People are Good.

That friend, "Sally"?

She amazed me today. I'd posted a link to "Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope" on Facebook and forgotten that my story on there linked back to this blog. I'd never meant for her to see anything that I posted - this was my place to vent about things that might be misunderstood by outsiders.

But she saw it.

She saw everything.

And she wrote me a beautiful, sincere apology. I was visiting my grandma in the hospital (recovering from hernia surgery) so I couldn't call, but I immediately texted her to let her know I got it and how much her words meant to me. We had an open, emotional exchange and I felt so much better afterward. I hope she did too.

Looking back at what I wrote now that we've talked, I'm ashamed. I considered deleting it all. But you know what? It was honest and raw, and what I was feeling. I'm sure it hurt her to read it; it hurt me to write it and to experience it. Of course, I never meant for it to be painful for her - just a catharsis for me - but in the end, I'm glad for both of us. It healed a wound and closed the book on a chapter that was extremely difficult for me. And okay, the wound probably isn't completely scabbed over and the book isn't closed all the way, but the process has begun. When we were talking I got excited to see her baby belly and meet her little man in a few months. I know it will never be easy - she's living the life I should be living, that I WANT to be living more than anything - but I'm still looking forward to it. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself. And I am. I think. Right?

Don't get me wrong.

"You need to get over it."
"People are going to have babies...boy babies...you can't let it make you sad."
"Don't let it bother you."
"Can't you just be happy for them?"
"You'll have one too someday."
"Focus on the positive!"

Look, I know. I get it. The world doesn't stop procreating and people don't stop having boys because of what I went through. I'm not going to lie to you; if there was a button I could push to make that happen until I caught up, I totally would. Selfish? Sure. Self-preservation? Absolutely.

You can't force yourself to feel something other than what you do. Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for them. I'm glad they are living the dream. I know that they were really looking forward to having kids - and lucky them, they got pregnant right away and have thus far had a perfect pregnancy.* I wish nothing more for them than a screaming, healthy baby in 20 weeks. I'm glad they didn't have to suffer infertility or miscarriages to get where they are.

But.

BUT.

That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. It doesn't mean I'll ever be able to look at their son without thinking of my son who should be running around, three months older than their son. I understand how easy it is to say that I can't let it bother me, but unless you've been in my exact shoes or worse, you simply don't get it. And I'm GLAD you don't get it. Because getting it would mean that you are suffering as much as I am. But it's going to bother me. It's going to make me sad. It's going to be hard. It's going to make me mourn the loss of my son all over again.

I can't make you understand if you don't. It's a gut feeling. It's a certain drop of the heart. It's tears welling up without control. To go as far in the opposite direction for an example as I can, imagine that you put in a bid on a dream house, and didn't get it. Shortly thereafter, your friends put in a bid on the same house, and get it. Wouldn't you be a little jealous of them every time you visited? Wouldn't you think, "Man, this should be my master bathroom with jacuzzi tub and marble tile!"? It doesn't mean you're not happy for them - but come on, they're living in the house you always wanted, and that's gotta sting. Or imagine you saved up for months to go on some fabulous vacation to Italy. At the very last minute, it fell through, and you have nothing to show for it. You're out all that money, all that time planning, all that excitement you had. A few weeks later, you find out your friends are going on vacation. And not just any vacation, but that exact Italian vacation that you wanted to take. Wouldn't you be sad you didn't get to go? Wouldn't you think to yourself, "Man, I wish they would have chosen to go to somewhere else, anywhere else." You'd be happy they got to have an amazing time, but you still wish you would have gotten to go on YOUR vacation. And you think it'd be a lot easier to look at their vacation pictures if they were showing you pictures of Australia, or Antarctica, or Arkansas, or anywhere other than Italy.

It's like that.

Times a million.

*Fertility ho's**, as we call them one on of the forums I go to. And there's nothing wrong with that. I was a fertility ho until we lost the baby.
**Don't get me wrong. As much as I complain, they're good people. I think. Self-centered, thoughtless, tactless people, but still okay people. They deserve a baby as much as anyone else.

Gdamn it.

