A Good Doctor Appointment (Could it Be?)

Okay, so I am apparently not ready to let go of this blog quite yet. I wrote this post in my new blog, but realized before I hit 'publish' that I don't want to get too technical in that blog - I need it to be a place of healing, and cold, hard medical facts are not what I would call healing. Because I know I have followers here who may want to know about hyper-coiling, I will post this information here instead.

One note before you read on: I cover this in detail in my new blog, but I recently had a 10-week miscarriage. Yeah, I know. Our rainbow baby didn't make it. We're devastated. But...we are staying strong. We are going to try again. This is not the end.

It's not something I thought I would ever be able to say again, but there it is in the title, so it must be true. A GOOD doctor appointment!

Today was our Maternal Fetal Medicine (MFM) specialist appointment. It was scheduled at our post-birth follow-up around 8 months ago, so we have been waiting a LONG time for this. I really did my homework with Haven's cause of death, so I was confident in how I felt a future pregnancy should be managed. I knew that there was very little research out there regarding hyper-coiling of the umbilical cord (also called hyper-spiraling or torsion), and I was concerned that, due to the lack of research, a future pregnancy might be treated as "low risk."

It turns out that my apprehension was unfounded. The specialist was compassionate, but very to the point and knowledgeable. I am going to share the details here, in case another mama comes looking for this kind of information someday and it can be helpful. Or, if you want to know about it just 'cause, you are welcome to read on too!

Haven

• We were surprised to find out that, not only was Haven's cord abnormal, it looks like her placenta had also been abnormal. Excess growth of blood vessels in the placenta indicated that not enough oxygen had been getting through, so it was trying to overcompensate. This may have caused Haven to be hyperactive, which may have caused the hyper-coiling. This is a little speculative because there is very little study on the subject, but it would explain a whole lot. They can't tell us why the placenta wasn't getting enough oxygen in the first place. However, they feel this was likely an isolated case.

• She also mentioned that there were "fibrous kinks" in the cord, which wasn't really explained before. I am thinking these probably came from the last few times Haven switched sides in my belly. I had a bad feeling about the last turn she made, though I couldn't explain it. Now I think I had some kind of intuition that something was wrong (why can't intuition scream instead of whisper?)

• In my bloodwork before delivery, they discovered that my Protein S levels were low. This has to do with how your blood clots. The specialist feels that it is probably just a normal variation, but I will receive further testing in a few weeks. There seems to be a correlation in a lot of these cases between clotting issues and coiling, so I am eager to have this testing done (it may not be cause and effect, but two factors working together in a negative way).

Recent Miscarriage

• This is felt to be completely unrelated to what happened with Haven (as we already guessed).

• We may decide to use baby asparin leading up to conception and after the first trimester next time. There are thought to be benefits in prevention of various placental issues with its use.

Next Pregnancy

• Like the OB said, there is no reason we can't try again as soon as we feel ready. We will likely wait until I can be tested for the clotting issue in case the result is positive (it takes a month for results to come back).

• The specialist and the pathologist felt that, due to me not having any underlying risk factors (hypertension, diabetes, thrombophilia, etc.) the risk of recurrence was <1%. Now, with the statistical unlikelihood of what happened to Haven, I take all numbers with a truckload of salt, thankyouverymuch, but I am going to try and live in the >99%.

• Like with my recent pregnancy, I will begin seeing my OB as soon as I get a positive test.

• Between 10-12 weeks, I'll have another MFM appointment to ensure all is developing okay.

• They will do an 8-10 week ultrasound to date the pregnancy and assess for viability, then one at 18-20 for the anatomy scan, where they will do extra imaging to assess the blood flow from me to the baby, so they can see if anything looks abnormal. Assuming all is okay, I will start having biweekly scans at 28 weeks, then weekly scans at 34 weeks until delivery.

• I will be induced at 39 weeks unless there are factors that indicate we should deliver sooner (or if I am an anxious and emotional basket case and tests indicate the baby is okay and ready). We'll do an amniocentesis to make sure baby's lungs are okay before proceeding.

• Hopefully, we will finally get our "take-home baby." I'm daring to dream.

Now

Physically, I am feeling pretty good, though my hormones are bringing a surge of anxiety as they drop. However, my hormone levels seem to be dropping in a healthy way (hcg was only 130 on Monday!) Our OB will follow us until the numbers reach zero.

I spoke to our OB today when I called for my blood results, and she asked how I was doing. I kind of brushed it off, but she really wanted to know. She said "I am reaching through the phone to give you a hug! I want to see you with a big, beautiful belly!" I smiled as if she could see me and said, "I really want to see me that way too. I hope it happens." It is nice to know that we have such a supportive doctor.

That's it. Consider yourself updated. ;)

Silly Me!

Just a little note to say that, in my exhaustion, I made a silly error when I set up the URL for my new blog. If you tried to access it and were unsuccessful, it is now fixed.

You can read new posts here:

http://notesfromthesparrowsnest.blogspot.com

Sorry for the confusion!

All the best,
Brandi

Up, then Down Again

Hello, friends.

I haven't posted here in some time. A lot has changed since I did. Life has gone up, then down again. I hope that we begin climbing up soon.

I've decided to use a permanent blog space rather than have several narrowly themed blogs - you can find the new one at www.notesfromthesparrowsnest.blogspot.com. I update regularly.

I hope that this blog has been a help to you if you have followed it. I would love for you to continue on with me at the new location. Please email me anytime - I know how desperate I was in the early months for someone, anyone, to understand. Note that I don't check that address often, but if you message me, I will always (eventually) reply.

All the best.

Marked

I mentioned in the last entry that we have been waiting for Haven's headstone to be completed and installed (since May!). Well, a few days ago, we drove to the cemetery and there it was! Gone was the gray marker, and there was her beautiful stone. We had it inscribed with a flower and a little bird, along with "Haven Melody, beloved daughter of Brandi and Danny," then her date and the verse Matthew 10:29-31 (we chose this passage because it is about how God notices and loves all of us, even the smallest and seemingly insignificant).

Though it was hard to stand there and look at my baby girl's headstone, it was comforting to know that she was finally laid to rest in the way we wanted. It really is so unnatural to bury your child. Most people never have to experience it picking out a casket or funeral flowers or headstone for someone you expected to outlive you.

But now she is marked. She was here, and that stone will show it for generations to come. Maybe someday I will visit it with her brother or sister in tow.

As for me...

I still have dark days, when the flashbacks are bad, or the heavy weight on my chest will not lift, but things have been getting better gradually. The medication chased away the darkest thoughts almost immediately, and for that I am grateful. I am gradually weaning again now, and we have been trying this month. This time, I am really off the grid with trying to conceive. Just letting nature take its course.

Something that I have talked about on my other blog a bit is how I am learning to take better care of myself. Since I lost Haven, a part of me wanted to hurt myself by not eating well (or at all at one point). I think I had a lot of self-hatred in the early months, and as time has gone by, I have just made unhealthy choices in an effort to quiet the pain. But I know now that Haven would never want that for me. I am feeding peace and health and joy into my life again.

What a long, long road this is.

Square One

Recently, I made the decision to wean myself off of my medication and begin trying to conceive. Things were going well for a few weeks...and then I fell off an emotional cliff. All of the depression and crippling anxiety came flooding back, along with withdrawal symptoms I had heard about but thought were exaggerated (they're not). I hit a low point a few days ago and stayed there. A friend convinced me to go back on my antidepressants, so here I am. Here we are. No more baby after trying this month, and now no more baby until I can scrape myself together again.

I have never liked being in an unresolved or uncertain state, yet I have been living like that for almost seven months now, not living but not dead, a mother but not a mother. Where does one put all of these feelings? How do you live after you lose your child? Almost seven months later and I still can't answer these questions. I really thought that I would just immediately get pregnant and I would find zen feelings and float off into some fuzzy rainbow baby future where my hurts would be healed by the family we would grow. Yet, seven months later, I have tried for 3-4 cycles to get pregnant with no results, I am on antidepressants and now can't try again until I am weaned off in a healthy way, and I am still shredded emotionally.

But I wait. And I get up each morning. And I eat, and I drink, and I bathe myself. I work, I spend time with friends, and I go to church. But I do it all so mechanically; it's hard to remind myself of my "why" for living sometimes. Some stubborn part of me fights my fears, believing that it has to get better than this and that I will be happy again someday. I hope that part is right.

