I heard the news today, oh boy

My baby died.

Our lives entered some state of suspension, bits of grief floating in gelatin, still, timeless.

Everyone else, though, rushed -- and rushes -- on. Breathless. And there is news.

I suppose in the old state, there was good news and bad news, but filtered through the prism of Maddy, the news onslaught all seems painfully blinding. The good reminds me of what I am not, what I lack, what I was. The bad piles on, pours salt in the wound, kicks me while down. All news hurts because it means time progresses, the earth continues it's orbit, while ours sits stagnant. Others actually have news while our news remains the same, day after day, week after week, month after month. My baby died. Our child died. There is nothing else to report.

Anonymous events filter in: typhoons, random accidents turned fatal, economic shit storms, another soldier killed by a roadside bomb. This celebrity is pregnant, that celebrity had twins, yet another lost all her pregnancy weight in two months. A great new movie, a shiny new car, a championship won, a true love uncovered. Headlines can be scanned and papers recycled, televisions muted, and websites clicked off.

But the news of family and friends is not so easily negated with a remote. There are pregnancies and births, weddings and divorces. Someone discovers cancer, someone wins a three-week vacation. An elderly relative dies, a friend adopts a puppy. Someone loses a job, someone crashes a car, and lo! Someone lands on their feet -- walks away unscathed, and starts the employment of a lifetime with a corner office a week later.

Somehow, it's all a punch in the gut.

Herein lies the conundrum: if all news hurts to some extent, do I want to hear about it? And if so, how exactly do I want to hear about it? And what does my current state of griefdom mean to the messenger?

Because unlike black and white type on paper or a stately correspondent talking in a flat voice, this type of news is typically told to us, orally or in writing, directly from someone else -- someone with a link to us, someone who knows. I wonder, how hard is it for someone else, someone not in our immediate situation, to tell us their news? To tell us of someone else's news? Because we're not the same anymore -- we're different. There's a fine line somewhere in there between "Please don't forget my child, please be gentle when you tell me" and "Please don't treat me like I'm fucking batshit." And perhaps I should give people more slack in the line when they're hemming and hawing and running through how exactly to word what it is they're about to say given our new status, but part of me thinks . . . is it really so hard?

Because sometimes instead of just coming out with it, people decide it's easier not to tell you at all. It's easier for them. There is no awkward moment, no watching you break down into tears. No need to remember that horrible awful thing that happened or even bring it up peripherally. And I suppose to convince themselves of their righteousness on this point, they assume that you're fragile, weak, sensitive, outright crazyloco. Can't handle it. Maybe they think they're doing you a favor by not saying anything! This is helpful! Aren't they being wonderfully in touch with your needs!

What news are you being deprived of? Are you sure you know everything that's going on? Are you being apprised?

Because in the end, we found out. And discovered that everyone had run circles around us for the better part of a year. And now it's not the news itself that hurts me -- oh no. It's the realization that everyone thinks I'm bananas, and can't deal with other people's lives. It's also the realization that people around me don't care enough about me or the reason behind the new me to be uncomfortable for a few minutes. To take a risk that I might sniffle and need a kleenex. That I won't heed the warning not to harm the messenger. It's the understanding that Maddy is an inconvenience to them -- that I am an inconvenience to them, and why would I want to continue in their presence if they feel they can't freely speak about their news? The way their time is flying by and events are occurring at breakneck speed? None of it is possible if I'm in the room with my big technicolor elephant at my side.

How hard is it really, to just begin a sentence: "I need to tell you something. It may hurt to hear it, and for that I'm sorry, and I understand how it could -- but I didn't want you not to know."

We found out about the pregnancy, after the birth. And truth be told, the idea of a healthy newborn doesn't hit me nearly as hard (if it does at all, anymore) as the idea that I am a pariah, a leper, a fragile freak. Maddy is nothing more than an annoyance, my grief a nuisance in the daily ongoing of hands moving around the clock. It is easier, not to speak with me, not to bring It (capital I) up. Two and half years later, I am once again alone, sitting arms akimbo in my still pool of gelatin, while time whizzes by -- this time laughing, pointing, and gawking at me.

