Milestones, Etc

Originally posted to Livejournal February 1, 2010

Dear Christopher Robin,

I know that you probably wouldn't have been born on your due date even if I had carried you to term, but it didn't make Saturday any easier. Your dad was home from Dallas this weekend, which made it a lot more bearable, but that's only saying so much.

One Hour of Remembrance

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. When we first lost Christopher Robin, I couldn't imagine needing a particular day of remembrance. I was choking on a grief so thick it seemed as if it would never abate.

And then, life did that horrible thing it always does in the aftermath of tragedy: it goes on.

(And on, and on...)

It's going to be a really busy night in the RunningNekkid household tonight. Most of them are nowadays.

(Poem) My Heart Is Not A Bone

Here is a poem I wrote about a year ago, in a moment of rage upon reading some hurtful words used to "encourage" a friend to stop being so sad about her lost child. On Christopher Robin's fifth stillbirthday, I thought it would be fitting to share it here.

Every time I hear
another smug jackass
telling me, or
someone, or
no one in particular that

grief shouldn't last this long, man,

Five Years of Going On

Trigger warning: stillbirth, including a photograph.

Tonight my brother Evans is coming over for dinner. It's his birthday, so we'll feed him nachos and birthday cake and do our best not to totally embarrass him. He will fall asleep on the couch at least twice. He will read a novel on his Kindle and awkwardly goof off with my children.

And it will be really, really perfect.

Okay, so maybe not all of it will be perfect.

I'm Tired of Needing Therapy

Trigger Warning: suicide, stillbirth, self harm.

I sank into the cushions of my therapist's ridiculously comfortable chaise lounge for the first time in two weeks and picked up the billing statement she'd left for me.

“Well, that's one benefit of fewer therapy sessions,” I quipped, noting the almost quaint balance due.
“The only one,” I added. I didn't add that I wished I could get away with so few therapy sessions every month. She already knew.

There Will Be No More Babies

She seemed to be looking for something, as we stomped our way to the park. She'd pound her red-headed hammer against a telephone pole or a rock (don't bam bam the tree, sweet girl, it's alive) then peer into the grass; the rustling branches of a rosemary bush.

"What do you see?" I asked.
Instead of answering, she muttered into her dirt covered hand.

A Whispered Awareness

October is an ocean of pink. Everywhere you look, you can buy affirmations of solidarity to let everyone know that yes, my licensed water bottle proves I am in this fight. Even my beloved Sounders sported their obligatory pink to support breast cancer awareness. A pink ball was used, to further the cause.

I'm sure that was super helpful.


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