The Problem at My House

I wrote this a couple of days ago. I just never posted it. I’m posting it now so that my post tomorrow will make sense. I’m also go to set the post date to the date I should have posted it, even though I am posting it late or early Friday Morning I think I wrote it Monday or Tuesday.

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There’s a problem at my house, and I’m afraid the problem is me. I’m really struggling right now, with everything. I thought I could handle losing Holly. I really did. I happened to run into the Bishopbric the evening we found out there was no heartbeat – and I told them I would deliver the baby on Thursday, and I expected to be back to church on Sunday. Everything would be OK, I had been through this before.

I was very obviously in denial. At that point, I still didn’t believe that the baby was dead, I was sure that there had been some mistake, that I had felt the definite movement that morning, and since then. I spent hours that night searching the internet for stories of ultrasounds that were wrong, and a heart beat was found at a subsequent ultrasound. And I found them, there was a shred of hope out there. Barely a sliver really, these had been ultrasounds and much earlier gestations, ones where a heartbeat had never been detected before . . . maybe the baby’s heart just hadn’t started yet and needed a bit more time.

The next day my parents came by with doughnuts for breakfast and took the kids away for a previously planned workday at my sisters house. I requested a blessing before they left – and so my husband and my dad gave me a priesthood blessing. Brad anointed, and my Dad was voice for the blessing. I don’t remember most of what was said, but I’ll paraphrase the small tidbit that I do remember  “the baby was taken at this time so you can begin healing.” That was so not what I wanted to hear, but it was what I needed to hear. As I spent the day alone I was able to take a step on the healing process and move out of denial, to accept that I was indeed carrying a dead baby.

 

Fast forward . . . and I mean FAST . . .  9 weeks. I haven’t hardly had a moment to breathe. Our vacation was amazing, and I was able to let go of all of the hurts, trials, and responsibilities of my daily life, well at least I left most of them behind, anytime you are responsible for 5, and intermingling almost constantly with 11 there is bound to be some stress on the mother. Maybe not let them go, but leave them behind. It was a nice break, and I didn’t want to come home and have to pick them back up again. Life, however must go on, and they are my burdens, and I must deal with them.

Life has been so hectic, so crazy. So fun. Honestly, we have had an amazing summer. We have done so many fun things. Vacation. Family. Friends. Swimming. TV. Cousins. Family Reunion. Computer. The list goes on. I have really enjoyed planning fun things for my kids to do – and then doing them with them. It just got to be to much fun. No downtime, for the kids, or for me. Ok, not true. We slept every night. I slept a lot less than the kids. I needed “MY” time. I searched the web. I wrote blogs. I facebooked. I read books. I avoided dealing with my emotions. I surfed the web or played games until I was so tired that I could go to sleep without tossing and turning first. Sometimes it worked.

I didn’t deal with the emotional issues as they came. One here – one there. A misspoken word. An imagined offense. An insensitive remark. Oh, the tears were there. I cried, huge, racking sobs. I yelled, and cryed to my husband. Why am I being treated this way. I wrote in my journal. Sometimes I prayed. It seemed easier to just ignore everything around me.

I think the problem at my house is me – and I’m ready to run away. I need a break. I need to regroup. I need to find peace.