Have you discovered family and friends hiding news from you after your loss? How did it make you feel, and how did you deal with it? When family and friends delivered significant news that might effect you differently now, how did they do it? How and what do you want to be told -- if at all?

Duty

People have stepped on my toes before. Many have done so and walked on by. Whatever-- people are self-absorbed, I know, and I try not to take it hard. I am OK at it, I like to think. You forget how much work I did on this one project last year? Harrumph, of course, but I'll deal. An extra latte, perhaps. Oh, yes-- just the thing. In fact, I discovered, that extra latte is a cure for great many things, people being inconsiderate prominent among them.

Except. Except when they are being inconsiderate about my dead baby. Scratch that. Not all people-- most people, people who don't know, who are just randomly passing by, who know me, but not well,-- from them it will sting, sometimes a lot, but it won't sear. They, I reason, do not owe me consideration. Not any more than any random person. And though I, myself, may aim for considerate at all times, I know that not to be everyone's standard. And so I don't hold most people to mine.

I watched the pilot of The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency this spring purely on the strength of the previews. I stayed for the series because I liked the pilot. And because the main character, Mma Ramotswe, is a dead baby mom. They might've laid it on a bit thick in the first episode with a violent flashback (not that there aren't things to have violent flashbacks about in her particular dead baby story-- more like that the one they picked for a flashback isn't entirely believable), but from then on I really liked how they handled that part of her story. It's in every episode, and only occasionally overtly.

Most of the time it's something that I bet many a viewer won't even pick up on. It's subtly written, and subtly played. But if you know, if you've heard these things yourself, you can see it, plain as day. Like the time when a client of her detective agency, not thinking much of her suggestion that perhaps it wouldn't be a good idea to hire a detective to spy on his 16 year old daughter, tells her that she, as a childless woman, must take his word for what's the right thing to do there. Mma Ramotswe doesn't say a thing, but-- and this one goes to how good an actress Jill Scott is,-- you can see just where that hits her. 

In the show, as in life, the context is everything. Mma Ramotswe tells another client, a woman looking for a son she believes probably died in Africa many years ago. But not this man, because, and we all know it, it wouldn't make a difference to him where his daughter and the need to spy on her is concerned. Besides, perhaps this is not the type of man you want to trust with that most sensitive of personal information, and likely not something you want him to know in a professional context anyway.

So context. Context is what I've been thinking about. When it's a friend who steps on my dead baby toes, or, as I tried to explain to a group of friends recently, when it's friend who hits my open compound fracture, the existence of which fracture is something the friend in question is most certainly aware of, that's not something I can just latte away. But it is, for me, something that can be reasonably turned into the proverbial water under the proverbial bridge with a simple and direct "I am sorry."

What has me bewildered even now, more than two weeks after that conversation, is the statment by another in our group of friends, that she thinks we must consider other's feelings in how we react to what people say. As in, don't make a scene. You know, don't you, that people don't mean to be hurtful, and therefore, even if you did point at your compound fracture and wince in a way that should've suggested to the person continuing to hit that very spot, that perhaps it would be best to stop now, you shoudn't, before hightailing it outta there, finally raise your voice to suggest that the person stop-bleeping-hitting already.

I guess a more accurate description is that I am by turn bewildered and infuriated, and working hard to stay with the bewildered (because infuriated may end up fracturing the group). Because you know what? I don't think we have a duty to be nice to people hitting us where it hurts. We might, as Mma Ramotswe does, not want to say anything, either in a particular situation or at all. We might not want to be party poopers, or we might not feel up to talking just then, or, indeed, ever. For our own reasons we might choose not to speak up. But what gets me is the suggestion that we ought not to, or that if we do, we be super extra tripple nice about it.

