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Sometimes I wonder if we overdramatize a situation before it even happens. I’ve been told by a few people that going back to work could/would be hard. Did that set the tone for how I really felt about going back to work? Is it possible go back to work and it actually be okay? Does going back to work have to be a hard journey?

Today was my first official day back at work, and I gotta say, it went better than what I expected. I didn’t really assist, I trained the student and did some ordering. And I only had one interaction with a patient that knew me.

I had a lot of anxiety about going back to work. I’m positive I stressed about it for a good solid 2 weeks. And the panic attacks joined a few days before I began back at work. I asked my boss prior to rejoining the office that he please ask the staff to not question me about Logan’s passing or my journey through all this. Let me be the one to decide when I’m ready to openly talk about it, on my terms. Being the coolest boss that he is, of course he obliged.

Today started off funky, most likely due to the anticipation I had built up. I sat at the breakfast table talking with my husband about our counseling session we had this morning. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, but I just had an overwhelming sense to cry. I didn’t know why I felt the need to cry, I just did. Just admitting to my husband that I felt like crying brought wetness to my eyes. I figured, this was just the beginning to what had to be a long emotional day. But to my surprise, that didn’t happen.

I often think I don’t give myself enough credit. I think this situation is no different. Today was a huge day. The last time I was at work, Logan was still with me; in my belly. How odd it would be to go back to a place Logan was, without him. He was so much apart of my everyday routine, before he even arrived in this world. I carried him with me everything; in a sense it feels like he was already built into my routine. Even the way I stand at work sometimes feels odd, because I don’t remember standing without the weight of pregnancy wearing on my body. I don’t remember sitting in an assistants chair without feeling Logan constantly kicking me. It’s almost as if, I’m re-learning life. But yet it doesn’t. My instinct to do my job is still there, kind of like riding a bike. You never really forget how to ride a bike, but it takes some getting used to because your body changes over time.

In our office we have a kitchen where we keep all our things. I frequent this room a lot during the day simply because a lot of what I need is in this room. In a basket next to the fridge, standing erect is Logan’s funeral program. On the front of Logan’s funeral program is a big picture of his sweet baby face. The first time I saw it, it caught be off guard. Not because of the picture itself; I have pictures of Logan all around my house. But because I didn’t expect to see it there. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it at first. It seemed like every time I walked into the kitchen, his death was shoved in my face. Like it was mocking me, “Oh you thought you could get away from this, too bad sucka” kinda of feeling. I don’t know if they put his program there so that he could apart of the office, or if it was possibly meant to be a means of comfort for me; I do not know their reasoning behind it. But what I do know, is that I get to see my baby at work now. I worry that I’ll forget Logan as I get back into my daily routine of life. And right now, as long as that funeral program is standing there, I get to be reminded of the beautiful baby I created and loved everyday of his life. Logan has grounded me in life in so many ways (different blog, different time), but I get to look at his picture at work and be reminded to stand firm in what he’s taught me so far.

Having not really seen any patients today, didn’t leave much room for questions to be asked. I think that might partially be why the day went so well. But I can’t be sure of that until it happens. Talking with people who have been apart of this journey isn’t necessarily easy, but it’s easier than talking to someone who knows nothing. The ease of the conversation depends on the person and the depth of the walk they’ve taken on this journey with me. But to have this conversation with someone who doesn’t know, can be disarming. Literally quicksand waiting to drag you down to the next rabbit hole. Who knows, maybe I’ll get an upgraded rabbit hole. “Hi miss, to reward you for your frequent visits, we’ve decided to upgrade you to the rabbit’s den.” The emotions a stranger or even a person you know, goes through when they find out your story, kind of sends you back through all the emotions you went through. The human mind is a curious entity. We can’t just learn that a baby died without knowing how this happened, why the Dr’s couldn’t fix him, why we chose the path we did, and how on earth are we handling things, etc, etc. I’m sure I’m the exact same way. Or at least I was. Now, I pause before I start to ask too many questions. Most of the time, I honestly just don’t care to ask those questions. I don’t mean that to be heinous, it’s just somethings are best left alone. My curious mind, is most likely none of my business.

