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...
Friday, 28 March 2014
Monday, 24 March 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, 20 March 2014
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/
Free download: http://www.karlaadolphe.ca/
Soundcloud (streaming): https://soundcloud.com/karla-adolphe/sets/honeycomb-tombs/
Wednesday, 19 March 2014
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?
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?
Tuesday, 18 March 2014
Our Girl
Though we have some pictures of Haven, I find it difficult to look at them some days. It just hurts to remember. Seeing them always reminds me that these are the only photos I'll ever have of my beautiful girl. That I'll never know what her eyes looked like, or what her cries would have sounded like, or any of the other thousands of things I'll never know about her. Yesterday, I was looking at her pictures and it struck me again how much she looks like her daddy. I said all through my pregnancy how much I hoped she would, and sure enough!
I've said to family and friends how surprised I was when she came out that she was exactly what I'd envisioned. Tall, thin, long feet, dark hair, and a face like her dad. You can know a lot about a baby just by carrying one. I knew she was tall because I could always feel her position in my belly. I knew her feet were long because I could see and feel them pushing through my skin. I knew that her hand was frequently by her face because I could often feel it. She even came out with her hand resting on her cheek. It's the only reason I tore, the nurses said. I didn't mind - she was just leaving her mark.
I love this photo of her, though it breaks my heart how much it looks like she is just sleeping...
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Knowing that she is no longer inside me makes me feel vulnerable and exposed and empty. Sometimes I still hold my belly for comfort, as if the heat and pressure of my hand will somehow reach her and communicate that mommy misses and loves her. Or I'll hold one of her few possessions as if it's some sort of earth-heaven walkie system and she can "hear" me and my love.
Grief does weird things to you. It makes me feel a little more normal reading other moms' blogs and recognizing things that I do and feel and think in their words. I hope that other moms find my blog and get some comfort from my story as well.
I love you, Haven. You'll always be mama's girl.
Sunday, 16 March 2014
Pierced
Today marks one month since I brought Haven into the world. As she slid out into the nurse's waiting arms at exactly 7:30am, the room was filled with my anguished sobs. It was the most heartbreaking and beautiful moment of my life. One of the nurses said, "she is so perfect, Brandi." I was out of my mind with grief, and my husband was holding me and crying with me. It should have been her little squawking cries filling the room. She should have been hurried onto my chest for skin on skin time. I should have been trying to nurse her. Instead, she was out, and forever parted from my body, the only home she ever knew.
So many moments from that weekend are etched into my mind forever.
Today, I had a single lobe piercing done in Haven's honour. When it heals, I am going to get an amethyst stud for it; Haven's birthstone.
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I like the idea of having a visible reminder of her with me at all times. Most people will never see my beautiful stretch marks! It's something pretty for my pretty girl.
Oh, Haven. Mama misses you so much, sweetheart. I'll never, EVER forget you.
So many moments from that weekend are etched into my mind forever.
Today, I had a single lobe piercing done in Haven's honour. When it heals, I am going to get an amethyst stud for it; Haven's birthstone.
I like the idea of having a visible reminder of her with me at all times. Most people will never see my beautiful stretch marks! It's something pretty for my pretty girl.
Oh, Haven. Mama misses you so much, sweetheart. I'll never, EVER forget you.
Friday, 14 March 2014
One Month Ago
One month ago today, Valentine's Day, my daughter died. It might as well be ten years, or one hundred. I feel like I was a different person then, before I found out that my baby was gone. I wish I could go back and relive a day when she was still here, just so I could feel her kick again, and to feel the innocent joy and trust that everything would be okay. Sometimes I get phantom kicks and forget for just a millisecond that she has gone away from me.
I thought to myself today that, if I could go back and not become pregnant with Haven just to avoid the pain of losing her, I wouldn't. Honestly, the almost-year that she was growing in me was the absolute happiest my husband and I had ever been. The joy she brought me bubbled up and spilled all over the place. And, you know, I wouldn't trade that messy joy for anything. My little girl was surrounded by love from the beginning of her life to the end...and beyond. Until my heart stops beating, I will love her with every fibre of my being.
We visited Haven's burial plot today. It hurt. Her plot is like an angry gash in the earth right now, just a patch of dirt scarring the cold ground above her tiny casket, a single dead rose laying before her grave marker. She is in the "baby" section of the graveyard; I cried for my dear one and for the other babies as we walked by their stones. I thought to myself that it just isn't right to have to bury your child. She should have grown old and buried us when the time came. Oh, my heavy heart.
The wind blew wild and cold today, just like it did from the time she died until we got home from delivering her. I can't hear or feel the wind without thinking of her anymore.