I do not believe we owe it to anyone to keep quiet. (I'll go further-- some of the shit people say, they really should feel bad about.) I don't think the one in pain should also be responsible for gracefully articulating where and exactly how much it hurts. Luckily for me, most of my friends don't think that either.

And what do you think? What do we owe those who are hurting us with their words? Does it matter if they are friends or random passers by? What, if anything, do you think people owe us?

the pressure

You've read those stories. Those people who had near-death experiences and how they became changed people: gave up smoking, went overseas to volunteer, building houses for the poor, holding sick children. They finally find a job and get sober, go to church, become a shining member of the community.

When you've expereienced a life-altering experience, usually you come out stronger, and become a much more positive contribution to your family, society, the world, the Universe.

For me, Ferdinand's death was a near-death experience as well. (Actually, I died.) It is without a doubt life-altering. But I did not emerge a better person with a lot to give to this world. I will say though I feel more awake in some sense.

I will admit that I almost felt the pressure to become better. To start serving food at the soup kitchen, run marathons to raise funds for various causes, perhaps donate a kidney, half a lung, maybe an eyeball even.

Do you think this? -- Something's good gotta come out of this.

Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. It depends on the day I am having. Some days it makes me more compassionate and I can actually reach out and be genuinely nice to (grouchy) strangers. Some days I spit on the dirt, slam my door and slither under a rock, wrapping my rattling tail around my neck.

I have not done anything major after my son died. Sure, I made a few donations and I made great efforts in being an even more present mother. I worked harder at being compassionate, calm and patient. Other than that, I have just been trying to live, trying to figure out how to live the life of a bereaved without making a laughing-stock of myself. (And all the while fending off insensitive remarks and some clueless people who makes the already-bad life-after even worse.)

Now, two years out less a day (tomorrow is Ferdinand's birth/death day. I don't know what is a good word to call it. Anniversary? Birth and death day? Usually we call it birthday in our house...), I feel I am slowly coming out from the shadow.

I am not ready to do big things yet. (Though sometimes I wish I do. I wish I am announcing here a new foundation I am setting up, a baby-related research that I am throwing money into, a charity that I will be sponsoring for life, the name of the soup kitchen where you are going to be seeing me... but NO. Not today.) Just small tiny steps. Like trying to walk again with new feet.

Just trying to live better. For myself, my children, my family. Doing things I can for the community, when I can. Living more eco-consciously. Listening better to strangers. Not curse so much when driving on the highway, sending compassion the way of errant drivers (of course I am a perfect driver. Don't you ever doubt that).

A part of that entails stepping away from the internet and spending more time and attention on making our house more like a home, not the war-zone it has been the past two years. More time with the children I have earthside, creating memories that will buoy them and strengthen and empower them and make them better citizens of the world (hopefully). More time thinking about what am I here to do, what potential is within me that needs nurturing, perhaps?

So, this is a farewell post on this wonderful website. I am sad to go (and honestly, even afraid... but I will still have my blog), but I also think it's time for new blood. I feel I have said a lot and it is time to listen instead. I also just wanted to explore this issue of the pressure to be "better" and to do grand things after our babies died, wondering if I am the only moron who thinks that way. Will you share your thoughts?

a suitcase full of hope

Chapter One

The suitcase is almost entirely filled with baby clothes. They were given to us for Tikva, before she was born.

After she died, I sat in the middle of the garage with Auntie Marty, and we went through the boxes and sorted them out. Marty was so patient with me – loving, calm and focused. She helped me decide what I wanted to keep and what I could let go of. She held the space while I touched each piece of small clothing and imagined what Tikva would have looked like sleeping in it as a baby in my arms, dancing in it as a toddler. I put everything in two big boxes and put them away in the garage.

Now, I go through the clothes again, almost a year later, and I put each piece into the suitcase.

My suitcase full of hope.

Hope that I will have another child, and that if she is a girl, she will wear these sweet things that were meant for her sister. I pick up a pale pink ruffled dress that Dave found in a thrift store a few months before Tikva was born and the tears come rushing. I just sit on the bed and cry, letting go a little more, letting go still all these months later. Then I put it in the suitcase, wondering what it will feel like when I do put that dress on my next child, my third child.

