Tag Archives: grief


1 Mar

9am – Get woken up by Shmerson after working until 2am – reluctantly drag my butt out of bed.

10am – Leave to run errands.

10:30am – Buy Bunny a few new clothes because most of her stuff is very winter, and days are gradually getting warmer.

11:15 am – Buy Bunny her first high chair.

11:45- Buy a blender stick to make baby food.

12:30 – Grocery shopping. Contemplate store bought rice cereal vs homemade.

1:30pm – Arrive home, give Bunny her bottle.

2:00pm – Shmerson starts putting together the high chair.

2:00pm – I finally – a month after she’s outgrown them – pack up all of Bunny’s 0-3 clothes. Decide that while I’m at it I should probably put together her day care bag, because she’s starting in two days.

2:30pm –  stare in wonder at the onesies that Bunny once drowned in and now don’t fit her any more.

4:00pm  – Finish everything. Decide we should take some family pictures.

4:15pm – Send Shmerson to sleep and decide that even though it’s late, we should try out the high chair and our fourth day of our first solid food – sweet potato.

4:30pm – realize this was a huge mistake, because Bunny is grumpy and tired. Give up, clean up.

4:45pm – Give Bunny a teething ring because she’s in pain. Two teeth coming in at the same time. Bunny falls asleep in my arms.

5:15pm – Bottle. We need bigger bottles because she’s starting to need more and when I put in the formula it literally touches the cover. It’s becoming harder to mix.

6:00pm – Bunny’s in pain. Spend an hour keeping her calm.

7:00pm – Let her play. She rolls over twice in her play gym.

8:00pm – Bedtime ritual. I decide to let Shmerson handle it. Don’t know why – but I need a night off.

9:00pm – Shmerson and I eat dinner and watch an oscar nominated movie

1:00am – I’m late with the dream feed because of the movie (that needed to be paused too often).  Bunny wakes up because of it. I feel guilty but let it go – I’m getting better at that.

I give her her bottle, singing her our usual bedtime medley to keep her in sleep mode:

Easy by Faith No More

Ironic by Alanis Morissette

Hey Jude by the Beatles

Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen

and finish off with her favorite – Let it Be.

(Yes I know it’s an eclectic mix)

She polishes off the bottle. I put her in her crib but don’t want to stay. Shmerson goes in and makes sure she falls back asleep.

2:20am : I lose it. My baby girl is six months old this week. She starts day care in two days. She’s growing teeth. She’s learning how to eat solids. Time is speeding by. Too fast. I don’t want day care to start. I remember all the reasons we need to do it. But I don’t want it any more.

2:30am: Realize I spent most of the day emotionally detached because holy crap  – this is too much at once. I know this is all fun and exciting stuff. But this is it – this is the first time I truly start to let my baby girl grow, and be independent.

This is it. She’s too big. I can’t stay at home with her any more. I need to work. I need a sane schedule. No – WE need a sane schedule.

I’m so excited to see the person she’s growing up to be. But I’m already starting to miss things that just aren’t there any more.

I heard someone say this the other day (will find who and cite it soon):

Joy is grief turned inside out.*

Yep. Pretty much.

This was my Friday.

3:30am – I publish this post and wonder how the hell I’ll fall asleep tonight, and how to deal with tomorrow morning’s puffy, cried-out eyes.

Joy is grief turned inside out.


* I heard this quoted by author Jennifer Senior. The person who originally said it was psychiatrist George Valiant

2 Years

20 Feb

He was born and died on a Tuesday

But after a while, I realized that I couldn’t hate all Tuesdays.

He was born and died on the 21st.

But after a while, I realized that I couldn’t hate all of the 21sts.

He was born and died in February.

I still hate all of February.

Last year, on February 21st, we planted an almond tree, and I went in to get my cerclage to keep Bunny safe inside me. The end of one year marked the beginning of a new journey.

This year, on February 21st, we’ll be spending the day looking for a new home for us, so we don’t have to commute so much. So we can truly have the time to enjoy our family. Another new journey begins.

Two years ago, on February 21st, my son died and was born. I guess that too was the beginning of a journey.

I hope every February 21st will be able to mark beginnings and not ends.

Tomorrow will be sad, tomorrow will be happy, tomorrow will be hard. Tomorrow will be mostly about looking forward, not looking back.

So today I want to look back. But not flash back. Look back, with hindsight, with insight.

Look back and thank my son.

Thank you Nadav for teaching me about bravery.

Thank you Nadav for making your parents’ marriage stronger.

Thank you Nadav, for teaching me that I can overcome anything.

Thank you Nadav, for giving me perspective, and making things that once seemed insurmountable now seem trivial.

Thank you Nadav, for setting up the chain of events that eventually led us to your amazing little sister.

Thank you Nadav, for teaching me what it truly means to be a parent. For making me a better parent to her.

Thank you Nadav, for making me take a moment to appreciate every coo, every smile, and yes, even every cry from her.

I think that one day, when she is old enough to understand, when she is old enough to learn about her big brother, she will thank you too.

Thank you Nadav for visiting us and giving us these gifts. I just wish you could have stayed longer.


Tomorrow, please look at the sky, or a pretty flower, or your spouse, or your children, and think of my son. If only just for a moment.

Because he deserves to be remembered.

I would give him more than that if I could.

What’s Left Behind

4 Feb

So – I’ll save you the usual apologies for being gone so long. Until we move and/or get Bunny into daycare, sporadic will just have to do. 🙂

This post has been running through my head for a while, though I admit it’s still a jumble. I’m hoping that writing it out will help clarify some things.

What is left when the wreckage of the last 3.5 years is cleared?

I’ve been thinking about that question a lot lately. The last 5(!) months since Bunny was born have been a whirlwind. New job, big decisions, and of course the huge life change that is just having her here. I admit there are still days that I “remember” I’m a mom and freak the fuck out. She is still in a lot of ways an abstract to me. But she’s slowly but surely becoming a little person with her own wants needs and desires, so the abstract is gaining focus.

Last month, Shmerson and I re-watched the first two seasons of “Sherlock” (don’t be so impressed, it’s only six episodes), in preparation for the new season. While watching it, I realized that I remembered NOTHING. Not one single thing about this show, which I knew that I loved and I always categorized as brilliant. When I mentioned this to Shmerson, I noted: “We must have watched it while I was drugged up.”