The unfortunate thing with my job, patients come for regular cleanings every 6 months. Since I’m not a hygienist, that means I won’t always see every patient that comes into the office. So this condolence process could very well last into the rest of the year. Until they cycle through my side of the operators or we happen to meet each other in the hallway, or I suppose if they singled me out. I know they all mean well, and I truly love and appreciate their support, kind words, thoughts and prayers. How blessed I am to have so many people love me and my family! I truly mean this. God may not have blessed me by saving my child. But boy did he bless me in many other ways. I want my patients and other people in my life to be able to communicate their love and concern for my family. And who knows, the day it starts happening, may end up being as easy as today was. However, in the case it does not, I’m comforted that my boss and I have an escape route 🙂

I had a patient come in today, not because he had an appointment, but simply because he wanted to stop by to see me. To say hi, he’s thinking about my family, he’s praying for us. Man did I give him a big hug. That’s got to be one of the best shows of love. I handled it just fine. But this particular gentleman, he’s been on the journey since we found out our diagnosis, and he’s just one of those guys you just have to love. His wife and children are very lucky. I consider him a blessing.

A friend I’ve recently made, who has a story of her own. Much different than mine, but equally as sorrowful. Came to my office on her lunch break to bring me a comfort gift. Her lunch break! Now we all know how coveted those are. What a blessing this friendship has become to me. And I hope it’s a blessing to her as well. And to think, our paths probably would not have cross had it not been for Logan.

One thing has become very clear to me lately, and that is: blessings do not always come in the form that we ask for. Sometimes you have to look outside the box you’re trying to build. Step back and look around. There is something you’re not seeing. I was told by my Dr (whom I respect greatly), at the end of each day, think of 3 positive things in your life. And if you do this each day, you’ll begin to see the positives outweighing the negativity trying to weigh you down. In the next lane to that, are your blessings. Think of the blessings outside of what you’re asking for, look around your life daily, what do you have to be thankful for? In your trial that your facing, what other stressors do you have? Have you lost sight of them in your struggle with your trial? Have those stressors been blessed, but you didn’t notice because you were focused solely on your trial?

Tomorrow is a new day. I am proud of myself for making it through today in the manner I have. Not only did I survive the day at work, I even went to a class at the gym. I’m patting myself on the back for this one. I love Logan no less simply because I had a good day. Not everyday has to be a sucky day. Good days are just as much apart of my journey as the bad ones. However I hope that more good ones are on the way, and the bad ones are leaving out the back door.

Today was my first time back in church since Logan’s passing. To say it was overwhelming is a complete understatement. I was definitely not prepared to handle that situation.

As I sat there and listened to the praise and worship team lead, I was moved as I usually am by the Holy Spirit. Music has a way of doing that to you, something inside you crumples and allows things to surface.

I looked around at the people there and all I could see where these children in their parents arms. And all I could think was, that was supposed to be me. That is my job. Logan should be here with me. I should be able rocking him and showing him how to praise God. But I’ll never get to do that.

The couple that invited us has recently lost a baby as well. The wife prayed with as I sat there pretty much paralyzed in my seat. Her words to God asking him to remind us that our boys were safe in His arms and running and playing punched me in the gut. As happy as I can be that my baby is safe in the arms of Jesus, it does not take away the pain I have here on earth. I want my baby. In my arms. On my hips. Running around my house. Throwing tantrums because he can’t go eat worms. I want Logan, I don’t want Jesus to have him.

It’s not fair. It will never be fair. As much as I am touched that people around the world are being touched and moved by my blogs, I wish I didn’t have to write them. My pain is too real. I ache for my baby. I saw him today in every child in that sanctuary. I saw him at each age those children were, not just as the baby he left me. I didn’t just lose my baby, I lost his life. I lost watching him grow to every developmental stage. I lost every moment of his life. I won’t get to enjoy all the things you dislike about your children. All the things you say make you crazy. I want to be crazy over my child.