On the topic of "unresolved," we are still waiting on Haven's headstone, which we ordered about 3 months ago. We were assured it would be installed quickly, but every time we drive by, her place is still marked only by a gray, crudely nailed together marker, her name written on it in Sharpie. It is so ugly and hurts my mama's heart.

Ah, resolution. Where are you?

Breakfast Bomb

I usually take it for granted that our little community of family and friends and coworkers were all aware and sensitive when Haven died. Today I got a taste of someone who didn't know and who wasn't sensitive.

We were at the window at a Tim Horton's drive through to get some breakfast and tea when Danny recognized one of the ladies working inside (an old coworker). I smiled at her. 

"Oh heyyyy," she said, popping her head around the woman serving us, "listen, did you have your baby?" Silence reigned for a few seconds until Danny said, "yeah, we did, but unfortunately she, uh, she didn't make it." The lady dramatically covered her mouth, "oh, I'm sooo sorry!" She stepped away from the window and I thought that was that.

Nope.

She popped back into the window: "were you full-term?"

Danny: yeah.

Lady: "oh my, you don't think about that happening. What happened?"

Danny briefly explained.

"Oh, that's terrible. It must have been so hard." She popped away again, and the other lady in the window (a total stranger!) asked, "was it a boy or girl?" 

Danny answered, but I was just staring off into space at this point, barely believing this was happening.

The old coworker popped back into the window and asked in a conspiratorial tone, "I hope it doesn't sound nosy, but are you guys going to try again?"

I just sat there in shock while Danny said, "uh, we're hoping to, yeah." 

"Oh, that's good." Other random lady chimes in, "hopefully it'll work out this time."

I completely broke down by the time he got me to work. I understand not knowing, but a response to this situation needs to end at "I'm so sorry" and nothing else. I am still in shock that someone who barely knows my husband AND a complete stranger could go on such a nosy tear of questions immediately after finding out we lost our child.

Now I need to somehow let this go and focus on work... I am in disbelief. What is wrong with people?

Life, Again

Life is happening. I don't know when it started creeping in or when things started to feel normal again, but here I am. I truly couldn't see my way through to this even two months ago. A part of me didn't believe the other loss moms who told me that I would eventually feel like this again. Somehow, I am finding my way down this murky path and I am hoping again. I am doing well at work, I am having fun with friends and with Danny, and life is mostly good. Of course Haven is on my mind constantly, and I still have dark days and moments where I feel like my heart is going to burst out of my chest, but I am finding that I am stronger, and that I am bouncing back in a way that I just couldn't before now.

As I have noticed no real reaction to stage 1 of weaning from my antidepressants (other than an increase in anxiety), we decided to start trying again this month. I can't even explain to you how different it is this time around. I hope this does not sound ungrateful and that it does not hurt anyone for me to say this, but I am profoundly grateful that I didn't become pregnant a few months ago when we were trying; I was nowhere near ready, and I think the fear that my anxiety and depression and insomnia would be detrimental to the baby would have probably made all three of those things so much worse. This time around, I feel relaxed and excited. Yeah, I also have MANY fears, but I think those will now forever be a part of the process for us. So wish us luck!

This time around, there are no OPK's, no constant web searches, and no hourly symptom-spotting. And there will be no early testing either. I was entirely consumed the few months that we tried, and I can't imagine that helped things. This time around, I am focusing on being healthy and rested and happy. When it happens, it happens (though I selfishly would love a May or June baby!)

The Upswing

I have started a new blog where I am focusing on gratefulness as a means to finding joy again. I still intend to keep posting here (I still need a place to process my grief), but this new blog is a step toward life.

If you would like to follow, you can view and subscribe here (CLICK).

I hope you all find moments of joy and reasons to smile today. One day at a time, that is the only way through this.

If you also blog, I would like to come and check out your posts. Feel free to leave a comment below with your link!

6 Months and Counting: An Update.

I can't even believe that it has been six months since The Worst Day. Well, technically, today was the middle of the three worst days. I was in the middle of my long induction, hopped up on morphine, and my thoughts and emotions were scattered.

I thought I was okay yesterday, which was six months since the day we first heard the terrible news. I was at work doing my thing when it just hit me. Thankfully, my boss is very supportive and didn't question it when I asked if I could have the next day off. She sent me home right then, in fact. I am so grateful.

Six months.

My depression has ebbed, though the past two weeks have been hard. I supervise summer camps as a part of my job, and this particular camp was full of little girls. A friend and a coworker had babies on the same day. Six months happened yesterday.

I have been sleeping most nights, which is a true blessing. The four months of not sleeping is what really sent me spiraling, I believe. Being back to work has lifted my mood and reminded me that there is still life outside the walls of my home. That I am good at things, and useful, and that someday I will have joy again.

I held a newborn baby yesterday for the first time since I held Haven. It was so hard, and my heart was heavy all evening afterward, but I think it was a good thing. He was just a beautiful little guy, sleeping so deeply as Danny and I passed him back and forth. His mom had a placental abruption and had to have an emergency induction. Though the situation was so different than what we experienced, I could tell that it had shaken them, made them think of us, made them so grateful for a good outcome when it could have been so different.

On that note, I am weaning from my antidepressants and hope to start trying again this month or next. I am so grateful now that I did not get pregnant when we were trying a few months ago. I was not anywhere near ready, and I was half out of my mind with grief and mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion. Now I feel like I can start this again with a fresh head, with a new strength.

And I am strong. It has taken me all of this time to realize that people were right when they said that I was strong as I put one foot in front of the other in the days after Haven was born. I was strong when we buried her. When I sunk to the bottom of the pit. When I crawled back out. When I faced the world again. When I learned how to smile again.

Joy comes from weird places, I find. Instagram, for instance. I didn't know what it was for months, until my boss explained (I might be the oldest 29-year-old ever). And now I am hooked. It actually brings me a lot of joy to take pictures and publish them. Cooking has been another joy. I love cooking, but when I was depressed I just couldn't. Crafts bring me joy. I have been making tutus and painting picture frames with friends, and it is lovely. Exercising. Well, I am working on that one, ha ha! I have also started another blog. Where this one has been a depository for my pain, the new blog will be a place where I track my redemption, my new beginning. I will post the link when it is ready to share, if you are interested in following. I will continue to need this space to put the pain, but I am now in a place where I need to sort out other feelings too.

Let's be clear: I have not arrived. I am not "all better." I never will be. I still cried on my way home yesterday thinking about my daughter's tiny body resting in my arms. No, I am not okay yet. But I will be. This is not where my story ends. It's just where it begins.

An Average Night in the Life of an Insomniac...

Insomnia. I have been fighting this particular demon for about four months straight, and it's not my first battle (it's been a part of my life as long as I can remember). It is so frustrating to tell people you're exhausted because you have insomnia and can't sleep, and they're like, "oh my god, that happens to me sometimes too, like when I'm stressed out and I can't get to sleep for a night or two." And then I look at them blankly, four months after the last restful sleep I had, and envy them wholeheartedly.

Insomnia can be caused by a variety of reasons. Mine is caused by severe anxiety.


Here is what it is like sometimes:

Me: I am so exhausted, babe, let's go to bed early tonight.
Hubby: Sure!

5 minutes later, Hubby is sleeping, and I am laying there with my earplugs in (snoring defense) and my eyes closed, waiting hopefully for sleep. My body relaxes and I think, "I am so comfortable!"

And then...

Brain: Hey!
Me: UGH, what do you want?

Brain: Oh, I was just wondering if you wanted to think about everything stressful that happened today and all of the potentially stressful things that are going to happen tomorrow and in the future. And for fun, let's make those worries be about the worst possible outcome!
Me: That does not sound like fun at all. Leave me alone.

Brain: Too bad, I'm sending you some thoughts now!
Me: Sigh.

Hours of racing thoughts later...

Brain: I think you dozed off there for about ten minutes, so I thought I'd surprise you. YAY, YOU'RE AWAKE!
Me: Leave.Me.Alone. I am so tired. I JUST want to sleep.

Brain: Nah, let's think about...Haven!
Me: I...I want to, but I can't right now.

Brain: Too late! Hey, let's think about the most traumatic three days of your life. WITH flashbacks! Let's relive every painful moment! Man, you're probably never going to be happy again. What a bummer! You sure were happy there for about 9 months. What a moron! You really thought everything would be okay! You sure look like a fool now.
Me: I hate you.

I turn over in bed and curl into a ball, crying. I wake up two hours later, thinking I must have dozed off...