I don’t think I hid this here, but I don’t think I discussed it much either: After losing Nadav I spent the better part of six months HEAVILY medicated. My pregnancy with Bunny I spent on very strong anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds, which meant I was mostly emotionally detached from everything that entire time (and it wasn’t just the meds, it was also a defense mechanism). I credit that medication with saving my sanity and my life. But it does mean that there’s a good year or so of my life that passed in a complete haze.  I started taking anti-depressants for the first time in December of 2010 – over 3 years ago – which generally numbed my feelings. I am now only taking Xan.ax to deal with my anxiety disorder, and I’m on a very small dose. For the first time in 3 years – I’m no longer in a haze or emotionally detached due to medication.

It gets more complicated: My first miscarriage happened just two months after our wedding. From that point on, I was a woman on a mission. I abandoned literally EVERYTHING in pursuit of a baby. In June of 2010, had you asked – I would have said that my greatest ambition was to direct feature films. I had already gotten a development grant and I was getting closer and closer to that goal. If you would have told me then that I’d abandon it all to accommodate a string of high-risk pregnancies, and then become a content manager at a start-up and actually ENJOY it I would have thought that the notion was absurd.

My first loss turned everything upside down for me, and the world has only really begun to straighten up now. There were moments during the last 3.5 years that I *thought* I had things figured out. I “made decisions” regarding my future. I “pushed on”. In hindsight – those moments were a total crock.

I spent 6 months thinking I wanted to be a teacher. I spent a year and a half teaching.

I do NOT want to be a teacher.

I went back to school to get BA level psych credits so that I could do a Master’s in Art Therapy.

I do NOT want to be an art therapist.

I also don’t think I want to be a filmmaker, though that option hasn’t completely been taken off the table. 10 years of pursuing it and 2 degrees keep it perpetually on the table.

I love my job – but I’m also not sure I want to be doing that for the rest of my life.

But this is not just about career choices.

Out of the last 3.5 years, I spent 84 weeks of them pregnant. That’s almost 20 months. Practically two years.

I spent the remainder either attempting to get pregnant or grieving a lost pregnancy, or both at the same time.

(For the sake of this argument, I’m not counting of course the 5 months I have now spent raising Bunny).

That time basically demolished me completely. Giving birth to Bunny only cleared the wreckage, and of course, I can’t rely on her to rebuild. This is about me.

I need to figure out who I am now. That’s kind of a huge deal.

The last 3.5 years have called almost all of my assumptions about myself into question. Parts of my personality that I was CONVINCED were inherent to it are now absolutely gone.

A small example: I was absolutely 100% convinced that I will always be a person who struggles to diet. Gestational diabetes changed that. I have been consistently shedding pounds since giving birth and I’m now 5 pounds less than I was before getting pregnant with Bunny. I have a good 20 to go before I reach my ideal weight, but I’m getting there, and it’s not even CLOSE to being a struggle. Patience and willpower? Ha! Small potatoes compared to the hell of a high-risk pregnancy.

Any free headspace I have these days is dedicated to two things:

1) Figuring out who I am

2) Making an effort to fix the things I don’t like about myself.

There are very few things I know about myself now. This is what I’ve managed to figure out so far:

I know I both love and am terrified by being a mother.

I know I love my husband.*

I know that I have a strong survival instinct, and I am incredibly stubborn.

I know I’m good at my job.

I know I’m a good writer (prose mostly, ok at scripts, suck at  poetry).

I know I don’t trust doctors.

I know that generally, people tend to like me when they  meet me.

I know that I have absolutely NO fashion sense, nor do I have an interest in developing one.

I know I have some serious self-esteem issues

I know that purple is my favorite color, Faith No More is my favorite band, my favorite books are the Harry Potter series, the Hunger Games trilogy, and the odd one out – “The Music of Chance” by Paul Auster. I’m a 90’s pop culture junkie and I love (modern) Dr. Who and (not-so-modern) Monty Python movies.

I know I’m a good cook, though I’m no longer sure what my favorite food is. It used to be lobster. I think it may now be french fries. Or maybe fresh-baked white bread with butter.

I know I’m a good mother, a good wife, a good friend, a good daughter, and a good sister. Though in my weakest moments I question all of that.

If you’re counting, that’s basically 12 things. Everything else is up in the air.

Wait – I know one more thing: That whatever I figure out about who I am, I want Bunny to be proud of that person. I know I need to lead by example.

The wreckage has cleared – it’s time to rebuild.

* Last night Shmerson and I had a bit of a mini-fight. It ended with me explaining all of this to him. He told me: “I don’t know what you’re going to be either, but I can’t wait to find out, because I know it’ll be amazing.” I love him so fucking much.

Havaya Metakenet Redux

23 Dec

Quietly and without much fanfare, two important milestones for this blog have gone unacknowledged. A couple of months ago I published my 450th post (interestingly enough, it was my official “one month” post). I am now (slowly) crawling toward post 500.

A week ago was my three year blogaversary.

On December 16th, 2010 – just a bit after midnight (so really – exactly one year and one week ago today) I published my first post (for savvy readers, you will notice it has a very similar title to the post announcing Bunny’s birth. This wasn’t by accident).  I had no readers. I had  no idea there were other blogs out there. I had just taken my first ever Xan.ax, and after months of hell trying to come to terms with two miscarriages and battling depression and panic attacks, I found some clarity. I found the drive to write again.

Little did I know what I had in store for me. What those three years would bring, and the world and people they would expose me to.

I admit, even though I was broken when I wrote my first post, I still didn’t think it could get any worse. Then it did. Then once again I didn’t think it could get any worse.

And it did again.

And then I broke into a million pieces and it was this space that kept me together. But also this space that kept me remembering things I didn’t want to remember any more.

So I denied. I podcasted. I ran away.

But then I came back. I came back here because no matter what, this space chronicles and honors the most difficult journey I have ever taken in my life. And I choose to continue to chronicle it. Because the journey doesn’t end with a baby.

When you lose so much, you cannot be magically fixed.

These past few weeks have been insane. Going back to work and trying to get back to living has been a challenge. I have been in a cocoon for so long it’s been a hard road to get to know myself again. And that road is just beginning. I am slowly reclaiming my body. I am slowly coming out of the hard shell I built around myself. Slowly. Slowly.

