I apologize in advance...

When I first found out, at 15 weeks, that I was pregnant with triplets, I got all kinds of advice. One of the things I was told, by more than 1 woman, was to find a good Moms of Multiples Club and join. So I did. I was looking forward to meeting moms who had "been there, done that". I knew they would be a wealth of information and tips on how to make life with triplets a little easier to navigate.

As much as I wanted to go to a few meetings before I delivered the boys, it never happened. The meetings always seemed to be on a night when we had something else going on, or I was too far along to drive myself anywhere anymore, and so on. Then Boe died.

A few members of the club have reached out to me over the last year, but I let my club membership expire. I no longer feel like I have a palce with them. Sure, all 3 of my boys' names are listed in my directory profile, but they would only ever meet 2 of them. Although I intensely dislike assumptions, I just assumed that no one else in that club could possibly understand what I was going through, and I severed all ties before really ever even getting involved.

I mention this solely because I have noticed how very isolating this kind of grief is. I, as Boe's mother, want people to feel that they can ask about him or me, uncomfortable though it may be. Check in on us, I guess. People feel as though they can't or shouldn't ask because it will be sad; almost as if the sadness I feel will be contagious and spread to them like an awful disease. Guess what? IT WILL ALWAYS BE SAD. Yes, hearing Boe's name spoken inevitably brings tears to my eyes, but not hearing it is exponentially more painful.

As I look back over the last 16 months, I see how many people have chosen to distance themselves from Adam and me. That's fine, we have made many wonderful new friends on this journey; friends who "get it" because they, too , have suffered a loss. This doesn't really bother me so much as the people who appear to be "involved" in my (our) life, yet only when the mood strikes them.

I openly and unabashedly admit that I feel (recently, anyway) as though I relate better to those who have lost a child. Maybe it's just where I'm at in my grief, and it will pass. BUT, I can't help but feel so isolated from the rest of the world.

I am with my kids all day, everyday. Yes, my husband is very good about giving me breaks, and we have family who will watch the kids when we want to go out to dinner or a movie, but, by and large, my life is no longer my own to do as I choose. Don't get me wrong, I love my children, but this can be very isolating in and of itself, couple that with grief and the stigma of being a woman who has lost a child, and I may as well be in solitary confinement.

I feel like I am still making pretty much the same efforts I always have to reach out to friends, a few of whom are out of state. Ironically enough, I feel like the out of state friends keep in better touch with me than the some of the in state ones.

I get the sense that I am beginning to ramble, so I'll just make my point. This lonliness SUCKS. Feeling like I have no one except Barney or Elmo to confide in SUCKS. Feeling like I am always the one calling, texting, emailing SUCKS (are your fingers broken??). Yes, we all have day to day stuff that needs to get done in our lives, but I really don't like feeling like I am the one doing all the work to check in and see how your life is going only to have you not even acknowledge my effort for days or respond to me with some random comment that has nothing to do with how you are.

I need to know that I am surrounded by people who get who I was, who I currently am, and who I hope to be as I make my way through this. If you don't have the fortitude to see me or our friendship through that - PEACE OUT. No hard feelings, just goodbye will do.

I don't need anyone to hold my hand, I just need to know I am not the only one who gives a shit. I need to know that in the midst of your crazy life, you sometimes think of me too. I apologize if this was an unorganized post, I have a feeling it really got off track, but the more I wrote, the more I realized how very irritated and pissed off I am right now. That's all, I do hope I have not frightened you off.

Hindsight

They say that hindsight is always 20/20, right? These days, I'm not so sure. I look back over what has happened in the last 2 years and I am not convinced that I see things anymore clearly.

The day that we were told Boe had passed away set off a crazy chain of events in our life. In an instant, our worries multiplied from "will we all be OK?", "how long will we spend in the NICU" and "what will happen when we are ALL home?" to "do you want an autopsy?", "do you want to hold him?", "what kind of funeral arrangements do you want?", all the while still trying to care for our little girl at home and our 2 surviving boys in the NICU.

Recently, I find myself pondering many of the above questions and wondering, if I could go back, would I do anything differently? Now that the dust has settled, a routine is in place and my husband and I finally feel that we are beginning to emerge from "the haze", the answer is YES.