God has a way of putting things in front of your face even when you don’t want to deal with them. The Pastor today only talked briefly about how God moves and if you felt like you needed salvation to come to the alter. I can say with conviction that if I died today I would go see my Logan. I know I’m saved, I know I believe in Jesus. But I’m angry. I’m complacent. I’m a rebellious teenager angry with their parent because they didn’t get their way. I don’t  want to let Jesus in. I don’t want to open myself to Jesus. I don’t want to admit there is a reason. I simply want to be angry at my parent for not getting my way. I want to be angry because it’s not fair I don’t get to keep Logan. I did everything I was supposed to, to provide for my child. While people in my life have healthy children and don’t want anything to do with theirs. I have family who has a daughter and instead of pouring into her every chance he gets, he focuses on himself. I hate him. All I can think about is how much I want Logan here with me. And he can’t see how much he is blessed to have a healthy child to love. I feel it’s so disrespectful and unappreciative for what he’s been blessed with.

I listened to the people in this church talk about the unfortunate things in their life and I can’t connect with them. My mind says that I’m sorry for their struggles, but my heart doesn’t. How could their struggles compare to mine? How can I care about anyone else when all I can think about is Logan. I don’t have it in me to carry the weight of other people’s burdens. I refuse to feel guilty because all I can focus on right now is my own grief and struggles.

We don’t normally stand during worship at church. We’re more of observant people, we’re low key. It’s easier for me to focus in church when I can be comfortable and listen to God. There are too many expectations in church nowadays. I don’t have to go to the alter, raise my hands or jump around and shout to be close to God. That’s not the relationship we have. We don’t have to be so full God, hugging and all the high energy things that go on in church. Some people spend their entire lives struggling with God. Wrestling with him. Very similar to that of a parent/child relationship. And that person is no less worthy of God than the person who attends church 3 days a week or the first person to lay hands on someone at the alter. We’re all called to glorify God in ways the best suit our abilities.

I am that person. I’ve spent my whole life arguing with God. Yet he continues to bless my life. He took my baby and I’m trying to find my blessing. But I’m no less important to him. I shouldn’t be expected to stand and jump. I should be expected to praise Jesus and carry on how I need to in order to fulfill our relationship. God doesn’t have the same standards for each of us. He has a different job and goal for us individually. So when you see me sitting in the pew crying and not going to the front, don’t assume I don’t care to or I’m afraid. God just doesn’t expect me to do that. That’s not how our relationship works.

Everything in me today was screaming to run out of that church. To get fresh air. I like the room was too tight. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. I felt like I was suffocating. I felt like I had a target on my back, a big flashing sign notifying everyone of my recent loss. I’m sure nobody knew, how could they? But that didn’t change the way I felt. My heart was racing, my skin tingled and I felt uneasy and sick to my stomach. And to make matters worse, there was this little boy who kept staring at me. Every time I would look his direction he was looking intensely at me. It made me feel like he was looking through me. It made me think of Logan. It made me feel like this child knew my pain. Like he knew Logan. Like maybe Logan was speaking to me through this child. It doesn’t make any plausible sense as I have never met this little boy. But it’s what my mind and my heart were saying.

I finally told Josh I had to leave. I had to get out of there. I couldn’t take anymore, it was too much. Someone told me that this would come in phases. That each journey would be a new phase to go through. It would be a new chapter to journey through. And it definitely is. Going back to work Chapter 1. Going back to church Chapter 2. It’s all a process right?

Now that I’m at the end of this rabbit hole, and starting to climb out, things don’t seem as intense. This rabbit hole is morphing; like furniture being rearranged during spring clean season.

Today I was faced with my first “how many kids do you have?” question.

Our office is closed on Friday’s and I had come into work to ease myself into things and reorganize. We had a couple of big cases and the first one, my children weren’t brought up, somehow we bypassed that while discussing our pets. My first official day back to work is Monday, with a full work load all week.

My back was tight and my abdomen a little sensitive (I had a C-Section with Logan). There was an hour and a half until our next patient so I decided to go home and try to relax a bit. Now up until this point, I had been fine emotionally. Work felt, well normal.

