Where Are You Christmas?

Where are you, Christmas? I'm so grateful that I don't recognize you this year. Not one thing is the same, and that takes a bit of the sting out of this damn holiday.

Nothing is more effective at highlighting loneliness and pain than the holiday season. Every year since my son has been gone, this time of year has slayed me. It's like pouring alcohol on an open wound. I despise tradition. I LOATHE "whole family togetherness".

This year feels different. We're in a new home. Nothing looks the same here. And I'm so grateful. My oldest son refuses to help pick out our Christmas tree now, and I love him for it. It's so much easier for me to be "present" when Easton is not the only one missing. The fact that it's just my husband and the girls picking it out makes it possible for me to breathe.

I don't like being "all together but not really". It's only been this year that I can stand the 5 of us being in the same room at the same time, and still I notice the vacancy. That may sound horrible, but it isn't something you can judge. It's not a feeling I would have asked for, or even known it would be possible. So, you can imagine that when I buy presents for 4 children and only 3 open them up on Christmas morning that I'm probably not going to love that day.

This year I decided to kind of do my own form of immersion therapy. I bought Christmas decorations for our new house and put them up EARLY. I have TWO decorated trees. I was done buying and wrapping gifts long before today, and I even REQUESTED a cookie making day. I blasted Christmas music every chance I got. I did it in part because I believe this may be my youngest daughter's last "magic" year. And it kills me to have "missed" the previous ones. But I also did it to desensitize myself to the inevitable knives that the holidays bring.

I don't know that I'll ever enjoy Christmas as I once did. I think that maybe the loss of a child steals that part of you. Or maybe it takes time. Or maybe it's like the rest of the grief process, where each minute is a crapshoot.

What I have certainly learned about grief and holidays specifically, is that no one is in a place to judge another person for any decisions they make. I would have never guessed in a million years that I would be this person. I loved Christmas and every tradition we had. Now those very things I loved, cut me deeper than I can ever do justice with words.

This year is also different because my dad isn't here. And that sounds particularly terrible, but I don't mean that I'm glad he isn't here. I'm just glad that Easton isn't the ONLY one missing. I miss my dad like crazy, and I can't wait to see him. But that's just it. I have the option of seeing him again. That's not true of my E. And sure, "someday you'll see him in heaven." Ok, I doubt that would be sufficient for anyone, so it isn't helpful.

I'm grateful for my experiences this year. I love our new house and the comfort it provides. I was able to spend some time in Haiti with Jeff and shared my love of it with him. But there are still 4 stockings, and only three children reaching for them. That's not something that can be repaired with tinsel and carols. So I'm especially grateful that the holiday is so unrecognizable this year. Every second of my life without my son has been unrecognizable to me. Christmas finally matches...

Haiti Part 2

Ah, Haiti...how I had missed you! This trip was incredible, as was the last. But this time I was able to share it with my husband. I got to watch someone I love, fall in love with something already so near and dear to my heart. He felt the tug early. I could tell by the way he took everything in, that he was hooked right away. At first, he was interested in seeing the country from a teacher perspective. He wanted to share his multi-cultural experience with his classes and tried to log everything in order to do so. But then that curiosity and that interest changed. It grew into something deeper, something stronger, something with more staying power. His heart began to take on the beauty mixed with pain, and I'm grateful to have witnessed that.

I don't like the word missionary. I never have. To me, that word implies that I'm giving something or doing something selfless. I don't feel that way in regards to Haiti. I go there to restore my faith in humanity, to restore my own soul. There is something about this country and its people that speaks to the deepest parts of my being. I feel completely and utterly selfish in my desire to return. We painted some classrooms, provided some gifts and some food, but ultimately what did that do? I held children for brief moments in time. For one week, I was the hand on their backs, the voice in their ear. But how can that last a lifetime?

I was very aware of touch while in Haiti this time. Every trip to the orphanage made me more conscientious about the importance of human contact. Every child I saw got my hand on their back while we spoke. I wondered how often they go days without the loving touch of an adult who cares for them? And that's not to say that the nannies and caregivers at the orphanage didn't love them. Those people were truly amazing. They bathed and fed 65 children every single day. The kids are clean, and well cared for. But what of human contact? Is it possible to physically touch each one of them in a loving way every single day? I'm not so sure that it is.

