Where the Sidewalk Ends

I haven’t blogged in a while, mostly from lack of time. I’ve been taking each day as it comes, remembering to breathe in and out slowly and be content for just today.

That being said, I ran across something today that made me pause.

I’ve always been an avid reader of anything I could get my hands on. When I was young, one of the first things I remember owning was a book by Shel Silverstein. For those of you unfamiliar with his works, he wrote several excellent books of childrens poetry. I loved reading those books, and thought the other day how great it would be to travel down memory lane and read some fun verses to my 10-year-old son.

The book Where the Sidewalk Ends was the one I remember reading the most. I remember how worn the spine was and how careful I had to be with it towards the end…the pages were quite worn. To this day, I can still recite quite a few limericks and poems from that very book.

The actual poem Where the Sidewalk Ends (hence the title of the book) stopped me short when I read it again for the first time today. I don’t know if this is a difference in my perception. I don’t know if it was meant to speak to me now, as it did today, in the way that it did. I just don’t know.

What I do know is that it’s been almost 18 months since we’ve lost Brayden, and in the last year and a half I’ve read some very moving stories and poems that have helped me through my journey of grief. Most I could connect with, some I just thought were beautiful. I saved all of my favorites, and I’m happy to say my favorite childhood book will now contribute to my collection.


Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.


When reading this, I was struck by how much these words hit home. It’s about unhappy circumstances. It’s about getting through horrible things. It’s about hope, and how beautiful it can be to look ahead with the knowledge that life isn’t always what it is now, that it will get better if we just keep moving forward.

And best of all, it was written with the innocence and understanding of that of a child, which makes it whimsical and precious to me.

Our walk isn’t easy; that’s why we take it “measured and slow” (one day at a time). It’s not so easy to get to the place where the sidewalk ends…and for us, there’s no real end. But that’s a literal interpretation, and there’s no place for that in poetry. No one expects our grief to end, not really. And that’s the point of the poem; not an ending to our grief, but an ending to each hard period of grief we pass. That’s where the sidewalk ends. And that’s where hope begins.

For those of us who repeatedly find ourselves searching for where the sidewalk ends…take the poet’s advice and “watch where the chalk-white arrows go”. It’s a road we’ve been through many times and will travel many times again, but we know this road. We’re the children who mark. We’re the children who know. We know it ends in hope.

And, probably most important, we know we don’t walk it alone.

Rainbows and Grief

Isn’t it strange that with the right situation, clarity comes so swiftly it’s a wonder you never saw things for how they are to begin with?

I’m talking about sleep depravation. Either from child loss or arrival of a rainbow baby (I have both now), we are affected by serious amounts of lack of sleep. Combine this with an overload of hormones, stress, grief and worry and it becomes quite the combination. With this lack of sleep comes lots of time to work through things – by either deep thinking or flat crying them out, we struggle to find answers even when sometimes we know there are none.

So goes the life of a baby loss mother.

Along with this life of ours of grief, sadness, anger and everything else, we deal with coming to terms with things only to fall off the horse again later down the road. That’s where I find myself today. Sitting on my ass in the middle of the road, watching the horse I learned to ride so carefully galloping away from me at top speed. And we had just learned to canter, too. Damn.

With the arrival of our rainbow baby came a whole new host of emotions to the grieving world I thought I was leaving behind – or leaving, at least, the worst of it behind.

Our new son looks so much like the one we lost that it hurts. I have to keep a constant light on in the nursery because with just the right amount of dim, it’s like I’m looking at Brayden. The lips look blue, the eyes closed and face so still…it haunts me. I reach out and touch his little face and find relief that his cheek is warm. I lean down and gently push his back until he grunts and moves, quietly grateful that he responds. Then I realize once again that I never held Brayden, never kissed his cheek and told him how much I dearly loved him. And something inside begins to hurt.

Regret. It sucks.

I would give just about anything to be able to go back and just do that much. My heart would feel so much better, and that memory would be such a comfort. To have been that much of a mother to him, to have been brave and given him what I could have when I had the chance. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

Regret. It really, really sucks.

It’s like I’m reliving what I lost all over again. Before, it was what I almost had. Now, I am seeing (and living) what I really missed.