I won’t lie to you, it’s been hard. But it’s also been amazing. It has been – finally – one Havaya Metakenet after another. If you don’t feel like going back and reading that post – havaya metakenet is a Hebrew phrase meaning “restorative experience”. I’ve been longing for them since the moment I lost my first pregnancy (that particular post was written when this blog was about 4 months old). And I’ve been striving for them since the moment Bunny was born.

I’m not sure if it’s the end of the year, the fatigue, the transitions, or all of the above that have made me count the restorative experiences that I have had in the past few months. Lately, instead of flashing back to the most awful day of my life, I have been flashing back to the most wonderful day. That in itself is a restorative experience. It’s not that I no longer remember. I remember him. I think of him. I love him completely. But Shmerson and I told ourselves long ago that he would not want us to always be sad. So I think he would be happy that he is remembered more often now in his little sister’s gaze. Not in his mother’s trauma.

Today, while striving for a new restorative experience, I realized how many of these experiences I have already had in the past 3.5 months. It has all been so overwhelming, but today, I counted them.

  • My daughter, just out of the womb, being laid on my stomach as we waited for the cord to finish pulsing. I couldn’t see her. I had yet to see her. But I felt her breathing. I had my hand on her back. I could feel her –  tangible and present. It was the happiest moment of my life up until that point.
  • A few hours later, laying in recovery, trying out of habit to count kicks. Understanding that there were no more kicks to be counted. Getting up out of bed frantically and running to the nursery, to beg them to finish their tests so that I could finally have my daughter. Standing outside the nursery at 6am, sobbing. Waiting for them to open the door. Stepping in, being lead to my daughter. Looking at her properly for the first time. Taking her in. Understanding that she is living, she is breathing, she is real. She is mine. Well – at least trying to understand it. I don’t think I fully understand it even today.
  • Every day. Every song I sing to her as I put her to sleep or as we play. Every time she follows me across the room with her eyes. Every time she gives me one of her amazing smiles. She is so generous with those smiles. Every time we have a “conversation” with her coos. She is an open, loving, warm, happy, generous little person. I cannot believe I actually had a part in making her. She amazes me every. Single. Day.

bunny with a bunny

Nadav was born and died about a month before Purim (for those who don’t know – that’s the holiday where us Jews dress up and eat candy).

I was still broken. Shmerson had just started a new job. They encouraged employees to dress up. I still could barely get my butt out of the house. But I was determined to help him with a costume. We dressed him up like Dr. Who. I even made a homemade sonic screwdriver. I stayed at home that day. Happy that some fun was had. Broken that it was had without my son. I don’t know why those two days of making that costume stick out so much in my memory. But I feel those days. The ever-present pain, wanting to break through a facade I was putting on. Trying to be happy. Trying to live, to honor him. Barely able to do it, yet doing it ferociously.

Purim is still about 3 months away. Today I started a pinterest board. I want Shmerson to dress up as Dr. Who again. I want to be the Tardis. I want Bunny to be a little Dalek.

To add another restorative experience to the list.

With the hopes of adding many more to come.

To all of my wonderful readers out there, who have stuck it out for three long years, or who have just now found me, thank you for being here. Thank you for your patience as I navigate my way through this strange new world. I hope your 2014 is full of restorative experiences.

I’m striving to make mine chock full of them.

The Painting

6 Nov

There’s a painting I made a bit after Nadav died. It’s full of abstract shapes and colors, and resonates a sort of calm chaos that’s hard to describe. I hid his name amongst the shapes, masking it, so it’s there, but only I can see it. I don’t tell anyone where it is. It’s for me and him. The painting is for him.
It hangs in our living room, right above the spot I like to sit on the couch. Where I bring my legs up and lean Bunny on them to look in her eyes. Where I sing to her and feed her. Where I comfort her when she cries.

We hung it there before she was born, just because it fit there best amongst the rest of the paintings in the space. There was no other reason.

Now that she is older;
She’s started to recognize shapes and colors.
She makes eye contact with me and smiles.

Sometimes I lift her up and try to get her to look me in the eye, and give me a smile. I find her looking right above me, where the picture hangs.

Then after looking for a while, she looks down again. She finds my eyes, I kiss her and she smiles.
And I smile back.
I’m glad she likes the colors and shapes. I’m glad it hangs where it hangs.


24 Oct

A couple of notes first:

No new ep of the podcast this week due to jet-lagginess, hung-over-ness, and nauseousness, but we’ll be back next week with a vengeance (ness)?

And I’m back from the States! It was an awesome trip all around.

But that’s not what I want to write about today. Well, kind of.

On the last day in New York, just as we were about to fly home, I lost it.

Because the fact is that I wasn’t supposed to be on that trip. I was supposed to be home caring for my baby boy.

As amazing as the trip was, my life was supposed to be on a different path.

Grief is a lonely feeling. And though I know that a lot of people mourned Nadav, I still feel very much alone. It’s not for lack of support. i am feel very loved both here and in the rest of my life.

It’s just that I’m the one with empty arms. I’m the one who carried him.

I’m sure most of you have noticed that this space has been very empty as of late. I’ve been giving a lot of thought as to why that is. Why I keep reading your blogs but not commenting, why I can’t bring myself to write here as often as I used to.

And I think it has to do with this lonely space that I’m in. I don’t write here because when I’m not distracting myself with the day-to-day of my life, all I have to say is how sad I am. How empty I feel. And I don’t want to write about that, because writing about it doesn’t make it any better. And I promised myself that this space would not become just about that. I don’t want it to be that.

I think I’m just in a place where I need to keep most of this internal, so I hope you’ll all forgive me if my posts here continue to be sporadic for the next little while. I’ll be back here when I have something original to say, I promise.

In the meantime, please keep listening to the podcast. The girls and I love doing it, and we love that you listen.

And please be patient with me while I work through this.

Love to all of you.

Crappy Birthday to Me

25 Sep

So today I’m 32 years old.

It’s also Yom Kippur eve, which means that at 5pm today everything closed down, and no cars were on the streets. Needless to say, the drunken celebration was last night and today all I have is quiet.

I generally love Yom Kippur. I don’t fast, I don’t go to services – but the quiet that falls on the entire country is beautiful to me.

Since no cars are on the road, kids ride their bikes in the middle of the street and everyone walks to some central place in the city and just hangs out for most of the night.

Today though, I couldn’t enjoy walking in the middle of the road. I couldn’t enjoy this rare bit of quiet.

All I could do was think about the fact that today I turn 32, and he was supposed to be here with me.

