It’s been one month since Grandpa died. Today I’m calling the florist and rescheduling the rest of our week as my husband’s Uncle died yesterday morning. Most of the time I’m on a sort of auto-pilot, unaware of my surroundings or, at the very least, protecting myself from the totality of it all. I allowed myself one breakdown yesterday, late in the morning, after the initial shock had worn off. I threw the shock guard back up; feeling fully is too raw right now. I don’t really want to feel right now. I need the auto-pilot function. The denial stage of grief exists for a reason.

All of this makes me think about my grieving process regarding Munchkin’s placement. I was in the denial, auto-pilot function for quite some time. Speaking for myself and not all birth mothers, I simply needed to be there for awhile. There were times when I did take that shock guard down, allowed myself to cry or rant or generally fall apart but, really, I stayed in a bubble that year. If I hadn’t attended her first birthday party, I might have stayed there for a longer period of time. I’m glad I did. The process of feeling, sorting through everything and finding my own path let me live a much fuller life than I lived that first year.

I was discussing adoption grief and death grief with another person attached to adoption the other day. She asked me, “Are they similar?” My answer is that I simply don’t know and I really can’t compare. I hadn’t yet experienced true death grief prior to placing and it’s been six and a half years since I first felt the tidal wave of grief associated with relinquishment. I know that the loss I felt after I placed the Munchkin was all-consuming. There were days when I didn’t eat, drink or really move. I had awful thoughts of harming myself when I allowed myself to peek outside the heavy cloak of denial. But years have passed regarding that grief in my life. The physical feeling of the panic that accompanies grief has faded. I don’t feel it twist my stomach. It doesn’t keep me up at night any longer. It is a part of my life. The newer grief of these recent losses does twist my stomach. I can’t sleep. I have no appetite. The physical aspects of grief are here, eating at me even though I’m trying to ignore their presence.

The problem with me, in my situation, comparing adoption and death grief is that, blessedly, I get to see the Munchkin. I will never see my Grandpa again. They are apples and oranges. I’m trying to find two vastly different things that weigh so much on the human heart and mind to compare them to and, really, I can’t. They are their own unique fruits of comparison. I can only say that, for me, the similarities and differences are too hard to compare and contrast with so much time having gone by. I can say that each has affected me on a core level. I have been changed by both experiences.

Someday I hope that my stomach stops twisting and turning and that I can sleep properly. For now, I am reliving the stages of grief, seemingly over and over. I accept that this is what needs to happen right now. Mostly.

I hugged my boys a little tighter that day. I wrote about it, including some love for the Munchkin.

But, boy, have the Munchkin and the concept of loss been weighing heavy on my heart for the past few days. When discussing the loss of Maddie with other bloggers and friends, the general consensus is that no one can imagine this kind of loss. Furthermore, no one wants to imagine this loss. Myself included.

I know I write a lot about loss. It’s a part of my life. It’s part of my reality. I can’t really escape it. But at the end of the day? My daughter is alive. She is thriving. She is awesome. She is hilarious. She is talented. And she loves me. At the end of the day, my loss isn’t complete. I know where my daughter is. I can call her Mom and ask to speak to her if I so desire. I can drive seven-ish hours and give her a hug if it comes down to it. I can watch her grow into the wonderful woman I know that she will be.

And that kind of puts some things in perspective, doesn’t it?

Of course, I speak from the view of a birth mother in open adoption. I can’t and won’t attempt to speak for my sisters who endure the horrors and fears of closed adoptions. Much like this recent loss of a beautiful little girl, I can’t imagine living the life of a closed adoption birth mother. More over, I don’t want to imagine it.

I’m not saying that I don’t miss my daughter. I am not saying that I don’t grieve over the things, memories and relationship that was lost. But perspective. Perspective.

I know that we have difficulties of our own in open adoption. I’ve been through a lot in the past few years. Our story has changed. Our lives have changed. But, in the end, the point is that the Munchkin has been present for all of those changes. She’s here, on Earth, with us.

And for that, I am forever grateful.