I don’t like this part. In fact, I hate it. I don’t expect everything to be peachy perfect, but damn…where’s my balance? What happened to the plateau I was on? That wonderful happy place I briefly had that allowed me to think about our loss without dwelling, to remember Brayden without sharp pains or losing my breath.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the reality of the situation. Maybe this is my forever, the way my life is from now on - one big up and down moment. Maybe it’s everything.

A few thoughts

Most BLM’s are aware that October 15th is International Baby Loss Day, October in particular being the month dedicated to Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness. For those new to this information, it’s a time to remember our lost little ones regardless of when or how they were lost. Candles will be lit in private homes, places of worship, work or wherever else life might find you on October 15th at 7 p.m. Be sure to light in remembrance of your angel or any lost angel.

The inspiration for this post came from Susan at Our Lives Forever Changed. She recently blogged about what this month means, sighting other bloggers who are doing daily blogs dedicated to all things grief related, what may have helped and how life has changed for all of us.

Susan has a daily blog list that she will touch on throughout the month, one topic listed for each day that will be the focus of her blog. I read through them briefly, coming up with my own answers to each topic and the one I kept coming back to was this one: Day 4 - your favorite book. has it changed since your loss?

It’s strange that this one stood out to me...I wouldn't have thought my loss would have affected my taste in reading material. I’m a huge Kay Hooper fan (fictional mysteries with serial killers who always get theirs at the end!), but my most favorite book and quite possibly the only book I’ve read more than once is called The Summerhouse by Jude Deveraux.

I’m not sure why I fell in love with this book. I suppose it may fall in the genre of romance, but that’s not why I love it. The story revolves around three women who by chance met each other at the DMV on their 20th birthdays. Flash forward 20 years later, the women have not seen each other since that day and are about to turn 40. As they connect and get together for a birthday weekend in Maine, you see how life turned sour for all three in the years since they met – shattered dreams, broken homes, heartbreak and misery have visited all of them.

While walking through town, they found business cards to a fortuneteller who clamed the ability to offer you the chance to rewrite your past. Doubtful but curious, they paid her a visit. She offered them each the chance to go to any point in time in their lives for three weeks. During that time, they can choose a different path and change their future life. When they get back, they can choose their new future or keep their current one.

I loved this book because it was very well written (Deveraux is a great story teller) and the characters were well defined. It was fun and imaginative. It had a bit of magic to it. Wrongs were righted. Justice was given. Lives were changed for the better. Second chances were given.

Each time I’ve read it, I’ve closed the book and felt hope…NOT that I think I will be offered a chance to go back in time, but to read such happiness result from so much tragedy was inspiring – even if it is fiction. I always thought, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to have a do-over at one point? Regret, missed opportunities, that guy you made eye contact with that once but were too shy to speak up…who knows what may have happened? A neat thought and perfect for the fiction it was.

Surprisingly, the significance of the book has changed for me. If you would have asked me a year ago if I could have a do-over, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. Rewind time so I would have the chance to change Brayden’s fate. To not have to go through what we did this past year, or face what lies ahead for us. Wipe the slate clean…like it never happened.

I can’t say that now and I wouldn’t do that now. With a rainbow baby on the way, I’m reminded that if we had not lost Brayden, we wouldn’t have this new life we’re about to meet. I can’t take that back, and wouldn’t want to. So…where does that leave me?

I don’t believe things happen for a reason. I’m not sure I believe in fate at all. I don’t believe ‘some things are meant to be’. I believe things happen, good and bad…and hope there is a balance somewhere. I think our rainbow baby is our balance. Life gives and takes away. I can’t go back in time, but I am getting another chance. Even without time travel, I consider myself one of the fortunate ones.

Thanks to Susan for posting questions like that. Even the most seemingly innocuous things in our lives – such as our favorite books - have been affected by our loss. We look at the world differently, see things differently and have new perspective. It’s interesting to see how far reaching that really is. I look forward to exploring more of this in the future.

Our one year mark...Happy Birthday Brayden

So many times these last few months I have wondered what I’d say on the day of Brayden’s birth - the day of his death. I imagined I’d write something that came from the depth of my soul, something powerful, insightful or profound. I don’t think I’m going to do any of that today.

My time with my son was limited, but I like to think I knew him better than anyone could have known him. So here are the things that I know about my son that I hold close to my heart.