Brain: You're back! I was bugging you for about 15 minutes trying to get your attention! Well, I'm kind of thinking we should go back to the impending doom thoughts.
Me: Why? I was resting there for a little while and that was nice. Can we just go back to that?

Brain: You're no fun. How about your heart starts racing now and you find it hard to breathe? I like that game. Oh wait, let's also add in...PALPITATIONS! Woo!
Me: Please, no. Seriously, why are you doing this? *tries to breathe slowly to calm down*

Brain: Oh, I'm just your pal and I like playing with ya! I want to see how much you can take!
Me: I've had enough, really! Can I just sleep now? I'm so tired...

Brain: Nah, let's think about Haven again. About how the nurse's face looked when she couldn't find the heartbeat. And the doctor's face. And your husband's face. How quiet the room was when she was born. How you could hear that baby born down the hall and you thought you might die. How your voice sounded when you sobbed. How soft her skin felt when you kissed her face. How your arms still feel so empty. How you feel like an outsider all the time now. How-
Me: Please leave me alone.

3 hours later...

Brain: Hey, it's almost morning! You slept for about two hours, I think! Look, there's a bit of light coming in through the curtains. That means it's time to feel wired. YEAH! I love mornings!
Me: It is not morning. I know it's not morning. Would you just shut up?

Brain: It's morning. It's just that it's overcast today. You'll have to get up soon, so no point in trying to sleep more. I think your heart should race some more now.
Me: AUGH. *reaches for phone* ...it's only 4:30am!

Brain: Well, you're awake now, so let's think some more about that impending doom stuff. About how everything you have, you're going to lose. How you're going to be alone. What's the point, anyway? Man, I like to play this game.
Me: I'm too tired to even fight you.

Three hours later, after half-sleep and whirling thoughts and uncertainty over whether I slept or not...

Brain: Wake up, wake up, wake up!!!
Me: What? What is it?

Brain: Oh, nothing. Just seeing if you wanted to think about things again.
Me: NO! I don't!

Brain: Oh well, it's time to get up soon anyway.
Me: There must be a little more time left... *dozes off*

The alarm goes off. I take a deep breath and pull together my scraps of resolve to tackle the day.



And that is what most nights are like for me. This is not even one of the worst nights. I must be a superhero to still be physically and mentally functioning enough to get by. Maybe tonight I'll finally sleep...

What "They" Don't Tell You About Post-Partum Hormones

A young friend of mine has been battling an undiagnosed disease for around a year now. They can't tell her if it is M.S. or Parkinson's or something else, so she has been through the ringer with a wide range of quickly-progressing and often surprising symptoms. She has held onto her sense of humour through this, and today I read her blog from start to finish. It really spoke to me that she could find laughter in what is a really shitty situation, so I thought to myself (after several hours of trying to avoid a panic attack), "dammit, I am going to write a funny post instead of talking about how anxious and depressed I am!" Here it is.

What "They" Don't Tell You About Post-Partum Hormones

1) BOOBS. When your milk comes in and you are not nursing, your boobs are going to expand to roughly the size of planets and develop gravitational pulls...and they are going HURT. No, "hurt" is too mild a word. It will feel like breast explosion is imminent. They will turn warm and hard and knotty, and you will try anything to relieve the pain. Like putting frozen cabbage leaves on them. And, if you're like me, your mind won't be thinking logically (see #13), so you'll go to bed with the leaves still tucked into your huge sports bra, thinking that the magical curative properties will continue to work through the night to give you back your sanity (and normal-sized breasts). Then you'll wake up the next morning to the most sour, putrid cabbage stench imaginable (a little like hot garbage juice). I can still recall that smell in vivid detail. Apparently, you're not supposed to leave them after they get warm. But if you do, just know that triple-washing your sheets and clothing probably won't even come close to getting the gag-inducing reek out.

BOOBS AGAIN. On the topic of boobs, having your milk come in (what a tame expression) means that they will be leaking. Everywhere. Like enough that your husband has to wait outside the shower with breast pads waiting so that you don't soak the bath mat. You will find a way to turn this into a game.

These might actually be Salma's regular boobs, but even so, these are small
compared to what milk boobs usually look like! (Image credit here)

2) YOUR VAGINA. Do yourself a favour and just don't look. And don't let your partner look. Though if you're like me, you'll have a very strange pulling pain in your stitches one day and you won't be able to see well enough to check if there is something wrong, so you'll make your poor husband take a peek. His face will turn green, then ashen, then red, and he might gag a little, but he will still love you afterward. A friend's husband described it as "Sarlacc-gina," but I still think that's too tame.

SARLACC-GINAAAA! Geek reference for the win. (Image credit here)

3) YOUR HAIR. Your hair is going to fall out either in clumps or in a never-ending stream. It'll start innocently around two months after birth, then kick into overdrive around two months after that. The heaps of hair will be so large that, if you hot-glued some googly-eyes onto them, you could probably sell them as pets. Also, because your hair is all falling out and thousands of new hairs are growing in, your head might be unbearably itchy and flaky. If you are a dummy like me, you will give in to the itch and scratch so hard that you draw blood. YEAH! You'll find stray hairs stuck to your socks, in your food, and maybe even in your butt crack! What joy. Maybe you'll even discover that you are a long-lost cousin of Edward Mordake and find a face hiding in your (remaining) hair! Okay, that part didn't happen to me. But the Ewok hairballs and bloody, flaky scalp part did. In fact, it's still happening. To be fair, someone did actually warn me about this, but I really thought they were exaggerating. Nope!

4) PHEW! You're probably going to start sweating more and you'll smell bad. Sorry, babe. Turns out pregnancy hormones were actually awesome and now your body is in withdrawal. I have gone through so much more deodorant since birth!

5) THE RABBIT HOLE. Deep depression. Raging anxiety. Uncontrollable crying. Insomnia. These can happen to you whether or not you get to take your baby home. They can also strike anywhere from immediately to several months later, so you might think you're home free, then WHAM! you're eating boxes of ice cream bars and sobbing at episodes of Call the Midwife early into the A.M.

6) PIZZA FACE. You'll be able to play "Connect the Dots" with the pimples on your greasy face. And your back. And boobs. And arms.

All of the blotches. (Image credit here)

7) IT WOBBLES TO AND FRO. Even the slimmest of us don't usually get lucky enough to avoid what my friend affectionately calls the "meat curtain." No, it's not that kind of meat curtain, you perv, it's the soft blob of loose flesh that dangles under your belly button in a lovely fold that feels like bread dough. Personally, I like "skin skirt" better. A week ago, I squashed my spongy muffin top back into my favourite pre-prego pants and called it a win. This bod will never be the same, but that's okay. I think I can cut it some slack since it grew a human being then pushed her out all on its own! In fact, I think it deserves another box of ice cream bars.

8) IT RUBS THE LOTION ON ITS SKIN. Well, turns out it doesn't really matter if you did this or not while you were pregnant; stretch marks are mostly hereditary and they affect almost every mother. I kind of lucked out with the belly marks and escaped with a small patch on the bottom left and one scar above my belly button that looks like an eyebrow (like it is permanently saying, "are you kidding me?") I did, however, get a whole lot of stretch marks on my boobs, so reserve your hatred for energetic pregnant women and moms with sleep-through-the-night newborns. (Just kidding, don't hate anyone please!)

The lotion ain't gonna work, honey. (Image credit here)

9) THE BOOM. Sex is going to suck for awhile. I'm sorry. It just will. You'll finally scrape together enough libido to take a stab at it (or to let it take a stab at you...yeah, I really did just make that joke) and then you'll be surprised to find that your attempts are much like trying to drive a Buick through the eye of a needle. The good news is that it'll get better. I PROMISE.

10) AUNT FLO. If you are not on the birth control pill, your period is going to come back with a vengeance. Maybe not right away, but it will. My first one was this gentle three day spotting and I thought, "that's it?!" And then I had a nine-day period about three weeks later that I thought might be the end of me. I could have soaked up a whole flock of sheep and a cotton factory just in the first three days and I had every period symptom in the book - it was worse than puberty! Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. It wasn't all that bad. (Hrrrmm...shuffle shuffle).

11) NUTTER BUTTER. On the topic of cycles, you might go bat-shit crazy when you get PMS for the first few cycles. I am talking psychotic. That happened to me almost a month ago. Now I am "eagerly" awaiting Aunt Flo's return. Oh goody! I wonder what she will bring with her this month. Paranoia? Surrre, why not? We'll just heap it on top of the sharp increase in anxiety, cramping, mood swings, insomnia, panic attacks, and all the rest. It'll be a party up in here!

