It's okay

Yesterday I felt like punching someone. My poor husband got snapped at a few times, but he is good about realizing I need to be left alone.
All because of Facebook.
I came across two stories.
The first was of a mother who found out her baby had Williams Syndrome while still pregnant. My first emotion was disbelief. Then curiosity. Then anger. Anger at our local hospital for not catching Corbin's WS sooner. Anger at the ultrasound tech for not catching his heart problem. Anger at the hospital for not having an echo machine. Anger at every doctor that told me there's nothing to worry about. I wasn't mad at the mother or her baby; its wonderful they caught it so young so they can run the necessary tests to ensure the baby will be healthy. It just felt so un-freaking-fair that Willimas Syndrome was fatal to my baby. There are hundreds of other WS kids that never experience heart problems. Why did mine have to? He had a broken heart that the best Pediatric Cardiothorasic Surgeon in the state couldn't fix.
Then another mother posted about her son and his heart surgery. He had aortic and pulmonary stenosis, just like Corbin. He's now 11 and doing great.
This pissed. me off.
Again, I'm not mad at the mother or her child. Just the circumstances. How in the hell were his doctors able to fix his problem but Corbin had to die? I would never wish what happened to Corbin on any other baby. It was a long, painful, scary, and nerve wracking experience. But he had the same thing...why couldn't his doctors figure it out?
It broke my heart to read that.
The kind of heart break you can hear.
Another crack in my heart.
All I could do was stare at the computer screen, tears running, heart breaking, trying to understand why.

Fast forward a couple hours. I'm at my Zumba class trying to follow along. Yes, I'm new at this. Yes, this is only my second class. But damn it to hell, I'm the kind of person who wants to be good at something the very first time. I look at myself in the mirror. Sweaty, red faced, and looking like a sorry white girl trying to dance. I have two left feet. I cannot coordinate my arms AND my legs. I seriously have to concentrate, sometimes with my eyes closed, so I get the steps right. God forbid we have to move our arms and legs at the same time. Forget that. I just stop and watch the instructor till I can get it right in my head.
I get so mad that I can't get the steps right. I'm mad that I'm not perfect at this. I'm mad that the girl in front of me is skinny. And pretty. And knows all the steps. I'm mad that I even have to be here; that I have to lose weight. I'm mad at myself for not being in better shape. I'm mad that I have time to be here. I'm supposed to be home with my newborn. But I don't have a newborn anymore. I have a necklace around my neck with his name on it instead. I have the scars of a mother who had to bury her child.
So there I was, halfway through the class, trying not to cry.
I wanted to walk out.
I wanted to go out to my car and just cry.
But I didn't. I stayed. I finished the class. And I felt better afterwards, but that doesn't take away the emotions I felt.

I read about how other mothers grieve. We are all different. I am not depressed all the time, I'm not starving myself, I'm not letting the house get out of control. I'm the internal griever. I think about it. All the time. Constantly thinking, re-evaluating. I go over scenarios and think what-ifs. I don't cry every time I see a baby. I have triggers that set me off.
And that's okay. I'm not supposed to grieve like everyone else. It's okay if I am able to visit my baby's grave without crying. It's okay if seeing his baby outfit does make me cry. If you are grieving, don't feel guilty for not doing something you feel you are "supposed to". I feel like that all the time but I have to remember that it doesn't make me less of a mother. I still love my baby. I miss him constantly. I am always thinking about him and wondering what heaven is like.
He knows I love him.
He knows I miss him.
That's what matters the most.