Brayden was born on September 22, 2009 at 6:32 p.m. He was 8 lbs 9 oz and 21 inches long. He had tons of brown hair that I would have hoped turned thick and wavy like his father’s, but would have most likely stayed stick-straight and fine like mine. He had my hands, my nose and my mouth…but undeniably daddy’s face. Those chipmunk cheeks came straight from John. So did his tiny ears.

We were in love with him the moment we knew we carried him. Double that for John when he found out we were having the first boy in the family to carry on his name. A son. Someone he could watch grow up to be the kind of man he was – good, kind, honest and loyal. Nicholas was finally going to have the sibling he’d been wanting for years. The perfect baby to round out our family.

Brayden did that - he completed us. He was everything we ever wanted or hoped for, save for the fact that his stay with us was terribly brief. Stillborn, but born still.

Today, I feel no resentment. I refuse to today - it would ruin it. For the first time since we lost him, I can cry and it’s nothing but pure sadness. There’s no confusion, no anger, no bitterness at what we’ve lost. There are no questions as to why. I can shed tears without the silent apologies I offer to Brayden or the secret guilt and shame I feel from his loss.

Today, I’m simply a mother who has lost her child and it’s that simple. It’s not gut wrenching, I don’t feel like my soul is ripping or even that I have a build up of grief that needs to be purged. Without the silent accusations in my head, the sadness I feel isn’t consuming and it’s almost…peaceful. A peaceful sadness…who would have thought?


At the same time, I can’t help but to think - at around this time last year, John would have passing out those little blue bubblegum cigars at work and pulling out that wonderful hospital pic from his wallet. I would have been wondering what to dress Brayden in for Halloween – the infant pea costume I thought was cute, but wasn’t fitting for a boy according to John. Thanksgiving would have been spent with family, and we had looked forward to seeing Brayden’s eyes light up watching the lights on the Christmas tree.

By our anniversary in February…we’d be ready for a sitter ☺

By today, had he lived, he would most likely be taking his first steps. I’d be anxiously waiting for him to say ‘ma-ma’ and be secretly jealous when he said ‘da-da’ first, knowing in my heart John must have been secretly bribing him behind my back. We would have had a wonderful summer, with John toting him around as any proud father would…still gagging over dirty diapers and probably have gotten to where he could pass all of those to me without me realizing it…or pretending I don’t.

He would have had his first haircut. He would be blowing kisses. Bubbles would still be entertaining, and he would be tormenting the dog and cat by pulling on their tails and ears every chance he got. He would be aging his parents horribly by putting everything he could find in his mouth and hurling himself with reckless abandon towards the stairs. He’d be sleeping peacefully through the night.

John and I would have had hectic lives – between karate practice, homework, soccer, jobs, home, daycare, bedtimes and naps. We knew it and we welcomed it. I’m devastated none of it happened like we planned. Sometimes, life just isn’t fair.

In a way, this last year hasn’t been without our little man. We’ve remembered him every step we took without him. He was there in the sense that he was missed. As painful as it was, our lives moved forward with him gone. He was with us in our hearts, and always will be. I still love him deeply, and wish he were here with us…that will never change.

Living without Brayden has been painful, and moving on with our lives has been even more so. You don’t read that in the books. How do you move on when you’ve lost a child? Life moves on whether you want it to or not…you can move with it or it will leave you behind, which is a death within itself. Brayden wouldn’t have wanted us to have life pass us by simply because he couldn’t join us in it.

I’m not saying an official goodbye to Brayden today – that won’t ever happen. But starting today, as a gift to Brayden (and myself) on his birthday, I’m letting go. No more anger or guilt or questions. No blame. No more ‘I’m sorry’. Just simply loved and missed, for the rest of our lives.

Happy birthday, Brayden. Although this is not how I envisioned spending your first year, it doesn’t change how much we love you. Your family misses you terribly, little man.

Donations

Leaving the hospital was a blur last year. In fact, it was months before I got around to going through the things we came home with. Pamphlets on grief, paperwork on drying up breast milk naturally, a few pics of Brayden that a kind nurse thought to take…and lots of other meaningless paperwork I can’t remember. I walked away with surprisingly little to show for having a baby. And why would I? I didn’t walk away with the baby.