[Our blogs will be going purple for Maddie on Tuesday. Let me know if you need help doing so as well. If you would like to donate to the family, please consider donating to the PayPal account set up for the family. As of writing this, they have $7000 to cover for the services to be held on Tuesday. Another option is the fundraising efforts for March of Dimes. To boot, our family is releasing purple balloons tomorrow. RememberMaddie.com is up and down but the remembering of Maddie lives on. A thorough write-up of efforts can be found here.]

And that’s where I get confused.

The grieving I have done in my life, both with regard to placement and miscarriage, brings me to where I am today. It has made me who I am today: someone a bit more compassionate for those who have been hurt, wronged and generally stepped upon by society and a little less patient with the unethical, immoral nastiness of our world. Someone who continually works on finding happiness and peace but is told that she’s doing it wrong. Someone who wants the world for her children but acknowledges that she only plays a small part in that journey toward the world. Someone who can acknowledge grief … who, years back, wouldn’t for fear of hurting others.

It’s really only at this time of the year that I allow myself to miss the daughter that we lost to miscarriage. Part of me knows it’s not that healthy to deny the grief and part of me knows it is not healthy to dwell in the grief. I’ve tried to find a happy medium with this particular topic but, well, I don’t even have time for grief on some days.

But sometimes I wonder what it would have been like… what life would now be like with a two year old running amok instead of a fifteen month old. I try not to dwell on whether or not he would be here or not. I try to tell myself that children who were meant to be in our lives will be in our lives. But then I get emotional about the Munchkin. But then I tell myself that she was meant to be here… and she IS in my life in some way…

and the grief…

it mixes together. One to the other, one from the other. And I don’t know what to feel or how to express it.

And so, for two weeks in February, I’m stunted to silence as I imagine what might of been and give thanks for what it is instead.

You can imagine that the hair on my neck rose as I typed a retort something along the lines of, “Who are you to judge how she grieves?” Something dismissive along the lines of “I can have an opinon” was written back and I decided to let it drop. Mainly because I knew it would go nowhere. Those with balls enough to judge how someone grieves aren’t going to see an argument in which I point out how callous such a thing really is so I saved my breath.

It’s an especially touchy subject as we near the end of February.

The child that we miscarried would be turning two on February 20th. Two years ago, I was finally able to let go of some of the guilt and make the conscious effort to try to conceive the child who is currently cutting his upper molars. Last year, I was able to buy a little cake acknowledging how she changed my life simply by existing for such a short time. This year, I had been planning on getting some cupcakes and acknowledging her yet again.

But apparently I’m doing it wrong.

I hate that. I really, really hate that. What? When other people judge the way other people grieve. And I’m not talking solely about death. I’m also talking about how tired I am of how birth parents are told that they’ll just “magically” “get over” the pain at some point. And, if they don’t, they’re unstable or damaged or aren’t grateful enough for the things in their life. And when they voice their grief, necessary for the process of healing, they are told to be silent because they’re not doing anyone any good. You know, except themselves.

When are we as a society going to accept that grieving is not a bad thing. Furthermore, why is celebrating someone’s life a bad thing when it comes to grieving? When I bought cupcakes for the family on the Munchkin’s birthday, was that somehow wrong? Should I have instead spent time moping around because I couldn’t be with her on her birthday again? Should I have sat at home instead of singing in my Christmas concert? While a few tears were shed, as always, I think this was the healthiest birthday of hers that I have experience (and I have hopes that next year will be even better but also have enough of a realist side to note that it could be difficult as well). Celebrating her life instead of mourning the lack of presence in my life felt pretty darn awesome. Knowing that this widow was likely doing the same thing makes me angry on her behalf that her grieving process has been called “odd” or in any way judged in a negative light.

I’m sensitive to grief right now. I admit that. Right now I’m really deep in the consideration of how my grief has to balance my gratefulness. The process of finding that balance will be something I explore later this week. But I just want to say this out loud: those that can’t allow room for others to grieve will someday be forced to remember their judgment. And, being through what I have, that doesn’t give me a sense of happiness. It only breaks my heart even more to know that grief and the process of grieving are things that society won’t ever escape or evolve away from; they are with us forever.

Whenever I thought I had mastered one emotional issue, another would need to be figured out and/or something new would come up forcing me back to the beginning of the line. It got frustrating. Tedious. In fact, it even got boring. Doing the same healing work over and over again. And over again. But I kept at it. And I’m glad.

