The gift

In so many ways, I feel like he’s been cheated: Cheated of birthday parties and presents, robbed of taking his first steps and of playing at the waterpark, denied a chance to score his first goal. And everyday, he’s deprived of our attention; I mean, he’s there, he’s thought about constantly, but that’s all he’ll ever get is our thoughts. I’m sure he hardly crosses the minds of so many others. And I’m angry: angry that he gets nothing when he deserves so much, that a lack of life merits nothing at all once the haze of stillbirth clears and life marches on.

This weekend was spent, in large part, not remembering. There was no birthday celebration, no angel-food cake, no gifts to unwrap for what would be a lively two-year old boy. Life was filled with Halloween festivities, hockey, and sick children. We lit a candle yesterday, his birthday, and that was all our little boy managed to get from us in the chaos of the weekend.

This is what two years has brought us. I think it speaks for itself, really.

:::

Today, HipMelon Baby Wear launches Carry on My Wayward Son II. Those of you who know my story know that my gift to Callum last year was raising money for stillbirth research and raising awareness of stillbirth in general. This year, like last, I’ve partnered with a dear friend who, through sales of Carry on My Wayward Son sling, is helping this gift come to fruition. Every penny spent toward the purchase of Carry on My Wayward Son sling goes to stillbirth research. Not just a portion of it. All of it. Surely, you can understand why I consider the owner to be so “dear”.

So, if you know anyone in the market for baby gear (or if you are in the market yourself), send them here (if you are in Canada) or here (if you are in the U.S.). By doing so, you can help me give back to a son who, in much too short a time and in ways he'll never know, managed to give me so much.

Carry on, sweet boy. Carry on.

The missing

I miss Callum. And yet, I wonder how missing him is even possible? I never really knew him. I never got that chance. All I have of him is what I imagined for and of him.

I thought he’d be funny and strong and fearless; the consummate third child always looking for attention. I expected he’d drive his older siblings crazy, but they would love him fiercely. I imagined he’d light up the room with his carefree personality and good humour, that he’d become one of those people that everyone wanted to be around. Out of all my children, I believed he would be the one to try bungee-jumping or mountain climbing or parachuting, that he would worry my heart like no other. As he grew in my belly for all those months, I could see him in my mind’s eye, all the things he would grow up to be, all the warmth he would bring to our lives and our hearts. I saw him in all of his wonderfulness. I saw him, over and over again.

And then he was gone. Two years to this exact day, actually. And I’ve never seen him the same way since. No dreams for him, no visions of grandeur for his life. Nothing. October 31, 2007 put the period on my son’s life. Story over.

Two years have come and gone. And though I never knew him at all, I miss everything about my son, my Callum.

Time, time, time...see what's become of me.

Here is a snapshot, literally, of the month leading up to Callum’s death. October, 2007. I didn’t erase the whiteboard until April the next year; I was stuck in October, 2007 for so, so long. Two years later and very much unstuck, I find a lot of comfort in this photo; it offers me proof of a happier time and summons up images of a naive woman untouched by tragedy or stillbirth or loss. I remember that woman - sort of, vaguely. Though many would argue the woman sitting here writing this today displays a remarkable resemblance to her. To be honest, in many ways, they’re right. Today, I am very much like that woman who happily jotted down colour-coded events of interest on her whiteboard. And yet, in one or two very important ways, I will never be her again.

...

We will be hosting a small get-together with some good friends and their children on October 31st this year. The merriment of the evening will surely be in stark contrast to the devastation I felt two years ago to the date. Life goes on. Life goes on. While my dead son remains stuck in a past memorialized by the photo I’ve posted here for you today.

...

Two years. Almost two years. That's all there really is for me to say.

Christmas in July

Believing that I will ever bring home (again) a non-deadbaby is sort of like believing in Santa Claus. At 37. My heart still pines for this outcome though. Almost every day – sometimes loudly, sometimes quietly, mostly secretly. Because the disappointment is titanic, to say the least.

Why am I revisiting this subject? Why, after the last miscarriage (what number I don’t know. Seriously, I’ve lost count.) when I made the decision to stop actively pursuing the dream, am I grappling with this again?

It could be the babies. I see them every day.

Much too early in the morning (though it seemed like a good idea at the time), I accompany S and K to swimming lessons and I watch them paddle and sideglide and backstroke. My babies. And as I watch them, a swarm of happy mothers and wide-eyed babies buzz around me, there to attend the mom and tot swimming class that begins at nine. (How lucky for them.) And there I sit, acting aloof, trying to ignore what’s right before my eyes, trying to pretend I don’t want happy or wide-eyed.

It’s a pipe dream I say to myself. It’s not going to happen. Get over with it. Get on with it. And, I assure you, I have, sort of. But furtively, on occasion, I look to the sky to see evidence of flying sleighs, and European caribou, and a big fat, completely overdressed man in the hot summer sky.

No miracles here, though the number on my house does read 34. Enjoying the summer all the same. Mostly.

