1 year ago....

On January 31, 2012, I met my wife for an emergency OB appointment.  She hadn't felt the baby move since early the morning in the shower.  Little did I know how much our lives and our whole mental make-up would change.  As the nurse hooked my wife up to the monitor, she tried to find the heartbeat.  She swore she heard it.  Another nurse came in, and then the dr.    After a few minutes, they said we should go to the hospital as a precaution.  Sugarcoating it, was putting it mildly.  That day, was the day a piece of me died.  A piece of my wife died.

That day, I changed.  You don't know sadness until you have to tell someone your baby died.  That you have to explain to a then 6 year old that mommy WON'T be coming home with a new baby.  There is guilt, fear, anger, and sadness.  You have a wife who STILL feels guilty, though in her heart she knows it's not her fault, her brain can't fathom that and she blames herself.  You have helpless nurses and dr's, just standing there awkward, not knowing what to say.  The countless people who are expecting all this happy news and you add another layer of guilt, feeling like you're disappointing them.

That day, it was a lot of tears.  I remember making phone calls.  I remember leaving the hospital, and seeing someone I know.  She asked how my wife was and I just lost it, right there in the lobby.  I had to leave that hospital, my upset wife was supposed to be given sleeping medicine to help her sleep.  I still had 2 boys to worry about.  I remember getting home, and seeing that the word had spread to facebook already so, I ended up making more calls to family and friends at 9:00pm at night so they didn't wake up to a rude awakening online.

I remember crying myself to sleep in the bed with the boys, wishing I was at my wife's side.  When I finally passed out, I got a phone call from my mother in law.  She had that maternal gut feeling and went back to the hospital.  I was told to get there as fast as I could.  With-in 20 minutes, I had my wife's aunt here to watch the kids.  I made it back to the hospital in another 10 minutes.  My wife was in labor.  The original plan was for a c-section.  I had scheduled vacation so I could be home for the first 2 weeks.  Now though, with a stillbirth, they don't want to do a c-section.  They don't want the scar to be a visible reminder everyday.  So they had her push and push.  I was hoping against hope that EVERY fucking machine was wrong, that the baby would come out crying and full of life.

There is no more life changing moment, then when you hold your baby.  And no more life changing, when you hold your passed baby.  I know miscarriages are awful.  However, holding this precious being in your arms, KNOWING you will never get that again is one of the worst things in the world to have to experience.  You are irrevocably changed the moment your hold your passed child in your arms.  Especially the mother, my wife.  She went through a full term pregnancy.  It's not supposed to happen this way.  As a dad and husband, I can't ease the pain.  For all the pain I have inside, her's is 10000000000 worse.  She had a connection to that baby that I'll never have.  I don't say that bitterly, just trying to amplify how much harder it was for her.

I now reflect, 1 year later.  Thinking once again, of all the father/daughter dances that won't happen.  Those daddy's little girl moments.  How would she have smiled, with a devilish smile like Taylor.  A glowing smile like Kameron?  Would she have danced around with Daddy to music like Kameron?  Or would she rather have been tossed in the air and caught like Taylor did?  Shy or curious?  Book smart or common sense smart?  Athletic or academic?  All we have is what ifs?  It may sound whiny and selfish, knowing I have 2 healthy boys, but it's not fair.  What did we do to deserve this?  Whose cornflakes did we piss in? 

That day was such a blur, but I still think about it every day.  Some portion of my day.  Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat, with my eyes glistening from tears.  I remember the blank motions I went through with work.  The look in someone's eyes when you tell them the news, and they turn away.  They are afraid to look at you, don't know what to say.  For that tiny moment, you forget your pain and you feel ashamed that you make them feel bad.  How fucked up is that for a pysche?  You go through a horrible traumatizing experience, and you feel worse for people who don't know how to act around you.  You pile MORE guilt on your grief.  You feel guilty for the anger, for the snapping at people.  You beat yourself up inside. 

1 year later, I'm still snapping.  I just did the other day.  Someone mentioned how babies are a gift from god so I said "The only thing I find fault with is that if you lose your baby, is that a punishment from god?"  I catch myself more now when I start losing my temper.  I try to remember not to take it out on anyone.  Everyone else still goes on.  Most of the people, my daughter is an afterthought.  She really wasn't here, she really didn't matter, out of sight and out of mind.  Oh come on, celebrate the holidays.  It's time to start getting over it.  To the various comments I heard, let me say this quite frankly and honestly, fuck you.  You have no idea.  I know your statements are meant with the best of intentions, but you have no fucking clue.  I don't want this to happen to anyone I know, but unless it's happened to you, you have no idea.  It can't be explained in a book.  There's no standard grief.  

God knows we try.  Put on that brave face, smile for the masses.  This will be with us the rest of our lives.  We won't forget, we just have to learn to deal.  The first christmas, birthday, all the milestones.  If my mood depresses you, that's fine.  If you don't want to deal with my sadness or attitude, telling me to put a smile on my face, please stop.  You can go out the door and not come back, I don't want that.  

This is why the Random Acts of Kindness for M-Jay  is so important for me.  A way to hold on to that memory, to do something for a little girl, whom I'll never get a chance.  A reminder, that within this horrible world, there is good.  I'll never know why tragedy and death brings out the best in people, but it does.  All I ask, for that little bit extra, to make sure that my little girl, that my memory of her, albeit brief, isn't in vane.