5 Years

5 years. Somehow, I find myself here, 5 years later, wondering what the hell I can say to honor you. I don't have new memories of you to share, new accomplishments of yours to celebrate, or new dreams I have for your future. The grief is much more subtle now, stowed away and mostly contained until a wayward butterfly swoops into the yard unexpectedly, flittering around the bushes, whispering memories of you in my heart, or when the Calla Lillies your grandma brought me 3 years ago to mark your birth, begin to sprout, and I wait, each year to see if they will blossom into a flower, which they stubbornly will not...I show them to your little brother, and this year we made a daily pilgramage to them, willing them, every morning, with soft strokes, to make a flower, to grow for baby Caleb, to grow for you. But nothing. Except that, everyday, your brother, born out of my love for you, leans down and so gently fingers those tiny plants, asking them to create something as simple and yet amazing as a bloom, for you. And when he does, he says your name. He says, 'Grow, grow, grow, little plants, make a flower for baby Caleb.' Standing beside him, hearing him wish things for you, watching him grow, holding him tight at the end of each night, asking him what he will dream of so that I can tell him I will dream the same things too, I see you, I see your flower, blooming before my eyes, within the brother you never knew but who carries you forward, effortlessly. You live Caleb. In my heart, in your little brother, in our lives. There are no words, but there is you. You will always be here. 5 years,

1460

No cemetary, no grave, no hilltop or ocean to call your own. Just a shelf in my bedroom and, today, a table front in the entryway, that say you were here.

There is always a lull in the days before this day. Your sister's birthday falls a mere 3 days before yours and so the weeks before are filled with plans for parties, very important discussions of what kind of cake and what special meal will make her day feel uniquely hers and fill her with all things a young lady should have on the day that marks her entry into this life she has lived.

And we celebrate her.

And then the quiet. Eventhough it is a mere 72 hours later, even today, as I saw the date, August 31, I still found myself stunned.

It's tomorrow, I say to myself. A quick glance at my cell and I see that it is the 31st, and still I am somehow stunned. It's tomorrow.

And now it's today.

Today marks the beginning of another year I will live without you. Today marks the end of the fourth year that I have lived without you.

Today marks the fourth year that you have not lived the life you should have had.

Today marks the one. thousand. four. hundred. sixty. days. that I have missed you and the life you should have had. The life we should have spent, together.

No parties, no cake, no meal of all your favorite things, I can't give you any of those things. There is no way to to show you how unique you are or how you changed our world. How you continue to change our world. There is just the quiet.

There is just Today.

Today I will light a candle, I will trace my fingers over your name on the plate that reads, "Tiny fingers hold onto me, in my heart you will always be", and I will marvel over how you and your numbered days changed me forever.

Today I will stop. Today I will hurt. Today I will ache. Today I will cry. Today I will miss you.

And in that way, today will not be like any other day.

Except that

Today

is your day.

I love you baby boy. I love you Caleb.

Three

Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye
Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye

And in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you take.





I am still here. You are still gone.

I love you Caleb and I will miss you forever.

On raising Grief

You were not a wanted part of my life. You came into it as some sort of woeful filler for a little boy who never made it safely into my world, this world. We were expecting a living baby, a tiny, living being, to wrap into soft blankets, to hold close and whisper love songs to. We expected to fold him into a carseat and drive him home to be welcomed by his big brother and sister. We weren't expecting that we would, indeed, have a baby, fold him into soft blankets, hold him close and whisper love songs to him, never to be heard, here, anyway. And there was no carseat for our baby.
Instead we called a funeral home. They came to take our little boy out of the hospital and we, we left with you.

YOU.

In the beginning, I didn't even know you existed. You just were. While everyone around me seemed to expect your arrival, I was focused on the child I had lost. I couldn't see past the moments I had spent with him, the feeling of a sheet against my face, the warmth of his foot against my fingers, the very real and taunting kicks I still felt within my belly. And as I was wheeled out of the hospital on that hot, bright September morning, what I felt was my arms, folded, in my lap. Empty. I didn't know then, that that was you, seeping, ever so slowly, into my life.

In the beginning, I didn't even know you had a name. I didn't know I would have to name you. You, just were.

In which 'them' = 'us'

She was one of them.