Shmerson and I would have taken him out in his stroller, and walked around, taking in the quiet and the kids on their bikes.

I would have held him as my mother brought out the cake, and he would have helped me blow out the candle. He would have been three months old.

So today, instead of quiet I feel the emptiness of what would have been.

And hope against all hope that next year – 33 – will be easier.

Grief, Birthdays, and Pee Sticks

21 Sep

So the truth is that giving up the illusion of control comes with some consequences.

These last few days I’ve been thinking about Nadav. A lot.

I’ve once again been sucked into the if-only-I-had-done wormhole. Replaying those last couple of weeks in my mind. Thinking about what I could have done differently.

My 32nd birthday is this coming Tuesday. I spent my 30th pregnant, and technically my 31st pregnant with Nadav (though he was just a follie at the time).

Now I’m going to be 32 and I’m still in the same place, only carrying a few extra pounds and the grief of losing my baby boy.

Yes, things are better than they were.

But the second I gave up obsessing over getting pregnant again I went back to obsessing about my son. Apparently those fucking pee sticks were taking up space, pushing thoughts of Nadav further into the dark regions of my brain. Now that there is no white noise the clarity of grief is back.

I just hope that this time it doesn’t stay around for too long.

My headspace is a mess today. I want to write more but I can’t come up with a single coherent thought.

So this will have to do for now.

Sunshine and Unicorn Farts

30 Aug

I haven’t been spending much time in this space lately. Here’s what I’ve been doing instead:


Podcasting (Thank you all for listening and commenting, btw!)


Planning our trip to the States


A couple of weeks ago, I started feeling a shift. After an intense EMDR session where we talked extensively about Nadav, I spent a couple of weeks in a haze. Then one day I woke up, and for the first time in almost two years I was beyond just the basic “functional”. I was energetic. I was prolific. I was brave.

After a slow simmer for a very long time, I have boiled over in the best of ways.

Nothing has changed. I am still not ovulating. I am still not pregnant. I am still mourning my son.

Everything has changed. I am dealing with things differently. I am handling my situation. I am finding courage to do things I haven’t dared to do in years.

This was a process that came to a head, that finally paid off. That finally made me stop saying the words “I am so freaking tired.”

I’m still tired of the waiting. I’m still tired of my body failing me. I’m still going to fight to make that stop. But I’m starting to put at least a part of my energy elsewhere. I’m starting to finally realize that wallowing won’t make things move any faster.

So if I’m not here as often, know it’s because I’m busy putting my life back together. Know that you all get major credit for helping me do that just by continuing to come here. Continuing to comment. Always being an amazing source of support.

My life isn’t sunshine and unicorn farts. But it’s finally starting to feel like a life.


1 Aug

Today an amazing woman, who’s daughter went through exactly what I did with Nadav, told me a story.

In the Jewish faith, there is a belief in a form of reincarnation. That our time on this earth is meant to fix something.

Jews believe that a child who chooses to leave this world early, is a holy soul with very little left to fix. In the case of stillbirth, a child who chooses to leave that soon is a “Tsadik” – a righteous soul.

The womb that carried that child is considered holy – with an extraordinary amount of love.

You guys all know that I’m more pastafarian than anything else. I’ve also been told the first part of that belief before  – I’ve been told that Nadav’s soul was a righteous one. I always dismissed it as a load of bunk and not much of a comfort.

But something about the way this woman said it. She said: You didn’t make him leave. He left. It happened. You didn’t make your water break, it just broke. His righteous soul chose to leave your loving and holy womb.

Something about this rings true to me, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.

All I know is that I feel a little better today.

No More Room

18 Jul

So some of you may know that I’m taking a class this week. It’s one of the pre-requisite classes for my Art Therapy Masters, called “Physiological Psychology.”

And it’s kicking my ass. I haven’t been in school for more than 6 years, and this isn’t just school – this is biology. Neurons and cortexes and whatnot. Me learn science! Me haz smart! Monkeys fly out of my butt!

It’s five days, 6 hours a day starting at 8:30am. Needless to say, my brain is fried.

So boy was I surprised when somehow, in the middle of this godawful class, I found some new perspective.

A couple of days ago I noticed that one of the students in the class spoke Hebrew with an American accent. I didn’t know anyone in the class, and I was looking for a partner to do the final project with me in English, so I decided to go up and introduce myself. Tammy, 36, mother of 4.

We starting chatting up a storm and pretty soon we were exchanging life stories. Unlike a lot of people, she didn’t give me a look of pity or treat me differently when I told her about the three early losses and Nadav. Though she has only had one loss her pregnancies have been full of complications and anxiety. I don’t know how she managed to “get” me. But I knew right away that this woman got me.

Today we continued our marathon conversation and the issue of me being unhappy with my current support system came up. You all know I’m not in a great space right now. Though I feel there’s been an amazing improvement with my therapist, there’s a lot of bottled up trauma and grief that I just don’t feel safe enough to confront.

So Tammy suggested a few alternative therapies that helped her deal with her high-risk pregnancies, and I wrote down some stuff to google. We continued to chat about life in general, and trauma in particular.

I brought up the fact that my biggest worry right now is the burden our first child (no matter how we come to him/her) will have because he or she will be coming to us on the back of all of this loss. She paused for a second, contemplating.

“I think I know why you’re having a hard time getting pregnant again.”


“Think about it. 4 babies. You lost four babies and in a way, you’re still carrying them. There’s no room in there for another one.”

You guys know I’m not one for spirituality. Especially in the last couple of months. Very little light has been let into my dark little basement of a brain. But something about what she said was deeply resonant. It felt right. Something about it rang true.

I am so filled with grief and anger that there is no room to create something that is pure love. Maybe if I let a little of the grief and anger go, I’ll be able to make enough room to finally be a mother.

It’s rare to make friends with a person so quickly and easily. It’s even more rare when that person has such a deep and profound impact on you just as fast.


Ok Maybe I Shouldn’t Break Up With Her

11 Jul

So, my shrink thinks that this whole self-harm, depression thing is my way of punishing myself.

I don’t talk a lot about Nadav here. In fact, I don’t talk a lot about Nadav at all. But I think about him constantly. And there’s one feeling that keeps on popping up that I try to push away but it refuses to go away: guilt.

Whenever I replay those 48 hours in my head, I don’t think about what was done, I think about what I could have done differently.