On my drive home, I got to the corner right before my subdivision, and my stomach was in knots. I had this overwhelming sensation that I was forgetting something really important. More than a sensation, an ache. An ache that I was missing something. I drove the rest of the way home in a panic. When I got home, the UPS guy was dropping off a package, and we had a little giggle. I hadn’t eaten all morning so I chalked my “ache” up to not having eaten anything all day. So I ate lunch, and all the while I felt sick to my stomach, like I just needed to throw up. I got up and walked the house a couple times. Not really after anything, just not knowing what to do. I finally came into Logan’s room, realizing I had stepped in quicksand. I was walking down into my rabbit hole. I started looking at his Shutterfly Book #3 (contains Logan’s life from Day 1 to Day 11). I came across a picture that was the size of the whole page, he looked so touchable. I pulled the book close to my face, about halfway there I pulled it away, realizing that I would be greeted with a cold, rough surface. Not the soft, squishiness of his cheeks. Not the wrinkly skin, furry chest or smelly body. I started weeping, the dry, make no noise, stop breathing weeping. I began to feel everything I felt when Logan died. I missed my baby, I wanted my baby.

If you’ve never had an anxiety attack, let me clue you in to what you’re missing. Intense feelings of fear, doom, foreboding, and good; a sudden urgency to escape, run away, or get out; the fear that you may lose control of your thoughts and actions; dizziness; nausea and vomiting; a feeling like you might pass out; trembling or shakiness; weakness; difficulty breathing; pounding or racing hear; hot or cold flashes; chest pain; hands and feet my feel numb; you may be lightheaded or woozy; irrational thoughts, and a number of other physical, psychological, and emotional symptoms. Wow. I literally cannot think of a better way to explain this. 👏🏽

I finally calm down enough to go back to work. I turn off the radio in the car; I don’t say anything when I walk into work. I sorta paced for a few minutes before I could throw myself into something. I go in to set up my patients room, and I’m not even sure now how we got on the topic of children. “How many children do you have?” 😳 I was standing behind him, so he couldn’t see my face. It took my a few seconds to respond, not long enough for him to notice. As I heard myself saying “I have one boy,” all I could think about was Logan. Did I just disrespect my son’s memory? Will he forgive me? Will he understand what just happened? The conversation didn’t slow down enough for me to fall back into my rabbit hole.

I expected to have people give me condolences, but I never thought that I would have a patient who didn’t knew, so early. I have wrangled with this issue for awhile. Even during pregnancy, Josh and I would discuss what we would say to people who didn’t know. In my line of work, communication is huge. I’m the person the patient talks to usually the most. In the time I’ve been home, I haven’t had this discussion with myself again. I have been so caught up with all the other emotions and what to expect conversations, I completely forgot one of the most important ones to have. Do I tell people I have 2 children and prepare to go into a lengthy conversation, a short conversation resulting in me running and hiding in the lab, or just simply say I have 1 child. In hindsight, now that I’m looking back at the situation (because of course I’m sitting in Logan’s room, in our chair writing this) I wish I would’ve said 2. Logan is important, after all, isn’t that why I’m writing this blog? Isn’t that why we created the GoFundMe. Isn’t that why we have raised so much awareness on his behalf? How belittling for me to not mention him to the people in my everyday life. So I’ve decided to tell people I have 2 children, no matter what results after that.

But it’s important to say, we all play a role in life. Everyone is an actor or actress. We play the role we need to fit our situation. Whether we’re having a shitty day and we tell our patients we’re fantastic and smile and play along. Or your drowning in your rabbit hole and you grin through it, blink back your tears and say I’m okay. Really I am. Everybody has something they’re hiding behind. Not at every moment, but everybody has troubles in their life, and one way or another we find a role to help us through it.

Many have asked that I post the letter I wrote for Logan at his funeral. So, I’ve decided to post it here. I took footnotes each day Logan was alive and the few days after he passed. Then spent a whole day putting it to paper. There was so much more I could’ve and wanted to say. It’s not possible for pen and paper to show the extent of what I felt for Logan, what I still feel for him. 