She had other kids, both younger than mine and at the same time, the same age as mine. She was visibly pg with her third, when I was only hoping I might be pg with my fourth...after. She wore her pregnancy as a favorite old discarded t-shirt. She threw it on without any thought. It just was. She barked out orders to her other two kids, she was annoyed by their complaints, as much as she was committed, to her Turrets afflicted son's inclusion into all things 'normal'. She grew her hair long and then cut it off for kids with cancer, and no one really knew, unless you knew her. She wasn't overly friendly, in fact, to be honest, I never really got her. She seemed distant, and uninterested in anything or anyone other than her kids.


For the last four years, I saw her and her growing family, on a daily basis because her kids and mine, swim on the same team. We've never been introduced, we are not BFF's., but we know each other, if only for the hours we spend on 'deck', watching our kids swim. But, we don't talk. Beyond the regular "Hey," and "Hi" and "What's new?"...not a whole lot.


Then, she has a baby, a daughter, when I am half way through my pg with Cason. She literally delivers her daughter and then hours, maybe a day or two later, walks into a swim meet, baby Emily, tucked into a sling across her chest. I hated her. Because it all came too easily. For everything good she did, I would watch her with her kids and think, WTF!? She isn't a lifetime/Hallmark movie mom. She yells at them, she ignores them, she dismisses them. But, she mother's them. Her way. Her choice.


Months later, my mom fills in for me, taking kids to practice, after Cason is born. She comments on 'the mom'. I am so out of it, I can only tell mom, "Yeah, she's different.". My mom tells me that all the other moms are talking about how this mom and baby Emily are going to be on T.V. because she knows how to swim at less than a year old...


Come Spring, Cason tucked into his stroller, baby Emily is walking around the pool deck, un assisted. The collective group of moms help to watch her as her mom tends to her older brother and sister. I remember, so clearly, an afternoon last summer, when Emily had climbed underneath the bleachers beyond our eyesight, her mom, in a voice of sheer panic, screamed "Where is she?!" I knew where she was and told her, she's here, she's right here.

She scooped her up and took her away, never looking back at me.


And so our parallel lives continued. At the last swim meet I took all the kids to, end of last summer, Cason and Emily hung out together. It wasn't a love connection, but it was a peek into the world of, "hey, you(Cason) can have a play date while you are stuck in the middle of the aquatic hell your older sibs have rained down on you...) kind of moment.


My daughter, the one who required me to sit poolside, quit, swim, last September. So I no longer had to sit poolside. My son still swims. Swam all winter, all Spring. I am 'good' friends with many of the moms who sit poolside, but not good enough that we kept in contact with each other when my deck time was halted.

My daughter started up again last month. I am back on deck. Hanging out with the same moms, talking about what I did while away, what they did, what the kids are up to. Regular bull shit. Didn't see the other mom or her kids. Last week I did. Didn't really pay much attention. The other day her eldest(8 or 9) came stomping across the deck to yell at her mother that she was being put in a group with kids who DON"T KNOW HOW TO SWIM!! while yelling she also accidentally let some spit fly right into her mom's face. Mom yelled back. After it was over I told her, boy I see trouble in your future. I feel for you cuz I'll be there too. She kinda laughed, we did the casual chat thing and it was over.

She's been there all week, with just the older kids. Dad must be taking care of Emily now that summer is here. But it felt off to me. Yesterday, she was sitting next to me in a tube top like dress. She got up to go do something and I saw it. On her left shoulder blade, about the size of a greeting card, a precious moments angel tattoo, the angel is holding a banner that reads, "Emily".

What to do. What to do. What to do. I wish I could tell you that I manned up and asked her. But I didn't. I asked the one mom who I am friends with who was also there yesterday(everyone else is on vacation). I told her I hadn't seen the baby and now I saw this tattoo. Did she die? Yes. She. Died. Bathtub. Drowning. She doesn't know very much. I need to talk to my other friend when she gets back. She knows what happened and when.

I am lost. I am now one of 'them'. I have what she does not. Cason is a shadow baby. And I don't know what to do. I mean I know what to do, but I am afraid of it. I will do it. Because I know what it feels like when people ignore your dead baby. I know what it feels like to sit next to me and be forced to see what you no longer have. I know what it feels like to hate me. And I know what it feels like to lose your child.