I came across this quote which seems to fit the situation well.

Perseverance is the hard work you do after you get tired of doing the hard work you already did.
-Newt Gingrich

I’m not quoting him because of who he is, trust me. I’m using the quote because I have found it to be true. At any point last year, I could have given up. I could have thrown my hands in the air and declared the work impossible. I was absolutely tired of getting to a point where I thought I had found some inner peace and just being thrust into another issue that was so out of my realm of experience that I had no clue with how to proceed. Last year was big and scary in so many ways, only further clouded by PPD.

And yet, I kept putting in the work. I went to therapy. I did my therapy homework. I journaled. I wrote. I went for walks. I yelled at God. I cried with God. I talked to my Husband and not just at my Husband. (What? You’ve never talked at your Husband? Surely you jest.) I worked on counting to ten when I received news that threw me for a loop. I learned not to just look at the shoes someone else was wearing but to really try them on for size. I started really working on thinking before I spoke and really asking myself how my words would affect me if they were being spoken at/to me.

And I ended 2008 on a positive note.

That felt good. I felt pretty darn proud of myself. I am not saying that I am completely free of adoption grief and loss issues. I don’t believe I’ll ever reach that point. I will always miss my daughter. But I’m in a good place. Right?

Then I realized that all the work I did last year was absolutely pointless if I don’t keep up the work this year. I got discouraged for a few hours. It is tiring to always be working toward a good place, a healthy place, a place of peace. It’s especially tiring when you realize that even when and if you find that peace, you’re still going to be without something special to you. In this case, of course, it is the Munchkin. I got kind of down for a little while.

And then I remembered that the negative outlook never achieved anything worth keeping. And I lifted my chin and went back to work.

I’m not saying I won’t occasionally be angry this year. I’m sure that I will. And I’ll be sad on some days. And overwhelmed. And grief-stricken. And caught off guard. But I’ll do so with the realization that I’m doing these things not just for me but for my children, all of them. To be the best birth mother and mother possible, I have to keep working on myself. Ignoring the issues didn’t solve them. Being negative about the issues didn’t solve them. Being positive, even, doesn’t solve them. But the attitude makes all the difference.

That’s how I’m continuing to work through all of this. And it feels good to say so.

Well, I ran from him
in all kinds of ways
Guess it was his turn this time.

Munchkin’s birth father and I used to listen to Tori Amos. Frequently. While we were dating, while we were friends and leading up to her conception. We bonded over lyrics. On a mix CD that he made for me, Tori sang to me. I heard the romance in the words back in those days. While pregnant with the Munchkin, I heard the anger in those words. And now, years later, I hear something different.

On April 24, 2003, I packed everything of mine that would fit into my Mercury Topaz. It was a crazy mess of clothes, computer parts, coffee cups and bowls. I left behind things that I would later ask for and would never be delivered: an anthology of William Carlos Williams poems, my glasses, a jacket from college. I cut my losses and left before he arrived home from work. A housemate watched me load my things but didn’t ask questions. I don’t know if he knew I was pregnant but he knew better than to ask.

I drove off into dusk, night quickly catching up with me as I sped out of New Jersey. Through my tears, I almost missed a turn and would have been lost for eons. I made it out. And drove for hours upon hours, arriving on my best friend’s doorstep. She welcomed me in with a hug and we slept in her bed until the following morning. My 22nd birthday dawned finding me alone, homeless and pregnant.

Phone calls were made back and forth that day as I learned he told my Mother only half-truths and I had to deliver the news of the pregnancy to my Mom over the phone. Not exactly what I had planned for my birthday celebration. When I worked up the nerve to talk to him that evening, he told me that he had got on his motorcycle and sped off for the state line when he got home from work that night, trying to find me. Apparently our housemate hadn’t told him how much of a lead I had on him. I would have been well into Pennsylvania by that time. I pictured him on that big red monster, cursing me and my stubbornness as he chased me across the black night, searching for any hope that I was still around, that I hadn’t run. That this wasn’t real. Maybe praying to wake up.

