Christmas

Christmas was hard but we survived.

In the first weeks after we lost Sam, Mark's and my mantra each day was "we will survive today together." Each morning one of us would repeat this phrase and together we would climb out of bed and face another day. After a little while we didn't need to say it out loud. Just a shared look was enough.

On Christmas I needed to hear these words. On Christmas surviving seemed harder. And not just surviving but facing what is generally the "happiest" day for so many. Together, Mark and I made it out of bed and took the dogs on a long, hilly walk. I didn't even let myself think of what that morning should have been. We just walked and walked. Later in the afternoon we went to a movie. It seemed like a a good idea to escape into a world that wasn't even remotely ours.

We ended the day with Mark's brother, his wife, and their precious daughter. As we drove to their house it was the first time since climbing from bed that morning that I was unable to block the pain. I finally was facing the reality that forever my holidays were going to be spent without Sam.

I am never going to see him open presents, eat too many cookies, cry in the lap of a stranger wearing a red suit and white beard. He is never going to wake me long before the sun will come up because he hears reindeer hooves on the roof. I am never going to take him to the holiday train display or the festival of lights. We will never cuddle under a blanket next to the tree reading Christmas stories and drinking coco.
Accepting this reality is crushing.

But in all of this pain my brother-in-law and sister-in-law gave Mark and me a truly touching gift. To honor Sam they made a donation to help provide toys to needy children. While it doesn't take away my grief and longing for my little boy, I love knowing that his memory is helping to bring happiness to another little child that otherwise may not have known the magic and joy that this day is supposed to bring to the hearts of children.

A pair of shoes

I came across this poem and it has really resonated with me. Each time I read it I am brought to tears. Yet it is comforting to read someone else write words that so perfectly sum up my feelings. 

"A Pair of Shoes"

~author unknown

I am wearing a pair of shoes.

They are ugly shoes.

Uncomfortable shoes.

I hate my shoes.

Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair.

Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step.

Yet, I continue to wear them.

I get funny looks wearing these shoes. They are looks of sympathy.

I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.

They never talk about my shoes.

To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.

To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.

But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.

I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.

There are many pairs in this world.

Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.

Some have learned how to walk in them so they don’t hurt quite as much.

Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think

about how much they hurt.

No woman deserves to wear these shoes.

Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman.

These shoes have given me the strength to face anything.

They have made me who I am.

I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.

Back to work

This week I went back to work. In the weeks leading up to my return I had a lot of anxiety. I worried that I wouldn't have any compassion for families and patients. I worried that I wouldn't be able to safely do my job. I worried that I wouldn't be able to cope with other people's grief. Mostly I worried about returning to the hospital where I had delivered Sam. I worried about being in the last place that I held Sam...the only place where I held my tiny son. 

On my first day back I could barely breath when I entered the parking garage. It was so strange to be doing something so familiar and yet to have it feel completely foreign. (Or maybe that was because they had changed all of the garage light bulbs fluorescents.) Whatever the case may be I would probably have turned my car right back around and left if I didn't know that a very good friend was waiting  with coffee to walk in with me. 

Together we walked into the hospital, and despite my inability to remember how to swipe my badge I made it back up to the ICU. It was hard to see so many familiar faces. So many faces reflecting my pain, searching for words and realizing that hugs work best when words are inadequate. But it is also good to see the people that I have laughed hysterically with, sneakily played practical jokes with, fought to save lives with, and cried over devastating loss with. 

With these people I have ridden a roller coaster of emotions. And while sometimes I think it might be easier to quit and go to a place where no one knows Sam's story I then remember our "battle stories." These are people that I can trust. While I will rely on some more directly, each person, in their own way, is supporting me by knowing and understanding my pain. They are supporting me with hugs, light squeezes on my arm, and little smiles of encouragement. 

I will always remember the day I left the hospital in a wheelchair without my tiny Sam in my arms where he belonged. And I may never be able to get into the main elevator that brought Mark and me to the lobby without our precious son, but I am able to be at the hospital without being crushed by painful memories. I owe that to the many wonderful people who have created a history for me to hold on to and reflect on.