Mind you – the logical side of my brain knows I did all that I could at the time. But that doesn’t keep me from dwelling on how things could have played out had I done x, y, or z differently. If only I had googled this, or insisted on that – maybe there would have been a different outcome.

And it’s these thoughts that lead me to punish myself for what happened.

This is what tortures me every day. Today I finally told my shrink about it.

She pointed out something that kind of blew my mind. She suggested that perhaps my constant replays are my way of trying to regain control over a situation in which I had none. And the irony is that I give myself the illusion of control, at the expense of my mental health.

She said that anything I could have done differently would have been at the expense of myself. That when it comes to Nadav (and me having a baby in general), I let one cancel out the other.

She went on to say that perhaps I need to start working on two things:

The first is coming to terms with the fact that I don’t have control over the resolution to all of this.

The second is letting myself live in a world where I don’t get cancelled out to make room for a baby.

I think she’s right. Now it’s just a question of how the hell I pull off these impossible feats.

PS – thank you all for your awesome prompts! I will be taking them on, and bringing back Group Therapy Thursdays next week. Look out for the launch post in the next few days.

Here’s a LOL as a token of my appreciation:

It’s a Start

8 Jul

Yesterday was an obscenely bad day.

It started when I walked into my psychiatrist’s office. He looked me up and down, noticed the protruding belly that hasn’t gone down by much since we lost Nadav, and he promptly asked me how far along I was.

In the moment, I took it in stride, and told him that no, in fact I wasn’t pregnant, and I was having problems ovulating because of my weight.

He apologized profusely for his lack of tact, and explained that it wasn’t just the leftover bump, but also the fact that he knew we were trying again. Then he gave me free drugs, probably out of guilt. But hey, at least I got free drugs.

I left his office, still calm and collected, and headed over to my cousin’s for our weekly diet meeting. I lost less than a pound this week, and considering that I’m basically in diet hell, I was not particularly happy with that result.

Then I got home, let my morning sink in fully, and proceeded to lose my shit.

So much so that I said terrible things to Shmerson – about wanting to hurt myself. Or be put away somewhere where they would just sedate me forever. It was not pretty.

Tonight we went out on a date and I proceeded to get completely shitfaced on half a bottle of Cava. That did make me feel a bit better.

Then as I sobered up I sank back into my funk, until I got an email with this:

Thank you, Nisha.

Getting this today of all days was a bit of a wake up call. It’s so easy for me to feel alone. Even with Shmerson being as amazing as he is. Even with my family and friends IRL constantly checking up on me. It’s amazing how easily I can forget the love and support I have. Especially from you guys – having it from you – all of you that come here every day, that comment here, or email, or tweet- it does amazing things.

To be reminded that there are so many of you who care is enough to help me get my ass in gear.

I haven’t used this space properly in quite a while, and it’s time I bring it back to where it was. I think that by making myself come here more I may just get back to working on some healing.

The fact is that I can’t get motivated to do anything these days, but even on days like today I feel compelled to come here and to write. And that’s as good a start as any, right?

That’s where you come in. I need you guys to help me focus.

I want you all to give me some homework. I want you to give me things to write about that you would like to read.

Is there something that I used to do in this space that you miss and would like to see me do again? Is there anything about my personal life that I’ve only hinted at and you’d like to read more about? Is there anything that you’re curious to know about me? Seriously – ask me anything.

Lay it on me – give me some prompts.

It’s time to get into some major writing therapy.

As always, thank you. Thank you all for being my soft place to fall. I am and forever will be grateful to every single one of you.

The Truth of It

4 Jul

Ababaderech (my friend who is pursuing surrogacy with his partner) called me today. He had read my last post and said he had something he wanted to tell me, but he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to say it. Curious, I told him to lay it on me.

He said: I think it’s not 100% right that you’re categorizing your depression as a disease. I think you’re feeling like you’re in the shithole right now because the truth is that you are, for now, in the shithole. It will get better, but right now, things suck for you and it’s ok to feel it.

I can’t tell you the gratitude I felt toward him for saying that.

Finally – someone apart from Shmerson, acknowledging the truth of the matter: this sucks.

I think that there is a social expectation about “moving on” with a loss like ours. After a while, people just expect you to get better, and expect it to be an upward climb.

But the truth is that nothing in life is that linear, and things are far more complicated than that.

Lately, when I bring up my losses and desire for resolution to friends, family, anyone really – I get the same advice over and over again: Keep busy. Distract yourself and things will be easier.

Oh, if only it was that easy. I feel such a huge sense of frustration with that “advice”. I know everyone means well, but I just want to scream: DON’T YOU THINK THAT IF IT WERE POSSIBLE, I WOULD HAVE ALREADY DONE IT?

NO ONE wants to be distracted from this more than I do. I want to not think about having a baby almost as badly as I want a baby. I want to not dwell on Nadav just as badly.

But it’s there. It’s always there. There is nothing I can do to fix it. And it’s driving me nuts.

I’ve tried. I’ve signed up for summer classes. I’ve gotten manicures. I’ve forced myself to work. I’ve forced myself to socialize.

But there it is – every day. Nadav. My longing for a child. Right there. In my face and refusing to be ignored.

Tonight Shmerson and I talked it over a bit. We’ve both been down since we came back from our vacation. We’re both depressed. Funnily enough – we’re doing worse now than we were doing in March, when losing Nadav was still new and raw. In March, we were a well-oiled taking-care-of-ourselves machine. Now we’re tired. We’re down.

Shmerson and I both think that part of this downward spiral is a function of acknowledgment. That when Nadav’s loss was still raw for everyone we were held up. Taken care of. Our pain was acknowledged by the people around us. That acknowledgement made things easier on us.

Now, we are alone with our pain. We still have it and we always will. Even when others have long since moved on.

Today, at my weekly appointment with the Harley Hottie, we discussed my depression. He told me that we would try to help alleviate some of that next week.

I said: Don’t we already have too much on our plates?

He said: True. And  let’s be honest – 95% of your problems will disappear as soon as you hold a baby in your arms.

That’s 2 acknowledgements in one day. More than I’ve had in the last few months. That’s the cold hard truth of it. I am stuck in a ditch, and the only way out of it is a baby.

I am lost, my arms are empty, and no distraction will help make things better. I just wish people could see that and accept it.

Maybe then I would feel less guilty about not being able to fully live my life.

Maybe then it would hurt just a little less.


29 Jun

Sometimes words don’t do justice to an amazing gesture of kindness and love that comes from the other side of the world. 