My heart is broken for that family. For that beautiful little girl who did not live to see her 2nd birthday.

And now, her mother, she is one of us.

Words...unspoken....Published

If you'd asked me back in September of 2007 or in the months that followed, what I hoped for my future, I don't know if I could have answered the question. At least not wholly. I might, on any given day, have answered, "To have it all go away." or "To have another baby." or "To be in a place where it doesn't HURT all the God Damn Time." or "To be in a place where I can talk openly and no one will judge." or "To be able to take this whole nightmare and find a way...out." or "To not be DEFINED by this, forever." Or some variation of one of those answers.
On any given day, after you birth your dead baby, I think any one of those sentiments may find itself flittering around your brain. They did mine. I never knew from one moment to the next which one would show up, but I knew one of them would.
And then I found this place.
The writing that followed once I set up shop here, was sometimes bad I am sure, hopefully sometimes good, but always, always, honest. And it helped me, more than any words I could ever hope to conjure up or pluck from the sky will ever be able to tell. But I imagine, for anyone who has been to hell and is fighting their way back, you know what I mean.

So I am profoundly humbled to share the news that sometime last year I was asked to contribute to a work in progress, a book that was being built, piece by piece, story by story, that would offer to others, what this place here, offered to me. Real life. And hope.
I did contribute as did many others, from very different perspectives, and this book, it is going to be published! Come November, "They Were Still Born" will become a reality.

I am but a small part of this project but am so damn proud to be there. The writing of my part was hard. Much harder than I thought or even anticipated it would be. (And I have no doubt that the makers of all things alcoholic are very grateful for that.) All (well, if any are left) who read here who pick up the book will know my real identity. I ask for your help in maintaining my privacy here. I kept my blog name out of the 'biography' for me so that should I decide to share this news with my IRL family and friends, they won't be able to find this place, my place, of refuge.

I don't know what the finished product will hold. I have only read a handful of the other contributors pieces, but I have great hope for it and for its place as another valuable resource for all of those who have joined our club.

Okay, so FINALLY, after almost 18 months, he's decided to walk. Apparently, the hold up was all about how to take 'bear' with him. Now that he's got that all figured out, all systems seem to be "GO".

ETA...the pic seems small, so just in case, 'bear', clenched in teeth...feet almost firmly planted...world, look out:0)

T-Shirts Anyone?

Cara at Building Heavenly Bridges is gearing up for SHARE Southern Vermont's second annual Memory Walk. They have created a beautiful T-Shirt for the event. The shirts are available for purchase on her site.

Go over and have a look. I'll bet you don't leave without picking up one (or more) for yourself:)

I left with 5!


Just in case anyone is actually still checking in here, I have many posts in the queue but just haven't been able to get them finished. I hope to have something new to contribute, soon.

Hoppy Easter

But, if you really want some serious Easter Hilarity, hop over to Aunt Becky's place. She cooked up some of her own, personalized greeting cards. Hallmark, watch your ass, she's gonna kick it, hard. Here's my favorite:

Gratitude

I don't keep a diary. I did when I was little, when I was young, when I was innocent, when I believed my own thoughts mattered. I still remember, quite vividly, one of the more important entries in my wallet sized, "Holly Hobby", (yes, I am THAT old), diary,:

"Brad kicked a milk carton at me.".

I loved that boy Brad. He rocked my world. Even at the ripe old age of 8, I knew, because of that milk carton, and of course our family history, (our parents were Godparents to each others kids), that we were meant to be together, forEVER. As it turned out, we weren't.

I don't have that diary anymore. I kinda wish I did. I'd like to see what other vitally important thoughts I had over the years, how I changed, who I was and who I thought I might someday be.

I stopped writing. I don't know why. Maybe it was school, maybe I was too busy, maybe I spent so much time flapping my gums that I didn't feel the need to spill on paper anymore. And, yes, 'back then', we still wrote on paper. I was WAY ahead of the curve with my Word Processor....but that was just for the big college papers, not the draining of my emotional drivel.

Years passed. Life passed. I was silent. I got married. I had a baby. I had a miscarriage. I had a baby. I had a miscarriage. I was silent.

And then Caleb died.