The next day I get on a plane with my suitcase and take it to Cincinnati, where the next chapter of our lives await us. In two short days, I find us a home to move into next month. I sign a lease. I make a video to show Dave and Dahlia what it looks like. I can start to see what is ahead now. I can imagine where we will put a crib when the time comes.

:::

Chapter Two

We are packing up the rest of the house. Gathering up our things to take with us.

Preparing other things to return to the generous souls who loaned us the makings of a home when we first returned from abroad – befuddled and overwhelmed – in order to give Tikva the best chance in the world at survival.

As I pack, I feel like I am undoing all that I put together before her birth. Moving backwards, as if the film projector is playing on rewind on the screen.

Tikva’s special things sit in their boxes and jars, soon to be put in a suitcase, destined for the wooden chest that awaits them in Ohio. The altar that has formed on our borrowed dresser awaits its turn to be put away in a box – found treasures from my walks in Golden Gate Park this past year. The toys people gave to Dahlia, and which she accumulated for the sole reason that she is five years old and that is what five year olds do, are sorted through and await their own suitcase. Maternity clothes are passed on, a few favorites packed to take with me (more hope). I have the vitamins and herbs I need to prepare for a healthy pregnancy in the near future (more hope).

The thing is that I really do believe there are good things ahead. Sometimes, when I am being especially Chicken Little about everything (aka catastrophic and completely overwhelmed), Dave reminds me that so much good awaits us. I know that, I really do. I feel it. I can close my eyes and feel myself pregnant again, holding a baby, nursing, holding a toddler’s hand.

I guess I just need to get there to really settle into the feeling. Get past this week of packing. Get past (and enjoy) the drive cross-country. Roll into the driveway of our new home. Get reacquainted with most of our belongings, which have been in storage for two years. Unpack. Settle into all that is new.

But first, this week of goodbye.

:::

Chapter Three

I go to my twentieth high school reunion. Anybody who asks me how old my children are gets to hear about Tikva. It feels good to talk about her. Right. Easy. People are at their best when I tell them, sweet. One old classmate says, Wow. I'm sober now. Another says, Can I buy you a drink?

A third tells me that I’m not the only one – a classmate I had barely known in high school also lost a child – her first, six years ago. I go over to her and tell her I'd like to talk to her about something we share. She knows right away what. We talk for a long time.

Uncharacteristic of me this past year, I feel social, friendly, chatty, and a bit tipsy. I am doozied up and look great. I talk to all kinds of people there, even those I had barely talked to during high school. I feel very much myself, no walls. Maybe that’s why it is so easy to talk about Tikva – my second child.

It feels like another layer of wrap-up. I want to say closure, but the closure isn’t about Tikva. It is more about wrapping up a chapter of my life that brings me here…

To this more true, more complete version of myself. The me I take into all that is ahead.

:::

Chapter Four

It feels like the last few pages of Goodnight Moon right now…

Goodnight clouds.

Goodnight air.

Goodnight noises everywhere…

Goodbye park.

Goodbye beach and ocean.

Goodbye hospital monolith on my way to everywhere.

Goodbye headstone marking the place where Tikva’s body lies.

Goodbye father and sister and family.

Goodbye friends who have held us (together).

Goodbye San Francisco.

Goodbye to this time, this chapter, this huge piece of the story…

:::

Chapter Five

Now it is all pretty much undone – at least on the surface, in the house. You can’t really undo two years of living… deeply.

I sit on the floor in an empty, echo-y living room. Dave sits on a bean bag chair next to me. It was empty when we arrived in the middle of March 2008 – my belly full of her – so early on this journey. Now this chapter wraps up.