This is one of those times. 

Thank you, Cristy (and Grey) for doing this for Nadav, Shmerson, and me. Thank you isn’t enough to describe how grateful and loved we feel. 



26 Jun

Ok I’ll admit it: I haven’t been around because I’ve been wallowing. It’s been a hard week, between the due date and this freaking diet.

But let’s be honest, it’s mostly the due date. I’ve been doing my best not to think about it, but even when not thinking about it I’m pretty mopey. I’m really hoping this will pass soon. I’m sick and tired of feeling this way.

In AF news – there is no news. I’m finishing up the pills today and hopefully that will jump start things. The baby psychic  said July will be our month  (though granted I thought she meant last july). So here’s hoping my skepticism will be challenged this month, and that freaking psychic was right after all.

Seriously guys – I’m so over this.

Now to the point of this post. I apologize in advance if this gets rambly. I’m trying to figure it out myself.

So yesterday I was at the shrink’s.

It’s funny – since I decided to break up with her our sessions have been amazing. Just bringing up what my problems with her have been opened me up to actually talking openly again. I’m not saying I’m no longer considering leaving her. But for now – we’re making some amazing strides.

Anyway – a big revelation I’ve had about the way I operate is this:

I spend all of my time dealing with the day-to-day issues in my life almost to the point of obsession. Whether it’s pee sticks, or obsessing about a project – I think about the details of the present but never the big picture. At least not the present big picture.

I compare it to a ramble of thoughts swirling around a black hole. That black hole being who “I really am”, which is something I haven’t explored in a very long time, if ever.

The problem is that black hole. It’s not filled with things I love, because I’m not sure what I love any more. It’s not full of my dreams and aspirations, because I’m not sure what those are any more outside of a baby. It’s full of grief, loss, anxiety, depression, fatigue, and self-loathing, and that’s why I stay away from it.

When I try to put the pieces of my identity together I feel like I don’t have a strand to grasp. I feel empty.

This is not a new thing. It started before the miscarriages. But the miscarriages threw it into sharp relief, because before – at least I had strands.

Now I have nothing, and I don’t know where to start.

Last night, my shrink asked a question that would finally give me a strand to grasp on to.

The question was:

“What if you don’t have a baby?”

I answered: “That isn’t an option.”

“I know that isn’t a real option. But I want you to think about it as an imaginary option. What would happen if you decide tomorrow that you will never have a child – not through adoption, or surrogacy, or pregnancy?”

“Well that’s a damn good question.”

So I’ve been mulling that over since then. I even talked it out with Shmerson a little bit.

Living child-free has never been a realistic option for us. But talking it over made me realize how different our decisions would be.

For example – I’m not sure if I’d be considering going back to school right now. Maybe eventually – but not necessarily now.

What would I do?

I don’t know. Make a lot of money so we could take that trip to Japan, or maybe make a movie.  Take better care of my body, I think. Make sure to go to a lot more rock concerts.

I’m still mulling all of this over. I never thought it would be so hard to pinpoint my true core desires and ambitions. But the grief and the longing for a child have taken over so much of my life that there has been no room left for anything else. I’ve been going through the motions for so long that I have no idea what drives me any more.

Hopefully though, this question is the start of something.

It’s a strand I can begin to unravel, and I guess that’s as good a place as any.

Hey Everyone! Train Wreck Over Here! *Waves*

20 Jun

Ok boys and girls, it’s been a long time since I’ve put up a good rant on this blog. I figure it’s very much overdue.

But first, a disclaimer. I’m about to talk about things people in this community don’t like to admit – maybe not even to themselves – let alone in writing. Before I do, I want to make one thing very clear: I love and appreciate every single person who has ever emailed, commented, or even just quietly lurked on this blog. I know there are upwards of 700 of you out there, and I count this space as one of the most wonderful things I have done in my life, because of you.

Also, I would not have survived these last four months after losing Nadav without you. So please keep that in mind before you skewer me in the comments.

Ready? Ranty time!

WordPress’ site stat page has this handy little feature that shows you the number of views on your busiest day. Mine is 4,630 on February 22nd of this year.

That was the day my son died.  And yes, he died. He was a stillbirth. He was not a “late term miscarriage”. He was my son. I gave birth to him, I did not miscarry him. I went through labor and delivery like every other mother out there.

Unless this blog goes viral due to an incredibly brilliant post I pull out of my ass one day, I have a feeling that this little site stat will be sticking around for a very long time. So if by any chance I happen to miraculously forget that date, all I have to do is to go to that stats page.

I used to check my stats every day. Just a curiosity, and I admit, a little for my own ego. I don’t check them that often any more because of this little reminder.

During the period of Feb. 21st – 24th, I had upwards of 15,000 visits to this blog. A lot of those hits were concerned readers, or followers of my friends’ blogs who came over to offer support.

But let’s face it – a lot of them were the equivalent of rubber-neckers to a car accident.

Look, we all do this. We don’t admit to it, but we do. When we read somewhere that some blogger we’ve never heard of has suffered a tragedy, we click over. Yes, to offer support, but also out of morbid curiosity. Just for the opportunity to think to ourselves: “Thank goodness that isn’t me. Please don’t let it be me one day.”

I’ve done it. Heck, I still do. Granted, I’m pretty close to getting as low as you can go in this community. But there’s always someone with a bigger tragedy. One we think we understand but we don’t. One person that we look at with pity, and hope against hope that we will never have to walk a mile in their shoes.

I’m not trying to measure pain by any means. We play the hand that we are dealt, and each person has their own difficulties. I thought I understood pain just with PCOS. Then with PCOS and one miscarriage. Then with PCOS, two miscarriages, and a mental breakdown. Then with PCOS, a mental breakdown and three miscarriages. I thought I understood pain at three miscarriages, a stillbirth, and two mental breakdowns. Then I started crawling closer and closer to Nadav’s due date (cruelly exactly 4 months to the day after he died), while having to face another failed cycle.

A new low. A new threshold for pain. A new form of agony that I didn’t anticipate.

I’m telling you this not because I want you to pity me. In fact, if you feel pity for me, please leave now. I feel sorry enough for myself. I don’t need others feeling sorry for me. That does me no good. In fact, I rather you flame me and hate me and you not pity me.

I tell you all of this to point out that pain isn’t comparable or measurable. But there are certain forms of pain that attract rubber-neckers. There are cautionary tales that make others say “thank goodness it’s not me.”