Our wisest family members

Dogs are not given enough credit in our society for what vital roles they play in a family. After Sam died and we were preparing to leave the hospital my mom asked Mark and me if we wanted the dogs to be at our house when we got home or if we would rather my parents keep them a day or two longer. Without even consulting each other we both instantly responded to have them at the house.

I can't imagine if we had walked into the house and Joey and Oliver hadn't been there to greet us. Even with Joey and Oliver the house seemed unnaturally quiet. I had never known Sam outside of my womb but I had this expectation that returning home would mean a house filled with the noises of a crying baby, his swing, toys, laughter, and lullabies. Walking into the house I felt like I was hit by a cement truck as I once again had to face another reminder that Sam was gone.

 Joey and Oliver saved me from sinking into that dark lonely place when I walked into the house. They kept my house from becoming a place of complete pain and emptiness. As usual we were greeted by their wiggly butts sashaying around as they retrieved the nearest shoe, which I am pretty certain they believe must be our favorite toys since we always take those with us when we all play outside. And for them playing outside is life's greatest joy, or at least a close second to cheese.

Since arriving home Joey and Oliver have dutifully remained at Mark's and my side. They seem to always know when to be with us, when to give us space, when to help us laugh and when to allow us time to cry. Joey goes to bed with me every night. She curls up right next to me against my legs. I can't stand to be alone at night anymore and this allows Mark the space to unwind in the evenings without having to acclimate to my early bedtime. 
Whenever I begin to cry I can expect Oliver to fly to my side and lean against my legs. I think this is his way of hugging me. He keeps his head dipped down and stays very still. When I finish crying he'll lick my hand or cheek and return to whatever toy he had been playing with. Once I was crying in the bathroom with the door shut and I heard this loud thud against the door. I pushed the door open and Ollie rushed in to assume his place against my legs. He made eye contact with me then; I think to remind me that he cannot successfully complete his duty if I close him out.

It is nice to have Oliver to sit with me when I cry. I know he and Joey don't know why I am sad or understand why Mark and I have changed, but they accept it and they accept their role to help us cope with our sadness.

Even when we are feeling so sad we can't imagine ever laughing again Joey and Oliver are able to find a way to remind us that laughter is okay. I remember one of the first days we were home from the hospital we took the dogs down to play in the baseball fields by the river.

It was a cold, cloudy morning and the grass was covered in dew. I was leaning against Mark and frankly feeling sorry for myself and sorry for Mark. Life just seemed so utterly terrible. Mark launched the ball across the outfield and Joey went tearing after it with Oliver following close behind. As Joey slowed to snatch the orange ball before Oliver could get to it he forgot to use his brakes and collided with Joey at full speed. It was like a doggy explosion of legs and tails and fur as they went tumbling across the field and then jumped to their feet with giant bewildered smiles on their faces. Mark and I burst into laughter. 

I think that was the first moment I let myself feel any pleasure. I think I was able to laugh in that moment so early after Sam's death because I knew that with Joey, Oliver and Mark it was okay to laugh and that the laughter didn't diminish my grief for Sam. Joey and Oliver are showing me how to just experience each moment and to not make plans or think to much about the future or the past. This lesson is what gets me out of bed and allows me to face the day, whatever it may hold.

Innocence lost

Every time I remember or think of myself prior to Sam's death I am over come with grief. When I remember my wedding I feel sad. I think of bringing Joey or Oliver home as puppies and I feel sad. I remember evenings with Mark, full of laughter and jokes, and I feel sad. I think about cruising in our boat as the sun is setting and the sunburn is tingling my nose and I feel sad. Not just sad but overcome with grief. Tears soaking my face and I can barely breath kind of grief.

I think I am grieving me. I have realized that the happy, silly person I once was is gone. She died with Sam.