I love you, beautiful one.
I thought to myself today that, if I could go back and not become pregnant with Haven just to avoid the pain of losing her, I wouldn't. Honestly, the almost-year that she was growing in me was the absolute happiest my husband and I had ever been. The joy she brought me bubbled up and spilled all over the place. And, you know, I wouldn't trade that messy joy for anything. My little girl was surrounded by love from the beginning of her life to the end...and beyond. Until my heart stops beating, I will love her with every fibre of my being.
We visited Haven's burial plot today. It hurt. Her plot is like an angry gash in the earth right now, just a patch of dirt scarring the cold ground above her tiny casket, a single dead rose laying before her grave marker. She is in the "baby" section of the graveyard; I cried for my dear one and for the other babies as we walked by their stones. I thought to myself that it just isn't right to have to bury your child. She should have grown old and buried us when the time came. Oh, my heavy heart.
The wind blew wild and cold today, just like it did from the time she died until we got home from delivering her. I can't hear or feel the wind without thinking of her anymore.
I love you, beautiful one.
Wednesday, 12 March 2014
It's a Roller Coaster Dip Kind of Afternoon
I miss my baby girl so, so much.
I wish there was a way to avoid the things that make me miss her so keenly. Things like pregnancy announcements on facebook about new baby girls coming into the world soon, or photos of newborns, curled up on their dads' chests. Things like observing other people's normal, mundane days with their kids. All I can think, over and over, is how my baby is gone, dead, and she is never coming back. She'll never get to run around the living room like a hooligan in her underwear. She'll never be fussy or cover me in spit-up. She'll never hold her daddy's hand. Her life ended before she ever got to make one decision. Ever got to be bored, or happy, or sad.
I wish I could be more emotionally honest around my friends, but I fear the escape of even one tear would mean the floodgates would open. So I hold it all inside, then it comes ripping out of me when I walk back into my home.
I am so sorry, baby girl. So sorry that you're gone. So sorry I didn't know somehow that you were in trouble. Mamas are supposed to keep their babies safe, and I didn't know. I feel like I failed you. I am so sorry. I would do anything to go back. I would give up my own life if it would mean you got a chance to live. I will never get to hold you, never get to teach you anything, never get to comfort you. Instead, I will just miss you with every part of me, every day. I hope that in heaven you're being held by someone. That you are surrounded by love, and that you know in some part of you how much I am loving you down here.
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, baby. And I love you so much.
I wish there was a way to avoid the things that make me miss her so keenly. Things like pregnancy announcements on facebook about new baby girls coming into the world soon, or photos of newborns, curled up on their dads' chests. Things like observing other people's normal, mundane days with their kids. All I can think, over and over, is how my baby is gone, dead, and she is never coming back. She'll never get to run around the living room like a hooligan in her underwear. She'll never be fussy or cover me in spit-up. She'll never hold her daddy's hand. Her life ended before she ever got to make one decision. Ever got to be bored, or happy, or sad.
I wish I could be more emotionally honest around my friends, but I fear the escape of even one tear would mean the floodgates would open. So I hold it all inside, then it comes ripping out of me when I walk back into my home.
I am so sorry, baby girl. So sorry that you're gone. So sorry I didn't know somehow that you were in trouble. Mamas are supposed to keep their babies safe, and I didn't know. I feel like I failed you. I am so sorry. I would do anything to go back. I would give up my own life if it would mean you got a chance to live. I will never get to hold you, never get to teach you anything, never get to comfort you. Instead, I will just miss you with every part of me, every day. I hope that in heaven you're being held by someone. That you are surrounded by love, and that you know in some part of you how much I am loving you down here.
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, baby. And I love you so much.
Comfort
I have read so many websites and forums and blogs about families who have lost like we have. Everyone has their own set of thoughts or beliefs that bring them comfort. I just wanted to share the things that help me. I know it's not the same for everyone, but these are the things that keep me going...
When I was pregnant with Haven, I remember thinking about how she was special, the product of one of the millions of eggs I was born carrying inside, and one of the approximately 525 billion sperm my husband has produced/will produce in his lifetime. That she was the best of the best; the "best" egg chosen by my body to be present that month, and the strongest of my husband's sperm over those few days. If we had gotten pregnant any other day or month, she would have been an entirely different person.
I also learned yesterday, while scouring blogs (I do little else lately), that there is a fetal cell migration from baby to mother during gestation. Those cells go on to live inside the mother, sometimes up to decades later, finding new homes in her eyes, heart, brain, etc.