Logan-

Oh my sweet baby boy. I sit here on the couch trying to hold in my tears so that I can write you this letter. I have so many thoughts and emotions I’m not sure I can put them all to paper, but I will try.

My sweet child, you gave me 14 days. 14 days! I never imagined I would get that. You defied everyone. But you sure gave mom plenty of scares along the way. When you were born, I heard your whimper. But then you were quiet, I wept, for I feared we were going to lose you before we left the OR. The Dr said you weren’t breathing right, like you needed to. Your dad placed you on my chest. We were face to you face you and I. You had your feet kicking my face, it was like you had wrapped your entire body around my face. I didn’t care, I wanted all of you. You were so handsome, I couldn’t take my eyes or my hands off of you. After a little time went by, you pinked up and started breathing better, we were in sync.

Your first day of life was so eventful. So many people who love you came to see you and support you. Your big brother is obsessed with you. From the day you were created in my womb he loved you. Even after you passed away he still comes home and asks about you. The love and the bond you two have simultaneously breaks and molds my heart. I cry for his loss of you at such a young age. I cry for what you boys could’ve been. He would have been the best big brother you could have ever asked for. He IS the best big brother.

That night and for many nights to follow you would have a subtle change and dad and I would spend the nights grieving you, waiting. We just knew it was coming, but didn’t know when as nobody can. My heart would break over and over, and then you’d surprise me and live another day. Your fight was so crazy  beautiful.

You wore one outfit your entire life, and it was for 30 minutes. As soon as we got home I took it off, not being able to be separated from you for even one second. Our time at home continued that way. You and I were inseparable. On the occasion your dad did get to hold you, I was on the sidelines in a panic. I couldn’t handle the anxiety that came with not being close to you. It was like I needed you and you needed me. We spent 11 days of your life skin to skin, breaking contact only so I could go to the bathroom or occasionally shower. As gross as it sounds I skipped showers so that I wouldn’t lose anytime with you. Most often I even ventured to take you to the bathroom with me, simply because I couldn’t and didn’t want to let you go.

Your last few days, I swaddled you in the same blanket you’d been covered in your whole life. It smelt like your sweat and my sweat. It smelt like breast milk. It was a messy blanket, with a spot of poop here or there, a breast milk stain, and tears. But it smelt like us. It smelt like you and me. You were so tiny, I could see all your bones under your skin. It made me cry to see you that way. I hoped the blanket would give you some cushion and you would still feel close to me because of the smell of our blanket.

I try to tell myself I did everything I could’ve possibly done to keep you comfortable and above all, loved. You seemed to thrive on my chest, so I laid on my back for 14 days so that you could be supported on me. I would even change your diapers while you were still lying on my chest. I would set an alarm and wake up every 2 hours to turn you from side to side so that you wouldn’t get pressure points on your body that was slowly fading away. I gave you drops of breastmilk and massaged your cheeks to try and give you any nutrition I could. At the end you wouldn’t close your mouth or your eyes and they’d get so dry. I spent much time swabbing your mouth and massaging eye drops into your eyes. I hope you never forget, how hard I tried.

We spent so much time reading, I like to think you could hear every word I said. Sometimes you’d be asleep and it would be quiet in the house, and when I spoke your eyes would open wide. I loved when you opened your eyes. It was like you could see right through me. When I would cry and look at you, I’d tell you to remember me for more than my ugly cry face. I kissed you everywhere, everyday, all day. Sometimes you’d even roll your eyes while I was kissing you. But I didn’t care. I wanted to shower you with my love. I had a lifetime of love to give you in just 14 short days. It was not enough time.

I gave you, your first bath after you passed. I put lotion on you and dressed you in pajamas. I swaddled you, cried over you, laid in bed with you. I held you in the car all the way to the funeral home. I cried when we got out of the car. I wasn’t ready for goodbye. I’m not ready for goodbye now. I know it’s just your body here, and your soul is up in Heaven. But my heart is still here and until we meet again, my heart will never be whole again. You were stitched into my soul when you were created, and you took that with you when you left.