One thing I did have, though, was a blanket. They were donated for loss babies, so the loss families could have something to remember them by. Our pictures of Brayden show him wrapped in that blanket. I treasure it beyond words. It’s the only thing I really walked away with that makes me feel like I had a baby, and for a brief time…he was mine, linked to me through the blanket that I still have and can hold.



I’ve been compiling a list for months, ideas of what I would like to donate in his memory for the loss families to follow us. When it comes down to it, baby blankets are what I want to do. I’ve got my quotes narrowed down, maybe a poem or something to add. But when it comes to our experience, our blanket means by far the most to us.


My friend Angela nabbed the blanket from me last December and returned it with our Christmas gift - an ornament she made, replicating the blanket in miniature. I can’t express what that meant to me, and I never did take it down. She had it monogrammed with his name, birth date, length and weight.



We are renovating our house, and are very close to finishing our walk in closet – which will include room for my sewing machine. Working on baby blankets will be my first project. I hoped to have a few done by his angelversary, but I don’t think that will happen. That’s okay with me. It’s enough that they will get done eventually, and possibly one family – if only one – can find the immense comfort that I did.

I already feel one step closer to peace.

The struggle for hope

I cried at my doctor’s appointment today.

My regular doctor had an emergency at the hospital, so I saw the midwife for the first time. She was incredibly nice and upbeat, but came to a pause when she saw this was my third pregnancy with one living child among them.

“Do they know what happened?”

That’s all it took. The tears were streaming down my face before I knew it. I didn’t know what to say, so I just shook my head and swallowed a few times before I could tell her that the final diagnosis was a cord accident…but no one knew for sure.

My sudden tears took her by surprise, I could tell. It was a necessary question, but one I was unprepared for. And, here I thought I was handling things so well. It struck me then that I hadn’t talked about my grief out loud in quite a while. I’ve blogged about it, thought about it some, shed a few tears. I thought it was testament to how far I had come in the grieving process these last months, the fact that I didn’t really need to talk about it anymore.

In reality, the band aide of my silence had been ripped off unexpectedly – leaving my festering and previously buried pain wide open, exposing it even more to the plain fact that I’m afraid. A fact that I had ignored with the help of my silence. If I don’t talk about it, maybe it isn’t real. If I don’t speak the words out loud, they won’t have an impact this time around.

It’s time to put my big girl panties on and face reality. Today’s unexpected breakdown was of my own making and not only unacceptable to me, but probably unavoidable as well. I can’t expect to avoid situations like this while acting as I do.

So, now for another truth: I am currently in “coin” status. I’d like to think I’m a quarter, but with the respect I’ve given to the loss of my son these last few months…I think a penny would be more apt. A wooden one, at that.

One side of me is the happy every day wife, mother and friend. I’m not the woman who lost her child; I’m not a grieving mother. I’m functioning, pregnant and looking towards a bright and happy future.

The other side is the side left unturned: I don’t show it anymore. Because it hasn’t been exposed to sunlight, it’s become dark, dingy and ugly. I don’t look too closely at it, but I know it’s there…I can feel it. Just beneath the surface. I can hide it, but I can’t erase it – so, I ignore it.

The result? Days like this, where me – the coin – suddenly gets that unexpected flip, that slap in the face that my reality isn’t what I made it to be in my head. I AM a woman who lost her child; I AM a grieving mother. These things cannot be divided from me or hidden, because they are now a part of who I am…and cannot be separated. All of me.

So, then I ask myself…how did I let this separation happen? Honestly, I get tired of being “the loss mom”. I don’t want that to be all that I am – most days, I don’t want that to be any part of me. That’s not realistic. What I’m dealing with here is the struggle between moving on without leaving the past behind. Who does that??

WE do that. Loss mothers do that. It’s a fragile mingling of our future lives while incorporating our loss into it in a healthy way. Remember without being devastated. Look back without losing it. Make our lost children a cherished and loved member of our family without reliving “the day” or the months following.

I’m not there yet, obviously. I’m still learning how to intertwine these two events – past and future – without becoming disillusioned, set back or grief struck.

The day will come when peace will find me. I still search my heart for forgiveness every day. I beg Brayden for forgiveness. I hope with everything that I am that I won’t have anything to ask of this new life we are creating, save that he grow big and strong and fight with everything he has to overcome my fear that I will fail him.