Several times this week, I have wondered when the grown ups were going to show up to take care of all the dealing that needed to be dealt with. Packing, cleaning, organizing, administrating. Then one of those moments:

Oh! I am the grown up. Sigh... Shit! Nothing else to do right now but pack. It has felt endless, but it’s almost done, we’re almost on the road. Tomorrow we’ll take the mezuzah – the one from Jerusalem – off the doorpost to bring with us to Cincinnati.

:::

Chapter Six

We go to the cemetery one last time – for now – and I make two rubbings of Tikva’s headstone to take with me. One in color, one in black. On the way there, two baby hawks sit on two lampposts on Sunset Blvd. On the way back, one remains. On the way out a bit later, the same two are on the same posts, and a few blocks away, two adult hawks sit together on another post. A family of hawks – four.

Two and two. Two adults. Two children.

I sit before Tikva’s headstone by myself and cry.

I wish I could take you with me, Tikva. Literally… in a carseat next to your sister. Your big beautiful eyes looking around as you chew on your hands and babble.

I just sit and stare at her headstone – accepting.

And just a little bit amazed, still, that this is what we get.

This is how it is.

::: 

What transitions have you been through since losing your child(ren)? Have you felt able to take them with you? Left a piece of yourself, of them, behind? What has enabled you to stay connected, and grounded, during your transitions? What have you let go of?

I'm So Happy For You

Babies are appearing everywhere, and the afternoon light is such that I expect for us to be expecting, too. The late-setting sun blasts through the windshield as I turn off the exit to my house. The angle of those rays are filled with meaning.

This is the season of my almost-fatherhood. This is the time last year when all I could think about was everything that I thought was to come.

There were so many plans and hopes in the works. Spring and summer were full of boundless potential and imminent adventures. The full bellies and multi-strollers all around foretold our amazing future, and I was thrilled to be on the cusp of fatherhood.

Fulfillment, success, perfection, they were within my grasp and now all I hold is dust and desolation.

Since it is impossible to grasp dust, and because desolation rots the soul, I have stopped trying to hold anything.

This has become my summer of the willing suspension of disbelief. I'm working hard at accepting the World as it is, and dealing with whatever is exactly in front of me.

I learned that from my parents. My mother has had MS since before I was born, and over the years they have shown me how to handle the impossible trials of their everyday life. Do the next thing first and then deal with whatever comes after that.

Do it right, do it with humor, don't stop until it's done. Don't rely on anyone else. Don't be surprised when it doesn't go at all the way you think it will. Don't give up and don't stop loving the people around you. Those are the lessons they taught me, and I'm working hard at most of them.

I'm stuck at Don't Give Up, though. I know there are people around me ready and willing to support me with their love, if only I would return an email or make a call. The ball is definitely in my court at this point. For phone-tag I am IT a thousand times over.

It is beyond me right now, though.

Reading through the interview below I was struck by how clearly I identified with all of those Phases, but I was surprised in that I seemed to be experiencing them completely out of order.

I feel like I've been through Confrontation and even a little Accomodation, but that Avoidance is where I stew these days.

It is a nuanced Avoidance. I don't stop thinking about Silas all day. I don't pretend that my life is anything that it is not. I know to the core of my being the depth of our loss. Or at least, I know how deep it seems to go from here. I have few illusions left at this point. I'm not avoiding his name, or the pain of losing him.

I am always ready to talk about Silas but I attempt to avoid all external reminders of what we should have.

That list includes: newborns, babies, people that just had babies or are pregnant, talk of the trials of having kids, strollers, carseats, first birthdays, the Internet, driving, walking and being awake. As long as I keep all of that out of mind & sight, I should be just fine. Ha!

Another part of the problem is that I'm starting to feel bad about how bad I still feel. I don't want to talk to friends because it's the same goddam fucking sob story every fucking time. I'm sick of hearing myself sometimes. I'm sick of hearing my soul's lament, sick of my mind devising strategies to fix our broken lives, sick of my heart oozing despair and ichor whenever another scar is peeled back, or a new, surprising wound pierces my defenses.