I look over your pictures that were taken, and I’m in awe of your beauty. You are so handsome. So much so it makes my heart swell so full it hurts. It pains me to admit, I’ve already started to forget. I’m praying its just the lack of sleep and the amount of stress and grief I’m under. And that once I’ve had time to cope, it’ll all come back to me. I watched a video from the day you were born yesterday, and I forgot how sweet your voice sounds! You never cried at home, but I’m glad I have these video’s to remind me of your beautiful voice.

I walk around the house and all I see is you. I see you everywhere. I saw your body today at the funeral home. You looked so handsome. I think back over our time spent together and I wish I could go back and give you so much more. How do I condense a lifetime into 14 short days? I mourn for our future, for what could have and should have been. I want you back.

I cry at the most random things. I made coffee this morning, and the smell reminded me of every morning when I drank coffee while holding you in my arms. It resonates as a bonding moment for us, odd, since you didn’t drink coffee.

Your brother held you oh so delicately yesterday. Cradled in his lap, wrapped in his Iron Man arms. He caressed your face, your hair. He checked you over to make sure you were still okay. He was so perfectly content with you, even after you’re gone. The amount of love he has for you, will never diminish. It’s the purest love I’ve ever seen. You are forever apart of him.

Your dad is so proud of you. The look on his face the day you were born, was that of pure joy. You look just like him and big brother. You are his prodigy. He had been looking forward to your arrival since we found out we were pregnant. He planned our life. He was devastated when we learned of your diagnosis. But he never loved you any less. He’s struggling now, now that you’re gone. He misses you so, and wished you hadn’t gone. He tries to tell me he’s okay, but I can see the longing in his eyes. The cuddles that never were. The missed opportunities of playing catch, teaching you how to fix cars and motorcycles, and how to ride your bike.

I tried to smuggle your body out of the funeral home, but was informed that wouldn’t be very legal. I tried to convince everyone we could set your room up and you could just live at home. I could cuddle you and talk to you whenever I wanted. Holding you in my arms brought me comfort, you fit so perfectly nestled in my arms. A moment I’ll yearn for the rest of my life.

I find it beautifully poetic that you chose to leave us on such a special day. Our wedding anniversary. How beautiful for you to chose a day that is so meaningful, so amazing. A day of love. The day your dad and I got married was beautiful. Had we not gotten married, we wouldn’t have you or your big brother. What better way to say goodbye that on that special of a day. I know you couldn’t possibly know that was when we got married, so I’m lead to believe that God was helping you through this.

You have so much family up there in Heaven with you. I hope they are showering you with the love I want to give you each and every day. Nobody can love you like momma, but they sure as better try. Your dad and I have conversations about what your life in Heaven will be like. I wonder if you will stay a 14 day old baby, for the rest of your life? Or will you grow and mature and have a life better than you would’ve here on earth? When I meet you again, will you still be my little baby, or a full grown man? My hope is that you get to enjoy life in Heaven, surrounded by loving family.

My love for you Logan, is immeasurable. I always thought I couldn’t love another child as much as I love Wyatt. I was wrong. The swell in my heart is so grand. You and Wyatt are my life. Without you here, I’m not sure how to function. How does life go on, when something so unnatural happens? I hope that each and everyday that goes by, you can feel my love all the way up there. Not a day will go by that I don’t long for you. I am told that you have touched many lives beyond what we could’ve ever imagined, and I hope that the people that are here today to celebrate your life, stand as a testament to that fact. You are loved by many my sweet baby.

So I ask this of you, my son. My sweet pumpkin pie. As you sit in Heaven and watch over us. Please don’t forget us. Don’t forget the love we shared, the love we still share everyday. Keep your big brother in line, tell him to be nice to your momma. Wrap your arms around your dad, he misses you so much. He tries to hide it, but your dad is a big softy. He’s never loved anything more than he loves the 3 of us. And find a way to be with me each and every day sweet baby. Momma needs you. Momma misses you. Momma loves you.