I learned recently that once he finishes his masters, he’s moving back to England. I’ve been sitting on this information for awhile. It hit me when he told me that day on the phone but I pushed it away. I’ve seen him once since he went to work on April 24, 2003. He met the Munchkin for her third birthday. I was there as he looked into the face of a girl who looks so much like me and so much like him at the same time. I knew what he was feeling; I felt it every time I looked at her over the years. I still feel it.

It is his turn to run. I haven’t returned phone calls or text messages since he told me the news. I considered it last night as I listened to Tori break my heart all over again. I’m angry. And jealous. Not even so much about the issues that lead to her adoption, but more that he can just fly off into the rising sun of his future and leave us all behind. As if this never happened. As if we never happened. As if she never happened. And I know, from his words shared with me, that isn’t how he thinks or feels. But that’s how it feels, sitting in Ohio.

This post is not meant to be construed as a dislike or disinterest in my own family. Anyone who reads that is not acknowledging the fact that our past does affect us and shape our futures. He was a huge part of my past. He gave me my firstborn. He’ll forever be a part of my future because of that and, as such, I have a right to write about him. It’s been awhile since I have and, as such, here we are. Running. Always running.

… joy and sorrow are inseparable. . . together they come and when one sits alone with you . . . remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

-Kahlil Gibran

No wonder I can’t be bothered to make my bed. Either joy or sorrow are hiding beneath the lumpy mess anyway! I don’t want to disturb the slumber of sorrow, though, of course, it seems that I have and now joy won’t wake up despite the fact that my oldest son was bouncing all over the bed while I sat on the floor and cried yesterday afternoon.

It is interesting. My Husband has always said, “You take the good with the bad.” And this quote about joy and sorrow being so closely followed by one another makes me realize that I don’t like it when my Husband is right. Don’t tell him I said so. I won’t admit it. I’ll edit this entry. I will!

I was feeling fine. Life was rolling along. My oldest son was doing well in his foray into schooling. I got to have a nice little phone conversation with my daughter. My youngest son was doing cute new things like tackling his brother and playing peekaboo. And then, BAM! My grandfather died. And nothing made sense.

Was sorrow just slowly creeping out from under the covers? Did all of those really awesome things happen in such a short amount of time because I needed them to happen when they did in order to get through this cruddy time frame? Perhaps. I don’t know. I wish joy and sorrow weren’t in so close of cahoots with one another. I’d like warning from one or the other when the pendulum is about to swing in the opposite direction. I’m considering not answering my phone anymore. No more bad news, thank you very much.

Sorrow is apparently the insomniac walking the halls of my house right now will joy has curled up in bed for a nice long slumber. I’m not quite sure how to get sorrow to down some sleeping pills and get to bed. You know, since I can’t figure out how to get my oldest son to go back to bed right now either. (We’re deep in the “I need a drink of water,” “I need to pee,” “I just want to tell you I love you,” excuse phase of procrastinating sleep this week. Cute but draining.) I’m waiting for joy to jump out of bed. I’m waiting for the phone to ring with good news. Or an email. Or an instant message. Or something that lets me know this not all a waste.

I’m going to make my bed today.

I have reached my breaking point. I thought I was turning a corner when it came to postpartum depression. I was beginning to see that light at the end of the tunnel. And then with my grandfather’s death, the light just disappeared. I don’t know if it is solely that grief, mixed grief or if I’m just not as far along my road out of PPD as I thought or what… but I’m at a point where I can’t see past the end of my own nose.

But I’ll push on, I suppose. Don’t I always? Aren’t I always the strong one? Isn’t everyone always so proud of me for how I am able to pull myself up by the proverbial bootstraps, raise my chin and force myself to walk forward? I’d just like to sleep for awhile. Uninterrupted. Cry for awhile. Uninterrupted. And hear some words of solace. Some words of hope. Some words of apology. Some words of love. I’d like to be tended to for once instead of doing all the tending.

This seems highly unlikely.

And so, back to pulling up these bootstraps. One foot in front of the other.

On Tuesday, the sewer backed up into our basement.

Finally, today, I was able to collapse in bed and just let it all out. We’re leaving for The Farm tomorrow for the viewing. The funeral will be Friday. I’m feeling overwhelmed. Under-prepared. Emotionally devastated. And all of those things mashed together usually leave me revisiting old/other grief.