I am one of those cautionary tales. And those 15,000 + hits during those four days in February are proof positive of this fact.

I remember being pregnant with Nadav, being a rubber-necker. I could never bring myself to comment on the blogs that I lurked on as a rubber-necker. Because I was painfully aware of being one. Sometimes I would chime in with an “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Or some other empty sentiment.

Yes, I was sorry for “her” loss. I felt sorry for “her.” I said to myself “please don’t let this be me.” I said to myself “thank goodness this isn’t me.” I don’t do that any more. Not even with train wrecks that are bigger than mine.

I’m sure every single one of you (or at least most of you) who haven’t been in my shoes have thought these things while reading my words. I’m not angry with you. I don’t want you to feel guilty for feeling this way. It’s only natural. I was there. I also hope you never have to be in my shoes. I wouldn’t wish this agony on my worst enemy.

I also know that most of you, even ones that initially came here as rubber-neckers, are no longer that. I know every word you write to me, even the occasional “I’m sorry for your loss” when you can’t find better words to say is a genuine virtual hug. I love you guys for it.

But here’s the kicker. Though I know there are HUNDREDS of you guys out there that are supportive, amazing, loving people, there always are a few rubber-neckers in disguise. There are always those few that write lovely comforting words, but their pity and their hypocrisy shine through their well-wishes. Under every word they say I can read that “thank goodness this isn’t me” undertone. I can read the pity. It’s hard to catch sometimes, but after two years on this train, I can spot these people.

And that pity hurts. That undertone of “oh lord don’t let me be this woman” hurts. It hurts more than silence. More than hate. It hurts more than the asshole who came on this blog three days after Nadav died and called me a murderer for some unknown reason (yes that happened and I deleted the fuck-face’s comment immediately).

Why does it hurt so much?

Because I am not a weak person. I am not a person who is to be pitied. Be on my level – heck – envy me- but by pitying me you make me feel small. Like my entire world is defined by my loss.

I am not small.

I am a strong, smart, talented, funny woman.

I have an amazingly strong marriage with a really hot, funny, talented, and brilliant man.

I have a wonderful loving family (hi sissy! Hi sissy-in-law!).

I have absolutely unbelievable friends both in real life and in my virtual life.

I am loved and I love ferociously in return.

I paint. I write. I think about movies I want to make, and sometimes even take pride in ones I’ve already made.

I rock out to awesome music.

I work really hard at my job and all of my clients respect what I do and pay me a nice salary to work for them.

I’m an amazing cook.

My dog is the smartest, cutest dog in the world.

I dye my hair awesome colors.

I teach twice a week and my students freaking love me.

There is nothing to pity here. If it weren’t for my effed-up plumbing, my life would read like an unbelievable fairy tale.

I know this and I am learning to be grateful for it every day. By pitying me, you are helping me ignore the good parts of my life. You are enabling my self-pity, rather than encouraging my growth.

Don’t cry for me. Cry WITH me.

Don’t feel sorry for me. Feel empowered by my experience.

As some of you amazing ladies have written in your comments on my heavier posts: Abide with me. Endure with me without yielding.

That is what gives me strength, and I hope it strengthens you as well. This is the essence of the best of our little online community. This is what we should all strive for.

In my final goodbye post to Nadav, I posted the song “Twinkle” by Tori Amos. This was not a random choice.

I want to call your attention to a particular section of the lyrics:

But I can see that star
When she twinkles
And she twinkles

Emphasis mine.

Those lyrics for me are about triumph. About overcoming loss. About growing from loss. That is what I am doing, and it’s what I intend to continue to do.

I sometimes dread going out because of the sideways pity glance I get sometimes from people who know my story. In life, I compensate for that by making jokes and blatantly and openly talking about my losses. I may as well wear a T-Shirt that says “Please! Ask me about my uterus!”.

Like Chandler from Friends, I use humor as a defense mechanism.

I do the same thing here. Here I compensate by using funny pictures with funny captions. It’s my little F-YOU to anybody who dares to question my strength.

Because for me, pitying me means questioning my strength.

Dammit I am fucking strong.

Deal with it.

Two days from now is Nadav’s due date. I will not be acknowledging it on this blog. Nadav was born. He was born 4 months too early, but he was born. And he died. June 22nd is not his. February 22nd is his, and always will be.

I have had an enlightening couple of weeks. I haven’t shared most of that insight yet on this blog, because I’ve been processing it all. I think I’ll use that date to tell you guys a little about the way I have grown by leaps and bounds in the last couple of weeks. About the revelations I have had and that I am processing. Or maybe I’ll need a few more days to process it and I’ll post a freaking lolcat. Who knows.

Either way, I hope you stick around to read about it.

To abide with me.

But if you intend to feel sorry for me, please do me a favor and go feel sorry for another train wreck.

Cause this train may be bruised and battered, but this train keeps on fucking chugging.

The One With That River in Egypt

21 May

Before I write anything else, please head over to Belle’s blog and show her some love. She found out today that Pip doesn’t have a heartbeat. I am heartbroken for her.


Today marks 3 months since we lost Nadav. I didn’t mean to acknowledge it in any way, but the truth is that I’ve been feeling really down the last few days and I only yesterday really understood that there’s a correlation.

On Friday Ababaderech came over and we had a really long talk. He has a tendency to reach the truth with me when we talk. It always happens that within the hour he has me confessing my darkest fears and feelings. Friday was no exception.

Our conversation brought a lot of feelings up to the surface that I’ve been suppressing.

The fact is that I spend most of my days in denial.

I’ve suffered from depression and anxiety for most of my life. Through all of that time I never contemplated self-harm. Not once.

Not once until these last few months. And that scares the crap out of me.

I very rarely let myself linger on Nadav. Wondering what he would have looked like. Wondering what kind of person he would have grown up to be. I don’t let myself  linger on it, because it’s too painful. Because it leads me to darker places than I’ve ever been before.

But sometimes, those thoughts come. With them, comes the weight of the last two years. The fact that as much as we’ve grown, here we still are: Two years later, one stillbirth, two ectopics, one blighted ovum, 40 pounds heavier, 3 surgery scars, one tube removed, a bruised uterus, a mild dependance on Xan.ax, and empty arms.

Holy crap that’s depressing to write. No wonder I get overwhelmed when the weight of it hits me.