Eyeballs and teeth. (Image credit here)

12) OW, OW, OWWW! You're going to hurt. I'm not even talking about the stinging of your nethers when you go pee for the first week or the throbbing of your bosoms. I'm talking about all of that sweet, sweet Relaxin hormone leaving your bloodstream, making your loosey-goosey joints suddenly feel quite geriatric. Oh, and you're going to probably still have low back pain and stiffness for a few months, bee tee dubs. If you're really unlucky, your pelvic pain will also stick around. Lucky you!

13) THE FOG. You'll discover that your "pregnancy brain" was permanent and you're going to be a little dumb forever. This is something I find endlessly irritating, as I like to believe my mind was sharp before pregnancy sapped it of its memory and thinking juices. Alas, I am now so absent-minded that Husband has long since stopped chiding me (I just get an exasperated "seriously?!" from time to time).

Yeah, I know I ended with the number 13. That's because you're going to be feeling pretty unlucky when you're a sweaty, spotty, mammoth-breasted baldy with a dangling pooch, an angry vagina, and a side of crazy and ouch.

While I genuinely believe that it was all worth it and that birth is a beautiful, magical thing, it isn't easy on the ol' bod. I'm trying to tell you what "they" won't; enjoy your pregnancy hormones while they last, sweetheart. They're a cakewalk compared to what comes next.

Down the Rabbit Hole and the Long Way Back to the Top

After Haven died, my mom warned me about slipping into the pit. She said, "it is a lot easier to keep from falling in than it is to climb back out again." My mom is a wise woman. And I am in the pit.

Since my last post, anxiety and depression completely took over my life and I broke one evening. It was a long time coming, and I am actually shocked now that it took so long for me to break. I slipped into a panic attack, where I sobbed and hyperventilated and felt like my heart would burst from my chest. Three months of heart palpitations, insomnia, muddy thoughts, and feelings of panic and depression all fell on me at once, with the weight of grief giving them the extra force they needed to crush me.  My husband received a text from me that caused him to worry, and when he called, I could barely form words. He rushed home and spent the day with me, cleaning the house, making supper, and holding me close. I don't think he realized until that day how badly I was doing.

Sometimes I look at myself almost like I am standing outside my body, and I think about how startlingly unhappy I am. Most days it is all I have been able to do to convince myself that I don't want to die, and that life is worth living. I don't intend to hurt myself, but I have had little will to live. It is like the joy has been sucked out of my life...kind of like one of those airtight clothes storage bags. I feel shriveled and pointless and other a lot of the time. But even though it has been a truly black time, I can still see from my low vantage point that this is not the bottom. I am afraid of the real bottom.

I returned to work this week. It has been a mixed experience. People's reactions are not always what I would expect, but I will say that everyone has been respectful. I feel entirely like a self conscious outsider, but I think that will ease in time as I learn to be among the living again. A glimmer of hope seeped in this week. For the first time, I have felt kind of useful and even sharp. I even laughed for real a few times as I sat in familiar surroundings and engaged in the banter. When I get home, though, the worries crowded my mind again.

Experiencing this prolonged period of anxiety has really opened my eyes to how it has been stealing from me for years. It has negatively affected and even destroyed some of my relationships. It contributes to my low self esteem and self worth. It steals joy by leeching worry into my thoughts until they spin and push me off course. It steals my sleep too, and it has since I was a child.

My doctor prescribed me antidepressants and sleep pills to help even me out. I am hopeful that they will do just that. Honestly, I regret not taking them during my last major depression. Insomnia really does take things from bad to worse. Of course, this medication means that we have to stop trying to conceive for awhile. I was really upset by that at first, but I am at peace with it now. Almost grateful, really, for a reason to not try. I don't think I was ready. So if, when this fall rolls around, I am doing better, I will ask the doctor to wean me off of these drugs, and we will start over again. My doctor said, "I think you owe yourself the pleasure of enjoying your next pregnancy." I think she is right. It's going to be so hard when the time comes, but I know I can't make it harder on myself by rushing into it.

Today, I am feeling almost positive. I decided today that this devastation and this crash are not going to kill me. I am too pissed off about my experience to let it beat me. I realized today that I have been letting this situation turn me into a victim, but no more. I am going to get my life back. If that means a new job, a new haircut, or new friends, I am going to do whatever it takes to get there. If it means risks, I'll take them. At the same time, I care so much less about the piddly things now. Perspective is an incredible gift, and I am not going to waste it.

I ran into this quote today, and I'll close with it. It made me think about how I have always put off doing the things I want to do, and how I have let life happen to me instead of taking charge. If losing Haven did nothing else, it made me realize how short life is and how nothing is guaranteed. So why wait?

"It's a terrible thing, I think, in life to wait until you're 'ready.' I have this feeling now that actually no one is ever ready to do anything. There is almost no such thing as 'ready.' There is only now." - Hugh Laurie

Postpartum Depression

The happy face is cracking. I was in a delirious state for much of April, following a month of intense anxiety. I almost felt at peace with what happened and felt what I thought was happiness more than once. I could see a way forward. Even at the time, I was suspicious of these feelings, and now I see that I was doing what I do: processing things intellectually and not dealing with my real feelings. When possible, I was blocking the flash-backs and grief and focusing everything on trying to conceive. My therapist pointed out today that this was probably just a deeper form of the shock and denial I'd experienced in the early weeks. I remember wondering early on how you can tell the difference between grief and post-partum depression. Well, now I know you can.

Everything is REAL and close now and I can't seem to shake it off. It's not just grief or sadness, it's like a heavy blanket that clouds my mind and squeezes my heart. I'm exhausted and anxious, my thoughts are scattered, and doing anything more than what I have to do seems impossible. I've thought several times that it would be better if I just wasn't here anymore (though I haven't thought about harming myself with any real intention). I've tried to explain how I'm feeling, but I feel shut down by many friends and family, who often change the subject or try to console me or cheer me up. Though I know I shouldn't, this has caused me to isolate myself. I can't seem to care about anything other than Danny. Even our TTC journey isn't really holding my interest anymore. I found this post-partum depression check-list (click here) and so many of the items apply to me.

I feel like there are two of me; one is the outward me who can sometimes smile and carry on conversations, then there is the inward me, whose only thoughts are of Haven and the life I should be living. Unfortunately, inward me has become outward me in the last few weeks. I'm quiet, I cry, and I don't know how to smile for real anymore. I barely made it through our vacation intact, though I somehow managed to keep from crying in front of our friends. I don't know why I feel I need to appear strong when I'm anything but.

The whole month has really been a trial, and now I am suddenly stuck in the mire. It's like it snuck up on me, even though I can see all of the signs now. There were several big triggers, all right in a row (not counting many smaller triggers):

1) The week leading up to Mother's Day, which is when we were picking out a headstone.
2) Mother's Day.
3) Ordering the headstone.
4) Getting my period after our first cycle. Felt like betrayal.
5) Haven's 3 month mark.
6) My sister-in-law and brother-in-law's son was born. He should have been grandchild #2.
7) Vacation. Last year, we left for this same destination the day after I found out I was pregnant. The home we stayed in was full of ghosts.
8) Newborn photos all.over.facebook. ("This is what life's all about. Early morning rocks with my baby boy.")
9) My sister and brother-in-law decided that they would dedicate their baby on Father's Day and we're invited. I just...can't. I know there is no way they realize just how hard that would be for us, or why Father's Day is one of the worst days they could possibly have chosen, but I still feel stunned.
10) Some comments from people that showed me just how alone we are in this.
11) Hormones. Pregnancy hormones are a cake-walk compared to post-partum hormones. I basically feel awful all of the time. My body is a lumpy, chubby mess, and I hate it so much right now.
12) I am supposed to return to work in about two weeks and I do not feel ready. I am barely getting my house to a livable state, never mind working full-time! I don't know what to do. A friend commented that "maybe it'll be like you never left!" Riiiiight.

So here I am, a depressed and physically pained mother with no baby. I feel like it is all pointless, but I keep trudging on. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I still believe there will be life after this, but it's a struggle to put one foot in front of the other. How do you become a part of society again when you feel like a total alien? How do you grin and bear it? How do you start to care about life again when your whole future was derailed? Do I even want to keep going? What guarantee is there that things will ever be better?

