The Cocoon

It's funny how life happens.  Over the past few days, I feel as though I have been pulling further and further out of the cocoon I created for myself around this time last year.  I feel that each day something else happens that makes me realize just how lost I was in my cocoon. 

I was going through some photos this week that were taken over the past 3-4 years.  I had to slowly click through each photo and look at everything, as I always do.  While looking at the photos I noticed something.  I realized that life kept moving while I was stuck in a bubble trying to become pregnant.  I realized this when I came to a photo of Brian's little brother.  The photo was from Christmas of 2007, which was right around the same time Brian and I started to try to conceive.  The person in the photo was the person that I had been seeing each time I looked at his brother, until recently.  We had a communion party this weekend and when I looked at Brian's brother I realized he had gotten much older.  He went from a high school freshman to a senior, about to graduate, in a matter of a moment.  That made me wonder, what else had I missed. 

I quickly found myself scanning through wedding pictures of Brian and I.  I realized very quickly that in four short years we had really aged.  We no longer had the look of young adults.  Our skin is now more blemished, we have both gained some weight (me more than him), and we now hold loss in our eyes (something that we never could have expected four years ago). 

I started to realize that the time we had spent trying for our future we had actually lost our present.   I don't think Brian feels this way as much as I do.  But I can say, that just within the past few days, reality has set in.  I had been living my life month to month while trying to conceive.  That was 26 months.  I was only focused on ovulation days and cycle dates, the other days were lived but not appreciated.  We lost and then we started all over again. 

The loss, yes, we lost Wyatt.  My days were more of a burden, like carrying a load of heavy rocks.  Though I had 12 weeks off for maternity leave, I did nothing.  It was tough to get up, do daily tasks, and live.  After returning to work it was still difficult.  I was faced with hiding the pain, painting on a smile, and acting 'normal'.  Again, days were lived but not appreciated. 

Things are changing.  I have recently realized what has been missed - four years of my life.  Four years have been lived but not lived as they should have been lived.  Every moment should be lived as if the moment is a gift because ultimately it is.  It is funny because I thought of this while walking into work today.  I was walking over the crosswalk and thought, "every moment of life should be lived like it is a gift, for we don't know when the gifts will stop being given". 

Ironically (or maybe it was meant to happen), I had a conversation with a friend this morning.  The conversation was about baby loss and we got on the topic of living life without living it.  Seems odd that I walked into work thinking about life and then I have a conversation with a friend about it.  After the conversation was over, I again realized how much I am pulling out of that cocoon that I was so comfy in.  It has been awhile, but I think I may be ready to let go of the cocoon and spread my wings, not to forget but to live.

I found this poem today and wanted to share, as I think it is wonderful and does a good job with explaining my life over the past one year.

Don't Tell Me

Please don't tell me you know how I feel,
Unless you have lost your child too,
Please don't tell me my broken heart will heal,
Because that is just not true,
Please don't tell me my son is in a better place,
Though it is true, I want him here with me,
Don't tell me someday I'll hear his voice, see his face,
Beyond today I cannot see,
Don't tell me it is time to move on,
Because I cannot,
Don't tell me to face the fact he is gone,
Because denial is something I can't stop,
Don't tell me to be thankful for the time I had,
Because I wanted more,
Don't tell me when I am my old self you will be glad,
I'll never be as I was before,
What you can tell me is you will be here for me,
That you will listen when I talk of my child,
You can share with me my precious memories,
You can even cry with me for a while,
And please don't hesitate to say his name,
Because it is something I long to hear everyday,
Friend please realize that I can never be the same,
But if you stand by me, you may like the new person I become someday.

Judi Walker
(In Memory of Shane)
Copyright 1998

A Ride on Mommy's Shoulder

Just two days ago, I said to Brian, "He used to leave me feathers as signs, but not any more."

This morning after getting out of bed, I decided it would be a good time to sit with the laptop and update yesterday's photo reminder of Wyatt. After completing this, I decided to play a bit on the computer, searching for tours for our trip to Chicago. All the while, I was moving around, walking from the living room to the kitchen, then back to the living room.

It would have made perfect sense for it to fall off, but it didn't. Nope, after more than two hours of being awake, I happened to look in the mirror and I noticed it. A small, white feather. It was on the right shoulder of my shirt. And it wasn't just laying there, it was attached.


I do have a feather pillow, so it makes sense as to why I picked up the feather, but why after two hours of walking through the house and doing daily tasks was the feather still attached? Funny how the little feather appeared, when just two days ago I had made the comment about not receiving feathers any longer.

It was like the feather was taking a ride on my shoulder, just close enough to make me understand that he is always with me, regardless of the signs!

Our Stories

"Two moms sitting at a picnic table eating lunch together and talking about something that no mother should ever have to discuss." That is what I continued to think today as I sat across the table from another mother.

If others passed by us, I am sure they would have figured we were just eating lunch while discussing topics such as family and our children. Which we were. But not the way others would discuss their family and children. No, we were not discussing feeding or nap times, formula or diapers, smiles or first steps. We were not discussing family trips or fun family times.

We were laughing and crying, and sharing our stories. But not the stories typical mothers would share with one another.

No, we were sharing our BLM stories. The stories that live in our hearts, changed who we were, and made us stronger.

Two mothers who had dreams of becoming pregnant, had hopes for their unborn babies, and quickly without warning had all hopes and dreams shattered.

Just two mothers sitting at the picnic table, telling each other how they lost their babies. Relating to the hurt and the pain. Laughing at moments and crying at others. Talking about memories, strength, and life.

We were two mothers discussing the pain of losing our children, which we shouldn't have to do, but we were just sharing our stories, as any mother would do.