I’d like to leave you with this my sweet boy. A poem I found, that seems so fitting for us. While nothing will ever tell of what’s between us, this is a small representation.

“I could only be grateful when I realized that I would rather have known you for a moment than never at all. I would rather endure this inexplicable pain of outliving you than to never have seen your face, spoken your name. I would rather be yours, and you be mine, regardless. Regardless of the sorrow, the sleepless nights, and the years I will walk this earth, carrying you in my heart.”

Life continually shows me that I’m never what I really think I am. If you ask me how I’m doing, I would tell you that given my journey, I’m doing really well. But something occurred to me tonight.

When Logan passed, I threw myself into creating 5 Shutterfly books to represent Logan’s journey. The first book was our maternity photos. The second was our professional pictures from his birth-day. The third book is of his life from birth-day to day 11. The fourth book is day 12 through the funeral. And the fifth book is our professional photos from the funeral. Book 3 came in today; and as I was flipping through the book, I found myself slowing and looking indepthly at his pictures. I found myself looking at this film roll in my head, remembering what it was like to hold Logan. To cuddle him. To kiss him. Remembering the way his wrinkly skin felt against my cheeks, my lips, my chest. And I began to feel something in me change. It’s hard to describe, but it later turned into a shallow rabbit hole.

While traveling this journey in my head, I began to realize that, while I haven’t forgotten Logan, and I still actively think about him. I’m not indepthly thinking about him. I’m not allowing myself to really remember Logan, either by choice or my body’s own “fight or flight.” Tiffany (our photographer and now friend) posted Logan’s birth video on her business page. (She is an amazing and gifted woman. If you haven’t heard of her, she’s worth checking out! T.Marie Photography :-)) I haven’t watched Logan’s birth video since a few days after his funeral 3 weeks ago. The last time I watched his slideshow, I was spiraled into the deepest rabbit hole I’ve met to date. I don’t think I was avoiding his video, but rather I thought I didn’t need to watch his video. If you haven’t watched it, again I defer back to T. Marie Photography’s Facebook page. Make sure you grab some tissues, the video is very touching. I have so many emotions, I have yet to put down on paper about this video, but trust me, once I do, it’ll be insightful and probably emotional (as always).

To backstory today, I should tell you that I’ve been off work for 6 weeks. I work as a Dental Assistant in a small practice. Everyone there knows I was pregnant when I left, have inquired about me since my absence, and I go back on Monday. Tomorrow I go in just to break the ice, to desensitize myself to the office, if you will. We’re technically closed on Fridays, so the atmosphere won’t be so chaotic and overwhelming. I have had some lingering anxiety and qualms about going back to work. Sometimes I’ve even thought, just forget it, I’ll get another job so I won’t have to face all the questions about my baby I’m sure to have waiting for me. Or even worse, the awkward silence because they already know and don’t know what to say. There is nothing worse than feeling like the elephant in the room. The weird tenseness that collects in the room is like static electricity. It’ll jolt you when you least expect it, and then the tears start flooding. So I think the stage for todays rabbit hole was already being set.

I moved on from the book and grabbed myself a margarita. (Don’t judge me, I haven’t had a drink in 9 months) I’m not an alcoholic by any means, one drink is usually all this lady can handle, but since Logan passed, I have found a comfort in eating my margarita. And when I say eat, I mean eat. It’s like an icee. It barely has any alcohol in it at all, and lets be honest, even if it did, pretty sure that would be my choice, so on second thought, go ahead and judge me all you want 🙂 Josh had gotten up (he works an odd schedule, so his sleep pattern is weirder than the average person) and we talked about things that kept my mind on my new Logan book. Wyatt however, in this time had picked up the book and began looking at it. He spent about 20 minutes looking at the book before I asked him if he wanted to bring it into the bedroom and look at it together. By the time I made it into the bedroom, he was curled up with his dad sobbing. He was missing his brother. (There’s my countdown to the final curtain)

I opened my Facebook to see Tiffany had posted our video, and cue the curtain, the floodgates opened. I can’t watch that video without losing my inhibitions. Something in me aches. And now I find myself, in front of this computer, typing to you, or perhaps just to me. I have no idea who is following this blog.