Right foot forward, left foot forward...and repeat.

Mother's Day

I have been dreading this day since the day Haven came into the world, silent. I had anticipated this day almost as much as the day I would give birth, because I would be able to celebrate all of the joy she had brought me in those amazing nine months. I bought a special "I love my mommy!" onesie that I would have dressed her in, and I would have brought her to church to be ooh'd and ahh'd over. I would be able to stand with the other moms, and the kids in the church would have gone around, bringing flowers to all of the moms.

Not to be.

I decided right away that I would not be visiting church today, because I couldn't bear the thought of standing...or not standing. I couldn't decide if getting a flower or not getting a flower would be worse. I knew I would weep buckets, no matter what, and crying in front of people is something that makes me uncomfortable. At first, my husband didn't understand, but he supported my decision to stay home (he'll be coming home from work early to cook me supper and snuggle in front of some cheesy movie of my choice). He also posted an incredibly sweet message to me on facebook. I couldn't ask for a better man to be my partner on this unexpected path.

A good friend sent me this article (click here) yesterday, and it put into words some of the feelings I've been feeling, as well as some of the thoughts I've had about other moms and women in my life. I know so many women in these various situations, so I chose to represent them in my facebook status today:

Sometimes things happen in our lives that make us see things we never saw before. So...

Today I am thinking of my friends whose mothers are sick, and those whose mothers are no longer here. I'm thinking of those whose relationship with their mother or child is not a happy one. I'm thinking of the adoptive and foster moms, and of the moms who made the loving choice to give up their child for adoption. I'm thinking of the many moms I have met who are like me, having lost their child (some of whom are bravely walking the pregnancy road again). I'm thinking of the women who are battling infertility and longing to start a family. I'm thinking of the new moms, and the moms to be. And I'm thinking of my mom, who always worked hard to give us the best life possible.

Mother's Day means a lot of different things to different people. Today is bittersweet, because I ache to hold my beautiful daughter. She brought us a surplus of joy in the short time she was here, and we will always have that. I long for the day when I will hold her again, and I look forward to someday building a family with my wonderful, kind husband.

I know that, if you are reading this, you have probably lost a child. Please know that I am thinking of you today. Please know that you will always be a mom, even if your child is not here with you. Be kind to yourself today, and every day.

Crocuses always make me think of hope, pushing up from the cold, dead ground.
This one gave me a moment of faith in the idea that someday
we will have "take home" babies of our own.

Invisible Parents, the Sequel

There is a parental child benefit that all parents in Newfoundland receive upon the birth of their child. It also applies to parents whose child was stillborn. To be honest, I wasn't sure at first that I wanted it. I felt a little sleazy collecting money when my daughter had died and I didn't have any child-related costs. But I realized quickly that funerals and headstones and all of those things cost money, and they are not covered in any way when your child is stillborn (my insurance booklet very "tactfully" says that my coverage for a dependent's life insurance is only for children "from live birth"). So every expense has been out of pocket. (It turned out that, thanks to the generosity of our friends, family, and coworkers, we were able to cover all expenses without going into debt.)

Filling out the application was emotional for me. You have to tick a box saying that your child was stillborn, and the form asks for the child's name, but it is "not required if you are applying as a result of a stillbirth." I felt like the form was screaming, "YOUR BABY IS DEAD AND SHE DOESN'T MATTER AS MUCH AS OTHER BABIES!" For the rest of our lives, we will have to fight for the legitimacy of our parenthood to our daughter. The fact is that many won't view her as a person and will not think our grief and acknowledgement of her as our daughter is justified. So...I filled her name out anyway. Small victories.

We completed the application and mailed it in with all relevant information and additional forms, only to receive a letter in the mail saying that our application could not be processed because we needed to include a stillbirth registration letter. What? No one told us that we needed one or how to get it, and the application form did not mention it. Stillborn babies don't get birth or death certificates. All I had was a letter from the funeral home confirming that they held a service for Haven. So I had to call that office back to find out what they needed and how to get it, then I had to call Vital Statistics in order to request it.

When I asked why I hadn't been told anything about it, the lady said, "well, I think because it's a hard thing to talk about with parents." I said, "well, it's a whole lot easier than putting parents through this process!" Having to rehash our story with strangers over the phone is one of the most stressful and painful things that I have had to do, and it's something I have had to do more often than you might think. Honestly, I don't give two craps how uncomfortable our situation is for someone else to deal with. They aren't the ones who lost their only child, so they can, quite frankly, suck it up.

This pissed me off, but I restrained myself. After all, it wasn't that lady's fault that the system is broken.

At least there is a happy ending to this story. Or there will be. A local blogger who lost her daughter in a similar way to us (Being Everlee's Mom) contacted the government about this issue and they are now working on a way to streamline the process to spare parents from having to jump through hoops in order to have their children recognized. I know that a lot of families will benefit from such a change. I guess it's just one change at a time, one courageous parent's voice at a time, that will make stillbirth and parents of stillborn babies visible.

Invisible Parents

I am still surprised every time something happens to remind me of just how invisible we are as parents of a stillborn baby. I found out recently that a Public Health Nurse is supposed to visit all new moms at least two or three times, not only to make sure the baby is thriving and feeding, etc., but to make sure the mom is coping alright with all of the post-birth hormones, and specifically to make sure she is not slipping into postpartum depression. But for me, and for so many other moms like me, there was no phone call. No visit.

I thought at first that I must have missed the call or there was some mistake, but when I mentioned it to my therapist, she confirmed that it is not standard practice to check up on bereaved moms. She thought maybe it was because the hospital recommends therapy to the parents, or they might assume that a parent wanting support will contact someone for support. The problem is, when you are the parent of a stillborn baby, it is agonizing to make calls for any reason that requires you to talk about your loss. Believe me, after four calls to EI, I never wanted to use the phone again.

I think it is a poor excuse to say that no one really knows how to handle this kind of loss. Doesn't the medical community owe it to bereaved mothers to give them the same support that everyone else gets? Particularly because mothers of stillborn babies are at a much higher risk for postpartum depression, PTSD, anxiety, etc.

Dr. Ruta Nonacs, discussing miscarriage in her book A Deeper Shade of Blue, says "Experiencing a stillbirth or neonatal death probably puts you at an even higher risk for depression; one study indicated that a mother's risk for depression after stillbirth is about seven times higher than a woman who has a live birth." And another study (click here) confirms that link.

So why are we ignored?

My husband and I have a large network of friends and family who have supported us through this tragedy, but so many other couples don't have that. Even I, with all of the support and understanding that I have been gifted with, feel let down.

I hope that parents like us continue to speak out about their experiences and let the medical community know that we should not be ignored. We are still moms and dads, and we still need support. That is why I plan to contact Eastern Health about our experience. I will update here about any responses I receive.

The Real World Approaches

In Canada, you would normally receive a full, paid year off from work (up to 55% of your normal earnings) if your baby is born alive and well. You still receive the pregnancy/maternity leave portion of your Employment Insurance when you deliver a stillborn child due to the physical recovery and time for grieving. That means 15 paid weeks, and two unpaid weeks. Your employer must give you your job back, or an equivalent job with equivalent compensation. Well, I am about a month away from the end of my pregnancy leave, and I am starting to think about reintegration into The Real World. I have been in a safe bubble of sorts; I've been able to choose the people I want to be around, I have been able to focus on physical recovery and grieving, and I have been able to start each day at my own pace. That will change soon, and I am afraid.

I am afraid of strangers' reactions, since I have such a public job. The more I read forum posts and pieces of people's stories, the more I realize that there are a LOT of people out there who don't understand stillbirth and don't ascribe personhood to stillborn babies. Therefore, they don't think a parent is justified in mourning as though their baby breathed on the outside, or in talking about them the same way as they would any other child they bore. It's ridiculous, frankly. There are babies born much earlier than the point where Haven died, and if they were to spend even a few hours breathing on the outside, even with assistance, a lot of people would think of those babies more as people than they would my daughter, because she never breathed on the outside. I am afraid of meeting these people because I am afraid I'll either lose my mind and yell and them, or that I will be dumbstruck, and they will take my silence as agreement or some sort of proof that they are right.

