..

I don't really have much to say.  Yesterday was George's due date. 
We went to Catalina because we didn't want to be home.
We thought it would make things easier but I am not sure that it did.

.june 16 2010.

Our hearts are in a million pieces.

.make believe.

"I like the stars. It's the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they're always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend...I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend..."
Neil Gaiman (Brief Lives)

.day after.

Yesterday was a really, really bad day.  One of the worst since right after we lost George.  Today is not as bad.  I didn't stay in bed all day and feel sorry for myself.  Well, I still feel sorry for myself.  I think that is not something that is going to go away for a long while and I reserve the right to periodically wallow in self pity.  I think I've earned it.


But to prove that I haven't completely lost my shit (I think I inadvertently really freaked my sister out yesterday) here is a little something to brighten your day like it did mine.

From here.

..

This is complete and utter bullshit.

Today I refuse to try and be happy.  Today I will lay in my dark bedroom, close my eyes and let myself remember everything.

I will remember his button nose.  I will remember his tiny arms and the blue-green veins that traced along his fingers.  I will remember watching his dad hold him.  I will remember him alive.  I will remember kissing him while he could still feel my touch.  I will remember him in death.  I will remember everything we lost when we lost our boy.

There is no consoling, no "things will get better with time." They will not.  Not really.  I may learn to live my life but there will always be a gaping bleeding hole inside.  I will be eighty years old and I will still grieve my son.

I want to find solace with other women who have lost their babies too.  But mostly I find women using terms like "angel baby" and how God will see them through this and all along this was part of His plan...  and I cannot relate.  I don't have any notion in my mind that George is an angel in Heaven and I don't believe God, if there even is one, had any hand to play in this disaster.  Praying to a god who allowed my son to die is not going to heal my heart and it most certainly won't bring him back from the dead. 

I used to believe.  In another life.  A life long before George was even a light on the horizon . 

I often wonder, while jumping from blog to blog if dead babies mostly only happen to Christians.  It seems this way.  Perhaps before their own dead babies at least a few of them were like me: agnostic at most.  But maybe tragedy of this magnitude makes people hold on to anything that makes them feel less despair.  I can understand and I certainly don't begrudge anyone of their faith, but I can't relate.  Right now I want so much to relate to another person who carries this around with them with the same sense of finality that I do.  I only feel more alone and isolated with every blog, every message board, every book I find. 

Leif believes.  He believes we will see our son again one day.  I am happy that he does.  It makes me happy that he has hope.  He has hope enough for both of us and for now that has to be enough.

.me.

If I don't bring up the subject of him it is not because his name is not on the tip of my tongue or running through my mind.  Always, he is always there.

If I seem to be happy and jovial it is only because I want to make you feel comfortable. You see I fear that if you were to see the real me you would feel nervous, uncomfortable…frightened.  For you would see the lost woman who lives deep in the woods, barefoot with leaves in her unkempt hair and a tattered dress that hangs in rags over bony prominences.  You would see the mother of a dead baby who holds the remains of her infant close to her chest as if her warmth might somehow warm his cold skin.  As if the pounding of her heart might restart his still one.  She walks aimlessly through shadows of the tall trees, catching occasional glimpses of other faces.  She has forgotten where she is and only vaguely remembers a different place: one that was filled with sunlight and rolling hills of wildflowers. 

So when you ask me how I am and I give you the answer you want to hear, understand that it is an act of compassion on my part.  But if you are not afraid to see, to really see, tell me you miss him too.  Tell me you miss the boy he would have become.  Tell me you remember his name.

Hold him for a moment.  Feels his weight in your arms.  Remember him and by doing so help me to remember myself.

.my hopeful living room.

I made this through a website called olioboard. I would love to redo our current living room to look like this but at the moment, considering we aren't sure how long we are going to be in this apartment, it just doesn't make sense.  Oh well.  Dreaming is fun too.

Danish Modern lounge chairs from Danish Modern Teak Classics.
Kilim rug from Overstock.
Sofa from Room and Board.
Side tables from West Elm.
Lamps from Crate and Barrel.
Curtains from Ikea.
Pillows from CB2, Crate and Barrel, and Chiasso.
Coffee tables from CB2.