In America, children between the ages of 18 months- 3 years want to be put down. They're developing independence and they don't want adults to hinder their desire for adventure.  In Haiti, children of this same age reach up their hands and beg and plead for you to hold them. They've learned to say, "Mama! Papa!" as you walk by and they nearly break their little backs trying to reach for you. Even when you do pick them up, something normally distracting to an American child, like toys or candy are within walking distance, they will not let go. You try to put them down to play and they cling to you as tightly as their little bodies will allow them. Who knows when they'll be held again?

At one point my husband made a comment about how awful it was to see that kind of desperation. I agree with him, but I also know that even though it is awful to witness, and it would be easier for me to have never seen that kind of pain, it doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. It's there. It was there before we got there. It was there for the full week that I cradled as many babies as I could at one time, and it will be there long after I am gone. And although we are on our own adoption journey, and I do truly believe that my children are there, I am equally as passionate about orphan prevention in Haiti.  How wonderful would it be to nearly eradicate the need for the over 700 orphanages in that country? What if we could help empower families, and help them find sustainable income in order to keep families together? I believe that's the ultimate goal. And I want to always be aware of that. Long after my children arrive safely at home, and we become the family I know we're supposed to be, I will continue to hope for and to support in whatever ways we can, the efforts at orphan prevention in Haiti.

While on this trip, Jeff and I were able to meet other potential adoptive families from our agency. That was a gift in and of itself. It was so refreshing to be able to speak about the process and the difficulties related to Haitian adoption with others who truly understand. I'm grateful for those contacts and for those three special people we now consider friends.

We also met our agency liason, and we'd previously only corresponded through email, phone calls, and texts. She's a truly incredible young woman and her heart for Haiti is beautiful. We are so privileged to be working with her, and I'm even more excited for the hundreds of children's lives that are touched by this beautiful soul.

We are often asked how the adoption is going and if we know how soon it will happen, if we've met our kids, etc. The answer is that it's going exactly the way it's supposed to. My children are there and they'll be home with me when both they and my current family are ready. Have I met them? I have no idea. But this trip helped me to see that no matter what happens, the people who are supposed to live in my home, will be here someday. And we'll fit perfectly.  I can be patient. I have a lifetime to wait to see my son again, so the next few weeks, months or years of waiting for my Haitian children will be something I can handle.

I will go back to Haiti. I know this to be true as much as I know anything. My heart is there. And each time I even think of returning, I am filled with excitement, gratitude to those who help fund and supply my trips, and a peace I can't put into words.

Mesi, Haiti.

It Hurts

It just hurts. It's a grinding, soul-crushing pain. And there is no way around it. Losing a child carves a hole that cannot be filled, and it causes a deafening silence that cannot be ignored.

I have no specific reason for this post today.  No reason, that is, that is different from how I felt yesterday or how I will feel tomorrow. I don't need one. It's a forever kind of deal. In the beginning I was screaming nearly constantly. I was clawing at my clothes and hearing a guttural cry escape from my lips without even recognizing that it was me. Now, I mostly function. But that haunted, screaming woman is still in there. And I identify more with her on most days than I do the "seemingly functioning" one. I want him back. I don't want to wait. I don't want to "be grateful for what I have". I don't want to "look forward to the day I'll see him again." No. That isn't enough. I want him here. I want him now. I want that fire in my chest to go away. I want to stop feeling guilty and alone for my reactions to "normal" life. I want to know why the hell this is my reality.

No, today is not a special day. Not a day that should hurt more than any other. Today is just one of the million I have experienced where the dizzying idea of FOREVER has the ability to knock me to my knees.

I have no pretty way to wrap this. No ribbons or bows or cute quips to close it out. All I have is raw, unforgiving pain. And the desperate need to hold a special little boy again.

What Do You Say When...