I am afraid that I won't be able to keep up with things anymore. My job requires me to be "on" all the time, and to remember things. To keep things running smoothly. An administration job is not the kind where you can just shut off your mind. I was always sharp, remembered the little things, did things without being asked or reminded. And now, here I am. I still have "mommy brain" from all the hormones (I've heard this might never go away), my grief is horribly distracting, my focus on trying to conceive (TTC) is distracting, my thoughts about how my husband is doing are distracting...there really isn't a lot of room left for sharp thinking. I hope that I am able to flip a switch and just turn the focus onto my job once I'm back, but I'm nervous.

I am afraid that, if I can't conceive before I get back to work, the exhaustion of full-time work will make it more difficult. I'm afraid that if I can't time conception right, I'll end up having to work next year during the most busy and stressful time at work (April and May) and put my baby at risk. I'm already afraid that if I DO conceive this cycle or next, that even those few months at work will be dangerous for my baby due to my stress and anxiety. Basically, I'm afraid of stress.

I am afraid that going back to work will make all of this seem more real somehow. Like it never happened. I should have been returning in February of 2015 after an exhausting and joyful year of nursing my daughter and watching her grow. Now I am returning early, empty-handed and exposed.

I am afraid that people will think that going back to work means I'm okay.

Sigh. I'm just afraid.

TTC Adventures Continue: Are We There Yet?

Still waiting to ovulate and driving myself bonkers with this TTC (trying to conceive) hoopla. I'm on Day 19 and signs indicate I'll be ovulating soon. I (barely) avoided buying a thermometer and ovulation test strips today, but I did buy some pregnancy tests in faith that I'll have reason to use one soon. We have never "tried" before; Haven was a flukey (but very welcome) surprise, but we always prevented in one way or another before that. We're only in cycle one and I'm already so antsy. I have a whole new respect and sympathy for those who have been up and down this road for months and years.

My quirky mind likes to think that the little troops are waiting around at a gents-only, spermy expat bar (called, say, The Tube), for the egg to make her grand stage appearance. Maybe they're having a pint and a cigar in there, ribbing each other in friendly competition, exchanging strategies. Y'know, sperm conversation starters.

"I'm gonna get 'er this time!"

"No - I am!"

"There she is! CHARRRGE!"

It's a good thing we have a sense of humour about this, considering everything. It is still an emotional thing to be thinking about another pregnancy so soon, but I feel good about the fact that we're in this place.

Good luck, boys! May the best gent win!




If you want to be blown away by the crazy science of conception, check out this video. I am continually in awe of how our bodies work.

Headstones

The ground is thawing and we are starting to think about buying a headstone for our little one. I'm checking out the websites for local spots that do this sort of thing. I didn't know such places existed before. What a crap way to learn, huh?

Sometimes this all seems so surreal, like something that happened to someone else. I look at pictures of us from before The Worst Day, and I don't recognize myself. Who are those naive, happy people? They have no idea their lives are about to fall apart. That all of their plans for the future are about to be derailed.

Black, brown, or gray?

"Beloved daughter of..."

"Safe in Heaven"

An etched bird, perhaps?

Or some flowers?

Just one date.



How did life bring me here? When will I wake up from this horrible dream?

Baby-dancing, Month #1

Those in the online forum world will get a chuckle out of the title. Almost three months out, we have decided to head down the "trying to conceive (TTC)" road. Aaand, I am obsessed already. I know it's not fair, but when we conceived Haven, she was a total surprise after the one and only time we ever "baby-danced" unprotected around ovulation. But in reading so many forum and articles online, I know it's pretty unlikely that we will have the same luck so close after a full term delivery. Even though my ovulation is already late this cycle, I've been reading into every little ache and twinge and imagining I'm pregnant. I wish I could say I'm being cool about the whole thing, but I know I'll be crushed if my period comes in a few weeks.

It is emotional to be heading in this direction. On the one hand, I am totally excited and ready, but on the other, my fears and worries cover me like a heavy blanket. What if I am infertile now? What if it takes a long time to become pregnant? What if we're trying too early? What if I miscarry, or worse, lose another baby late-term? To be honest, my mind can't believe that I am capable of bringing a living baby into this world. It feels impossible. I am sad, because I know that my innocence regarding pregnancy is gone and can never come back. I know another pregnancy will be so bittersweet. But here we are. I am eager, despite it all.

I know I can never replace my beautiful daughter, but I do hope that I can make her a little brother or sister. I hope that we can bring home a baby, and find healing in that. I miss my baby so much, but I know this is the path I need to be on. Focusing on it has been a saving grace in this wasteland of grief.

One of the only things I have complete confidence in is my relationship with my wonderful husband. I know that, no matter what happens, he will support me and be there by my side. I hope, more than almost anything, that I can make him a dad to a baby we can take home. Nothing could bring me more joy.

Autopsy Results: Hyper-Coiled Cord

Two weeks ago, we were shocked to find out that Haven's autopsy/pathology report turned up a cause of death. From the day she died and onward, we had prepared ourselves to to hear that they couldn't find a cause, because, in most cases like ours, they don't find one. All of the nurses and doctors had told us that we would likely never know.

The report said that she was a perfect, healthy baby girl (which we knew), but that her cord was abnormal. It was hyper-coiled, meaning that the cord had way too many coils in it. The nurses didn't catch it when they delivered her, and even specifically said that it looked normal. The coiling doesn't seem to have caused a problem until the end, because she was a normal weight and had developed perfectly. There were areas of low Wharton's jelly (meaning the veins were less protected), and there was clotting, swelling, and fibroids in the cord, so it looks like at some point (probably in the last few days), blood started being restricted, then was cut off. The hyperactivity the night before we found out she was gone was probably her dying due to lack of oxygen. My theory is that, when she changed sides of my belly about a week before, that put her into a position where she ended up leaning on the cord, cutting off blood flow. I had a bad feeling about it at the time, but my doctor didn't seem concerned. And for any normal pregnancy, it wouldn't have been cause for concern. Hindsight is 20/20.

Research indicates that mothers tend to produce the same types of cords with subsequent babies, but it's not guaranteed. And another cord like it would not necessarily be fatal, though it would be dangerous. There is no prevention of hyper-coiling; it happens very early on. There are only two theories: one is that it is caused by the embryonic/fetal movements when the cord is developing, or that it is caused by uneven blood flow. Diabetics and cocaine users are more likely to have this happen, but I am neither of those things. All I can really do is keep in good health and hope for the best the next time around. There is some indication that they can look for it on ultrasound and test blood flow with cord Doppler testing, so I am hopeful that we'll have luck with that. I also hope that we will be very closely monitored. I plan to go off work much earlier the next time so that I can focus on being healthy and rested, and so I can more carefully monitor the baby myself.

We will be seeing a specialist in a few months to go over the report in more detail and to learn about our odds of recurrence, as well as what the plan will be the next time I am pregnant. It may be up to six months until then. I hate how slowly the medical world moves sometimes.

I can write all of that in such a clinical way because I'm still a little in shock over it. That's why I waited two weeks to share it here. Even our OB was very surprised by the report, as it didn't seem like we would ever know.

We really thought it would make us feel better to know why she died. I think it did, in a way, because it has given closure, and will continue to do so. I don't regret the autopsy, but it was very emotional hearing the details at the doctor's office. We were shocked, first and foremost, but hearing the details and picturing our poor girl being in such trouble without us knowing...that hurt. Knowing she was perfect but just terribly unlucky...I don't know if that makes us feel better or worse. Or both. Grief over losing a child causes the most paradoxical and illogical thoughts I have ever experienced.

We left the office and drove straight to the grocery and liquor stores, where we bought a lot of alcohol and food, then proceeded to eat our faces off and drink a bottle of wine each. We even bought a pack of smokes (we don't smoke) and had a bunch of those. Was that destructive? Probably. But it did make us feel a little better at the time.

So that's our story. Anyone else have experience with hyper-coiled cords? I'd love to hear your stories and/or to hear of any advice or information you received regarding subsequent pregnancy. It seems fairly rare among causes of stillbirth, so there is not a lot of information out there.

Blaming God

I have run across several threads on loss forums in which parents blame God for the death of their child(ren). I have wanted to comment, but don't want to give the impression that I do not understand the pain, anger, and bitterness. The seemingly bottomless grief that can well up at a moment's notice. I also haven't wanted to spark any religious debates in a place that is meant for support and healing. There is a time and place for all things. So I will respond here from my perspective. You may not agree with me, but please know that I would never belittle your grief and that this post is not meant to judge. I do know how it feels. This is just my journey. I hope this is coherent...

