Bomb dropping during fondue

Last night I met some ladies from church (80% of whom I have known for several years) out for fondue. As usual, the couple of days before our outing, I was filled with mostly mild anxiety about it. I actually considered backing out at the last minute and then finally reassured myself that everything would be fine, and that I should make an attempt to be social.

There were about 12 of us sitting around a long-ish table with 4 pots of cheese... and ultimately chocolate. Somehow, I ended up sitting near two young, newly married women, both of whom I'd never met. Wouldn't you know, the conversation somehow veered to "those women who don't even know they are pregnant until they have their baby" and "golly gee, some women say that pregnancy and birth are so awful and others say it's a breeze" and "it would just really stink to be pregnant in the summer - I better plan for that". By the time we were in the thick of this miserable conversation, I was avoiding it at all costs -- reading my blackberry as if several new and exciting emails had just come in. I was stuck... mainly as a result of my non-strategic seating selection upon arriving at our table. Then, one of the curious young ladies starts asking a couple of us about our experience(s) as it relates to pregnancy and birth. The woman across the table, who knows me and knows of both of my boys, looked at me with a pained look and then answered for herself, keeping her response relatively short and sweet. Even with all of my dodging and extremely rude blackberry usage, the young woman then posed the question to me. Taking in a deep breath, I dropped my bomb. I told her/them that I actually have 2 boys -- 2 pregnancies and 2 births -- and that B.W. died (was born still) in 2006. I think I did an decent job of keeping it together and then answered their extremely naive and somewhat insensitive follow-up questions (you might know the kind I'm talking about here). In the course of the exchange, one of them said she was sorry. The other changed the subject. And then they were all laughing and having fun again. My heart was racing, my blood boiling and I wanted to leave the table and run for my car. This is one of the many examples, that I seem to face on a regular basis, which make me want to hibernate and avoid all social gatherings and groups.

I won't even write here what I wanted to say in response to the original question or to the ridiculous line of questioning I faced when they learned of my dead son. I was glad to leave, emotionally exhausted, end of story. Good thing the food was nice and the martini was scrumptious. I would not have made it through otherwise.

I have almost no memory of my former self. Please tell me I was not as naive, presumptuous and self-righteous as these ladies. It's hard to accept that I must now live in a world filled with so many of them.

Something positive... please

B has been hurting. Pretty badly. His job, one that is tied explicitly to the financial markets, has been bringing him down for months now. Each day he puts on his suit and faces the demise of the system he is supposed to champion. It wears on him to give client after client bad news -- there has literally been nothing positive to come of his work days in six months. Clients can be extremely unfriendly (okay, it's definitely worse than that) in this environment of fear. He is anxiety ridden, sometimes plagued with mini panic attacks. And there is no real end in sight.

My father has been out of work for 11 months. My mom has MS -- for 20 years now. She is confined to a wheelchair and suffers a great deal. The COBRA insurance, medical expenses and drug costs are outrageous for anyone, especially a family whose single earner is not working. And there is no real end in sight.

My brother-in-law is still technically employed though they haven't "worked" him in several months. My sister and he have been trying to support their family with his side jobs and on the small amount I pay her to watch C.T. while I'm at work. And there is no real end in sight.

As B and I lay in bed talking last night, worry filling our hearts and eyes unable to relax, B begins to recount B.W.'s birth and the precious time we had with him. We close our eyes and talk about his perfect fingers and toes, the sweet little taste buds on his tongue, his broad chest, the bit of dark hair on his soft head. And for a few minutes, our anxiety is replaced by tearful and beautiful memories of our firstborn. This happens often for us. We get down -- more and more about everyday things -- and we remind ourselves that the most beautiful and gushing love we have ever experienced is inseparably tied to our son's death. (C.T.'s birth being equally beautiful and gushing, with a completely different outcome.)

My boys remind me that beauty and hope and love can be found in all sorts of situations, circumstances and outcomes - from the good to the utterly devastating. I don't feel this way every day. In fact, I might feel differently tomorrow. But I've come a long way...

Dinner with friends

B and I drove Saturday night to a small dinner party. Just six of us - all of us parents of dead children. The hosting couple lost both a daughter and a son in 2004 and 2006 respectively. The other couple lost their daughter in 2006, the same year we lost B.W. What a blast, right? Hanging out with other bereaved families is our idea of a good time?

I remember sitting in a support group meeting for the first time with both of these couples. I was so strangely relieved to see other kind (and broken) faces in the room. Sitting there, bawling our eyes out, sharing our love for our sweet boy, we learned we were not alone. It was the first time I felt any real relief from my total and complete devastation since B.W.'s death several weeks before. I was not the only mother who was without her child. My body wasn't the only failure out there. Our primal ache to hold our child and our endless flow of tears - these were all familiar to the other parents in the group. It was so comforting. I had no idea two of the couples would become friends. And at the time, I couldn't fathom that the six of us would ever laugh and truly live again.

On Saturday, two years and 2-3 months since we first met, the conversation flowed so easily between jobs, the economy, wine, our children (alive and dead), the weather, vacations, basement refinishings, our grief, our family and friends' support (or lack there of), God and heaven, our lives before and after we lost our child(ren). There was laughter. A LOT of it. There were tears. And it was so comfortable. None of the topic avoidance or egg-shell walking or sugar coating that we so often find with most everyone else in our lives. We all recognize how different life is when you've lost a daughter or son. We know that we have come a long way but that getting back to "normal" will never happen for us. We actually like the people we have become.

I am so thankful for these friendships - the women in particular. I am not sure I could go on in the ways I have without them. They are my respite from the elephant in the room who is always following me around. They listen to me, really hearing me. They feel my pain with me and don't even attempt to hide from it. They call or write to say they are thinking of B.W. on his birthday and during holidays. They remember I have two boys - all the time - and recognize I love them equally. They know it's hard to live in a world that for the most part doesn't understand and doesn't care about the loss of my son.

So, yes, it WAS a blast on Saturday night. I love hanging out with other bereaved friends who are on a journey to embrace their new lives, dead child(ren) and all. I never feel more content to be in my own skin than when I'm with these friends.

First birthday

C.T. will be one year old tomorrow. I can't believe it. He has perfected holding up his pointer finger with pride when we ask him "how old will you be on your birthday?" When we practice singing happy birthday to him, he pretends to blow out his candles before we get even half way through the song. He is such a big boy already. He registered 23 pounds, 9 oz, in fact, today at his 12 month well-baby check up. (No wonder my back is sore most of the time)...

It's overwhelming to even try to think back to a year ago. On this night one year ago, we were scared C.T. might just slip away right in time for my scheduled induction the next day. That's sort of how we lived each day of those months - expecting the absolute worst and thanking God for each additional day with him. Weak from bedrest, exhausted from 16 months of grief, healing, grasping for hope, stretched like a balloon and with 9 months worth of bruised injection sites, I was a wreck that night. B was too. I really don't know how we made it through those 38 and 1/2 weeks.

And now, well after his birth, we still find ourselves shaking our heads in disbelief that C.T. is here. That we have been granted 351 days (outside of the womb) with him so far. That he is ours to hold. That there is a chance that he might actually outlive us. That though our sadness is always there, he has brought so much joy back into our lives.

Happy birthday, my sweet C.T. Mommy and daddy love you so very much. B.W. does too. He looks down on you each and every day - probably watching out for you. Lucky boy.