I'm often asked how to speak to someone who is grieving. And although I appreciate the question and the motivation behind it, I can only answer from one perspective....mine. I can't tell someone what is necessarily "right" or "wrong" in any given situation when it comes to another person's grief. So, I thought I'd speak to what I know, and talk about what has and hasn't worked for me. 

For me, there isn't one right or wrong thing to say when it comes to grief. Honestly, what one person says in one moment may be perfectly fine and someone else could say it in exactly the same way and it would go over like a lead balloon. Is that fair? Nope. And I know that, but fair doesn't really count for me anymore. 

There have also been countless times when someone has said, "I wanted to tell you that when I said that thing before, I didn't think about how it would make you feel, and I'm sorry." Here's the thing with that, I probably didn't notice. You may have said something to me that you considered thoughtless at the time, but I most likely never think about it.  And if i did notice, and I do think about it, then I've probably already made my peace with it.   Honestly, most of my days are spent letting difficult conversations roll off my back. I'm constantly reminding myself that not everyone has had my experiences and that things that they say aren't meant to be hurtful. Of COURSE I know you don't mean to hurt me, or to say something callous in regards to the death of my son. In the cases in which I am affected by something someone has said, I do appreciate the acknowledgement (no matter how much later you recognize it) because it validates my feelings as a grieving mother. But I don't fault you for being a normal human being. I don't wish for you to truly know my perspective. 

I think, for me, the most important thing I can tell someone who is worried about what they say around me is to remember that it isn't about them. Of course my friends and family are going to talk about their children, complain about their antics, share their joyful moments. I know that! I'm a mother too. And I'll share all of those things about my children as well. All four of them. And I'm not going to stop. But some things that you say to me are going to hurt. That's just how this is going to be for me in this lifetime. It isn't your fault, and it isn't mine. As much as you can't help hurting me with the things you may sometimes say, I can't help the fact that sometimes your words hurt me. And I'm OK with that. The key is for you to be OK with that too. Don't make it the grieving person's job to make you feel better about what you say. And I don't mean that in a harsh, "I don't care about your feelings", way. I just mean that in that moment, that person is probably just trying to hold herself together. She doesn't have the capacity to make it OK for you too. 

I certainly don't hold those moments against anyone. I don't know how to do grief either! I'm learning every day. And I only know how I feel. I can say that if your grieving person is anything at all like me, she'll need free reign on her emotions. Let her be positive when she wants to be positive. Let her scream and heave and sob in anger when she can't. Tell her that there is beauty in the strength to allow herself to fall apart. Let her pray to God, if she has hope in miracles. Let her denounce religion and higher power if that's where her mood takes her. I was once told I didn't have a free pass just because I "lost my child." I'm saying give her one. Love her. Let her know that all of her emotions are welcome. Not just the ones that make you feel more comfortable. 

And for those of you on your own grief journey, no matter what that might mean, I wish you enough love to carry you through. It's your only guarantee. 

International Bereaved Mother's Day

"How many kids do you have?" This is a common question. In my particular line of work, it's asked of me several times a day. I never ask this question. I used to. Just like I used to do a lot of things. But I don't ask this one because its answer is difficult for some, and I know that now.

I always answer truthfully. Four. I have 4 children. I answer that way, because for me there is no other way to answer. But that's not true for all bereaved mothers. This is a commonly asked question on grief forums. "When someone asks how many children you have, what do you say?" For me, there really is only one answer, but to many, the potential follow up questions make this answer more difficult. Inevitably, this question is followed by one asking ages or if you have boys or girls. I have a standard answer for that too. My oldest son is 13, I have 12 and 9 year old daughters, and my youngest son would be 7 this year, but he passed away at 2 1/2. Too much information? Maybe. For some, certainly. But for me, this works. This is my truth. And if I'm not honest about this, I'm not being true to myself. If I want to go into more detail,  I do. And those days that I can't,  I don't.  But I ALWAYS have four children. 

Four. I parent them all. My teenager gives me his best attention on car rides when it's just the two of us. He flips his hair to the side incessantly, and his stomach is currently a bottomless pit. He's discovering what it means to learn what kind of person he wants to be. We have countless discussions about the importance of being a good person, and what traits will serve him well later in life. 