On the bright side, or lighter side? This rabbit hole is teaching me something, instead of holding me down, it’s giving me building blocks to climb back out. I need to allow myself to really remember Logan. To remember how he feels and smells. Otherwise those memories will fade, and all I will have left are pictures and videos that map my memory for me. That’s no way to honor my baby. It’s okay to be okay. But I also realize that in moments when I least expect it, and with the most random of things, I will step in quicksand. I will slip a tear or even a flood of tears out. Maybe not necessarily all out of sadness, but out of immense love. One thing I know for sure is how deeply I love that child, the greater the pain the greater the love. I also realize that just because I step in quicksand, doesn’t mean it’ll drag me down. It doesn’t mean I’m grieving wrong, or not enough. I’m grieving just right for me, my family and for my Logan.

My son Wyatt wrote a letter for his little brother to be read at this funeral. It shows the pure love he has for his little brother, and he expresses it the best way his little mind could. As his mom, I was extremely impressed with his letter. I throughly expected a simply “I love you and miss you.” That was not the case!

wyatt and logan-

hey logan i’m sorry that you’re gone and i had a breakdown and cried because you were gone 😦 i love you and i enjoyed having you until you were gone. and i was hoping that you could stay forever but the doctors said that you won’t come home. and after you came out of mom’s belly you looked so cute and i couldn’t touch the back of your head because you might have seizures. i did likeness to nose that was the awesomest picture ever.

 

hint ** nose to nose is what he calls the featured photo on this blog **

I want to share something, that is probably going to receive lots of mixed emotions. But I feel that it needs to be shared. One thing I’ve stated with this journey is that I realized a separate world existed for families who have traveled this journey, and I believe that world needs to join reality. It’s not okay for it to be separate. Others who have not traveled this path need to know what the journey is like, so they can be more aware and involved. This is just my journey, I can’t speak for others, but from the research I’ve done, it’s very similar to others.

Thursday I stumbled upon a few birth videos, that I felt the need to watch. One in particular was of a miracle baby. They had gone in with a similar outcome as Logan; she was not expected to live. Dr’s said she was not compatible with life. As I watched this video and the amazing things this little girl did, instead of feeling joy and happiness for this family, I felt anger and indifference. I couldn’t find happiness in me for them. All I could think was “Why you? Why your baby and not mine?” I didn’t even feel guilty for thinking such things. I immediately fell into my rabbit hole, retreated to Logan’s room. Curled up in the rocker with his bear and ashes and wrapped myself in his blanket. I messaged a dear friend about my rabbit hole because I just felt hateful, and I am not a hateful person. And to my dismay, this family I realized, I had been talking to since I was pregnant. In that moment I did not care. I wanted my baby. I sat there for an hour or so, before Josh came home and found me. We talked it out. It took a few days before my emotions began to evolve.

Now as I write this, I can say, I sincerely feel sorry for those emotions. That’s not who I am. I am not a hateful person. When I fall into my rabbit holes, I literally hit the bottom floor. Grief is a journey I have traveled before, but never at this magnitude. When I’m high, man I’m flying. I begin to think I’m handling things well and I’m okay. Then I’m swallowed by a rabbit hole and I just feel so lost.

There are AMAZING resources to families on this journey. I’ve had friends who’ve lost babies, and I never fully understood the depth of it, until now. I am so very grateful for the people who have been apart of my journey. I can’t imagine what their journey’s were like back before this community of people came together. My hope is, that while you follow our journey, and you pray for us and with us, that you feel apart of Logan’s legacy. And that the next time you hear of someone taking this journey, that you’ll be more adapt to supporting them. That maybe you’ll be lead to help others you don’t know on their journey. Just to know there are people we’ve never met reading what I’ve been writing the last several months, praying for us, supporting us, routing for us, loving us; it makes such a difference.