My First

When I was pregnant with Caroline and someone would ask me if it was my first, I almost always said no.  I got asked that question a LOT and only twice did I lie because I wanted to shut down the conversation.  After all, it wasn't my first pregnancy.  I would much rather tell a stranger my sad story and watch them feel awkward than listen to their smug and patronizing, "Ooh, your life is about to change!" or "Get your sleep now while you can!"

Eff you very much, my first baby died and I sure as hell don't need your advice or your ridiculous comments about how life-changing this experience is.

Not a very nice attitude, but what can I say?  Grief + Anxiety doesn't bring out the best in me.

As I wrote before, one of the nicest surprises about being pregnant again was that it gave me the opportunity to talk about Eliza.  To say her name, to explain that she mattered.  Everytime I shared her story, I almost always got a kind and compassionate response, and often I opened the way for someone else to share something important with me as well.  It wasn't always easy to talk about her, but I was always glad when I did.

Now I have a living, breathing, squawking little baby, and when strangers ask if she's my first...

I usually say yes.

Because she is my first five-and-a-half-week-old baby.  She is my first experience with breastfeeding and diaper changing and tummy time and lullabies and rocking chairs and car seats and strollers and bouncers.

In my heart, in reality, in all the ways that make me a mom, Eliza was and is and will always be my first baby.    But in the way I know people mean when they ask if Caroline is my first, well, I guess she's my first baby, too.

So it's a difficult question to answer.  It's one that I dread being asked.  And I've wondered if saying yes means that I'm taking the easy way out, that I'm pretending Eliza never existed.  This bothers me a lot, even though I know that everybody who knows us, everybody who matters, knows how important Eliza is to us, knows how much we love and miss her.  So why is it so hard to mention her to a stranger these days?

I think it's because I'm afraid I'll do it sort of apologetically.

Actually, my first baby died.  But it's ok that you asked!  See, look how great this new baby is!  I'm doing ok!  I'm totally not a crazy, unfit mother.  **insert big, fake smile**

I could talk about Eliza when I was pregnant and explain why this pregnancy wasn't all sunshine and unicorns, I could talk about Eliza and explain how much we missed her and how scared we were that something unexpected would go wrong again.

But now that something didn't go wrong...  I'm afraid that if I talk about Eliza, there is no way for me to adequately explain that I'm still not ok, and yet, things are really, really good.  I don't want to sound as though I'm awash in desperate grief on a daily basis because the truth is that I'm not drowning in it the way I was before.  But I absolutely don't want to sound as though I'm "all better" or having Caroline has fixed things, because nothing could be further from the truth.  I may try saying, "Yes and no," and see if I can get people to leave it at that.

I was clicking around the Still Standing online magazine (a wonderful resource for people struggling with loss and life after) and I found this article by Kristen Binder.  It's a reminder of why the internet community is so amazing--because when you don't quite know how you feel, someone else magically puts it into words for you.  Her article succinctly explained why I'm so reluctant to mention Eliza to the grocery store clerk or the nice lady at Walgreens:

"I used to think that I was doing some great disservice to Peyton's memory and life if I didn't mention her every time the question was asked, but after seeing how those conversations tended to play out, now I feel the opposite.  The moments when I choose not to share Peyton's life with strangers are less about protecting myself, and more about protecting her from the ridiculous notion that because she died as a baby, and I have gone on to have other children, her death is some how acceptable."

That's exactly it.  Because if I told someone that my first baby died, and they looked at Caroline and said, "Well these things happen for a reason," or "Well, everything works out in the end," I would COMPLETELY lose my shit.  Or, worse, I would just smile and nod and silently hate them with every fiber of my being.  Because Eliza was not a TRADE OFF for Caroline.  She didn't die so we could have this new baby.  And if anyone were to so much as imply that this is how things were "supposed" to work out...  It makes me cry just writing about it.

Kristen goes on to say, "The reason I don't share all of the details of Peyton with just anyone, is because I refuse to sit there and hear her worth insulted.  She is too special to me; too sacred, too amazing, and far too loved for me to leave the door open to having to her life minimized by some stranger's platitudes."

So sometimes I'll talk about Eliza.  And sometimes I won't.  The truth is that in so many ways, Caroline is our first baby.  Except she's not.  Eliza is.  And strangers can keep their platitudes to themselves, because for all the happiness that Caro has brought us, I still miss Eliza immensely and I don't know how on earth I've lived twenty months without her here.