I never thought, at the time of relinquishment, that the grief of losing my daughter would exacerbate every other grief in my life. Well, I didn’t think about life-long grief at that point. I thought it would get better. I didn’t have an inkling of understanding as to how placement would root itself into every aspect of my life. It doesn’t run my life but it is just always there; it’s just always there.

I don’t deal well with funerals. I’m not looking forward to the next 48 hours. I am thankful for a husband to stand by my side, figuratively and literally.

Oh. This made me cry. Probably write on it later this week.

With the link to said article, of course.

Awhile later, a twitter/blog friend replied with:

What is really sad – is when you struggle with not being able to have kids.

Mmm, I just love dismissal in the morning. I replied to my twitter/blog friend, stating that  I’m a birth mother. I’ve also experienced a miscarriage. I’m probably not ever going to understand that, referring to the inability to physically have children. I’m now going to let that twitter/blog friend off the hook because I’m not quite certain she ever caught on to the fact that I’m a birth mother.

But I’m going to talk about this need for one person’s pain to be “sadder” than another’s pain. It drives me insane. And I’ve seen it floating around some forums lately. Not just adoption either. Random places. Like forums in which we talk about cloth diapering. Apparently I’m supposed to think about it right now.

The writer of the article hit on the fact that no one ever discusses a preference of gender aloud for fear of the exact judgment that was just thrown at me. “At least you can have kids.” Yes, I can. And I did. I have two amazing boys that daily make me laugh (and, sometimes, cry). I actually do have the blessing of a daughter despite the fact that she’s being raised by other parents. I am blessed beyond measure. But when we were first pregnant with our youngest son and we began to ask ourselves whether we really “wanted” another boy or girl, man, we were chastised. Not just me! My Husband received a few unkind words as well when he talked about having a little girl to snuggle and protect.

As the writer of the article said, it’s not that we’ve ever been disappointed with our sons. She said it best:

I apparently had: “gender disappointment.”

I disliked that term. I wasn’t disappointed that Finn and Oliver were who they were. Those kids made me beam 20 times a day. What I felt now was more like mournfulness. I knew I was lucky, blessed. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that a long-held dream had been lost.

And, it’s true. Because of the adoption of my first born, my only living girl, my dream of a girl has been lost. I am thankful that she was given my middle name and that the family name will be carried on in that way. I am blessed by her family on a continual basis as I have contact and my boys will know their sister. But I’ve lost that chance. It’s gone. We’re not having any more children in any possible way because of my health. And that’s the reality we live.

Perhaps the sting wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t so convinced that the baby we lost to miscarriage in 2006 was a girl. I don’t know. I’ve experienced so many forms of loss. I never know which is what and how it’s talking through experience and so on.

Trust me. I’m not trying to get up on my high horse and say my losses are “better” and more “real” than the losses of others. They are my losses and they are all tied together. The adoption, the miscarriage, the girl issue. It’s all one big ball of loss and I am unable to untangle the mess of what is what and why x makes me feel z and y makes me feel 123. The thing that gets me is that while I’m over here trying to sort through my own losses, to make sense of the tangled web I’ve woven, others are free to tell me, “Yes, but (enter “but” statement here).”

I’m certainly not going to walk up to any of my friends who are currently battling fertility issues and say, “Yes, it’s sad that you can’t conceive but you know what’s really sad?” And then launch into my story. Friends of ours are experiencing this battle right now and my heart is literally broken for them at this point. I want nothing more than for them to be parents. And I’ve felt that guilt, as I write about my boys and my daughter and my miscarriage and my grief and my loss. But I’ve realized that my reality doesn’t alter hers nor does hers alter mine. We’re each living our own reality and we’re struggling in our own ways.

I ramble when I get worked up. We know this; this is nothing new. Truth be told, I’ve come to expect statements like these but even with that expectation, it still smarts. I wanted to come up with something much more in depth and philosophical about how to handle situations like these but, well, that’s all I’ve got right now. It smarts. I’ll live, of course, as I have lived through all the other statements that have attempted to dismiss my reality. And maybe someday I won’t feel that sting. But right now, I do.