#maternal loss

[blackbelles-world]

[momlessmom]

It’s my first Mother’s Day with my daughter on the earth side, and my first Mother’s Day without my mom. It’s bittersweet. I wish she could be here, hold my baby. I know she would love her so much. She’d be proud of her.

[momlessmom]

It hadn’t even been an hour since the examiners hauled my mother down the stairs. I stood at the entry of her bedroom, and without her as a centerpiece, I could suddenly see how awful it was. The tan carpet was stained with grey-brown splotches that were hard to the touch. The walls were stained yellow with years of cigarette smoke, and likewise her sheets and blankets were riddled with burn holes from the number of times she had nodded off mid-smoke.

The middle slat under her bed had broken under the weight of her morbidly obese pit bull, so the mattress sagged into a dramatic U shape. It couldn’t have been comfortable to sleep on. Looking back, I can’t remember a time my mother ever seemed comfortable or truly rested.

The drawers had very clearly been rifled through. On the desk a letter on a sheet of notebook paper sat. It was my father’s handwriting. A suicide note he had written when he had been placed on the heart transplant list. According to my sisters, mom found it seven months prior and showed it to them. No one knows why she had it out that morning. Dad didn’t end up killing himself. A stranger’s heart has a home in his chest.

The bedroom where my mother slept alone already had the thick, unforgiving atmosphere of a place where something terrible had happened. That wasn’t where it happened though. Just a few feet away, in the hall, the bathroom…it felt wrong.

No one was sure how or when it happened. My younger sister found her folded in half between the toilet and the tub. She was already cold, already gone. Now that the medical examiner had taken her away, the only evidence left was whatever mess she left behind. I can’t say what it was, I don’t know. I only know that I mopped it up, and shut the door behind me before I left that day.

When my mother first overdosed, there was a mess of gloves, and other medical supplies left behind by the EMTs. There was nothing to leave this time, because there was no medical intervention.

Foolishly, I thought they’d carry her down on a stretcher, covered by a sheet. It was jarring to watch her carried loosely between two officers in a black body bag. It hung low, and swung. Like garbage.

It wasn’t until they were out the front door that they put her on a gurney, and draped an ugly maroon blanket over her body bag. They gave us a moment to pray over her. My dad’s friend, the born again one that gave him and my mother so much comfort during his heart surgery, was the one to lead us in the prayer. He stood at her head, and placed a gentle hand where her forehead was.

I reminded him that the investigators told us not to touch. Even if they hadn’t, I didn’t want him to touch her. It sickened me that he did. It still disturbs me now.

We were four little girls crying on the front lawn on a sunny Juneteenth. A neighbor drove into the cul-de-sac on a golf cart. The neighbors right across from us had landscapers working out front. The world kept moving, as though mine hadn’t ended.

[momlessmom]

Having a newborn that has been struggling with PURPLE crying is so frustrating and fascinating at the same time. I bounce my daughter in my arms and walk her over to the sink so she can listen to the running water, the only thing that seems to calm her down, and I think about my own mom.

Did I cry like this as a baby? She always said I was a perfect baby and a frustrating kid, but I think sometimes she was remembering my infancy with rose colored glasses. Though part of me does believe her, since I don’t believe she would have had the patience to deal with this.

Or maybe if it was like this, she was like me. Maybe she sometimes sat on the floor next to me as I wailed and wailed, her breasts leaking and painful from going too long without pumping (I was exclusively bottle-fed too), sobbing because she felt like the worst mother in the world.

I think she’d tell me I was doing a good job. She would remind me how much my daughter loves and depends on me. Maybe I’d feel better for a little while.

[momlessmom]

About Me:

Hi all. This is a personal/vent blog for me to dump my feelings about becoming a new mom the same year my own mother died.

I think I’ll just go by Cubi here, like Cubone. Get it?

I’m 32 years old.

I’m a new mom to a baby girl. (I had two losses prior to her birth so she’s my double rainbow)

When I was 5 months pregnant with my baby girl my mom died of a suspected drug overdose.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my own mom. I was unpacking a lot of it in therapy just before she passed. Becoming a mom myself I feel like I’ve never understood her better and also not at all in a way.

Feel free to ask questions, share your own stories and insights, or just lurk in the weird corners of my postpartum perigrief brain. 🌸

[blackbelles-world]

Remembering You, Remembering Us Virtual Support Group for Families: https://bit.ly/RYRU22

The Luxor Collection Virtual Support Group for Men: https://bit.ly/luxorregistration

Remembering You, Remembering Us - Spirit of A Woman, LLC.

Greetings, Remembering You, Remembering Us sessions are for any woman, man, family member or supporter who has experienced and/or been impac

Welcome! You are invited to join a meeting: The Luxor Collective . After registering, you will receive a confirmation email about joining th