July was brutal. Three of my closest friends had babies this month and essentially all I could do was ignore them. Didn't stay in bed moping. Didn't drive off to the wilderness and leave everyone behind. Didn't stop working or playing or living. But when it came to those three, they were mostly out of my life.

I kept in contact until the day of birth, but after they each went perfectly, I had to cut them off for the moment. I feel like an asshole of the highest order, but I had to do it in order to save myself.

The idea of even talking to them on the phone to congratulate them, knowing they were holding their perfect new child in their arms, it took the push out of my fingers for every digit of their phone number. These are people I love and care about and all I can do is nothing.

I'm active and alert and fully engaged in most of my life, but the new babies are impossible right now. Once I start thinking about my friends, I think about everything they are doing with their new child and those thoughts completely immobilize me.

I know babies. I love babies. I don't mind the cheesy puke or the weird, wide alien eyes or the tears of hunger or confusion. I used to love babies.

But there is a period of time between birth and 'baby' that I really don't know anything about. By the time I've met most children they were at least a few weeks old, if not months, and I've never had that true newborn experience. I thought it was going to be a special, beautiful time with my son and first-born, but that was not the way it happened. So now, when I hear about a new child in the World, it fills me with a mix of hope and dread and joy and fear that is impossible to parse.

I'm thrilled for the parents. I'm thrilled the child is alive and healthy. I'm jealous beyond words that they have that child to cherish and nuture. I'm terrified by how close they came to living in my World without ever considering how bad it can get, and I'm enraged at myself for my inablity to do anything but look away.

