Five Years.

Somehow it's been five years since you've come and gone, Caleb, but your birth (and death) remains one of the pivotal moments of my life. You were important to me. You are important to me. I miss you, little boy. I will always always always have a part of me that wonders "what if....".

Five years. Damn.

Four Year Anniversary

Four fricking years. My god.

I remember him. His loss colors so much of my world. I'm so happy where I'm at now, but I often wonder - would I be even happier? Is it possible to miss him more than anything and wish it hadn't happened, since if it hadn't, chance are I wouldn't have my two rainbow girls? I wouldn't take them back for the world, but I would also give the world to have him back. I just want all three of my babies together. I want the girls to have their big brother. I want to have my little boy. 

It's not a fresh pain. It's not an open wound. It's a rarely seen scar. It's a lingering thought, a shadow out of the corner of my eye, an unexpected reminder when I least expect it. 

Sometimes I find it so hard to believe that this happened to me and that it's my life that played out in the pages of this blog; that it's me who has a little wooden box in the closet that contains all of a life not lived. 

That's all. 

How Do I Lose Thee?

I just read a fantastic piece over at "Hang Your Hopes from Trees." Even after two rainbow babies, it still resonates.

Just a snippet is below - I highly recommend going over for the full post.

How Do I Lose Thee? Let Me Count the Ways

"When we ‘lose the baby’, what do we really lose?

We lose hope. Hope for the future, for a child in our arms.

We lose plans. Plans for a life, for a family, for happiness.

We lose faith. As our bodies seems to fail us, we lose the most faith in ourselves.

We lose security. We lose a sense of trust that things will be okay. That blissful ignorance that it won’t happen to me. We lose innocence. What happens if we try again? We risk losing a connection, a happiness, excitement. We risk losing all these things we deserve..."

(source: http://hangyourhopesfromtrees.wordpress.com/2013/09/28/how-do-i-lose-thee-let-me-count-the-ways/)

Just Those Few Weeks

I can't remember where I first came across this poem, but it's so beautifully reflective of everything that is felt after a loss - even for a very early loss. 

______________________________________

For just those few weeks
I had you to myself.
And that seems too short a time
to be changed so profoundly.
In those few weeks,
I came to know you...
and to love you.
You came to trust me with your life.
Oh what a life I had planned for you!
Just those few weeks...
when I lost you,
I lost a lifetime of hopes,
plans, dreams and aspirations.
A slice of my future simply vanished overnight.
Just those few weeks...
It wasn't enough time to convince others
how special and important you were.
How odd, a truly unique person has recently died
and no one is mourning the passing. (But me.)
Just a mere few weeks...
And no "normal" person would cry all night
Over a tiny unfinished baby,
No one would, so why am I?? (You would too.)
You were just those few weeks, my little one.
You darted in and out of my life too quickly.
But it seems that's all the time you needed
to make my life richer
and to give me a small glimpse of eternity.
~S. Erling

Can you see us? (A Poem)

A very dear and very brilliant woman I know lost her little boy at around the same gestational age as I lost Caleb. She wrote an incredible poem about it that brought memories just flooding back, and I wanted to share it (with her permission) with anyone reading this.

Can you see us?
(link to original post)
By Vanessa at Navigating Through Silence

Can you see me
Curled up in a fetal position
Sobbing
uncontrollable guttural cries
that come from so deep within
few of us know such crevices even exist.

When we saw you
When we spied on you
thanks to the technology that liberated and confined all of us
us - our family
We learned you loved that position

We watched you punch and kick
when the tech tried to unfurl you
from the fetal position
that you knew so well
but you refused
we called you stubborn, like your dad.

We saw you
But you never saw us.

Can you see us now?
See the people who made you from love
Who created the little you
and loved you from the moment
you presented yourself
as a mere hormone
via a pink line

We made you
and we love you
unconditionally.

Can you see our pain?
How we ache everyday that you are no longer here
that every where there are reminders of the you
even though you no longer exist
outside of your hearts, our minds,
our souls.

You were a piece of us.
The first true piece of us.
An amalgamation of your mother and father
our strengths
our weaknesses
our faults
our visions
And we couldn't wait to watch them transform
into you.

Can you hear us now?
I used to hear your heart beat.
Every morning and every night.
Your father could hear it.
But sometimes you preferred when it was just me.
Our special moment
my spying on you
You with little space to retreat.
It was truly the most beautiful sound
Such a strong sound,
the doctors said,
as they assured me you were right where you should be.

Could you hear us before you left?
Could you hear our voices?
If so I hope you heard our laughs
Our giggles
Our joy
The sound of my heartbeat,
did it lull you to sleep?
Would you recognize it,
if you heard it now?

If you can see us,
and you can hear us,
you hold a precious, precious gift,
and I wish it was through a two way lens
So that we could see you
and know
that you made it alright
That there's no pain anymore
That there's peace where are you are
and that you've come to call it home.

I feel so hollow without you.
But if you can see me,
and you can hear me,
I know that you can also feel me.

When you feel me
You know that without you
Such a vital piece of me is gone.
Which is why you hear the guttural sobs
and see the constant embraces between your father and I
that leave me weak in the knees
is because I can no longer feel you.

The next time you look at us,
The next time you touch us,
I hope to feel the warmth of your little hands radiate from within
telling me
that you will always
see us
hear us
and fill me with your warmth.

Questions??

I blog much more often on my baby blog, but I understand that might be difficult to visit if you're fresh (or not so fresh) off a loss of your own. Trust me, I've been there. I know the sadness, the jealousy, the anger, the frustration....all of it is normal.

If you have ANY questions about the TAC or anything else, please feel free to email me at the following:

largirl (at) gmail (dot) c0m

Three Years

Three years on, it doesn't hurt as much - it even takes me a moment to realize what day it is. Three years on, that makes me feel like a terrible mother.  Three years on, it feels like a dream and I have to read my own words to remember everything. Three years on, that makes me feel like a terrible mother. Three years on, I still have random moments of sadness, when I see a little boy that is the age Caleb should be, or when I see a cute outfit for a baby boy (though he'd be long out of baby clothes by now). Three years on, that reassures me that I haven't forgotten him and haven't moved on without him - but that life did go on...no matter how much I didn't want it to three years ago.