It's a term I didn't even know existed until recently: shadow babies. I always knew about this "phenomenon," the sometimes-painful realization at seeing babies who are around the same age LJ would now be. It started right away, after I returned to work after the miscarriage. Women who I'd been pregnant "with" were still pregnant. My belly was deflated, and the first glimpses of these women in all their glowing fertileness rendered me unable to breathe. As their pregnant bellies continued to grow, I regained my ability to breathe (or, gasp!, speak to them), though I'm not sure it ever became easy. Finally, the pregnancy announcements started to come.

I now regularly check the blogs of the parents of some of these shadow babies. I look at the photos of those beautiful, smiling four- and five-month olds, and I imagine what our own baby would've looked like, what new milestone she'd be going through.

Some days, peeking in on LJ's shadow babies hurts like hell, and I just look at pictures and cry, think of LJ, and mourn all over again.

Other days, peeking in on them allows an unspeakable joy to well up inside me.

I can continue to be sad for myself--for us--and be joyful for these other parents (thank goodness). I can look at the precious babies and imagine LJ, in heaven--whole and healthy and radiant and beautiful. These shadow babies will always be important to me--they are just one way for me to keep LJ alive in my heart.

-Em

I read this passage from a post on A Glow in the Woods today and found myself relating to it all too well. Here's an excerpt:

"I read Deborah Davis’ Empty Cradle, Broken Heart: Surviving the Death of Your Baby about 4-6 weeks after Maddy died.  I found it . . . redundant.  I guess it was nice knowing I didn’t exist in a void, but confirming that I’d be feeling . . . exactly what I was feeling?  Thanks?  I guess?

But there was a gem in there that helped me significantly, and rolls around in my head to this day.  I’m sorry I can’t quote it verbatim because I sent off my book to another grieving mom, but it went something like this:  it’s actually a good thing that the major decisions we make during the time from hell are made while we’re sleep deprived and loopy and trying to juggle a million different balls and exhausted from crying because that way, they come from the gut.  Davis suggests that it’s a good thing we don’t over-think the major decisions, and that instead, because of our circumstances, they come from somewhere subconscious rather than based on intellectual reasoning."

I have often wondered how much LJ's death influenced the major life decision I made last year to resign from my job of 6+ years. I do remember--after finally returning to work after the long road to healing--thinking "this can't go on for much longer." All the stupid shit that plagued my thoughts every day ("Are people following the process?" "Are people reading the documentation?" Will anyone attend this UCD session?" "And who the eff cares, anyway?") seemed completely insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I knew that I needed a new career--a new life--in which I felt like I was making a difference and helping people. Though I am not in a classroom with students every day, working in education has been more rewarding than I could've ever imagined. People's gratitude for an article I've written to publicize their role/work, a program, or an event amazes me. Not only do I get to really, truly write every day, but people appreciate that I do my job. Imagine! Being thanked, regularly, for doing what you get paid to do. Imagine! Getting pulled aside by co-workers who "just wanted to tell you that news release was fantastic." Some days it doesn't seem real; it seems almost too good to be true: I get to do what I enjoy, and people are grateful for it. How is this possible?

When I resigned in October, I felt a lot of mixed emotions. It would be weird not working at the same company as Drew anymore (he has since left for a different company, though, too, so no biggie there, anymore). I never quite accomplished all that I hoped I could at that company (though I am realizing getting re-orged every couple of years made that nearly impossible, anyway). I didn't want to leave my colleagues high and dry (they hired a replacement relatively quickly, and from what I hear, she is probably a better fit in that position than I ever was in the first place). As time has gone by, all of these unsettling feelings have been put to rest. Things have worked out. For the better. On both sides. I am a happier person. I don't hate my job.

Why does it sometimes take a tragedy for us to have the rawness of emotion--or is it just the courage?--needed to make the difficult decisions? I think part of me must have felt as though, "My God, I somehow survived the loss of a child, why the hell couldn't I survive a job change?"

I guess I can thank my LJ for that. Thank you, little one, for giving Mama courage.

-Em

My friend, Gail, reminded me yesterday that I still owe y'all my last 25 Things to Do Before I Go. Can you tell this has gotten harder towards the end?  

76.   Brush up on my French language skills.

77.   Visit France with Kate and her mom (and others, if they want!).

78.   Make really good French onion soup and coq au vin (that I don’t drop in the snow bank first and, then, have to get my Dad's help re-creating/salvaging before Rachel’s dinner party).

79.   Go on an all-day shopping excursion with Rachel (I miss my best shopping partner!).

80.   Host Christmas for my side of the family, with everyone in attendance.

81.   Fully document my infertility experiences: the good, bad, and ugly.

82.   Learn how to be less socially awkward, especially in large groups of people (is this possible?).

83.   Make homemade scones.

84.   Walk the dogs at least twice a week (believe it or not, it’s becoming easier as they get older).

85.   Decorate my office at work, once this summer construction is complete, with plants and photos and lots of cheerful color.

86.   Find a church that feels like home (and attend it regularly).

87.   Tour Nevada with Drew.

88.   Take the train from Holland, MI to Chicago.

89.   Stay in a swanky hotel in downtown Chicago for at least two nights.

90.   See the Cubs play at Wrigley Field.

91.   Go to the theatre more often, with Drew (you’d love to see some more musicals, right, honey?)

92.   Go back to Butchart Gardens and take more pictures with the DSLR.

93.   Eat fresh lobster on the East Coast (I totally had to steal this one from Gail.)

94.   Go back to visit the places I grew up (the ones I haven’t been back to): Wichita, KS; Salina, KS; Troy, NY; Wenham, MA.

95.   Own an heirloom-worthy solid hardwood dining table and chairs (oh yeah, and a house with a formal dining room to put them in ).

96.   Host more dinner parties.

97.   Own a baby grand piano.

98.   Convert to using only re-usable grocery bags.

99.   Create a "place" (maybe in a garden?) where I can go to talk to LJ and honor her memory.

100.   Tell my family and friends how much I love them.  Repeat often.