I wanted to talk but I couldn't. I didn't know how to be vulnerable. I didn't know how to ask for help, or how to even begin to speak of what was happening inside of me. On the outside I wanted to prove to everyone that I was OK. On the inside I wanted to collapse. And I never wanted anyone in my 'real life' to ever see me as wounded as I felt. As wounded as I was. So I hid.

Then I found the Dead Baby World. And it was perfect. Fatally flawed and imperfectly, perfect. I was surrounded by other moms, other women, other 'me's', who were feeling as sucker punched as I was. And they let it out. All of it. A door was opened for me and I ran through that door without ever looking back. I was home.

Only now, with time and literally lifetimes between who I was then and who I am right now, it has I wrote a diary. And as is my typical life pattern, it was not what I had planned.

There is talk, lots of it, about exercise, and how when you work out you have to hit that 'groove', find that focus so that you can totally let yourself go and just submerge yourself with the task at hand, forgetting about everything else that surrounds you. You don't see the journey, you don't count the steps, you just start moving, you close your eyes and you just start moving.

And that is exactly what I did. I started moving. I typed. I gushed. I read. I read more. I found more who were like me, so many more that I stopped thinking that I was so different. And I wrote. I bled myself dry, as often as I needed to. Which, was all the time. If I didn't have the words, someone else did, and then I could write again. It was, for, as it turns out, almost two years, my voice.

I feel myself turning more inward now, not feeling the same urgency to write. I still think in posts, but they feel like posts now, before, they didn't. Before, when I came here, I knew no one and I wrote only for me. I had no expectations for who might read my words. It was, 100%, a self indulgent exercise. And, so I wrote, not always well, not always coherent, but, always, honest, because I never thought about how my words might impact someone else. I do now. I have come to know so many of you, I can no longer write to just myself. I am invested in all of you. I have hopes, I have dreams, I have focused on something for every one of you too. And everyday that I wake, I look to that goal, I close my eyes and I take a step. And another. And so it goes. Everyday.

So I write less now. But this has allowed me, for the first time, to look back. I have never looked back at what I wrote in the past.

It's almost torture. Reading the words that spilled from myself, that self, the person I had to be to birth and mother my dead baby, IT'S AWFUL. I read and I look back and I think, even to myself, my GOD, did I really live that life? Was that really me?

And yet, it's REAL. I think, there might have been a time where I thought it might be the easy route to forge through to the future without ever looking back. To be able to say, in an amost non and not so non-chalant way, "Why YES, I do have a dead baby.." and then continue to try to prove to everyone, self included, that I had walked through that firestorm with hardly a scar worth mentioning, hardly a name or baby worth my words.

But he was. He was a baby. He was my son. He is my son. He is as much a part of my past as he is a part of my future. He is who I am. And he was, he is, so worth every.single.word. that I wrote.

I started going through

I don't know, to this day what brought me here. An internet search for stillbirth, a goo.gle for grief, I just don't know. I don't even know what I was looking for when I found this place. I'd never even looked at a blog, I'm not even sure I knew what a blog was. Somehow I landed smack dab in the middle of deadbaby land. And just like Dorothy, when I opened my eyes after that horrendous and frightening tumble through space, I saw things in colors I had never before seen.

My Oz was quite different. No lions or tigers or bears, oh my. Just dead babies and grief and life, oh my. I wish we had a catchy theme song, a verse we all picked up on, a melody we could all hum in solidarity. But we don't. We are all so very different. Even in our sameness, we are all very different. We have different stories to tell. Our losses, our children, they impact us and our lives in ways unique only to them. I don't think I realized that before. I think, in the beginning, the idea of anyone who had or was, living with the stillbirth of their child, meant they would be just like me. That all other things would stop and we would be the same.

My little Leprechaun

In my mind, today is Cason's birthday. Yes, he was born on November 17th, 9 months from this date, but this date, March 17, St. Patrick's Day, this is the one where he was born in my dreams. This date was the date I found out he was a possibility. And even though I spent the next nine months biting my nails, closing my eyes to shut out the ever present fear and crying, lots of that, I still, at some point almost every day would allow myself to hope, that maybe, just maybe, a live baby was coming.

And he did.

And we named him Cason Patrick, because on March 17th, he, my very own little leprechaun, planted a tiny fleck of hope in my oh so weary heart, enough to begin to chase the snakes that had taken up residence there away and for the first time in months I began to dare to imagine that I really didn't know how the whole story was going to end. And that maybe, just maybe, a new chapter was beginning.