They're having a boy. Of course. Of freaking course.

traveling

I spent the last week or so traveling; first to Philadelphia and then to St. Louis. I flew to Philly, but drove to St. Louis and back. About an hour into my trip home from St. Louis, I saw a pro-life billboard that said something like "You have one job...protect her and keep her safe." with a picture of a late-term fetus. And of course, there's nothing like seeing a billboard like that while driving by yourself with nothing to take your mind off it. Bring on the waves of guilt! I had one effing job to do...to keep my baby safe for nine months...and I failed spectacularly. He did his job; he was perfect. I didn't do mine. I was the only one who COULD keep him safe, and I'm the only one who failed. Once he was born, the task of keeping him safe and alive would be shared by dozens of people - Chris, relatives, babysitters, teachers, doctors. But for those 40 weeks, it all was on me. And I didn't pull through for him. Needless to say, I spent about an hour of the drive home crying uncontrollably.

After I'd finally pulled myself together, I stopped to eat and checked Facebook on my phone. The "friend" I've mentioned a few times (Sally) just keeps shocking me. There are so many things going back years that she's done that are thoughtless, but she's seemed to ramp it up since she became pregnant (or, more likely, I'm now more sensitive to it). She posted on about a big surprise...her first stretchmark. She emphasized that it was tiny and barely noticible, but said, and I quote, "It really is devastating." It took all my strength not to reply to her, "Sally, I don't think you actually know the definition of the word devastating." Or maybe, "Wow, if a stretch mark is devastating, what do you consider what happened to me?" Or maybe, "No, Sally, a stretch mark is not devastating. MAYBE disappointing. Certainly not devastating. Losing a baby? That's devastating." Or maybe just a simple, silent wish that she gets super fat and covered in stretch marks.

No, that's not comforting...but thanks?

Attention:

Telling me, "Well, at least you can _____________* now that you're not pregnant!" is in no way a comfort to me. I hope you realize that I'd give up doing ___________ for life to still be pregnant? I know, bright side and all, but really all that does is remind me that I'm not pregnant any more. Truly, a hug and an "I'm so sorry" is sufficient. I don't need to be told that God has a reason (unless he's personally told you the reason for this happening?? In which case, I'm all ears!). I don't need to be assured that "at least you know you can get pregnant!". I don't need you to assume that something was wrong with the baby (there wasn't). Don't tell me that it wasn't the right time or that maybe God is pushing me towards adoption (unless, again, you've spoken to him personally? In which case might I recommend a talk show?).

Just a hug is fine. Really.

*Drink, have sushi, go on vacation, go on roller coasters, scuba dive (um, I live in Nebraska...?), do a headstand while snorting cocaine, whatever.

Attention, you.

You, with that big pregnant belly in the checkout lane.

I'm really jealous of you. I want to reach out and touch your stomach. I want to make sure you know to appreciate all this. To take it easy. To not stress out about having that extra coffee this morning. Let the stock boy lift that box for you! I try not to stare, but I can't help it. If a weird look crosses my face, it's not disgust. It's shock at seeing you, a hurt that goes straight through me, a lot of jealousy. It's not you. It's me.

You, with the baby pictures all over your blog.

I'm really jealous of you. I can't stop torturing myself by looking at your pictures. Your baby is adorable. I wish I had one. I try to remind myself that even if Caleb had lived he wouldn't be your baby and there's no reason to be jealous. But I am. Every expression your baby makes cuts me to the core. Seeing those pictures magnifies the emptiness in my arms by a million. I love them - they're really cute - but I hate them at the same time. I don't hate your baby. I hate that I don't have my baby.

You, the one on Facebook bitching about your kids or how you hate being pregnant.

I'm really jealous of you. I would give my life to trade places with you. Shut up. Just shut the hell up.

Me, the one with the empty uterus and empty arms.

Stop looking at the calendar. Stop torturing yourself by going on Facebook or baby blogs. Don't look at that website of cute baby clothes. Stop pushing your stomach out when you get dressed in the morning so you'd see what you look like wearing that outfit if you were still pregnant. You'll be pregnant again someday. Hopefully soon. Focus on that. Focus. Focus.