My 12 year old daughter is a ball of sarcasm and wit. She also has a beautiful, giving heart. She's anxious as she grows and changes and asks questions about life and what her body is going through at almost a constant rate. She's inquisitive, and thoughtful. She makes me pull my hair out, and she has me watching in awe most days as she discovers yet another activity in which she's interested. 

My 9 year old....she's broken. Her best friend died and changed her middle child status.  She's often confused and lonely. She has beautiful blue eyes and a smile that's incredibly contagious. She's loveable and reads constantly. She's my baking buddy, and my cuddler. I try to be a safe place for her to land when the pain becomes more than her little 9 year old heart can bear.

And there's my baby. I parent him, too. And let me tell you, there is nothing on this earth harder than parenting a child you had to give back. I wonder daily what he's up to. Is he taller? Does he still have my curls? Did he take up baseball like his brother or is he an actor like his sister? Who are his friends? Did he learn to ride a bike? I want to know what size shoe he wears, and if he knows how to tie them yet. 

See, when you lose a child, you don't just lose them in that moment. You don't just miss out on that time in his life. You lose him every single day, over and over again. You lose his milestones and your dreams for him. You lose his giggles, and his scraped knees. You lose his finger paintings, and his dandelion bouquets.  You lose little pieces of yourself, slowly. Each day more is chipped away as you try to find ways to function. People can see the functioning part, but they can't always see the pieces that fall away. But it's happening. Every day is something new, and it's a sentence that lasts a lifetime. 

Tomorrow is International Bereaved Mother's Day. If you know a mother who parents a child she can no longer hold, let her know you're thinking of her. Give her that day. She'll be chipping away the pieces she loses that day, just like any other, and a kind word from you could go a long way. Acknowledgement of our children and our continued quest to parent them means more than anything. 

Four. I have four...

"I Rocked A Baby Today"

I do a lot of things in my line of work. And yes,  one of the things I do is rock babies...

-I rocked a baby today because she didn't understand the convulsions that her little body experienced as someone else's heroin addiction coursed through her.

-I rocked a baby today, though I had no time to do so,  because his mother decided that she didn't want him, and he didn't ask to be born into a world that would immediately reject him. 

-I rocked a baby today because just hours earlier I watched as two nursery nurses used their incredible knowledge and unparalleled skill to breathe life back into her when she was born without breath. 

-I rocked a baby today because he was born silent, and because the pain and devastation of looking at her dead child is too much for his mother in this moment. 

-I rocked a baby today because mine were the hands that pulled her from her mother's arms as life circumstances have deemed her an unfit mother. 

-I rocked a baby today, simply because I can, and because no matter how many times it goes right, no matter how many times it's "just part of my job", no matter how many "birth"days I witness, I will never lose sight of the beauty and the privilege of being present in that moment. 

I've written about my profession before, but today I write to highlight a very specific area. I am an OB nurse. I'm a "rocking babies" nurse.  I write this because while in the elevator, during a rare break in my day, a fellow RN looked at my scrubs, recognized that I worked in OB, and said with pride in her voice, 

"I have 16 patients today!" 

I replied, "I'm sorry that you feel overworked. I know the hospital as a whole is at capacity right now. I hope your day turns out ok."

She then looked at my uniform again and said, "Yeah...wanna trade? You take my 16 patients, and I'll 'rock babies, or whatever'."

So, today I write to let my fellow OB nurses know that I see you. I know and understand the depths of your dedication and your compassion. I see that you have earned every bit of that RN that you proudly display behind your name. I know that your knowledge and skill goes far beyond what's taught in the classroom. I know that although your experiences seem to others to be full of "baby rocking bliss", that each day that you work has the potential to tear at your soul. 

Do not underestimate your ability to make a lasting impact in the lives of your patients. Do not let the uneducated comments of other people, specifically other nurses, undermine the work that you do. While empowering your patient to do one of the hardest things she'll ever do in her life, don't forget to encourage yourself along the way. Don't forget to tell a coworker that you're here for her when something doesn't go as planned. 