All I can do is say how HAPPY I AM FOR YOU and look away, look away. I look away and try to feel Silas and hate how much his name sounds like Silence.

~~~~~~~~

What is your collateral damage? Where do you feel stuck? Are there certain aspects or phases of grief that you find particularly daunting? What do you avoid? What do you seek out?

Regrets, I've had a few

I saw her literally the moment I found a seat, on the floor in the very back of the room-- I was late and the room was full. I hadn't expected to see her there. I hadn't really expected to see anyone I knew there. It was a talk on raising bilingual children, held at my old Alma Mater, where I also worked for several years, until the summer after A died. I'd forgotten her husband's first language wasn't English. But had I remembered, I'd still not have expected to run into her-- I would've assumed that she'd graduated already. Instead, there she was, having made it to the talk early, judging by the seat she had-- one of the best in the house. 

Casey was a TA in the class I ran the spring before A was conceived. About half way through the semester I began to suspect that Casey was pregnant. About two thirds through, her bump made all speculation mute. She was a good TA, even if not particularly an extra mile kind. But then again, in hindsight it's tough going an extra mile through the early pregnancy while you are TAing a big class and working your tail off in the lab too.

The moment I saw her was palpable, a mini lightning bolt; in my head, certainly, but what felt like inside my chest cavity too. Way beyond your standard issue butterflies, this was real anxiety-- throat grabbing, stomach tying, air rarefying split second of oh, crap, I'm so not ready for this. I wasn't sure if she knew, and thought that she likely didn't. I was pretty sure she knew I was pregnant, though-- I remember running into her that fall, right as she came back from maternity leave. By that time I myself was unmistakably round, and going to the bathroom so many times during a workday that I was sure that alone fulfilled my daily exercise requirement. So that's where I ran into Casey one day that fall, and that's where she filled me in on the somewhat complicated childcare arrangement they'd hobbled together for her son, who she was totally in love with, and that's where I told her I too was expecting a boy.

There are certainly people who saw me pregnant who didn't remember later. In their defense, those people were meeting me for the first time then. Casey, on the other hand, knew me before. I was pretty sure she remembered. I know, I know-- unless you are a celebrity, and TV takes care of announcing your comings and goings, chances are there will be people who won't be up on your news, fresh and not so much. And there will be new people you meet who won't know. And so from time to time you will be in a position to decide whether or how to tell someone that your child is (or your children are) dead.

Telling people is a staple of our early days as bereaved parents. It's a large part of why many of us would rather not leave the house. But somehow we do (tell)-- often we send emails, or ask friends to pass the news on,-- and at some point we do (leave). And eventually the telling, if it happens, is mostly to the people who didn't know us before. To them our babies become dead a split second after they first come into existence as mental images, right after everyone's favorite word-- but. "I had a baby, but..." "We had twins, but..." "I was due in December, but..."

These hurt, of course. They hurt a lot. But they hurt differently than the early tellings. A while ago, Natalie talked about the early ones, about how when you do that, you get to see someone else's joy and anticipation for you shatter, the might've been crumbling into is. Again.

When I saw Casey from my ground-level seat that day it occurred to me that she just might be the very last person to have seen me pregnant who still didn't know. Sadly, it didn't make me better at telling her. Worse, it didn't even make me more prepared.

After the initial shock, I forced myself to concentrate on the talk, even though I kept stealing glances at Casey. She was knitting. Obviously listening, but also knitting. Which, I understand, betrays a certain level of skill. During the Q&A session, I asked a question, guaranteeing that if Casey hadn't noticed me before, she obviously would now. (Yes, not one of my brighter moves, I know.) Meaning that after the talk was over, I had no choice but to say hi, especially since the speaker was enveloped in a small crowd, and I was waiting until that receded so I could buy her book.

I'm a kind of parent that generally speaking does not do guilt. I make decisions and live with them. But that doesn't mean I don't have regrets. And I definitely regret what happened next. Because? I screwed up.

We started talking. About grad school (she hoped to finally be done this year) and work (I filled her in on where I've been), about the whole bilingual kid thing (she asked how well Monkey was doing with the Old Country language, and then how we managed to hold on to it so well). I asked about her son, and she told me they are having trouble because her husband, the one who speaks the foreign language to the kid, gets home on the late side. She used her son's name when she was telling me this. Same as A's middle name. I knew that, of course-- she's mentioned it a bunch of times, most notably that one time in TA meeting when everyone was teasing her about the possible nicknames, and she drew the line at one that, I admit, would've bugged me too. So I knew it, but it wasn't at the forefront of my mind right then, and so it packed a bit of a punch for me.

Maybe that's why I screwed up, because I was still off balance when the next question came. "So how old is your younger one now?" Or maybe I screwed up because of how the question was phrased, quantitatively, especially since we'd just listed Monkey's age, and her son's, causing my numbers-oriented brain to want to account for the Cub's age too.

What I said was "He died." And after the properly horrified I am sorries from her and her husband, and the short version of stillborn, 34.5 weeks, "But we also have a three and a half months old now."

I regretted it almost immediately. But? But? What the hell was I thinking when those words left my mouth? Spotlight shifting, minimizing, covering up the dead baby with the live one. Am I not the very person who insists, sometimes very loudly, that my sons are separate and distinct individuals, not to be confused or conflated? What I should've said was "A would've been nearly two now. Sadly, he died. We miss him every day, and love him always. We also have a new baby, who is three and a half months old. He is a joy, and we love him madly. But we still miss A. At this point, we are pretty sure we always will." There. Would that have been so hard? She asked about A, about the baby she knew about. And my answer should've stayed focused on him.

I spent the drive home thinking about what I should've said. I obsessed about it almost nonstop for several days after. It wasn't just that I minimized my own son-- the very thing that drives me crazy when done by someone else,-- I worried that I left a wrong impression about babyloss in general. I worried, and still do, that the way I spoke left the impression that the cure for dead baby blues is a live baby. An all too common misconception I am afraid I might've reinforced. Really, Julia, "but"? Real nice. Real smooth.

I considered emailing Casey to tell her what I should've said in person, and to tell her why it was bothering me that I didn't. In the end I decided it would be too weird. I still think about it, though, seven months later.

How did you tell people early on? Have you had to tell since? How does it feel? If you are that far down the road, how do you decide which of the new acquaintances to tell? Have you had your own Casey-- a person who last saw you pregnant? How did you handle that?