And as luck would have it, I did indeed, catch me a leprechaun.

Many years ago, on a wet and cool but still warm and dry evening, I got married. sadly, for this pst anyway, one of my least favorite people and my life long "I will do better than you',

The name game

I was always in charge of finding names for our kids. I had my first sons name chosen, (almost) before he was born. Way before. Yes, I was one of those idiot types who picks out names for my imaginary kids long before they ever came to fruition. Hell, long before the guarantee of a second date was even in the picture. I look back at that version of self and both ridicule and stand in awe of my utter optimism.

But.

That being said, as time marched on and after the marriage thing and my fertility, our fertility, seemed to check out ok, I was in charge of the lists. Then we would go over the names and when we agreed, bingo.

First C., like I said, I had it all picked out. It was a favorite name of mine, uncommon, I never wanted to name a baby a name that I associated with anyone else, it was not easily turned into a nickname or shortened into something else and when I put my dad's name in the middle, they worked together. The husband liked the sound of it and the baby complied by being a boy, so we got our C.

Next up, C2. Not on purpose. I never intended to be a 'all my kids names start with the same letter' sort of parent. But we have an odd last name and the hard C or K sound flows well with it. We do like names that are unusual. Neither of us wanted our kids to be John H, or John W, etc in class. We had two great names ready for baby 2. I was really, really pulling for a girl because I so loved the girl name we had chosen. And we got to use it. I love saying it. I love hearing it. I love seeing the quizzical looks on peoples faces when they hear it. She carries a unique first name and my favorite grandma's nickname as a middle name which is also, to say the least, unusual. But it suits her. It's perfect.



We had only just decided on a name for 'the baby', at least a boy's name, the week before we lost him. It was another unusual first name. A "C" name and then the middle name was the last name of a very close friend who had died a few years before.

When we were told that our baby had died we were asked if we would want to name 'it'. We still didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl. We both, without even talking about it, said no, it will be "Baby _" fill in last name initial. And that was how we left things. Even after he was born, after I asked, "Is it a boy?" and the nurse said, "Yes, did you know?" (confirming my suspicions that indeed he was, a boy). We told her that on the birth certificate it should read "Baby Boy _".

It wasn't until after we got home that I changed my mind. I wanted him to have his own name. And so we named him Caleb. The story of why we chose that name is here.

I had never known anyone with that name before. That was one of my naming 'criteria', to not have another face to put with my child's name. The thing is, when you are so NOT religious, like me, you forget, that other people might actually name their kids names found in the Bible. And, even though our kids attend public school, turns out, those other people might not keep their kids at private school. And, as I so harshly found out, they might even have a little boy the same age as my daughter and he might just end up in her Kindergarten class. And as luck might have it, I might get to sit down at a tiny little 'phonics' station, in a tiny little kinder sized chair on my first day back to reality after my Caleb had died having come to fulfill my volunteer time in the classroom (xanax thankfully fully on board, although the next dose was stupidly left out in my car, 20 endless feet stretching between me and it, THAT would never happen again). My luck continuing, I would have to call children back to work with me individually, and the first name I would have to call, would, of course, be, CALEB.

I had to say it out loud. I had to call for this child. I had to beckon this child to come to me. I had to summon this little boy, who I had never seen, to come and sit with me to learn his letters. There was no avoiding it. I thought, seriously, about running out to my car and choking back a few more of the little pills tucked away in the console. But I didn't. I forced myself to say it. To say his name. And then I waited. And then I had to say it louder, maybe the first time I had only whispered. It's possible. And so I said it again. Louder. I fought the tears back, I swallowed the hard ball in my throat. I put on a happy face. Well, a xanax face anyway.

And a chubby little dark haired boy ambled his way back to the station where I waited. I so wanted to like him. I so wanted that soap opera moment. I wanted him to be perfect. I wanted to love him. I wanted to heap a lifetime of something onto this child. I wanted it to be magical. It wasn't. He annoyed me. He was irritating. He was not my Caleb. But he shared his name and I hated it. About an hour later, I left the classroom, got into my car, threw back a diet coke and several of the little white pills that had waited so patiently for me. I drove home and went to bed.

