Late night musings

Yesterday, I remembered something my Urdu professor - whom I believe to be a bona fide philosopher - told us: a person has 70,000 thoughts that go through his mind in one day. What if I could chart my thoughts for a day, just to see what I spend the bulk of my waking hours thinking about - lately it's been about the baby, babymaking, other people's babies, the mold in the bathroom tiles, clothes to clean, food to cook, my coding class, my career, my family, my siblings, my nephew, going to Pakistan, people I'm mad at, people I love ... and so much more, which all feels so trivial. And this is not even 20 of the things I think about! I downloaded some addictive game on my phone that I can't stop playing. Add that to list of how I spend my time, which is only more depressing.

When I start to get really frustrated with myself, I think about the direction my life is headed in. It is so short. How can I let myself waste it like this? Somewhere in the 26 hours I spent in labor and delivery, I resolved that I had to do something great in my life. I decided that I needed to live a great life because it was currently flashing in front of me before my eyes. Six months later, I avoid crippling agony by existing in purgatory numbness, trying to minimize the stillbirth to an event that happened to me, but not make it THE THING that defines me. Every now and then, however, I realize with anvil-heavy acceptance that it really is a big deal. It is a fact that I try not to dwell on but sometimes reluctantly accept. I feel it most I see a young mom with an infant at the airport or on a sidewalk, and I miss having a child to love and receive love from. As if watching myself in third person, I see myself planted on the hospital bed, breathing and heaving like a marathon runner, pushing with every fiber of my being, a small person out of me. However, he's lifeless. But my body proceeds forward, working on God's preprogrammed biological algorithm: organs work to push out a fully developed baby, make milk, get post-delivery fever, etc etc. But -- nothing. There is an interruption, and interception, a line cut off. My first experience with labor and delivery, but there is no celebration of life, rather the bewilderedness at what to do at the loss of it. And then there's the moving forward part, which involves tears, love, contemplation, anger, and acceptance.

Six months later, I don't know what to make of it or what to do with myself. According to my friends, I am a warrior, an inspiration, a beautiful mother. Right now, they feel like empty titles. I had no control over what happened, and I realize I still have no control over what happens. And, in my high of an absence of emptiness (hormones? The high before the crash? Ugh, don't ask), I contemplate all the possibilities I can now explore. Because I survived, which by default, means the world is now at my fingertips. Life is officially a blank paper. Which means... what? I can master coding, spend countless more hours at it, write a book, try to meet Sheryl Sandberg or Elizabeth Gilbert, get through all the books in my room, travel, make more money... the possibilities are endless. My brain, hands, and eyes are the same as Einstein's or Steve Jobs's or Jerry Seinfeld's. All humans are capable of anything. It's how each of us chooses to spend our very limited time here on this earth that makes a difference.

Empathy and self awareness

an excerpt from a scholarship application:

Three months ago, I gave birth to my son. A few days before delivery, however, his heart stopped beating, and his birth was a stillbirth. The moments that followed when I learned of his passing were the toughest of my life. He was my first child and the anguish my husband and I felt at our crushed dreams as new parents is beyond description. Its intensity, however, is matched by the deep introspection I’ve had to undertake in reevaluating my priorities, goals, and mindset. With the help of my friends, family, and therapist, I’ve learned to ask for help when I need it, set boundaries, take care of myself mentally and physically, and value each second of my life and blessings. My loss has shown me how fragile life is, and how I need to make each moment matter. I’ve learned to let go of things outside of my control and focus on the good and beauty that is present in life. While it is easy to give in to despair or depression, I actively choose to look on the brighter side. This has helped me grow and mature in ways I never thought possible and expanded my heart for greater kindness and empathy. I know what it means to go through deep pain, and the necessity of being kind and supportive to those suffering. I also know what it means to give people space and let them go through their emotions on their own terms, at their own pace. I never thought I’d be able to sustain this kind of pain, but it awakened a strength within me I never knew I had. It has given way to greater self-respect and self-love, which enables me to extend this same love and respect to others.

On the grieving process

I have aged - in a good way, believe it or not - in the past two months by ten years. Mentally, when you go through a stillbirth, it does that you. It's been documented and my therapist believes it, too. I'm ashamed to say that I could never really empathize with those who had gone through stillbirths before. I heard of it happening to a handful of people before and while I recognized it was sad I didn't put it on the same level of other losses and didn't think grief could be felt the way you feel it when loved ones die. As the parent never raised the baby, and the baby did not even live for a day or a few hours in this world, I thought it wouldn't be hard as losing an actual child or baby. I can imagine that miscarriages are very sad and painful, too, frustrating if you've been trying for forever, but I don't even know what that feels like. Is the pain less than that of a stillbirth? I would hope so. Because this pain hurts a lot.

I wasn't able to empathize because I didn't know what it was like to be pregnant, and what that does to you as mother. We're mothers the second we conceive. For me, I was just counting down the days. My mind was in a completely different place. And the funny thing about my pain is that it comes and goes. I was trying really hard to suppress my pain. I was simply too scared to feel it. I'm so emotional and sensitive as it is, anxious, even, my brain was trying to protect me. It's really interesting. An out of body experience - my body was literally trying to take care of itself. A few days after delivering, I actually started at my hands and stomach in gratitude - as if to recognize the tremendous trauma they went through and thank them for not dying and giving up. Because when I pushed that baby out, a small part of me did die with him. I don't let myself fall to the deep, black pain this can take me to. The longing and the missing. Words can't express the way my soul feels drained and worn by this loss. And the tremendous, deep, all encompassing love. The love that is the polar opposite of the sadness my soul feels at losing him. This love is willing to go through any means necessary. It cannot be extinguished and is made of steel. It will last through my own death and Judgement Day itself.

This loss has made me see God in a new way. It's reminded me of my mortality and that those whom I love more than anything - parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, and my husband - will go, too. I feel closer to Him than ever before. When I can't stop crying and the sadness consumes me, I imagine that I'm crying into God's arms and on His shoulder while He pats my back. He is Just. There's just no question in my mind about it. He doesn't just leave you to cry and suffer alone. And even if I'm not crying 24/7 for the baby, missing him at all times, God knows the depth of what I feel, and His reward is just as great. There's nothing more I can hope for than paradise itself. I could write pages and pages of how much I want to see my baby's smiling face, hold him, carry him, feed him, wipe his snot, blow air bubbles on his tummy, change his diaper, soothe his cries, make him laugh, watch him; and I've been denied that opportunity in this short life. But I'm reassured over and over that my pain is not in vain and is a vehicle for me to do so much good, and achieve so much good. It's made me kinder, more appreciative. I don't have room for any more bullshit or negativity. I am unable to tolerate negativity from others, and there's definitely no room for pettiness in my neighborhood anymore. This has made me press pause. I'm prioritizing happiness and love. Enjoying life is my mode of living now.

I miss him and I love him and I don't know what tomorrow will bring. But my list of things and people to be grateful for grows every day: the love and compassion I get on the daily from every person in my life is mind blowing. Literally every. single. person is willing to talk to me, cry with me, take care of me. I can't believe how lucky I am to have such amazing friends, cousins, and colleagues. I don't doubt for a minute that any of them will take me in and let me be me and take care of me for as long as I need it. I am floored and so incredibly grateful. Had this loss not happened, I wouldn't have seen them the way I do now or be who I am today.