Blessing

Right now I'm just feeling awful because it dawned on me that I never had someone come in to bless Riley. I was in such a daze once we had to let him go, I could barely even register where I was. I held him for a long time afterwards and stroked his hair and studied his face and hands and feet and kissed his cheeks, and then they told me the coroner was there and it was time to put him down. We walked out, and I never saw him again. They led us to the chapel, then told us it was time to go meet the coroner and detectives at the house (standard procedure for any death at home, but it was still awful), and then they sent him to Little Rock for the autopsy and then to the funeral home. The chaplain was right there in the room with us. How could I have not asked him to pray over Riley? What kind of mother forgets something so basic, something that has no opportunity to be fixed? I just feel like I want to throw up.

Bedtime stories

I have been reading some articles and journals dealing with the sudden death of infants. Some are written for a parent's perspective, and some are addressed to assist EMS and other medical personnel in handling such a scenario. 

Somehow reading that the exact chain of events that happened to us has played out in other families, with other babies, in other people's bedrooms, over and over, thousands and thousands of times, has been comforting. Not that I would wish this horror on any other human (oh, how I would not!), but it is reassuring to know that it is not just us who have experienced this. It seems bizarre to find solace in articles that would have previously been unsettling, or even haunting, to me, but in a way it makes the whole thing seem more real. Less like I'm trapped in some bizarre nightmare. (Although what I wouldn't give to wake up from this...)

There is a strange comfort in having his death and unsuccessful attempts at resuscitation fit a pattern, however horrible... To make a tragic sort of sense... To have followed a disastrous, but logical progression. It is settling and grounding in the saddest way to know that others have been exactly where we are now. However awful it may be, we are not alone.

It doesn't take away the pain, but it makes me feel a little less disoriented and unmoored. At least at this moment. Like the sick surges of adrenaline have stopped pumping through my veins, however briefly. 

I guess I'll just be glad for the break, even if I'm not convinced it will last until bedtime. I'll take what I can get.

Sometimes

I just want to run out into the street and stomp my feet on the asphalt and scream at the sky, "HE IS STILL SUPPOSED TO BE INSIDE ME, HE IS NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE BORN YET, HE CAN'T BE DEAD, IT'S NOT FAIR."

It's not fair.

Simple questions

Norah and I decided to go get pedicures together today. It sounded like a harmless way to take our minds off things and get out of the house for a few minutes. 

Shortly after I sat down in the chair, though, the nail tech asked a question I've heard a thousand times before, one I usually answer without even giving it a second thought. 

"How many children do you have?"

I froze. I stared at her, open-mouthed, for what felt like an eternity. I realized that I had no idea how to answer that. 

After stammering for a moment, I settled on the easy answer.

"Four."

It's a lie. It tastes bitter on my lips. It hangs heavy in the air like a bad smell. It makes me sick. 

I don't have four children. I have five children. Five.

She probably thinks I'm crazy now. Who doesn't know how many children they have?

Me apparently.

I still can't sleep.

But this rain is nice. 

I wonder how long before I stop being afraid to go to sleep. And afraid to wake up. How long until I stop waking up in the middle of the night in a cold terror, shaking Norah and Shiloh gently from sleep just to make sure they are still breathing. How long until I can lay in this room where Riley's soul left his body without my stomach sinking down so low it feels like my chest will cave in from the pressure. 

I find myself stepping over or around the spot on the carpet where we did CPR, as if the fact that I can see him laying there helplessly with such clarity means that he is actually still there. 

How long will his pale face, with his purple lips and shaded fingernails, that I only saw briefly, overshadow all the time I spent staring at his eyes while they fluttered, dreaming in his sleep, while his cheeks were still rosy and the only thing marring his lips was the little nursing blister I was so proud of. He smiled constantly in his sleep, sometimes even laughed out loud.

Sleeping babies used to be my favorite thing. Now they are the visions of my nightmares. This is my nightmare.

I just want to wake up.

So how am I supposed to sleep?

Milk

I just realized that I haven't pumped at all today. Not because I was avoiding it (although I wanted to avoid it for the first couple of days, because the thought of it and the memories of all those hours pumping over the last couple of months weighed so heavy on my chest), but because I didn't need to. 6 days ago, on Monday, I was making between 6 and 8 ounces of milk every 3 hours. Like clockwork. If Riley ate so much as 15 minutes late, my breasts turned into boulders on my chest. Every time he ate, no matter how heartily, I had to pump afterwards to reach anything resembling comfort. I assumed we would have plenty of time to correct this imbalance. I was wrong.

Instead, I went from having milk running out my ears (or more accurately, out my freezer... We had to buy a deep freeze to accommodate the excess) to no milk at all. I was so full at the hospital after we let him go. The nurses brought me a pump in the chapel so that I could get some relief. And I sat there in that stained-glass room my pajamas, knowing that the coroner was examining my lifeless baby boy at that very moment. I pumped, staring vacantly into space as tears streamed freely down my face, falling into hot, wet blotches in my lap. The soft whoosh of the pump carried on in its normal rhythm as if nothing had happened. But everything had happened. In the span of an hour and a half (he ate around 3 and we found him at 4:30), my whole world caved in. I went from the happiest I had ever been to sadder and more empty than I ever dreamed possible. Oh, how far we fell.

I pumped probably 3 times that Tuesday. Maybe twice on Wednesday. Twice on Thursday. Once yesterday, the day of Riley's funeral, before bed. My breasts felt full and heavy and sad. My heart felt empty and heavy and sad.

But today, they are soft. Empty.

Like me.

Part of this is probably because right now I have trouble eating. I didn't eat at all on Tuesday. I've eaten sporadically since then, although somehow eating makes me feel bizarrely guilty. I think part of the dramatic decrease in production must be psychological. I think so much of what caused me to overflow with milk was my happiness. My desire to help Riley, to nourish him, to give him life and make him grow. To give him chubby cheeks and roly poly arms like my other babies grew at my breast.

I would think of him and fill up. I would walk into the NICU and let down before I even laid eyes on him. When we started "non-nutritive" feeds, we quickly realized that there was no such thing... As soon as that precious boy got anywhere near me, my breasts would fill with milk again, no matter how completely I had pumped to empty them. But now, there is no joy. I am every bit as empty inside as I was filled with happiness before. It feels like someone has completely carved me out like a jack-o-lantern. Or maybe they carved me on Tuesday morning at 4:30 am, and now I wilt more and more by the day, caving in on myself a little more each hour, until soon I will just be a sad puddle of rotten pumpkin on the porch, no good to anyone.

I think my breasts have comprehended this loss much more quickly than I have.

It just makes no sense.

Ugh

People keep telling me how strong I am. I'm not strong. I'm not even close to strong. It feels like my knees forget to work half the time. I just don't understand how I'm supposed to breathe.