Wednesday, February 18, 2009

one of those days...

yesterday, i felt so strong. i felt so empowered. "i am really doing good," i thought. only eight weeks out, and i feel okay.

today, i feel so impotent. i drove to visit my father, who is wheelchair bound, and in a nursing facility. he is over an hour away. just me and bea. i notice that i only have 30 miles until my tank is empty. one of the only good things about living on jersey side is never having to fill up your gas in snow and rain. still, i didn't exactly realize this until in philadelphia citylimits. i decided to hit the gas station by my dad's place. when i get there, seven miles left on the DTE, i open my diaper bag to realize that i had left my wallet in my purse. the purse that is sitting next to my front door. i transferred my make-up, but not my wallet. i am an hour away from home. i have no gas. i don't have my wallet. i suddenly realize that i can't prove i am me. i am noone. i have no proof that i exist. if they can't prove i exist, they can't prove lucy existed. i sat in my car and cried.

it wasn't a big deal to ask my dad for money. i just felt nauseated. and as i am taking the elevator up, a nurse gets in with me. she tells me how cute my daughter is, and asks me if i am expecting another. i realized then that i am still wearing my maternity winter jacket, and it puffs out. i just never dug any of the old ones out. plus, to be honest, i am only two months postpartum. this probably should have happened before, but it hasn't. all the air left in the elevator was sucked out in that minute.
"uh, no, i just had a baby." stare forward. floor two is taking way too long.
"oh, how exciting, how old is your baby?"
"yeah, um, my baby didn't make it."
"my baby, ahem, died."
"i'm so sorry. just so..."open doors. flee. head to my dad's room, and try to pull my shit together.

but i can't. some days i just feel like i won't be able to pull it together. isn't that our biggest fear? to be out in public, in a place where noone knows about us now, and not be able to pull it together? i am shaking and a mess, and yet, i manage to cry for only a minute, and then get on with my life. we always do it, though. we manage to pay our bills, and fill up the gas tank, and shop for groceries. we manage to somehow pull it together to get through the next minute until we can be safe again.

thank you all for the comments on my new blog. you probably don't realize how much you have helped me with your blogs, your words, your survival, your strength, your honesty and the love of this community. there are a lot of me's out there in this world, reading your stories, relating to your experiences. your stories have truly made me stronger. thank you.


  1. I am just so sorry Lucia isn't in your arms where she belongs.

  2. Angie,
    One of the things that several people said to me early on is that 'grief is not linear.' So true, but its even more complicated than that...I've found the minute I start feeling kind of ok, that I will survive this, the next minute I am careening off a cliff, or falling into a deep dark alley off to the side I never even noticed was there. This journey is just such a roller coaster in every sense of the word. 8 weeks is not much time, although its right around when I started to feel like I could actually take on the world...until I got out in that world, and realized how cruel it can be. Nearly 6 months out, I still have days like the one you describe...where everything turns out wrong and there's nothing I can do to set it back on track. One of the absolute hardest things for me in the first several months was telling people that Ezra had died, particularly unsuspecting souls like that nurse who had no way of knowing. Please be gentle with yourself...grief is a journey, not something that can be cured. Sending love and hugs.

  3. Hi Angie- I read your letter in the paper ( I live in the Philly burbs) the other day and I followed the live chat as well. It broke my heart reading that and your blog entries because I had a similar experience in December of 2007- I lost my first daughter at 36.5 weeks. I am so sorry for the loss of Lucia. It's awful to have you join this club, but you have found a wonderful community of other supportive mothers. I know we are in different stages of our grief journeys, with me being 14 months into it and you only being 8 weeks. It's still so raw for you. And sometimes it's still raw to me. Just know that all of your feelings that you have expressed here and to Dr. Dan are normal and appear to have been experienced by all of the other loss Mommies out here. Thinking of you and your Lucia.

  4. I think I started my blog about three months after I lost my twins. I've never gone back and read those early entries, but reading your words reminds me a little of those overwhelming days of grief. Thinking of you.

  5. Dear Angie,

    I just wanted to stop in and send you all my love. I am sorry you don't have your sweet Lucia in your arms. 2 months out your pain must be so raw. I hope that writing here will help you down this road that we are all on - We are all at different stages, but we hold each others hands and walk together.

    With Love across the ocean,

    Carly xxx

  6. Angie-

    Some days are simply like this. A memory, an offhanded comment or question, any random thing that goes wrong- sometimes even laughing harder than you expected- can bring the grief right back front and center. What I tend to think is that at this stage, all the strong emotions, both positive and negative, touch each other so closely that any of them can bring on a flood of sadness. I'm sorry that today was a day like that for you. At some point, you will be amazed at your ability to survive them- you made it through this one.

    Holding you in my heart.


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