Walking chats

So far, my mission for change has been minimally executed. I thought about getting angry with myself over that last night but decided to give myself a break. There simply has not been enough time yet to accomplish everything I imagine will happen during this “journey back to myself”.

Yesterday I managed to cook supper after work AND do the dishes immediately afterwords (hip hip horray!?). I didn’t tackle the laundry or bake cute little pink and green macaroons like I planned to.  I did, however, take a nice evening walk with my husband and our dog. Every time we do that I always feel so refreshed and motivated for the future (even if the future only means waking up early enough to shower before work). I love our little ‘walking chats’, they make me feel safe and comfortable and hopeful. I’m not sure why.

There is something about the way the amber colored street lamps light the path before us. We can barely make out the features of each other’s faces and, either way, we’re staring straight ahead. It’s his voice that becomes clearer in the quiet and dark, like when hes talking to me in bed, that I love. In the early weeks of our son’s death HE was the only comfort I found. Here we are, 5 months later, walking around the streets in our neighborhood at night laughing and dreaming about the possibilities for our future. On our walks we often talk about our future home. The dream home. His taste is much more modern than mine but he softens around the edges when I speak of wrap around porches and white sheets on clotheslines. We both agree on a big garden and apple trees and I have come to compromise with my original plan for an old farm house. He is practical and insightful when it comes to the structural importance of a home and I trust him. We both want a goat so that’s really all that matters.

Hayden is always mentioned on our walks. I know I can tell Nick anything and he will understand. Yesterday was the first day of school for so many of my friend’s children and I don’t remember ever noticing the massive flood of ‘first day’ pictures and statuses on Facebook before now. Maybe it’s because this year I am a mother. My own son will never start kindergarten for the first time. I will never get emotional as I drop him off with his brand new lunchbox matching his brand new backpack. I will never greet him at the bus stop or have warm chocolate chip cookies waiting for him at the kitchen table. I would have been a great mom (oh gosh, here come the tears again)……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

OK. I forget where I was going with that.

Talking to Nick about these things is a greater release than talking to my computer screen about them (well, duh!).  Nick can say anything and it doesn’t upset me because I know he KNOWS. Often times to comfort me he will say, and in fact I crave to hear him say, “we will have more children”. The odd thing about that is I hate it when other people say it. I know it’s meant well and I know it’s true but for some reason it’s just one of those urking sentences people offer to condole. My own grandmother pisses me off when I hear her say it after I just finished expressing how much I miss my baby. The fact that I can have more babies does not and will not EVER replace the fact that I had one perfect son and he died for a stupid reason. That just doesn’t make sense. Pick which one of your kids you would like to have die. Does that feel good? Does it make it better for you knowing one of them will live? I didn’t think so!

I seem to have gotten off track. I think I started this post to share pictures and a recipe actually. When I start writing it always circles back to Hayden. The reason I made this blog in the first place was so I could move away from my baby loss rants. Obviously that isn’t going very well is it ?

I created a delicious masterpiece out of thin air today for lunch and I really wanted to share that.

Keep an eye out for my next post which I promise will actually be about something food related.




I am new

Everything started pointing towards doing this.

I looked out my window at the tiny weed jungle  that used to be my garden while shaking the last prescription bottle of Ativan hoping one might have gotten stuck in the rim of the cap.

I started thinking about all the really awesome things I used to do and used to love. I started remembering excitement in the smell of freshly baked Rosemary rolls and sitting on the lawn in front of a transforming wooden stool with paint all over my arms and legs. And I peered in to my bedroom. The part of my home I close off to company and require a highly trained team of search and rescue just to locate a pair of clean underwear. Laundry wasn’t always THIS much of an issue.

There is a whole pile of things that just ceased to seem worth it after my son died. Folding clothes was one of them. There were some nights I decided to tackle the mountain of laundry and spent hours washing everything and sweeping forgotten socks out from under our bed. I would put on a movie and fold everything so neatly and organize by color and get ready to finally put everything back in its own perfect place. Then a woman would go in to labor and I would freeze- holding on to the edge of the couch for dear life. A birth cry would sound out loud through the speakers and then I would give up again. Neatly folded laundry piled on to the floor. No more energy for anything else but self-pity and denial and anger.

I woke up each morning knowing I had to change. Deciding today would be the day I would start over. I would turn my apartment in to the sanctuary it needed to be for my own sanity, I would start freezing banana bread again, I would paint the bathroom walls and finally try out that shabby chic DIY tutorial on our dresser. Instead, I’d watch 7 episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and went to bed severely pissed off with myself.

What happened to me?

“Your baby died”

Oh yeah..

Did I die too? Probably a little bit. Maybe a lot.

It has been just over 5 months. Freud would have an explanation for this. My Superego is saying “Come’on, get up, shake it off” and my ID is on the other end like “It’s too early, go get more wine, cry like hell and don’t worry about the expectations you have for yourself”. Neither of the voices are wrong, but they are so damn opposing! I am getting nowhere like this. I am no longer me.

I have always had my fair share of emotional issues. If I’m going to be public like this I might as well admit it all. Anxiety has been taking over my body and my mind long before I birthed my first child in to this world beautiful and dead. My palms get sweaty, my heart races, my index and middle fingers stick together as if they’ve been super glued. Sometimes I think I have a special magic organ in my stomach,  a medical mystery if ever found by doctors, that occasionally releases a pack of angry evil butterflies that go rampant inside my body. Generalized Anxiety Disorder? I think the psychiatrist just diagnosed me as depressed but that wasn’t right because I have a lot of happiness and laughter in my life. My moods are a whole other story. And I am really sorry for everyone who has been close enough to me to witness the way I turn receiving love in to a paranoid conspiracy that I must defend myself against. At one point I really thought I had BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) and even have a copy of “I hate you, don’t leave me” in my sock drawer. I’ve done the prescription drug thing off and on, I self-medicate with large bottles of wine, but I have, through the years, found more natural ways to help my “condition”. Like someone with autism, pressure really seems to work. Before my husband came along my cat used to lay right up on my chest during a little panic attack. Regulating my breathing with the consistency of his calm puurrrrr. Now I just need to ask for a human sandwich and Nick knows to throw me on the couch and put all of his weight on me until my symptoms begin to ease.

I got in to baking hardcore one summer when I lived alone. I treated my anxiety with specialty breads, cupcakes, pies, quiches and pretzels. I learned how to braid bread and the importance of precise measuring. I also put my energy in to so many useful places. At one point I was so conscientious I recycled my toilet paper rolls. I hate to admit that if you looked in my trash right now you might see CANS- like the kind you get $$ back for from the bottle depot- I know, I know, I KNOW. Before I lost my baby I always had something on the go or was learning a new skill or becoming passionate about some grandiose and strange subject. I bounced around from task to task keeping busy and singing cheerfully while I worked. I am not saying I was ever an organized person, because that wouldn’t be true, (just take a look at my Pintrest boards!) and part of this transformation I am trying to start here is to become more organized as well as get back to the person I was before my life fell apart. In my first blog I wrote about all the pieces that shattered after my Hayden died. In this one I want to write about how I am going to put them back together. “Anxiety Cupcake” is my jigsaw puzzle project!

Ripped to shreds and reassembled, I am new.