Th other night I had a feeling I wouldn't fall asleep, and Dan had started snoring, so I got up and took an Ambien. As soon as I started nodding off, Felix woke up crying. He wouldn't be comforted by Dan, so I went in, and he still wouldn't calm down. So we took him into our bed. He didn't squirm around as much as he has in the past, but we have a queen and he's getting to be a big boy, so I only half slept while squeezing my body toward my side of the bed.

He's been our sweet sensitive boy lately. I've been honest with him: he has asked me, "You sad, Mommy?" And I tell him yes, I'm sad a lot, but being with you makes me happy, and it's okay to be sad. I showed him Elise's photo again last Sunday, and he asked "Is baby sleeping?" And I said no, she is dead, that means we can't have her here with us. He just responded with an "Oh..." in a tiny voice, while staring at her picture. The books say not to tell little ones that someone who's died is "sleeping" because that gives the wrong idea and they also might be afraid of falling asleep themselves. I suppose "dead" is a pretty big word for a not-quite-3 year old, but I have confidence that my honesty with him will be a good thing. He is already a wonderful mixture of self-assuredness and emotional sensitivity, and I want him to be able to be open with his loved ones and able to protect himself too.

I'm parenting in the classic Not Gonna Put My Kid Through the Shit I Went Through method: I grew up thinking I was supposed to Be Nice and not talk about yourself or your pain. Now I'm struggling to seek the support I need from the right people, avoid the ones who can't respond--no matter who they are or how close they seemed before Elise died--and take care of myself without worrying what others need from me when I don't have the energy left.

Last night Felix woke up crying twice. He has a very stuffy nose, and I have the flu. I had a massage from Heidi a few days ago and she happened to call this morning. When I told her I was sick, she said the massage is likely helping my body move through all the pain and turmoil, and this sickness is part of that flushing out. I hope she's right, but at any rate those words encourage me, as I lay in bed with my stomach roiling, to believe that we are not suffering for nothing.

We returned a few days ago from a week with my family in Sunriver, Oregon. There were 37 of us there. Needless to say, it was hard to exchange more than a few words with all the activity. Still, when 2 days had passed since our arrival with no one saying a word about Elise, I wanted to drive home screaming. My sister Mary and her partner Chris helped me calm down. Chris had already talked with Dan on his own, and they offered to communicate my needs to the others so that I wouldn't have to explain yet again that it really is okay, it really is a good thing, and helpful, to ask us how the day is going, how the hour is going, then listen for a response.

After a yoga class the next day, my sisters and mother and I cried in a group hug. They all said they are hurting for Elise, for us, and didn't know how to talk to us. Is it our eternally optimistic American culture that keeps us from including any talk of sadness in our days? Is it the same old fear of death thing? I keep hearing from people "I've never experienced what you're going through so I don't know what to say," and sometimes I get so sick of it. You expect us to teach you what to say when we're barely keeping our heads above water emotionally? Go read a book.

A lot of books have helped me, if just to confirm that, in the words of one wise soul of a bereaved mother who wrote me a card: "Remember, you are NOT going crazy, it just REALLY HURTS." Empty Cradle, Broken Heart; Still to be Born; Help, Comfort, and Hope; and a daily missal of sorts, Healing After Loss: Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief offer other people's stories and practical advice for being patient with myself and others in the drudgery of this pain.

But much of the time I am impatient. I still haven't accepted Elise's death. Maybe it's a gradual process--so gradual it's undetectable. It's not as if I am not working hard: yesterday I made calls to my doctor, my therapist, a close friend; I'm getting a massage on Friday, I write in my journal every day, I treated myself to 2 hours of yoga yesterday and took the dog on a short walk. When a friend called to go to a movie, I went even though it sounded better to cozy up at home with my boys for the evening.

But I also thought, maybe Dan and Felix could use a break from my gloomy self for a couple of hours. Felix had thrown a fit a little while ago: was it just a drop in his blood sugar from needing dinner, or is he picking up on my grief? He is a sensitive little guy; I hope he can still embrace that part of himself as he grows older. I hope his baby sister is teaching him how.

So I went to the movie and was surprised to see such a big crowd for the Bozeman Film Festival on a summer evening. With both movie theaters downtown closed indefinitely, and the cineplexes showing the usual lame comedies and blow-em-ups, this town must be starved for decent entertainment. At any rate I wasn't really prepared to see so many acquaintances with their meaningless "How are you" 's, so I inched my way out of conversation most of the time, which felt like absolutely the right thing to do. Whey do we even say those words when we don't really expect a real response? I'm not even answering that hiccup anymore: it's just another way of saying hello anyway.

Then Heather came up to me and gave me a hug. Her son died at birth 4 years ago. Her eyes seemed to reflect my pain, which I found strangely comforting. "I know where you are, and part of me is still there with you," they seemed to say. I could tell her today was a hard day and not see a look saying "Let's get this dreary stuff over with so we can move on to lighter, more trivial chatter." When it was time for us to leave the lobby for the film, part of me wanted her to stay with me like a mother might stay with her scared child in the classroom on the first day of school. But that child has to be left alone with all those strangers eventually, so I dragged myself off to be with the others who were comfortably socializing.

