I’m having a hard time.

I know that this will not come as a shock to anyone but me, but I think that I really believed that the knowledge that we spared Ezra pain was going to somehow be protective, that I would feel soothed by the idea that we did the right thing.  That I would find peace in this right away.

I hope that I will feel that way one day, I sense that I will, but right now, I feel anger and despair.  I know that my baby wouldn’t have lived no matter what we did.  I know that a take-home baby was never on the table.  But it’s not fair. It’s just so unfair – he should have been healthy.  I took vitamins and ate vegetables and didn’t drink or eat sushi, I watched my sugar and stayed hydrated and went to my appointments, and it didn’t matter.  My son should have been healthy and he wasn’t.

And I’m not usually given to self pity, but, oh, it’s there.  I feel the weight of it, of my grief, settling over me like a wet woolen blanket.  My hormones are crashing around me and my arms ache and I want my baby.  I’m taking deep breaths and trying to master the next hour, the rest of the afternoon, while milk drips uselessly from breasts that are swollen and painful, producing food that my son will never eat.  I obsessively read forums made up of sad women desperate to stop their milk, stocking up on cabbage leaves and sage. The size and weight and shape of the bag of frozen peas I hold to my breast breaks my heart and I have to resist the urge to cuddle it close, wrapped in its checkered tea towel.  And today is my birthday, and I should be excited about our growing baby.  We should be celebrating instead of grieving.

I’m holding on.  I remind myself over and over that plowing through some more time is about all we can do.  It makes me feel so helpless, to be unable to make this better for Lauren, to be unable to comfort myself, but there has been so much kindness shown to us over the last week and we are surrounded with so much love.   I’m clutching to the idea that time must heal, because it just must.  It has to.


About tamarainwriting

I'm a queer, married, child and youth counsellor, in Toronto, Ontario. My wife and I had a beautiful stillborn son and we have an amazing one-year-old daughter. It's a complex journey.
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7 Responses to Darkness

  1. What you are going through is so horrible and unfair. You absolutely spared your son pain, you absolutely made a decision made out of fierce love, and it is still painful and terrible for you and Lauren. Be gentle with yourself as you plow through more time. I hope that comfort, healing and light are coming soon. ❤

  2. Camille says:

    My heart breaks for you. I can’t pretend to imagine how you are feeling. You made the best possible decision for your son. You and Lauren are mothers and in that, you made the difficult decision to spare Ezra unnecessary pain. That is what mothers do. They protect their children to the best of their ability. Allow yourself to feel the pain and to work through your grief. It’s ok to feel sad and it’s ok to feel angry. I believe that there will be less darkness in time. Until then, continue turning to Lauren for support and share your journey with us. We will all be here to listen.

  3. I didn’t experience a loss as profound as you did. But I struggled with some serious darkness and grief when our first IVF attempt didn’t work. Just trust your feelings and feel them. The darkness eventually lifts, but it’s not a linear process. Let others carry you through this. I am so sorry for your loss.

  4. gus&otto says:

    Be gentle with yourself. Grief is a life-long process. It will ebb and flow. I’m so sorry that you have to deal with this.

  5. CGsaysstuff says:

    I’m so sorry. You and I do have some similarities in our stories. My loss two months ago came just a couple of weeks before my birthday. I recall myself bogged down by self pity (perhaps even wallowing, rightfully at that point) and thinking that the one thing I was truly hoping for is gone.
    My heartbreaks for you both, and the devastating choice you have had to make. I admire your strength in your choice to spare your little one from pain.
    I love the name you’ve given your son. I’ve always wanted to name my child Ezra. Sadly, my husband has vetoed any future use.
    I hope the best for you and your wife and I truly hope you both can find some peace and comfort out there somewhere.

  6. meridith says:

    A friend once told me in a time of grief that the pain of loss never hurts less but it does hurt less often. I don’t know if this is helpful to you but it gave me a bit of strength when the darkness seemed most never-ending. Thinking of you.

  7. Isa says:

    I just found your blog. And I am so sorry to hear about the loss of sweet, beautiful Ezra George. I wish you so much peace and healing and love and light on this journey. Also, I wonder if you’ve found followingmysun.wordpress.com yet? They are on a similar path.

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