accepted because most of the time, they’ve lived a full life. They’ve had the chance to grow and learn, and live.

But a baby dies………our Luca D’oro died, and every dream and thought we had for the future dies with him. And here we are, wading through the thickest quagmire of grief possible.

And in a society where grief is often swept under the carpet or stuffed someplace else, we end up feeling like lepers. Like those people who have this horrible story that no one wants to get near or touch for fear they might get it themselves.

Some of the people in our lives want G and I to be the old us again.

“It’s already been three months right? Can’t you just get over it already? Isn’t it time to move on? Don’t you think Luca wants you to be strong?”

But what some folks aren’t seeming to understand, is that we are no longer the same people. Losing our son, our only child, our first born, the very beginning of this extension of our nuclear family, is something that we will never get over.

And it’s not something we will just move on from.

We are strong.

Please don’t judge our strength.

We get up, I go to yoga, G goes to work, G runs miles upon miles, I reach out to someone to talk to or for a hug, I go run an errand, make myself a meal, we seek out other healing methods, we go to the beach and sink our feet in the sand. These seemingly little tasks that we complete, is evidence of us being strong.The fact that we get up and decide to do it all over again after the greatest loss we’ve ever experienced, is proof of this strength.

I know us being sad makes people uncomfortable, because it’s not what people knew us as before.  They don’t want to be around our constant grieving and they want us to get better, and sometimes they may feel as if they have to figure out a way to make us happy again, and help us get over it.

But you are not responsible for making it better. And the best thing that you can do, is to let us know you are here for us, and just be with us in our grief.

So just hang in there please. We need your support. We need the phonecalls, the texts and emails, and visits.

I swear the depression will lift, it will get lighter, and we won’t be this sad forever. And though I myself can’t fathom this right now, I’ve heard from other mothers who have lost their babies, that it is true.

But for now, yes. We have to be sad. So very sad.

We’ve lost our golden boy, and we’ve lost our way.

Family.

Family.