So I don’t let it. That’s kind of my point. I spend every single solitary day ignoring it. Throwing myself into work. Obsessing about this cycle, planning our vacation. Doing anything but thinking about it.

I promised myself a lot of things after we lost Nadav. The truth is, I haven’t kept up with all of those promises.

Yes, I am living my life more fully. I am making a bigger effort to reach out. I am doing my best to appreciate the life that we have.

But I am still obsessed with bringing resolution to all of this. Whether it’s by giving birth myself, surrogacy, or adoption, I need this to be over.

I think I have a lot of unprocessed grief about losing my son. Sometimes I feel guilty about not processing it. Sometimes I feel like I’m lying to myself by continuing on the path I’ve been on.

But sometimes I think it’s the only way for me to get through this. That I know one day the weight of all of this will hit me fully. I know that one day I will truly grieve for my son.

But today is not that day. Tomorrow will not be that day.

The day I will truly grieve is the day we have resolved this. Because if I let myself grieve any sooner, I will break into tiny pieces and I won’t be able to put myself back together again.

So I let myself forget. I let myself escape into cycle days and pee sticks and lolcats.

Because anything else would be unbearable. Until my arms are full, I will do my best to ignore the growing emptiness.


What Was and Will Be Lost

11 May

There is a dear friend of mine who reads this blog, and this post is also about him. RMW – please know that I love you. I hope that what you are about to read will not hurt you in any way, because that is not my intention. I wanted to call and give you a head’s up about this, but honestly, I couldn’t find the words on the phone. Hopefully I find them here.

On the night before we lost Nadav, I was in the hospital. It was the worst night of my life. I knew what was waiting for me on the other side of that night. I knew what was to come. I was lying in a hospital bed, feeling him kick, knowing that I wouldn’t be feeling it for long. I knew that by that time the next day, I would lose my child.

Meanwhile, about an hour and half south of that hospital bed, a dear friend of mine was having the best night of his life. He was marrying his partner in front of friends and family. I was supposed to be among those friends.

That Monday morning I had given strict orders: Don’t tell him what’s going on. He should not be thinking of me. Just tell him the doctor put me back on bed rest and that’s why I can’t be there.

And that’s what my friends did.

Just as those two gorgeous men were about to walk down the aisle, I texted RMW. I told him how sorry I was that I wasn’t there. How I wish him all of the happiness in the world.

Then I cried.

The next night, just as labor was kicking in he called. We talked and he was amazing. A few days later he came to visit during one of my darker days. I know how happy he was, and that made the gesture even more meaningful. I feel like what happened to me is a stain on his happiness.

Today he posted a slideshow of his wedding on Facebook. I had been wanting to see pictures, so I was happy.

My reaction was unexpected. It was a mingling of regret, and sadness, and grief. Not just for Nadav, but for missing that beautiful night. For being part of the bad memories of that night, and not of the beautiful ones.

Squish, RMW, Me0Me and I are in this sort of gang. Squish is my BFF, and she’s RMW’s fag hag for life. I am Me0Me’s fag hag for life, and he and RMW are pretty much BFF’s. We make up this “gang of four”. Sometimes we’re closer, sometimes we’re further away, but the core is there. It has been for about 15 years now.

On the night of RMW’s wedding, Squish and Me0Me knew what was happening with me. They respected my wishes and had the time of their lives. They got smashed. They danced. They celebrated.

Then RMW went home, and they both collapsed in a heap of grief.

Nadav was a loss for them as well.

They were going to be his aunt and uncles. They loved him.

Nadav was supposed to be the end of my two-year-long torment, one that they had held my hand through.

Instead, he was lost. And mourned. Not just by me, but by everyone who loved me. By the three other people in our little gang of four.

Today I watched RMW’s slide show and cried. I cried because this journey made me miss the happiest day of my dear friend’s life. I cried because the best night of his life was the worst night of mine.

I cried because I hate the fact that this will forever be intertwined in my head. I cried because I wanted the happiest night of RMW’s life to be one of the happiest of mine. Just like the night I saw Me0Me and his husband exchange vows. I wanted to be a part of that moment, and I was not.

I was an hour and a half north, in a hospital bed, bawling in the arms of my family. Feeling Nadav kick his last kicks.

Shmerson’s cousin is getting married in a few months (hey there O, I know you’re probably reading this too). It will be happening in the U.S.

And chances are that I won’t be there. If all goes according to plan (which it rarely does, but perhaps it will), I will not be at that wedding. I will be in bed. Missing out on another joyous occasion. Missing out on a chance to see friends, to spend time with family.

Missing out – all in the pursuit of a child.

There are days, even weeks, that I want to push forward. I want to go through all of this again as soon as possible, so we can put this behind us and move forward. So we finally know the outcome.

But there are days like today, when I feel utterly alone. I feel the weight of what has been lost, and what will be lost in pursuit of this.

There are days like today when I wish that this ache for a child didn’t exist. That the clock wasn’t ticking. That I could just leave this now.

So that I don’t miss anymore moments of joy. So that I don’t have to be the cause of so many moments of grief.

There are days like today that I wish I was there to witness my friend’s happy moment. To have completed the gang of four that night, rather than to have been the missing piece.

In a hospital bed, feeling my son’s final kicks.

There are days like today when I just want to live again. When I don’t want to lose any more.

Open Wounds

14 Apr

A decision has been made.

As soon as we’re cleared medically (which means most likely next month), we have decided to jump into TTC right away.

I can’t say I’m happy with the decision, but I don’t think I’d be happy with any decision. This is the best decision we could have made for our sanity.

I can’t say it’s a good decision, but it’s the right decision.

This isn’t just about what the Russian said. This isn’t about getting the “project baby” show back on the road.

This is about us being tired. We are tired, and we want to know where this is leading us sooner rather than later.

The fact is that we have an open, festering wound that’s done nothing but grow in the last two years. No amount of time will heal this wound. Nothing will heal it. But there is one thing that will at least make it turn into a scar – and that’s a baby.

We can’t ignore this wound, so we’ve chosen to accept it. We will jump in, hold our breath, and hope against all hope that it will become a scar sooner rather than later.

I keep myself busy. I try to do things that are good for me. But the fact is that most days I feel like a walking freak show. I’m that babyloss mom. I’m that woman that miscarried all those times and had a stillbirth. I’m that broken body. I am not me.

That is the open wound. It’s one that will never go away.

I just hope that we can make it scab over soon. And that somehow through all of it I manage to maintain a bit of myself.

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