These two thoughts together bring me comfort. They mean that I have always carried a part of my daughter with me, through my childhood, through my teen years, through every good and bad decision, every up and down. We were always together. And if her cells live on inside of me, I'm still carrying a part of her.
Though my faith feels complicated right now, I find comfort there too. I don't pretend to know God's thoughts or His plans, or how they all "work together for the good of those who love Him," but I believe that no person, however small, goes unnoticed or unloved by Him. I believe He grieves with me. The Bible says, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. The very hairs of your head are all numbered. So do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows." It also says, "You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body, and knit me together in my mother's womb." That means that God put together my little girl, cell by cell, and He loved her far more than I ever could (and believe me, there is not much that is fiercer than a mother's love). I don't have His eternal view, and I don't know how this (relatively) small event and Haven's small, sparrow life fit into the course of history, but I believe she was significant, nonetheless.
Yes, I am so, so angry and bitter some days that it eats me up. Sometimes I can't even catch my breath for the pain of missing her, and everything is just ashes in my mouth. But yet I find beauty and, yes, even joy in my life. Even in this disaster, this unfathomable tragedy, I have found joyful moments. The moment she was born was the most beautiful and terrible moment of my life. Even my long labour (38 hours from induction to her birth) had moments of awe, of stunning beauty. It was almost a holy experience.
So, yeah, I am totally wrecked. Losing my baby, my Haven, was like having my heart ripped out, then being told I still had to go on living somehow. I will never, ever, be "over" what happened, nor will I ever not miss my baby girl, not wish things were different, not ache to hold her. But I think that all of these things, the anger, the agony, the emptiness and loneliness, and then the joy...it's all a part of grief, and I intend to feel it all to the fullest. How else can one rebuild and move forward? I will take this anguish, these broken pieces, and allow God to form it all into something good. I think I owe that to my little girl. Surely she wouldn't want me to be sad, and angry, and bitter for the rest of my life?
I'll keep on living, even when life seems too empty to bother. One trudging step at a time. Breathe in, breathe out, and repeat...
When I was pregnant with Haven, I remember thinking about how she was special, the product of one of the millions of eggs I was born carrying inside, and one of the approximately 525 billion sperm my husband has produced/will produce in his lifetime. That she was the best of the best; the "best" egg chosen by my body to be present that month, and the strongest of my husband's sperm over those few days. If we had gotten pregnant any other day or month, she would have been an entirely different person.
I also learned yesterday, while scouring blogs (I do little else lately), that there is a fetal cell migration from baby to mother during gestation. Those cells go on to live inside the mother, sometimes up to decades later, finding new homes in her eyes, heart, brain, etc.
These two thoughts together bring me comfort. They mean that I have always carried a part of my daughter with me, through my childhood, through my teen years, through every good and bad decision, every up and down. We were always together. And if her cells live on inside of me, I'm still carrying a part of her.
Though my faith feels complicated right now, I find comfort there too. I don't pretend to know God's thoughts or His plans, or how they all "work together for the good of those who love Him," but I believe that no person, however small, goes unnoticed or unloved by Him. I believe He grieves with me. The Bible says, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. The very hairs of your head are all numbered. So do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows." It also says, "You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body, and knit me together in my mother's womb." That means that God put together my little girl, cell by cell, and He loved her far more than I ever could (and believe me, there is not much that is fiercer than a mother's love). I don't have His eternal view, and I don't know how this (relatively) small event and Haven's small, sparrow life fit into the course of history, but I believe she was significant, nonetheless.
Yes, I am so, so angry and bitter some days that it eats me up. Sometimes I can't even catch my breath for the pain of missing her, and everything is just ashes in my mouth. But yet I find beauty and, yes, even joy in my life. Even in this disaster, this unfathomable tragedy, I have found joyful moments. The moment she was born was the most beautiful and terrible moment of my life. Even my long labour (38 hours from induction to her birth) had moments of awe, of stunning beauty. It was almost a holy experience.
So, yeah, I am totally wrecked. Losing my baby, my Haven, was like having my heart ripped out, then being told I still had to go on living somehow. I will never, ever, be "over" what happened, nor will I ever not miss my baby girl, not wish things were different, not ache to hold her. But I think that all of these things, the anger, the agony, the emptiness and loneliness, and then the joy...it's all a part of grief, and I intend to feel it all to the fullest. How else can one rebuild and move forward? I will take this anguish, these broken pieces, and allow God to form it all into something good. I think I owe that to my little girl. Surely she wouldn't want me to be sad, and angry, and bitter for the rest of my life?