We always have the opportunity to encourage one another in practice. Consequently,  we also have the option to tear each other down. Choose to encourage. That's what REAL nurses do. It's not in the uniform, or the stethoscope, or in the number of patients. It's the act of getting back to why we decided to "rock babies" in the first place. We wanted to make a difference in the health and life of another person. If that means that today I rock a baby...so be it. 

Today hurts, And Tomorrow Will Too

It hurts. It burns. My life without you. It's wrong. It's disconnected. It's gray. It's not like the picture I had in my head. Today I burn with the pain of your absence. Today I look for any reminder at all that you were here. That I did indeed touch you and hold you, that I laughed with you and felt the weight of your body in my arms.

I don't understand who I've become sometimes. When you were here I knew who I was. I knew my role. I recognized my emotions and my reactions to every day life. That woman made sense to me. She believed the things I understood to be true. She reacted to certain situations in a way that is recognizable to other humans. This new woman, this mother without her child is so very different. She looks different to everyone, but how can she look so different to me? She IS me. And yet...she can't be.

I'm not the same mother. I'm not the same nurse. I'm not the same friend. I can't be where others are in certain situations. My responses to "tragedy" and "death" do not match the faces of those around me. My feelings about prayer don't quite make sense to most. I don't know how to fit. I couldn't even if I tried.

The day you left, I should have gone with you. And that scares most people. They don't understand that fully. "You have so much to live for here." "But we would miss you." "What about your other children?" They don't understand me. But I don't understand them. It's not a desire to die. It's a desire to be somewhere that I understand. When you die, you aren't supposed to be here anymore. And yet, I am. I'm still breathing. I don't always understand how that's possible. I remember my breath stopping, my heart stopping. I remember that moment with more clarity than any I've experienced before or since. And my nurse brain says that that moment should have been it.

But then there was that next moment. The one that I heard myself breathe again. I hated that breath. I despised that next heartbeat with every fiber of my being. At times, I still do. It beats differently now. I can hear the reluctance in its efforts sometimes.

I don't understand the days that are functional. I feel like I'm pretending until I can get back to you. And yet, some parts are so genuine that I feel immense guilt at my ability to truly enjoy a moment, no matter how brief, without you here.

Even this moment, full of painful rambling is an attempt to be closer to you. To connect with the incredible pain that makes me KNOW that you were here, that you were, are, and always will be a part of me. The most painful, the most beautiful, the most real part of me that I will experience in this particular lifetime. Some days I want to wear a sign around my neck that says, "I may look functional, but I'm broken. Please don't forget the broken part of me. Please love that part too." It's my favorite part most days, actually because it's the one I understand. When no one else can understand me without you, I can connect to my own brokenness and feel you.

Until I see you again, I am reduced to pictures and videos. You are here physically only via superhero momentos, the clothes still hanging in your closet, and the handprints that I can only trace with a longing finger. That's not enough, and yet it has to be.

I have no beautiful way to wrap up such rambling, because this feeling continues far beyond these few paragraphs. These words will come to an end. The rambling will appear to stop for the moment. But in reality, the hurt and the confusion will continue to beat in time with my reluctant heart.

Random Thoughts from a Labor Nurse

Ok, so this is basically just an "I'm a labor and delivery nurse and these are some things I need to get off my chest" post. :) Let's start with how much I love my job. I mean, I have the absolute honor and privilege of being present at one of the most incredible moments in a person's life. How cool is that?!?! The gift of that is never lost on me. Having said that, there are a few things that might be helpful to those who don't have that privilege every day.