I think we all have a period in our lives where we don't really know loss, grief and death. I am an ICU nurse, so I have seen a lot of death. I have cried with many mothers, daughters, sons, husbands, and spouses. I have come home after a hard day and cried on Mark's shoulder thinking and worrying about these family members and how they are coping with their loved one's death. I have held the hand of a woman dying alone with no family at her bedside. I have lost grandparents and an uncle and grieved and helped my parents grieve. I wasn't oblivious to death but I didn't know death.

Parents are not supposed to out live their children. I was not supposed to out live Sam. Now I know death.

At some point everyone reading this will know death. Hopefully not for a very long time. And if you are lucky it will never be your child. A parent should never have to plan the funeral for and bury their child. When your child dies you lose a part of yourself. Call it innocence.

When I think back upon my childhood, wedding, holidays, and many other wonderful memories I feel sad because I know that happiness is different. The happy girl that I remember has no idea of the horror heading her way. I wish I could warn her.

Losing Sam doesn't mean that I will never be happy again. I have already laughed and smiled. I have been silly. I have laughed at jokes. I have laughed so hard at Joey and Oliver and their ridiculous playful behavior. The laughter is just different. I now understand how fragile these moments are.

Thanksgiving

It is hard for me to feel thankful when I feel like my whole world has been ripped apart. When I once thought my life was very full it now feels very empty. I approached this holiday thinking that I had nothing to celebrate. Nothing to be happy about. Nothing to be grateful for.

Mark's and my five year wedding anniversary had been November 10. Neither of us felt like celebrating. It did remind me, though, that I am very grateful for Mark. I used to feel very confidant in my opinions, beliefs and expectations about life and relationships. Since losing Sam I don't feel very confidant in much, but I do know that Mark is my companion for life. It is easy to uphold the vow "for better," but the marriage is truly tested when you experience the worse.

This is not just true of our marriage. We have realized that our support system extends much farther than we ever could have known. The outpouring of kindness extended from family and friends has left us often times speechless. The cards and messages, flowers, food, house cleaning, dog sitting, phone calls, care packages, and gifts have been astounding. Just like a marriage it is easy to be there offering support when times are good, but it is very hard to remain when things are difficult.

On Thanksgiving Mark and I stayed home and spent some time reflecting on what we are thankful for in our lives. All of the family and friends, some just acquaintances or people we have not spoken to in many years, have given us very needed strength in this impossible time. For that we are thankful.

I have never known pain and emptiness like what I have experienced since losing Sam. Yet even knowing this I would not erase the 40 weeks and 2 days that I had with him. I long for Sam every minute of every day and it does not get easier with time, but I am thankful for him.

Tonight was my brother-in-laws 30th birthday party. It was also my first social outing since Sam's death. I thought being around a large group of people that I mostly didn't know would be much easier than being around a large group of friends. I figured it would be easier to not be known as 'the girl who's baby died,'  but to be just 'the sister-in-law.' Wrong.

I do not feel like me right now because me is supposed to include Sam snuggled in my arms. And he is not there, so I don't know how to make small talk. I feel at least 10 steps behind in every conversation, which is only acceptable socially to people who know my loss. Instead I am faking it badly for a bunch of people I don't care about. Don't get me wrong they are very nice people, but right now bathing myself, clothing myself, and feeding myself feels like a huge accomplishment. Making new friends does not land on the list of things I hope to accomplish in my day.

I left the party very early. Around 8:45, which is lame even if you are elderly. Mark stayed. I wanted him to see his friends that are in from out of town.

On my way home I really wanted to get a pack of cigarettes. I haven't smoked a cigarette in almost ten years, and those were cigarettes I bummed off of people in a college bar. Fortunately, I was too big of a coward to go into a store and ask for a pack of cigarettes. I felt like an underage kid trying to get up the nerve to buy beer with a fake ID.

Tonight I learned that even in all of my grief I still care what people think of me. Or maybe what I really mean is I care what I think of me. When I want to just say, "fuck it, my kid is dead. Give me a pack of cigarettes," I can't.  I think, buried in all of this grief, somewhere, the person I once was still exists and she is trying to hold on to some semblance of who she was once.