As far as conducting an autopsy goes, I do not believe that I would have one performed if I could go back. The result would be no different, Boe would still be gone. The fact that the results may even have come back as inconclusive offers NO solace whatsoever. Also, the thought of what happens to a human body during autopsy was just too much for me to bear. I shall forever ask "WHY?", so the thought of my Boe with a "y" shaped incision on his chest to POSSIBLY get an answer was just not territory to which I wished to travel.

I remember the nurse asking me, as I was being prepped for my C-section, if I had thought about holding Boe. Of course I had, but after he was born and nestled in his isolette in the NICU. I am so grateful that I made the choice to hold him; feeling his weight, his warmth, his LIFE in my arms ignited in me a desire to make sure that his brothers and sister will ALWAYS know who he was, what he did for our family, and that life is precious, not to be squandered. In hindsight, I do have a few regrets about the time we spent with Boe.

I regret not holding him LONGER. I hold Adler and Cameron everyday, but the feel of Boe in my arms is lost to me forever. I regret not dressing him in the "coming home" outfit I had for him. It was a little gown with ABC all over it; he and his brothers each had one. Adler and Cameron both wore theirs home. Just because Boe did not come home with us does not mean he is not HOME; he should have been bundled in his cute outfit for his arrival there. I also wish that I had a picture off all 3 boys together. I do not know if this is something that even would have been possible, as Adler and Cameron were in the NICU and had tubes and leads galore attached to their little bodies, but I long for it nonethless.

Boe's service was beautiful. I may have preferred some secular music, but I loved every word that was spoken and shared. Looking back, would I make the same choices again? We opted to have Boe cremated. I can't speak for Adam, but I know for me the thought of having to choose a casket that SMALL was so heartbreaking and so outside my realm of comprehension at that point, cremation seemed like the only option. Boe is currently "sharing" a niche with my Opa (grandfather); my Oma (grandmother) offered the space until we decide what we want to do. It was so kind of her to do this, and took the responsibility of having to decide NOW off of our shoulders, and for that I am grateful; however, I can't help but be sad when we go to visit Boe at the cemetary and there is no sign that he is there. The placard says "Albert W. Muller" and the years of his life. There is no acknowledgement that my little boy is in there resting with his Opa. I find myself resentful as we walk down the corridor to his niche, reading all of the other placards; these people all lived such long lives. My Boe would have 1 date on his stone, April 22, 2010.

In a way, I envy some of the other BLM's I have had the privilege of meeting. They have a place to go to visit their children where the world can see who is there. Their babies are with other babies and children, playing in 1 kickass playground with the best recess monitor I can imagine. Is my little Boe allowed to play with them? Or, do they not recognize or acknowledge that he is one of "them"? More and more I want a place for Boe, a place that tells his story so all who pass by will know what a sweet little angel is watching over them. I know, in time, we'll decide what to do. For now, all I have is hindsight, and as I said, it's not necessarily any more clear.

I think, sometimes, it's worse. I can't go back and change my mind about certain things, what's done is done. I know that none of this matters to Boe, he loves me and his dad and his family no matter what. I just wanted so damn much for him.

Anytime, anyplace

It has been almost 15 months to the day since we lost Boe, and IT just happened. I openly sobbed in public over the absence of my Baby Boe. Not just silent subtle tears that most would not even notice; no, shoulders heaving, voice raised 3 octaves higher than usual crying.

It started off quietly, just crocodile tears rolling silently down my cheeks. I thought I might actually be able to stop it before it got out of hand and no one would be the wiser. WRONG!

I was standing in line at a little shop in Disneyland waiting to buy Mickey ears. Problem is, they were ears for Boe. His sister and brothers all have ears, and I decided Boe needed his own. I knew just what I wanted, Baby Blue ears with his name embroidered on the back.

I picked them off the shelf and found my place in line. As I thought about seeing his name on his ears, the tears started. I was reminded that he would never place them on his head and pull at the elastic, he would never outgrow them and need a new pair, there would never be the picture of my "3 Mouseketeers" in front of Sleeping Beauty's castle. These ears would remain empty, pristine, suspended in time.

I tried my best to put these feeling aside as I stepped up to the counter, and as I said, I almost managed to do it. But then, the cashier asked for the name I wanted on the hat and how it was spelled. My throat closed up, but somehow I managed to choke out B O E and then pay for the ears.