Two years have passed since then. And every one of them has brought the 'other' Caleb into my daughters class. Every. Single. One. His grandmother, who, small world, is friends with a good friend of mine, came to the surprise baby shower my friends threw me when I was pg with Cason. She made me an adorable diaper bag. I had never met her before that day. But she heard 'my story' and wanted to come and bring something for the baby. For me. I love her. I can't stand her grandson.
Ugh.
And now for the real point of the post. My very good friend watches the other Caleb, everyday after school. I came to know this friend 'after'. She has a son my daughters age and a daughter my older sons age. We became good friends during that darkest of years of my life. Such good friends that I never once talked about Caleb to her. I never told her and it made that friendship easy for me. She found out later. When I was first pg with Cason and people started to guess and then the whispering of "She isn't saying anything because of....' and then she heard. But we've never really ever talked about it. And that's on me, not her.
But I digress. She watches him. She can't stand him either. She calls me just to vent about him. And when she does, it's, 'Caleb this and Caleb that and Ohhhhh Caleb....' and it just kills me. Hearing his name over and over, hearing it linked to the words, 'is so awful' or 'is so rude' or 'is so slow' or 'is so gross when he eats'....the list goes on. And I hate it. To be fair, she's right. I have volunteered at the school for years with kids and even I have to say he tops my list as one of those kids you just have to work really hard at even tolerating, but still.

The name.

The name.

The name.

I hate hearing her say the name.

I hate that this little boy has taken hold of the name I so carefully chose for my son, for my baby. I hate that at times it is his face that comes to mind when I hear the name said out loud. I hate that others can utter his name and it goes unnoticed, that another tiny life also shared that name. Shares that name.
I want no one to ever say his name, ever. I want it to be mine and his, alone. I want for it to never be spoken aloud.


And yet, everyday I say it, I whisper it, I think it. And I miss him.

Caleb.

Never Turn Your Back

I told Cason to wait just a minute and I would get him his breakfast.

He, being the SUPER helper that he is and in his endless pursuit to earn his independence, did it himself.

Take that Snap, Crackle and Pop. Cheerios are clearly the better choice.

*

It seems I will never be satisfied with the answers I have at the ready for the omnipresent question, "How many children do you have?". Depending on the day, my mood, who the asker is, or any other varient that might encumber or free, my mental acuity, I will have a diferent response. In fact, I have answered that damn question so many different ways that even I am bewildered at the complexity of such a seemingly benign inquiry.

Yea, I suck at blogging

I didn't intentionally abandoned this place. I got caught up in some chaos here with my kids school, think David v Goliath, and have just been consumed by the entirety of it. I'm slowly making my way back. I have been following everyone, not always leaving word but still, quietly stalking.

And waiting, holding my breath, happily, with so many of you who have found yourselves daring to look forward, despite all efforts to keep the blinders firmly in place. Time marches on, no matter how much we might will it to stand still. So yes, now we wait. And even dare to hope.

For now, I leave you with these images. Because sometimes, it's better to, as Nik.e says, "just do it", rather than be bothered with the formalities of the little things, like ummm, actually lying down, when you want to make it happen.

Choices

Truth be told, I never drink the white stuff, but, still, I think the message is clear...
Cheers:)

Should Old Acquaintance....

There's just nothing like getting together with an old friend. Except, that is, getting together with an old, new, db friend. That is sooo much better.
It was like a rerun of an old, favorite tv episode. The characters were the same, (only slightly older and maybe a little rounder due to ummm, well, let's just say any pg after db changes a girl, some) the place the same, all of it so familiar and so perfect.
Yesterday afternoon I got to hang out with the lovely and much missed around these parts, C.,
She is the only dbl mom I have met in IRL. We got together almost two years ago, end of February 08 when she came to visit the happiest place on earth with her family. We had intended to drown our sorrows with cocktails but as it turned out I was in the middle of the tww and so she had to do my drinking for me. I was sure I wasn't pg but just couldn't risk it, just in case. As it turned out, I was, in fact, pg with Master Cason, and it was C., who was waiting on line to hear what happened after I POAS. And she kept quiet about the 'positive' results for weeks, until I outed myself.
So this time I was able to do the drinking, which you all know, I love me my drinks, and C., was kind enough to invite me over just as the hotel was offering a happy hour an Irish girl has gotta love, free drinks! I tell ya, that C., she rocks.
We got to sit and talk and giggle and laugh and share secrets like schoolgirls. And it was so great. I hadn't realized until sitting with her, that I really never actually TALK about db, being a db mom, about Caleb, about the whole thing. I only write about it.
It was a strange epiphany, really. As I told C., my personality has split as a result. It always feels as though there is something I am holding back, a barrier between me and whomever I am speaking with. The deep dark secret of the 'real' me.
But not yesterday. Yesterday, we both just got be, real.
She's on her way back to her own digs now. And even though we have always stayed in touch via email and the old fashioned thing called a phone, and I know we will still, I already miss her.
Like I said, there's just nothing like hanging out with an old friend.