A tiny ray of sunshine

My little niece Khloe Samantha (in honor of Sam) was born November 12, and she is perfect. A tiny little peanut of a baby. She is now home weighing just over six pounds but with the lung capacity to hold her own in the Mueller household.

My sister and I have pretty much gone through our entire pregnancies together; taking pictures of our growing bumps, sharing stories about morning sickness, and discussing baby products. We had bought little matching santa hats for Khloe and Sam to wear this Christmas. We have matching striped baby outfits, one purple and one green, that seemed very Dr Seuss to me. I thought they would look just like Thing One and Thing Two when they wore them together.

In my mind and my day dreams, as I planned for their births, it was going to be Sam and Khloe, attached at the hip. My sister and i would take them everywhere together. They were going to be little buddies experiencing all of their major milestones together.

I know that with Khloe's birth my entire family and friends worried about me and how it would affect me. And if I admit it to myself now I was probably worried about me. But the moment I saw Khloe at the hospital I was filled with peace and happiness for the first time since Sam's death.

I can't explain it. It doesn't take away any of my pain or sadness for Sam. I still long for him every minute of every day. Yet looking at her makes me happy; really truly happy. I am so grateful for her.

Never the same

Almost three weeks ago my entire world was ripped apart. And now I am at home where nothing has changed and everything has changed.

Three weeks ago I was planning the final details in preparation for my son finally to come home. It was my due date and I was anticipating labor at any moment. Mark and I were laughing and excited. Everything was beautiful and perfect.

I picked Mark up from work to go to my doctor's appointment to discuss inducing labor because we couldn't wait any longer to meet our son. Mark didn't normally come to my doctor's appointments but that day he did. We sat  in the room waiting for the doctor. She came in and measured my belly. Normal. Then she started to listen for Sam's heartbeat. Nothing. She said, "maybe this doppler is broken." I said, "you are scaring me." She ran out and right back in. Listened again. Nothing. We went right across the hall to the ultrasound machine. Nothing. She searched and searched. Nothing nothing nothing.

I don't remember a lot after that. Neither does Mark. I remember screaming and Mark just holding me really tight. I think he was holding me as much to support me as to support himself. Four days earlier I had been at the doctor's and Sam had a perfect heartbeat. Stable at 135 bpm. Now nothing.

We had to go to the hospital and do the unthinkable. I had to birth our dead son. It is the hardest thing I have ever done. I would never have survived it without Mark at my side holding my hand for literally every second. I remember I just kept thinking that this is the last thing I get to do for my little baby boy. So, I could do this and be strong for him.

He was born October 26, 2011. He was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I have never felt pain like that. To look at my beautiful son, 8 pounds 4 ounces, 21 inches long, a perfect button nose, ten fingers and ten toes, dark curly hair, and long eye lashes. Everything was beautiful and perfect except he was silent and still.

I would give anything to trade places with my little son. There are so many things that I wanted him to experience and see. So many wonderful things in this world that I wanted to show him. I had planned and thought a lot while I carried him in me about how I would protect him from the cruelties and ugliness in this world for as long as possible. I had thought about how to keep him safe as a teenage boy learning to drive. I had thought about protecting him from falling down the stairs when he learned to walk. I had planned how to prepare him for the cruelties that children can inflict on one another as they face their insecurities. All the dangers I had anticipated for him, but I had never considered any dangers while he was in my womb.

Mark said to me a few days after Sam's death that not a day would go by where I didn't think about Sam. I didn't fully understand then what that meant. But even just three weeks after my beautiful son was ripped away from me I am able to understand. Not one moment passes where I am not thinking of him. No matter what I am reading, listening to, or talking about Sam is on my mind. And how could he not be? His story is woven into the fabric of who I am.

"What does it mean?
What does it mean?
What does it mean to be so sad?
When someone you love
Someone you love is supposed to make you happy
What do you do
How do you keep love alive?"


--Ryan Adams "How Do You Keep Love Alive"