The new term is starting and with it all sorts of people spouting "How are you?" and me wanting to say, "I'm not really here yet," or "Today is going by slowly," or "This hour is an improvement on the last one," or "Words can't express it."

My loneliness and pissiness has eased off today. Partly that’s because I had such loving responses from family and friends I’d told about my blog, and partly because we went to our SHARE support group meeting last night.

I don’t want people to think I was scolding them in yesterday’s posting, because for the most part I get the support I need when I ask for it. But “when I ask for it” is the key concept: sometimes I can’t ask for it, and tell myself people are too busy and I shouldn’t bother them. That’s my youngest-of-seven mindset speaking: Don’t bother anyone, you can handle it yourself, just stay out of sight and read your books.

Lo and behold, when I put it out there the universe responds: I’ve always been afraid to speak the truth about how I’m feeling, and grew up thinking that emotional expression and honesty are unseemly or weak. I’m trying to change that, even when it’s painful. These past few days in particular seem to be telling me I have NO CHOICE but to say what I need to, or I’ll end up one screwed-up, warped sack o’ woe (to borrow a Cannonball Adderley song title).

So on a run yesterday, I stopped to talk with a family friend I see every once in a while. I decided to thank her for the card she and her husband sent us when Elise died, and we had one of those talks that are so uplifting for their sincerity and compassion. She brought up the possibility that people might not mention Elise because they think it’s a private matter for us. That could very well be the case, maybe even with acquaintances here in town who infuriate me when they scurry away before the conversation goes beyond “Hi, how are you.” But one member of our support group definitely spoke for me last night when she said she cherished conversations where people asked about her daughter’s story, what it was like to be pregnant with her and experience her birth and death.

This morning I ran into my doctor, a wonderful woman who instinctively knows how to be encouraging without being clichéd. She recalled my anguish at Elise’s birth, and that reminded me of how all I could do at that moment was scream until the people in the room, the hospital ward, the whole world, could hear my rage and helplessness.

Last night at our meeting we talked a lot about people who forget about our babies in their busy distracted lives, and we talked a bit about how to hold on to the memories of our babies while still moving forward. I said that a friend had asked me whether I believed in an afterlife, and I wasn’t sure there was one but am clinging to the possibility there is. In any case, we carry our children with us in some form. The guest speaker asked if I thought that I can see Elise in the world around us, and again I said I wasn’t sure… “Keep looking,” she urged.

I know that even if I might not “see” Elise in a bird who sings to me or a butterfly landing on my shoulder, she is speaking to me: she is telling me to put myself out there and ask for what I need. She never spoke a word in her life, but she is teaching me how to communicate.

9 months on

Today makes it 9 months since our daughter Elise was stillborn at 33 weeks. Nine months, and I still can't believe I've just written that sentence. It still feels like I've been punched in the stomach. It's very exhausting trying to catch my breath, clutching my gut as I stare into space in disbelief.

It's not like this every day, or even every hour. Sometimes days go by when I feel pretty good. But when I do feel weighed down by grief, it feels terribly lonely, because most of our friends and family have gone on with their "normal" lives. I'm learning that when I need to find support, I need to be selective. Otherwise, the pain of getting a response like, "Are you still taking your antidepressants?" or "Are you going to have another baby?" makes me want to take that person by the neck and fling them onto the floor.

So this blog is for people who feel alone in their loss. It's for people who want to understand the grief of stillbirth. It's for people who are deluding themselves that their own routines and petty concerns can excuse them from remembering that we are still hurting. It's for people who have forgotten Elise. It's for people who think she was "just" a pregnancy. Guess what? She wasn't. She was our daughter, she is STILL our daughter, and a little sister to Felix, and a niece, and a granddaughter, and a cousin...

This summer I was hit with the realization I will never see her grow up. There I was watching the high school graduation ceremony for my niece, and the next thing I knew I was rushing out of the auditorium to cry my eyes out. Summer has brought memories of being pregnant with Elise, outings to the park and the pool with Felix where pregnant women are everywhere with big bellies bursting under their tank tops, and all the anxieties of trying to conceive again.

So yes, we do want to have another baby. No, I am not taking antidepressants now because I'm worried about the effects if I get pregnant (among other reasons). But however much others want to think, even unconsciously, that another baby, if we have one, will "fix" our loss of Elise, it doesn't work that way, no more than remarriage replaces a dead spouse or other children take the place of another dead child. No, we never saw Elise alive in this world, but yes, our grief is as crushing as that of someone who shared some time on this planet with a loved one they lost.

Lastly, I want to say to those who are acquaintances of someone who has experienced a death in their family recently: SAY SOMETHING IN SYMPATHY. Ask "how are you REALLY doing?" You won't be "reminding" that person of their grief, dummy: they always already feel it. Get out of your own ego, the one telling you death is icky and uncomfortable, and someone else's sadness is awkward, and act like a human with a sense of decency and compassion. And by the way, you can still ask after months have passed.

Where to, Elise? Where did you go? Where are we going? Such simple questions, but the answers are never, ever predictable. So I'll just ask, Where to next? and let go of the rest.