Glow In the Woods 6x6

Here's a little assignment from Glow In the Woods, my favorite babylost site of all...
You can check out other's answers if you go here.

1 How would you describe your relationship to fear before and after the loss of your baby?
Before Charlotte died, fear was just something I did symbolically: I thought about things that were scary to me, but the feeling behind it was empty, because I didn't know what I was afraid of. I would think, "What if this baby died?" and at the time, it would feel scary... but I didn't know that awful, crippling grief. Fear now? It's avoidance, and the complete inability to think about the things that might happen, that do make me afraid. It is so intentional: I think about something that is truly terrifying, and in order to maintain peace, and the ability to love today and to rejoice in what's around me, I don't go there. I escape it. Fear to me now, is to terrifying to face, because I know that what you fear might actually happen.

2 Is your lost baby/are your babies present in your life? In what way?
Oh, yes, she is, but also she isn't. I'd like to think she is, and I surround myself constantly with all her "things" and pictures and memorabilia. I speak her name often because I want her to be here. She's made me more conscientious, more in the moment, more loving, caring and responsible, and so in that way, she's here. She has drastically changed the way I parent my living children. She's calmed me down, rooted me, pacified me. But she's actually not here with me, I can't hug her, or watch her play, or kiss her while she sleeps. That part hurts.

3 Tell us about something said or done after your loss that left you feeling nurtured or supported.
Here were my two favorite cards:

Dear Carol,
You did everything right. One could feel the love with which you surrounded that baby. And now, how to survive having to say hello and goodbye in one breath.
Love,
Kate

Dear Carol,
I am so sorry about Charlotte, and I am sad... (this card went on, but this part struck me)
Love, Gina

There was so much support that felt so precious to me, but the people who spoke her name, who acknowledged her life, what I had done for her, and the struggle I would face helped the most. There was no real opportunity for me to be reassured at that point, so when people said things that were indeed true, such as, "I'm sure the love of your family will help you through this difficult time," that didn't feel as supportive as, "I'm sad." I needed people to miss Charlotte with me, and I needed them to validate the agony of the journey I was facing. That was most supportive.

.4 Tell us about something said or done after your loss that left you feeling marginalized or misunderstood
Something really simple, and said often out of caring and an intention to support: You'll get through this.
No, I will not get through this. My daughter died. I will never leave this behind. Do not try to be helpful by telling me I am strong and will get through this. I don't want to get through this. I want to stay here forever and miss her. Please can't you miss her with me?
There were also a lot of comments (you can have another one to replace her, I know how you feel, my dog died) that really spun me for a loop, but this message of "getting through" as if I would someday get over the death of my first child always made me feel more frustrated and misunderstood. The really stupid comments made me feel like never talking to the person again, whereas the message of strength made me yearn to try to explain myself and my grief, and I never really quite felt as if I could do that effectively.

5 What's taken you a long time to do again? How did it feel, if you have?
It took me three years to drive past the funeral home where we picked up her ashes. It was a horrible, grey, rainy day when we went there. I was out of my body, and out of my mind with grief. We went in the door, and the kind, gentle woman handed us this little white urn that contained our daughter's ashes. She offered condolences, we thanked her, and turned. We walked out the door, cradling the little urn in disbelief, this was what was left of Charlotte. In the car, I opened the envelope. There was the certificate that accompanied her "remains":

Name: Charlotte Reynolds
Cause of Death: Asphyxiation

My head fell into my lap, onto the white marble, and I cried until I ran out of breath, I almost broke from the sobbing. The rain poured down as I imagined my precious little baby, the only child I had, suffocating in my womb while I slept, knowing nothing. We sat in the car for a long while, crying together. I never drove by again.

It was a surprise when I did. Traffic was heavy, and prior to Charlotte's birth, I had often shortcut that way to avoid the center of town. One day, I just did it without thinking. My blinker was on, and I was turning. Liam was in the back, and I was pregnant with Aoife. I drove by, looking curiously at the parking lot, feeling curiously as if it had been someone else who had cried in the parking lot a lifetime ago instead of me.

I still rarely go back.

.6 How would you describe yourself as a partner before, and after?
I don't know how I could describe myself as a partner, except to say that I think Greg and I understand each other better. Having weathered such a crisis and survived rock-solid and fiercely in love, I can't imagine what a world without him would be like.

If you have lost a baby, I would be curious to see what your answers are. If you post them on Glow in the Woods, please comment the link (or your answers) here... or just answer them here in comment form. It's a cool exercise. It is so good for me to think about these things analytically. (again, my online therapy, cheaper and more convenient!)