Even on the day we found out that Haven had died, it never occurred to me to blame God. I was, and am, crushed, but blame for God never entered my mind. This world is often a cruel place. I grew up poor, with a mean, abusive, and mentally ill father. My mom was a shell of a person for many years due to crippling depression. Fear and anxiety were my constant companions. Abuse of every kind was rampant among my extended family on both sides, and the same goes for mental illness. My aunt also lost a daughter, Katarina, at full term and only got to glimpse her before the nurses whisked her away. I lost a cousin at 31 to cervical cancer. She was a gentle soul and mother to a little girl. My father-in-law died at 48 after suffering through severe illness for 11 years (crohn's, a liver transplant, medically-caused diabetes, cancer, then a prolonged, excruciating death). He was a minister and a good, kind man. His mother died young from breast cancer. And then my daughter died suddenly at the height of my joy and the most precious thing in my life was ripped away. All of these things are unjust, unfair. But terrible things (genocide, war, murder, rape, forced prostitution) happen around the world every day and I never once blamed God for those before, believing that they are all a part of this broken world full of broken people. Why should I blame him when the pain lands on my doorstep? And I won't pretend I'm not in pain. It's on every breath, in every movement, in every thought and prayer and wish.

Faith is a choice, or rather, a long string of choices. Today, I choose to believe in God's goodness. Today, I choose to believe that God has a plan. Today, I choose to believe the promise that all things work together for the good of those who love the Lord. Either I believe in God, or I don't. Faith is not dependent on circumstances. In the Bible, God never guaranteed that life would be easy and that we would always receive what we want (unfortunately, a lot of Western teachings imply this). You need only read the stories of those in the Bible who went through unimaginable things to see that their faith did not bar them from pain. The point is that God is there with us through every one of the difficult things we walk through. He knows our pain, weeps with us, and strengthens us if we allow him to do that.

I have read facebook posts by atheist friends who imply that it is the weak who cling to faith. But to be honest, it takes serious strength to choose a life of trust and surrender in the face of loss. It would be much easier to sink into hate and bitterness and anger and never crawl out of that place. In choosing faith, I am choosing life. God sees my life from its humble start to its humble end, the good and the bad, and he has a plan. I may not understand it, but I trust him. I know that God sees all that has happened and all that is to come, but I don't believe that he caused Haven to die just because he knew that she would. Our minds always want answers, but the truth is that bad things happen to good people. Every single day.

I think it's important not to deny our feelings, but to acknowledge them. Today, I am pissed off and I can't stand the sight of pregnant women or kids. Today, I am terrified that I will lose another child and I'm angry that I have to feel this way. Okay. I let myself feel it. Sometimes I spend entire days feeling angry and ripped off. I believe that anger is a part of grief and should be felt and expressed fully. But I look at my feelings this way: these intense feeling are temporary; they don't change my long-term, overarching feelings. Bitterness is not somewhere I want to set up camp. There is recovery. I really do believe that. It won't be tomorrow or next week and maybe not even next year, but there is life after loss. Someday I will smile again without forcing my lips into an upward direction. There will be pure joy again. Have I lost innocence? Yes. And I'll never get that back. I'll never know pregnancy without fear again. I might never even know the joy of mothering living children. But I choose to believe that I will be okay in time, no matter what.

I choose faith.

Because this is a sensitive topic and I do not want debates on this blog, I am going to close comments on this post. But if you would like to talk about this with me, please do send me a private message.

Do It Anyway

I have been thinking a lot this week about life with grief, and the life to come after. This line of thinking was prompted by an episode of Call the Midwife (my guilty pleasure tv show). In one of the episodes, the main character has lost someone. One of her patients, a Holocaust survivor, says to her, "You will feel better than this. Maybe not yet. But you will. You just keep living until you're alive again." Simple, but profound. Because when you lose what is most precious, a part of you dies too. I don't think I'll be the same me when this grief fades, but I do know that I will someday feel joy again.

I read a blog post today regarding fear and our response to it. The blogger's fear was linked to following through with a desire of hers. She went on to say that her theme for 2014 was "do it anyway." I really liked that, and I've decided to adopt it. See, I'm riddled with fear right now. Fear of venturing outside my house. Fear of returning to work in June. Of not being able to bring a living baby home to stay. The fear of all of the days without my daughter that stretch before me like a never-ending sea of sadness. I am realizing that the only way to the other side is straight through. I need to give myself time and space to grieve, but I know I can't stop there.

I don't agree with people who think that you need to deny your struggle in order to overcome it (fake it 'til you make it). I think that real courage is looking your fear in the face and forging onward in spite of it. So right here and now, I am making the decision to choose life and hope and to "do it anyway." Despite the fear, I am going to move forward. One step at a time. One anxiety attack at a time. One tear-filled night at a time. I am going to summon all of my courage and do it anyway. I'm going to live until I'm alive again.

I took a small step yesterday. I was wandering around Walmart and I saw maternity clothing on clearance. I bought four shirts for when I am full term next time, even though I don't know if I'll ever have that wonderful experience again. It made me feel anxious, but I rang them through and brought them home, where I promptly ripped off the tags so I wouldn't chicken out and return them.

As if to cement my thoughts on the subject, I received a package in the mail today from a friend in Tennessee. She had been sewing a gorgeous quilt for Haven while I was pregnant and finished it the day she found out that she had died. I opened the long-awaited package, and accompanying the quilt was a beautiful, handcrafted glass heart. I immediately knew that this would be my symbol of hope in the months to come. I hung it in the nursery so that I can peek in and see it whenever I need a reminder.

When I logged in today, I noticed that my page views had doubled since the last time I logged on. If you find yourself here, I want first to tell you that I am so sorry that you have felt the grief that comes with the loss of a child. But I hope that you find some comfort in reading about my journey. It's ugly at times, but I hope it all leads to a joyful end. Please feel free to comment or to contact me privately if you would like to.

Useless

When I was pregnant, I felt like I had found my reason for being. Motherhood was the thing I was meant to do, and all of my thoughts were centered on growing my little daughter. When she died, I feel like I lost my purpose. Now I feel directionless. Useless. Adrift.

I was a little surprised to find that my husband, usually so focused, feels much the same as I do. It's like no matter what we do to distract ourselves, she is RIGHT THERE in the front of our minds. He copes by keeping busy and by faking it. I'm not a very good faker. I don't really know if I'm coping. He said to me a week ago or so, "you know, you're not betraying her if you need to have a break and be distracted." I answered with a bucket of tears. Perceptive, my husband.

One of the only things that is keeping me sane is concentrating on getting strong again so we can try to conceive in May or June. I don't even know what my cycles will be like in a few months, yet I sit here and calculate different conception dates over and over and look at calendars and think about what each would mean at work. I think about the date I would go off work, I wonder if the OB will recommend an early induction...or if I'll demand one out of fear. I know I plan to go off at 32 weeks for my peace of mind (that is the earliest I can begin maternity leave, unless I am put on sick leave due to having a high risk pregnancy). I can admit that it is all an obsession. I am grateful for all of the support group forums online that assure me I am not crazy and that many other mamas feel the same.

It's funny in a way, because I think constantly about being pregnant again, but I don't often let myself ponder a happy outcome. I don't often think about taking home a baby the next time around. Maybe it's because I don't know what that feels like. I know funerals, empty bassinets, packed-up clothes, and boxed up hospital mementos on the table in our hallway. I wonder how I will act differently, and what things I'll do the same. I worry about the anxiety, about another potentially terrible outcome. I worry that maybe I'm infertile now, or maybe I'll have a miscarriage. Other times, I have very brief surges of faith that everything will be okay. Like I have a guarantee, a "safe pass" next time. Then I remember that plans are our way of fooling ourselves into thinking we're in control.

One of my biggest concerns is about not being able to celebrate the same way I did with Haven. I don't think she could have been more celebrated and anticipated if I'd stood on the tallest building in my city and yelled it out for the world to hear. She was like a little celebrity; pictures of my bump covered facebook, I put up blog posts, I constantly talking about her. I feel bad that I won't be able to do that for my next little one. That I won't be able to have a baby shower because of the flashbacks. That I won't be able to buy things for him or her as easily. That I won't be able to quell the anxiety or relax and just enjoy everything. That I'll probably be in and out of clinics and the hospital due to extra monitoring and my constant fears.

It's sad that losing a baby at the end like we did means that you suddenly don't fit in anywhere anymore. You don't fit in with your childless friends or your friends with kids, because you're a parent without a child. And when I'm pregnant again, I won't fit in with the first time mothers anymore, because I'm not one of those either.

