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.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, November 18, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, November 14, 2011
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"
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"
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