Shadows

Many people talk about how when they were young they had an invisible playmate. The friend they could count on when no one else was available to help corral wild ponies or create delectable mud pies or to save the earth from certain, imminent catastrophe. Perhaps it was for the more mundane, a buddy to share a bowl of Cheerios with, someone to sit next to while taking in an episode of Tom and Jerry, a friendly ear to bend on a long cross country car ride. Invisible friends always laugh at the right parts in movies, they never interrupt or argue and they are always, there.
I never had an invisible friend. I had 2 brothers and 1 sister, a myriad of dogs, cats, gerbils and guinea pigs and an entire neighborhood, well stocked with kids of all ages and both genders, to keep a growing girl busy. Truthfully, I never really understood the whole concept of an imaginary playmate. I never felt the need to invent or create another character to fill in a blank in my life.

But I have one now.

It only recently occurred to me that that is what Caleb has become to me. He is my invisible reality. I take him everywhere. Sometimes I don't even realize he has come along. He pops into my head seemingly from out of nowhere and hangs out for a while before disappearing into the depths of my soul.
He is truly invisible in that he has no image in my mind. I don't see him as a baby or a child. I can't picture him in my minds eye. His presence is enormous and yet I can not describe him in any way. I do not see him. I feel him.
I don't often talk about Caleb in real life. If he comes up at all it is more about the 'event' than about him. It's not as though people when finding out you have a stillborn child, ask you what your hopes or dreams were for that child. They don't ask what he looked like or how his kicks felt and they can't ask about his laugh or his cry because he never had the chance to have either. And later, years later, they can't ask what's new with your dead child because, obviously, nothing has changed. I suppose to the outside world he really is just something that happened to me. He is not real to most people.
In many ways I am to blame for that. I have held him so close and refused to share him with anyone in any meaningful way for so long that he has slipped farther and farther away into the past. I don't do anything to mark either his due date or the day he died. I don't bake cakes, or release balloons, light candles or release butterflies. My mom and dad bring flowers over every year to mark the date he was born but even then, we never talk about him. And really, I prefer it that way. I don't want to go 'there' anymore. I don't want to feel as sad as I do when I think about him, outloud.
So instead, I have wrapped him up and packed him away from everyone. His ashes sit on a shelf in our bedroom below a piece of card stock imprinted with his tiny hand and foot prints. No one sees him but us.
And yet.
I carry him with me always. I don't have silent conversations with him but I do have quiet moments with him. Quiet moments without him. With.out.him.

Life goes on, without him. I can't picture him in this life of mine in anyway other than how he is now, gone from it. I can't see him as a two year old, not even when I look at his cousin with whom he was supposed to share his birth week. When I see her and try to picture him with her, all I see is, nothing. A black hole of vacant space that should have been filled by a child. But isn't. When I hold Cason in my arms and look into his eyes, it chills me to my core to even think of him not being here, to try and picture another child here in his place. I remember when Cason was born, the moment I held him I thought to myself I can't ever think about wanting Caleb here again because then I will be wishing Cason wasn't here. I knew then that I had to let him go but it was one of the most painful moments of my life and time has not made it any easier.
I hate thinking like that. God, I hate it.
My life is what it is now. I don't have him here. I can't change that. I know that. But still, he is here. In the only way he can be. In my mind. On the corners of conversations. In words unspoken and in the newly planted flowers that bloom in my garden.
And on any given day, when I am driving in my car, my children in various seats beside and behind me, laughing or fighting, crying or sleeping, I can look into my rear view mirror and there in the periphery, I see him.
A shadow in the back seat. My imaginary playmate.
Caleb.