As I stepped away from the counter looking down at my wallet as I tried to jam my change back inside, I had no more fight in me. The tears took over and the sobbing began. As luck would have it, at that moment, my best friend who was with us, walked in to the store and asked me what was wrong. All I could do was hang my head further as I tried to find the words to tell her what was wrong.

I finally managed to explain that Boe deserved to wear his ears, he SHOULD BE THERE to wear the damn ears. She understood immediately and helped me calm down. Of course, people in the store were staring, but I soooooo did not care. I felt like Biff in the movie "Back to the Future"; I seriously considered looking right at those who were staring at me and shouting, "What are you lookin' at, Butthead?"

I fought this urge, wiped my tears, composed myself and walked to the counter to pick up Boe's hat. The cashier must have had a sense of what had transpired because she looked at me very sympathetically, place the ears very gently in a bag and told me she hoped I'd be able to enjoy the rest of my day.

I am sure that this will happen to me again on numerous occasions over the course of time that I have left in this life. Will I be more prepared? Will I be able to take control of my emotions more quickly? Probably not. That's the funny thing about grief, it does not wait for a "more appropriate" time or place. It rears its ugly head when it wants, where it wants, it does not hold back.

It is like the tide lapping at the shore or a beach goer's ankles. Sometimes it is peaceful, there, something simply to be tolerated but not bothersome. Then, in the blink of an eye, it surrounds you, engulfs you, pulls you under and leaves you gasping for air as you struggle to the surface.

No, there is no way to prepare for it, there is no way to escape it; it is only to be endured and hopefully, God willing, bring strength to those who must fight it.

Mended

OK, so here it is. I am pregnant again, like 20 weeks pregnant. Some of you knew that already, but most of you did not. When Adam and I found out, on Libby's 2nd birthday, that I was pregnant again we were shocked. I had just suffered a miscarriage in January, and we had been using protection. After confirming the news, I was immediately flooded with all kinds of emotions and questions.

I was scared. What if I made it almost to the end of my pregnancy, only to lose my little baby again? Could Adam and I handle one more little mouth to feed and bottom to diaper in the midst of the chaos that we call life and grieivng for our Little Boy Lost?

I was confused. What was God trying to tell me? Why had he taken Boe away only to send me this little bean? What was my lesson to learn? Have I not been working diligently to learn it as best I can for the last year now?

I was ambivalent. I actually convinced myself that there would be no heartbeat for the first ultrasound or doctor exam. I figured if I went if "knowing" that, it wouldn't hurt so badly when they confirmed what I already "knew" to be true.

Now, at just past 20 weeks, I am hopeful. Hopeful that this little boy's birth will be a step towards something wonderful, good and full. We shall never be able to put back perfectly the pieces of our hearts that were strewn about when Boe passed, but I do believe that our little Rafe will help us to see that even in the darkest of places there will always be light.It is up to us to find the light and run toward it, embrace it and allow it to soothe what pains us.

Margaret Mitchell's iconic Rhett Butler said it best: "...I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and place them together and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken - and I'd rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived."

The pain of losing Boe will always be with me, but I think I need to leave it as it is. If I carry that pain, he'll always be close. I know my arms and my heart are big enough to not only carry that pain, but to also make room for the light and joy. To make way for the sunshine that inevitably follows the rain.

My new mantra

To want what I have, and take what I'm given with grace...

Fear

The anger of which I spoke in my last post is still very much alive, just not so prevalent (although I have a feeling that the poor Best Buy delivery guy that I gave a hard time for refusing to come in my back patio until I confined my dog may argue differently). It has subsided somewhat from the forefront of my thoughts and has made way for a new emotion...fear.


I'm not afraid of my everyday life or routine tasks. I am afraid for my children and my family. The other day, I was feeding my boys their lunch. We were having our usual fun when all of a sudden I was overcome with this morbid fear that Adler was not Adler. Thoughts of, "Oh my God, what if the hospital made a mistake? What if this is really Boe and it was Adler who died?" began running through my mind. It was paralyzing to think that we may have been mourning the "wrong" child for the last year. I know in my heart and my mind that this is not the case, that Adler is here and Boe is gone, but in that moment, the fear was so raw and so real. I just looked at my boys and cried, trying to feed them through my tears.


