On the 9th Nov we got tattoos in your memory. You are a part of me forever, in my skin, in my heart, always with me.
Your name & little feet. And lyrics from the song that reminds me most of you, Rose of Sharyn by Killswitch Engage.
“It won’t be long, we’ll meet again. Your memory is never passing. It won’t be long, we’ll meet again. My love for you is everlasting.”
I haven’t posted in over a month, for many reasons and none at all, mostly I’ve forgotten.
I’ll start with my ring. I ordered a beautiful white gold ring in sky blue that contains Castiel’s ashes. It looks like clouds in the sky which is exactly what I wanted.
Wherever I go, you go 💙
Talking to other people about you isnt the hardest part for me. I’m so used to not getting emotional around people (I hate people seeing me cry so I avoid it at all costs). I can have conversations about your death or what you’d look like and completely disconnect from the words, as if I’m talking about the weather.
I don’t open up to anyone, I never really have. Deep conversations, physical contact etc are pretty awkward for me. Your daddy is the only person I’ve fully, and continuously, let in and been vulnerable around. And even then it’s hard to explain to him my feelings sometimes.
It’s when I’m inside myself, thinking, remembering, imagining, that the tears start. So it seems random, just sat watching tv and I get upset from no apparent trigger. I am the trigger. I don’t want to keep busy and distract myself either – grieving is a journey, and I can’t take any other metaphorical path around, this is the one I’m on, so if that means spending 80% of my time laying in bed playing computer games and thinking of you even though it hurts, that’s what I’m going to do for now.
We have an appointment for the results of your post mortem this Thursday, to see if they know what caused your death or not.
Others may not understand but I’d feel better if they found nothing, a freak incident; that’s the result I’ve been expecting because that’s my preference, but now the results are back I can’t help but go to worst case scenarios. In my mind I’d obsess less next time if I knew it wasn’t something I carry, something that is likely to repeat.
I’m so sorry Cass, that it feels like I’m putting any future babies before you. I should want to know what happened to you, and I do, I’m just scared. I’ve had so much hope for next pregnancy, that it’ll all go okay and I’ll be bringing home a baby, but they could shatter it all with your results. We know how quickly your life can be turned upside down, and I’m pretty sure there’s no limit on how many times it can happen. There’s so many things it could be, many are recurring, many can’t be prevented. For me there would be nothing worse than knowing it’s unlikely I’d ever have a living baby, or that something in me damages their health. We started trying for a baby when I was 22, I’m going to be 25 in 9 months. I’m not a child person at all, but I’ve always known I wanted a family, to be a wife and mother.
We’ll just have to deal with what comes next.
I was never going to dress you, breastfeed you, push you in the pram we got you, take you to see the ducks, take you on our first family holiday that we were planning, take you swimming, pick you up from school, take you out every year for your birthday. We had plans for you baby boy. Plans that were never going to be. But in my head I got to live out the fantasy of what could be, in my daydreams you lived a whole lifetime.
Some days it’s hard to associate the little face we saw on the scan, my growing bump, with the baby I gave birth to. The connection between the you I was connecting with on the inside vs you on the outside isn’t always there. It’s as if they’re two different things, and I grieve for both.
There’s the you that was 2D and black & white and made me nauseous and unable to walk fast or far. The you that was doubling in size week by week, that gave us so much hope and excitement. We had no idea who you were, girl or boy, we called you Lil Bub.
Then there’s the you that was too small and squishy, that never got to open your eyes or take a breath, that laid there silently and never moved or cried. Our dead baby boy, Castiel.
It’s hard to think you’re my Lil Bub, Cass, that you were all those happy memories and not just a dream I had long ago where I was pregnant but then I woke up and I actually wasn’t. I’ll try my best not to let our sadness strip away those amazing 20 weeks with you, to forget that that was you, just like I promised you when I said goodbye to your body.