I wonder if other people notice that I'm always in the fog now? I talk to people and I hear them, but I feel like it all happens at a distance. Like we're yelling to each other through a long tunnel. They're over there in Real World and I'm in Haven Land. Maybe one day I'll get up the strength to make the trip and find my way back over there...

Stuck in the Muck

When you first lose a child, you are immediately in shock, you feel numb, and your emotions are all heightened. I cried more easily then, and nothing felt real. The week after is kind of a blur. Only 28 hours after I gave birth to Haven, I was sitting in the funeral director's office making funeral plans. Or rather, my husband was making plans while I sat there and cried quietly.

Almost a month and a half out, I am starting to understand that grief doesn't move in a straight line. It's not worse at the beginning, then better and better from there on out. What is different about losing a child, especially an infant, is that there isn't any situation that isn't a trigger. Your baby would have been with you everywhere you went, so it doesn't matter where you go, what you do, or who you see, they simply aren't there with you. Instead, there is a black hole that travels beside you and your arms ache, longing to be filled with your child who is never, ever going to be there again.

I have been trying to get out among friends in the "real world" every few days, but that has become harder. The first few weeks that my husband was back to work, I would go to friends' houses, but they all have kids, save a few. So I would get through my visit, get home, walk through the door, and burst into tears. Tears that continued to pour sometimes for hours on end. So I've kept to myself a little more since a few of those experiences.

But it doesn't seem to matter that I avoid painful situations; they just seem to find me. Here are some examples from just this past week alone:

Example 1: I am a voting member at my church, and there was a pastoral/board vote last Wednesday, so I knew every person counted (you have to have 2/3 of members present). I decided to go, even though it would be my first time back. As soon as I walked through the door, well-meaning people were expressing condolences and wrapping their arms around me. I was in tears within two minutes. Though I had many friends there, no one thought to save me a seat. Thankfully, I found a spot with friends, who sort of barricaded me in one of the rows of seats and I was left mostly alone for the rest of the meeting. I felt so alone in that room, even though I was surrounded by people who love me and my husband.

Example 2: Some of our closest friends invited us over on Friday, along with some of our extended group of friends. I knew in advance that two friends would be there with their baby, who was born just weeks before Haven under scary circumstances (they got a warning, we didn't). They are a trigger for me, but I'd thought I would give it a try (after all, I can't hide from them forever). Big mistake. I walked in the door and could see the mom holding the baby in the living room (they didn't see me). I ducked into the kitchen and one of the hosts asked quietly, "how are you feeling with them here?" I looked up at her with big eyes and said, "panicked." And promptly burst into tears. She hustled me up the stairs to her room to give me a moment. I cried and sobbed. And his cries kept wafting up the stairs...I can't explain it, but they hurt me physically. She brought me some wine and some tissue (good friend!) and cried with me. My husband showed up later and was directed up the stairs to me. I begged him to take me home. I knew he was feeling it too. When will it not be "too early" anymore? I really don't know.

Example 3: I went to a party the night after at a friend's house. It was going alright, though it was hard with such a full house (I haven't exactly been around any crowds since I've been off). I ended up in her living room with a few girls, sipping wine and feeling sleepy. They all eventually slipped out, and the last one said suddenly, "can I give you a hug?" I said, "sure." She said, "I heard what happened. I'm so sorry! My friend is going through the same thing." I said, "I'm sorry to hear that." She didn't miss a beat and said, "I guess it's important to remember that it's a pretty normal thing to have happen." I was stunned and just mumbled, "yeah, I guess so." She left, and I closed my eyes to rest, just fuming inside. SERIOUSLY??? I am still angry thinking about it. Normal?! Sure, death is normal in that we all die, but it's not normal for a healthy infant to die with no warning. Not normal at all! What in the world was she thinking? I don't need her opinion and did not ask for it. This is probably just the beginning of The Shit People Say for me. I think I have been sheltered mostly, but I've heard too many other parents' stories to believe it'll stay this way.

Example 4: Facebook. It's covered in new birth announcements, baby pictures, pregnancy announcements, you name it. My sister in law is pregnant and due soon, and she just posted her bump photos. They make me so angry and so jealous. I hate that I feel this way. Pregnant women make me feel so inadequate and so empty. I also feel fear around them, because I know what can happen.

These are just a few of the worst things, but there are always countless moments when I feel the black hole gaping around me. At the grocery store, knowing one of us should be carrying her. When I shower and notice that my milk is totally gone and my bleeding has stopped. When I open the fridge, and my Strongbow reminds me that I'm not pregnant anymore, so I can drink alcohol. It's EVERYWHERE, and I feel like I am stuck in the muck of my grief.

I just miss her so much.

Music For a Broken Heart

I wrote last week about comfort and the things that help me cope. One of those things is music. My husband and I are compiling a list of songs that I'll post here when it is complete, but for now I'll share an album that has been helping me through this fresh grieving process. The album is by Karla Adolphe, and it was inspired by grief. I hope anyone who finds themselves here will enjoy it as I have...

Free download: http://www.karlaadolphe.ca/

Soundcloud (streaming): https://soundcloud.com/karla-adolphe/sets/honeycomb-tombs/

Bad Idea

*Language alert for this post, if you care about that sort of thing.

Today, I went to Target to do some shop therapy. Turns out it was a bad idea. There were some items I needed to pick up for baby shower gifts (have I mentioned that seemingly ALL the women of child-bearing age in our lives are pregnant or have just had babies?) As I walked up to the baby clothes section, I saw the most beautiful little white dress - exactly what I had wanted to get for Haven for her dedication. Next to it hung the dress my friend ended up buying for her, except in a different colour (her dedication dress ended up being her burial dress). I should have turned and ran. As I reached out and touched all of the little girl clothes, I could feel my face fall. I wondered what people thought of the sad woman touching the baby things. I was thinking, "I miss my baby so much. And what if I never get to have a living baby girl? Or any living babies?" I thought of the hours I'd spent in that same store picking out things for Haven and other friends' babies when I was pregnant. I was so happy back then. What a punch in the gut. I proceeded to the little boy clothes, and every little pair of pants and every little onesie was a knife in the heart. I walked away from there panicked and nearly hyperventilating.

I went to the ladies clothing section and, without consciously deciding to do so, ended up in the maternity clothes. I looked at the beautiful dresses and shirts and it was just painful how much my body longed at that moment to be pregnant again, waiting for Haven to come. So expectant and joyful and naive. I nearly bought a pretty black shirt for myself "for next time," but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It's just too hard to think about the fact that I might not get a chance to be that big again, and to think about the pain that my mind fully expects will be the next outcome. I can't let myself believe we'll be so blessed, even though the odds are so small. The odds were tiny this time: a 0.6% chance of it happening, and I got to be the unlucky mama who filled that statistic.

I headed toward housewares, and my super-sonic hearing detected a newborn a few aisles behind me. I doubt anyone else would have heard it, but I did, and I immediately began walking faster to get away, away, anywhere but near that sweet, beautiful, gut-wrenching sound. More panicked feelings, more almost-hyperventilation. Then, up ahead, a little girl around 4 years old with her daddy. Seriously?!

FUCK. (Yes, I love Jesus and I just cursed. Get over it.)

I just hurt so much.

Before I left the store, a family member called and, in the course of our conversation, told me about a drug-addicted woman in their city who apparently just walked out of the hospital, abandoning her newborn, who is now in withdrawal. And I thought, "Fuck you, you stupid woman. Don't you know how unfair it is that you somehow got your baby to term and now you don't even want it?" I could just strangle her. It makes me furious that people take their ability to have a child for granted. Even among my friends who grumble about this or that, I want to just scream at them, "you don't know how lucky you are!!!!"

Some of my friends try to be encouraging and say things like, "try not to think about it happening again," and I think to myself, "what the fuck else CAN I think? This is the only experience I've had: perfect pregnancy with a dead baby at the end for no detectable reason. Just bad fucking luck. And now I'm at least 5x more likely to experience that same pain again. Take your idiotic faith in happy outcomes and shove it." Maybe I'd throw in a kick to the babymaker for good measure. But I don't say those things. I don't kick people in the junk. I just shrivel up inside a little more.

I'm just SO angry.

I truly don't want to leave the house anymore. The world out there is too big, and there are too many babies and careless words and everyone's lives going on without Haven. Can I just hibernate until there is a baby in my arms? Or, better yet, can someone wake me from this horrible dream?