During my pregnancy with my boys I had a false sense of security. I had fooled myself into believing that God loved me too much to bless me with 3 babies and then have something bad happen. I had myself fooled into believing that all would be well. Now, unfortunately, I know all too well that this is not the case. I know that bad things happen to good people and that, in an instant, our lives can change before our very eyes. I looked at my daughter, Libby, the other day and marveled in her preciousness. She is funny, sweet and dear. She has beautiful blue eyes and golden curls. If I could gobble her up, I would. As I admired her, I was suddenly stricken with an awful thought. What if she were no longer here? What if she were part of my life one second and gone the next?


The old me would have said that God loves me too much to put me throught the loss of a child again. But the new me knows that this is not true. I don't get a "pass" just because I have been through it before. I am just as likely to have another awful loss or event happen in my life as the next guy, and it scares the living crap out of me. It is so hard to not let this fear just stop me in my tracks. Every fiber of my being wants to be the "helicopter mom" who hovers around her children to prevent anything awful from happening.


But who am I to stop what is meant to be? No one. So many people have told me to just "hand it over to God" to let him do the work. How can I hand over what was never truly mine to begin with? When we lost Boe, I realized that NOTHING is in our hands. All I can do is hope for the best in each day. I must live my life to its fullest to honor Boe and the life he will never have and to honor my husband and living children. They all deserve a woman who is willing to risk immense pain and loss in exchange for great love and beauty. Yes, this makes me afraid, VERY afraid; but I will not let it define me. Rather, overtime, I shall learn to let it strengthen me and make me a better version of the woman I am right now.

Anger

Dear God,

Lately, anger has been a prevalent issue at group. I know it is one of the steps in the grieving process, and I have been thinking about it alot. At first I thought there was something wrong with me because as I looked back over the last year, I really couldn't pinpoint a time at which I felt truly angry that Boe was gone. As I recall the last year's events, there really is no one I can blame for what happened, so how can I possibly be angry?

Yet, the more I think about it, the more the anger builds. The more it builds, the more horrified and disgusted I am with myself. I am angry at YOU. When Adam and I found out we were expecting triplets, our world turned upside down. How were we gong to do it? I would have to stay home and we are both teachers. How would I care for 3 babies and a toddler all by myself? What if my children were not OK since a multiple birth presents with such a plethora of risks, how would we handle it? The answer, to me, was simple. We just would.

God, I believed in you. I believed that you would not give me more than you felt I could handle. I believed that you must think me pretty special to entrust me with not 1, but 3, new babies. Every night as I put Libby to bed, she and I would pray. Our last prayer was always for the health and safety of her unborn brothers and mommy. Until April 22, 2010 our prayers were being answered.

Perhaps I had myself fooled. Throughout my pregnancy I had myself convinced that God loved me too much to bless me with 3 precious boys only to have something bad happen. God, something worse than bad happened, something unspeakable happened. In the days immediately following Boe's death, I clung to you. I was sure that if I held fast to my faith, I would be OK. It comforted me to know that Boe was safe in Heaven with you.

Now 1 year later, knowing that he is safe with you is not a comfort, but a source of anger and pain. Wasn't I good enough to be his mommy? Was there something wrong with me? With Adam? Don't we deserve him? Adam and I are good people, we live our lives trying to be of service to others. We live our lives trying to do the right thing, and look where it got us.

God, I know this may sound sacrilegious or blasphemous. I think that is why it has taken me so long to identify and speak about the source of my anger. I am ashamed that I am angry with you. I no longer wish to go to church on Sundays; to do so is actually a painful reminder of my loss, as it is the last place Boe was actually close enough to touch. I no longer say prayers for health and safety before I go to bed each night, what is the point?

Sayings like, "God does not give you more than you can handle" or, "God has a plan" or, "God doesn't make mistakes" no longer comfort me or give me the strength to keep going. Rather they anger me and make me shake my head because I cannot handle that Boe is gone, I do not understand how you keeping my baby is a good plan, could it be that you did, in fact, make a mistake?

God, I used to turn to you in my deepest, darkest hours of need. I would pray, bargain and plead for you to help me sort out what was wrong in my life, and you always seemed to deliver. But now, you are the one who has caused my deepest darkest hour of need. How am I to free myself this time? To whom can I turn now?