First of all, let's talk gestation. Listen, if you're not at least 38 weeks pregnant, don't even consider saying the words, "I just want this kid out." Here's the deal, most of us know exactly how you feel. We've been there, too. It is incredibly uncomfortable past 36 weeks. Everything is uncomfortable. Sleeping? That doesnt happen anymore. Breathing is difficult, and pretty much every movement brings with it some sort of joint pain (thanks hormones). And we can even sympathize with each of these aches and pains as many of us have indeed been 38, 39, 40 and even 41 (GASP) weeks pregnant. BUT, you know what we've also seen? We've seen babies born too early who, best case scenario, have to stay in the hospital much longer than the average stay so that their lungs can develop more fully, and so that they can start gaining weight. You think you're uncomfortable now? Live in a hospital for even just a week. You'll want to tear your hair out. And that's if things go well! We've also seen babies have to be shipped to another facility to receive the care they need to become strong enough to go home, and this is while mom sits in our hospital until she is deemed OK to be discharged to go be with her baby. Talk about a crappy situation, and one that we don't wish on anyone. I can't tell you how many times I've heard "my baby can come any day" when mom has just barely reached 37 weeks. Any ob nurse worth her salt will tell you that we often see 37 weekers that do WORSE than their younger counterparts. Why? Who knows, but it happens.

Obviously, there are exceptions to every rule and some babies must come before they're due. I get that. I'm not an idiot. I realize that there are some very specific reasons for that and that in those situations, delivery benefits outweigh the risks. But, if you are healthy, and your baby is doing well, let that thing bake as long as it can! It will be worth it in the end. I promise. And while we're on this subject, if you say, "my doctor says I won't make it to my due date" just go ahead and plan on being induced on or after that due date. The truth is that none of us know when a baby is coming. Babies come when they come. Let's leave that timeline up to the big dude, ok?

Alright,  now let's talk about a few myths out there that seem to be accepted as fact.

First, "I lost my mucous plug. My baby is coming." Ummmmm, well, that's not exactly how it works. You need to be in actual labor before we can say that your baby is coming. And the mucous "plug" can shed different parts for several weeks. The truth is that we have all kinds of fun, disgusting substances surrounding that cervix of ours and the closer we get to delivery, the more it comes out. Is it gross? Sure. But does it mean a child is about to wave at you from your vagina? Nope. And just for the record, if you think you've lost your mucous plug, I don't need to see it. I promise I believe you. Please don't bring it to me in the hospital in a plastic container. (Yes...this has happened)

While we're on the subject of yucky substances coming out of places you think they shouldn't,  let's talk about water breaking. It's actually more rare for water to break on its own. The doctor usually has to do that for you during labor. However, it does happen. And this is actually one area where I encourage patients to come in and get it checked out. The truth is, not all water breaking looks like an epic flood. Sometimes it just slowly trickles out. And how are you supposed to know if it's fluid or urine? Honestly,  it's very difficult to know. So, just let us help you figure that out. Even experienced nurses and doctors who are pregnant wonder the same thing at times. And could you have totally just unknowingly pissed yourself? Sure. But why not know for sure? If you're ruptured (water broken) for too long before delivery, you risk infection to your baby. And you know what? If you did, indeed, pee yourself, that's OK too. Any woman who claims not to have done that at least once at the end of pregnancy is just lying.

How about this one? "My baby hasn't dropped yet." Girl, that's not real. Ok, can a kid settle lower into the pelvis as birth becomes more imminent, sure. But if you don't look like you're about to literally crap a bowling ball, don't sweat it. If you've had more than one child (multip), that thing can sit in your tonsils until about 2 seconds before delivery and then come flying down like it's being shot out of a cannon. We don't care where that kid is hiding. As long as it's head down and you're in actual labor, we can work with that.

Now let's talk breastmilk. Does everyone breastfeed? No, of course not. And I'm not going home with you, so you can feed that baby any way you'd like! Formula is not poison. However, if you have any interest at all in breastfeeding, I will work with you until we're both exhausted. I believe in it. I respect it. And I do believe it's worth trying. So, there are lots of fears surrounding breastfeeding, including "not having any milk". You have milk. You do. And I can show immediately after birth that this is true. It's not the thin white stuff that you're used to, but it's there. In fact, it's better!! It's thick, liquid gold. The truth is, a good breastfeed lasts about 15-20 minutes and has periods of sucking/swallowing that alternate with periods of rest. The kid just got here! Let's give him a minute to figure out this suck/swallow/breathe thing. He'll get there. Initially he's only going to swallow once per every 9-10 sucks. Why? Because that first (awesome) stuff is colostrum and it is THICK!  So, don't stress if your kid isn't a hoover, the second we hook him up to the trough. Sometimes it takes time. Usually the initial feeding ROCKS, and then they kind of appear to lose interest and want to sleep. But think about what just happened to them. Their heads just got squeezed out of something orginally the size of a grape. Let's maybe be OK with them taking a nap or two...not to mention, that kiddo is fed until that cord is cut and then it will use its own glycogen stores for the next 12 hours or so. All good here. Be patient. We can help.