Sands of time

I get through most of my days forgetting, ignoring, not really believing the history I've suffered, endured, survived.

Did it happen? Was he here?

And yet, nothing stops me in my I-think-I’m-all-better-tracks than numbers and dates. Written. Spoken. It doesn’t matter. Put a month with a day and combine it with that year and it has the power to bring me to my knees in a deadbaby heartbeat.

+++

The kids and I spent the last five days at a friend’s cottage. I love days spent away from home; vacations, regardless of their distance from our house, have a way of making me feel very much normal again, like it never happened. As I tucked myself into bed alongside my sleeping daughter on one of our last nights, I noticed a celebrity-gossip magazine on the side-table. I like a little celebrity-trash from time-to-time, but old news is more worthless than new. I picked up the magazine to check the date before I carelessly dove in.

October 29, 2007.

It was not printed but I know it was a Monday. And in that moment, my heart swan-dives as I bring to mind those last kicks I never knew were my final moments with a baby I wanted – still want – so very much. And I wish I could just go back and have him back, take him back from the Universe that felt the need to take him away from me.

And though most of my days are spent disregarding, moving forward, living, I can’t help but remember I miss him. So hard. Still.

The pretender

The fact is that I pretend not to be a deadbaby mom most days. I stopped writing and posting on my blog because I had nothing new to say. I detached myself from deadbabyland because I no longer felt like I had a place here anymore. I removed Callum’s picture from the cabinet on our main floor because its absence allowed me to be me and not the mother of a child who was stillborn. When people come over, they see me, they see my family, they see the happy existence we’ve shaped. And my son, the one who died before he was ever born, he’s been entirely forgotten.

And people do come over. New friends that I’ve made since Callum died. Friends who do not see a bereaved mother when they look at me. To them I am C – outgoing, cheerful, fun, rock star idol. And I am happy to pretend for them because having fun is not as wearing as being sad, and smiling feels a lot better than crying. It’s easier to pretend that I am not that woman who lost her son and has been denied so many opportunities for a child after than to be mired down in the misery and discontent a situation like this is sure to produce.

I don’t necessarily think of Callum everyday. I mean I do but it’s not exactly a deliberate action. My Callum, he’s just with me: his story, his memory, his life and death. Always. Full of guilt, I sometimes ask myself: Did I think of Callum today? And yet I know I don’t have to consciously think of him because he is always just there, buried deep in the dissatisfaction that fills my life. He is the despair I feel about the future. He is the regret I harbour about the past. He is the reason I need to pretend at all.

And so, I continue to play this game of make-believe all the while hoping that one day some semblance of happiness – honest and heartfelt joyfulness – will return to my life. In whatever form that may be.

Warm-Fuzzies and gratitude

When I was in elementary school, we had a school-wide initiative that I remember fondly. Similar in theory to what my kids now refer to as Star Student of the Week, children at the school were selected to wear the Warm-Fuzzy, a brightly coloured pom-pom, fitted with googly-eyes and sticky feet. Warm-Fuzzy would sit upon the shoulder of the selected student heralding that particular student’s superbness. While the Warm-Fuzzy sat upon your shoulder, fellow students would compose rousing accolades on your special-ness, as only six to 11 year olds can: “C is funny and never meen.” Or, “I like C because we like to play chase-the-boys at recess.” And even: “C’s birthday is in September. I like September.”

Among other things, the Warm-Fuzzy program at my elementary school fostered self-esteem, bred confidence, and prompted constructive experiences among the students. It goes without saying the program was a huge hit. I remember so distinctly how excited I was to be the student who got to wear the Warm-Fuzzy. What a treat it was to be singled out and appreciated like that back then.

I haven’t seen a Warm-Fuzzy in a very long time but I feel like I’ve been wearing one ever since I, hesitantly, published my last post. Without a doubt, the comments I received in response to my most recent blog entry, like the woolen pom-pom that first adorned my shoulder 30 years ago, made me feel as close to warm and fuzzy as I’ve ever felt. I was moved by your kind words, your lack of judgment, and your sensitivity to how I was feeling. In fact, reading the comments led me to question why I was prompted to feel “unsafe” here at all. Unquestionably, there are moments when coming here hurts more than it helps. And as much as I try to fight feelings of bitterness and offense -- because I truly, truly know it’s not all about me -- it’s hard. And your good news, your ability to actually see rainbows and butterflies now, is just that: good and wonderful.

I know that having a live baby post-deadbaby isn’t a cure all; it doesn’t take away the grief and the awful reality of losing a child. I know this because having a live baby pre-deadbaby doesn’t cure this truth either. But. I can say with much certitude: It helps. Nevertheless, I can no more blame those of you who have achieved a happy ending than I can fault those that still live in that happy, little bubble we all used to live (very comfortably) in. And though some of you may not understand my situation, the shape and contour of my own particular hurt, it does not mean you cannot try to support me anyway.

So, I’m working on feeling safe again, here, in this place. Because I still need you. You each have my ceaseless gratitude for being here, for reading, for abiding. XO.