Tonight, I’m going to let the side unturned be turned. I can’t promise anything beyond saying I’m going to keep trying to find my balance. Maybe there isn’t one…but it’s worth looking and fighting for.

I’ve read blogs and stories from loss moms who are years and years out from their loss…and thought, “I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to feel this way for the rest of my life. I don’t want to live each day remembering the horror and sorrow.” But, how to avoid it? Maybe I can’t.

This is my journey to find out. I started this blog to give other mothers hope that life does continue after a devastating loss. There is hope. Now, I’m realizing that although I’ve been candid and honest throughout this process, hope doesn’t come so easily. Time doesn’t just hand you a basket of hope after a while. Before hope, there is peace; before peace, there is forgiveness; before forgiveness, there is acceptance; before acceptance, there is anger; before anger, there is sorrow.

Sorrow; anger; accept; forgive; peace; hope.

I still battle between the first two…sometimes visit briefly on the third. I still have a long way to go, and rushing it will do no good. Time is a factor that bounces in-between these things, so in the end…only time will help give me what I need, if I have the courage to work through the rest.

Hope is there waiting for me – patiently - and I’m slowly making my way there.

Another day in loss world

I’m going to be honest here…these last couple days haven’t been going so well. I’m not sure what’s going on. Another down day? Pregnancy hormones? A combo?

I wasn’t going to blog today, I would really rather talk to a RL friend…but I find myself not picking up the phone and calling anyone. I’m tired of talking about my grief and really think there’s nothing new to say. There’s only the hurt that still resides deep within myself. No one can say anything to make it better…and I certainly don’t need someone to just listen to me cry.

So, once again, my blog will be my therapy for today.

I came very close to holding a baby at my husband’s company picnic this afternoon. I can’t remember the last baby I held, but it was long before we lost Brayden. I wanted to very badly, but I knew I’d lose it. My arms ached to hold him, and I literally bit my tongue to stifle the urge to ask. He was three months old and so beautiful. I forgot how soft a newborn’s skin is and how good they smell. I settled for stroking his little tuff of hair and made small talk with my friend who was holding him. Surprisingly, my thoughts were not of the new baby we’re having in a few short months. My only thoughts were of Brayden, and what should have been.

It’s all just so tragically sad.

Every time I’ve gotten in the car this last week, I’ve heard the exact same song on the radio – this afternoon was no different. It’s a popular song, so I shouldn’t be surprised…but the chorus hit me like a ton a bricks, even though the song isn’t really about loss grief at all. Regardless, I turn it off every time it’s on.

Tell them all I know now
Shout it from the roof tops
Write it on the sky line
All we had is gone now

Tell them I was happy
And my heart is broken
All my scars are open
Tell them what I hoped would be
Impossible, impossible
Impossible, impossible

Those lyrics just tear at me. I was happy. My heart is broken. My scars are open and raw, most days. What I had hoped was impossible has happened to us.

My husband’s coworker and his wife are expecting. She’s due in October, about six weeks before me. She always wants to talk to me at these get-togethers, which I don’t mind, but it conversation inevitably turns to our loss. They are on baby number five, and she told me today she panics every time her baby doesn’t move because of what happened to us. She’s terrified, because she now knows a loss like we experienced doesn’t happen to “other people” – it now happens to the people you know, in your immediate circle.

I’ve actually heard this a few times from friends who have recently had babies. That they thought of us during delivery, or the final stages of their pregnancy. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in a good way. It was in a “that could happen to me” way. And it scared them, badly. I do my best to reassure them, but it’s hard when I harbor the same exact fear. I don’t have words of comfort for them, other than telling them it will be okay - words I, myself, don’t really buy. Because I know that sometimes, it’s not okay.

Ugh, I don’t know where to go from here. Like I’ve said before, my grief is mine and I deal with it the only way I know how. I try not to control it (unless I’m hit with it in public) and just let it wash over me, as it will. These last few days have been really trying. I’m hoping after this blog I’ll feel better, like the weight will be lifted from me for a short time. I try not to sensor what I put on here, but it’s hard knowing some of my friends read this blog and I’m not exactly honest with them sometimes.

Maybe, when I’m asked how I’m doing, instead of saying, “Fine” I’ll just say, “Read my blog”. Then I’m covered.