Also, "I can't breastfeed because my milk hasn't come in." Ok, this isn't a "thing". It takes about 4-5 days for the milk to start changing from colostrum to that thinner substance we're more accustomed to. But that doesn't mean that you don't have milk. In fact, right now you have the good stuff! So again, patience, my friend. We'll get there. (Again, obviously there are exceptions to every rule and breastfeeding isn't always possible or even just not the best fit for everyone).

Now let's move on to epidurals. They're not the devil. They're not a white flag you wave as you "give up" or "give in". They can be totally awesome! And actually beneficial to the labor process for several reasons. Having said that, I love laboring with someone who doesn't want one. It challenges my abilities as a labor nurse and I enjoy that. I just never want people to feel like they've failed if they've gotten one. You're bringing a human life into the world, hopefully to love and care for it in the best way you know how. If that's your intent, you can't fail. So, epidural or no epidural, just be proud of what your incredible womanly body is capable of doing. It's pretty damn amazing either way.

I could wrote an entire book on this subject, but these are just a few of the things I see and hear often.  I do love my job. I truly believe it's what I was born to do, and I'm so grateful for the privilege of getting to fulfill that dream. So whether you're a first time mom or this is your 10th kid, I look forward to meeting you and cultivating that unique relationship that only a patient and nurse can have. Remember there are several tests we can do during that process, including one that let's me know your water broke....just don't ask me to smell your underwear... ;)

I Miss Him

I miss him. My god, I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts. It actually physically burns in my chest. I miss the smell of him, the weight of him in my arms, the softness of that beautifully, crazy hair. Today is not his birthday. It's not the anniversary of the day he left me. It's not significant in any way except that it's a day that he's supposed to be here. I'm his mother and he's supposed to have outlived me. That's how this works, right? I mean, that's what everyone assumes anyway. Well, it's what you assume if you've never lost a child. If you have, you no longer carry the luxury of assumption.

I want him back. I understand that he's taught me many important lessons, none of which I could have learned, had he stayed here with me. He's opened my heart more. He's made me more patient, more kind, more open. And I'm a better person because he lived. But you know what? Despite all of that goodness, the truth is that it's just bullshit that he isn't here. I watched some videos today. Those are like deceptive gifts in beautiful paper, but when opened contain knives. They cut quickly and deeply. But you can't turn away. Because there he is. Right there on the screen. It's his laugh. It's his tilt of the head.

I want him back here with me. I want to complain about the messes he's making. I want to whine about being hospitalized again. I want to throw a tantrum over having to pack my things yet again only to be fighting a losing battle.

And we fought.

God, we fought so hard. My whole family fought, but sometimes it felt like it was he and I against the world. And I was naive enough at the time to think that if I loved enough and fought enough and PRAYED enough that it would save him. That it would, indeed, BE enough.

It wasn't. He's not here.

He's not here in the way I want him to be. No, I'm not content with him being an angel. I'm not content with him guiding me from some place I can't see. I want him here. I want gooey, sticky, baby kisses and sleepless nights again.

I'm angry and I'm sad. I'm hurt and I'm confused. I'm grieving and I'm broken. And today hurts a little more than yesterday and tomorrow will hurt further still. Because each day I move forward is one day further from that last moment I held him.

I'm surviving, sure. And I'm grateful for so many things in my life, but all of that gets to live alongside this constant pain. This is a forever sentence. I will feel this ache with my last breath.  And there are days that I wonder if that breath could ever come fast enough.