I'll keep on living, even when life seems too empty to bother. One trudging step at a time. Breathe in, breathe out, and repeat...
Tuesday, 11 March 2014
Bitterness
Sometimes the bitterness creeps in and wraps its clammy fingers around my thoughts. You see, my husband and I have never had an easy time of anything. It's like we somehow found each other, the perfect mates, and then everything else went to shit in our lives. From the financial issues that have plagued us, to death and sickness and turmoil and pain in our families, to car accidents and therapy and multiple cars dying in freak ways, to being abused in the workplace and losing jobs, to owning houses that fall apart, to endless days of stress and anxiety... it's been one thing after another for 7 years.
And then we are blessed with the ultimate surprise. Without even trying, we suddenly had a beautiful baby girl on the way. I finally let down my guard and began to believe life really could be beautiful. But she is yanked away from me after a perfect, healthy pregnancy. No warning, and our baby is stolen from us. It is like a sick joke. And then that wasn't enough to throw at us, so just three weeks after The Worst Day, my husband's mother and step-father were in a terrible accident (thankfully, they will recover), husband comes down with a case of gout, then gets in a minor car accident, all in 36 hours.
We just feel bitter sometimes.
And so my mind wanders, as it does when you are home alone for hours and days on end...
Why did my baby have to die? She wasn't sick, so why her? Why us? After everything else? Those living newborns whose photos crop up in the minefield of my facebook newsfeed, why not them? (Not that I would ever wish this on any of those precious babies). But WHY? Did I do something wrong in my life that I deserve this? But she didn't do anything wrong...she'll never have the chance to do anything wrong. Did she die to fill some kind of dead baby quota and she was just the unlucky lotto winner? Is the universe trying to teach me something in the most perverse way possible? Why my spunky little girl and not the baby of a drug addict who didn't even try to take care of her baby?
Those cat-poster facebook memes tell us that everything happens for a reason...I don't think I believe that. I believe we can take the painful things handed to us and decide to turn them into good things in our lives, but I don't think that those good results are the reason we suffered. Sometimes, there are just no answers. No answers to the burning question "why?!" The answer is that there are no answers. For Haven, it was probably a cord accident, based on our recollection of events that week. Pressure on her cord. An awkward position, restricted blood flow, and death. All with no obvious sign until we put together the pieces in the following weeks.
A friend nearly lost her son just three weeks before we lost Haven, and she told me about the signs and the "bad feeling" that lead her to go to the hospital, where an emergency C-section saved her son's life. That's a part of what eats at me and why I feel so damned culpable. Because if there was a sign, we missed it. The only thing that might have been a sign were accelerated movements the night before, but they happened during her usual busy time, so I didn't think it was odd. She had been increasingly active for about two weeks, so this wasn't a red flag. We laughed, thought it was cute. Thought, "she is getting so strong, she must be almost ready to come!" Now I just have a sick feeling in my stomach when I think about that last night, because the last time I for sure remember her moving, she was probably dying. She was dying, and we were laughing.
Anyway. I know none of this will bring her back, and it's torture to think this way. I know it's a part of grieving when this kind of thing happens and that someday I will no longer unjustly blame myself, but punishing myself makes me feel a little satisfaction because there is no one else to punish. No one to blame. Accidents happen, and terrible things happen to good people. The end.
I just wish it all could have been different.
And then we are blessed with the ultimate surprise. Without even trying, we suddenly had a beautiful baby girl on the way. I finally let down my guard and began to believe life really could be beautiful. But she is yanked away from me after a perfect, healthy pregnancy. No warning, and our baby is stolen from us. It is like a sick joke. And then that wasn't enough to throw at us, so just three weeks after The Worst Day, my husband's mother and step-father were in a terrible accident (thankfully, they will recover), husband comes down with a case of gout, then gets in a minor car accident, all in 36 hours.
We just feel bitter sometimes.
And so my mind wanders, as it does when you are home alone for hours and days on end...
Why did my baby have to die? She wasn't sick, so why her? Why us? After everything else? Those living newborns whose photos crop up in the minefield of my facebook newsfeed, why not them? (Not that I would ever wish this on any of those precious babies). But WHY? Did I do something wrong in my life that I deserve this? But she didn't do anything wrong...she'll never have the chance to do anything wrong. Did she die to fill some kind of dead baby quota and she was just the unlucky lotto winner? Is the universe trying to teach me something in the most perverse way possible? Why my spunky little girl and not the baby of a drug addict who didn't even try to take care of her baby?
Those cat-poster facebook memes tell us that everything happens for a reason...I don't think I believe that. I believe we can take the painful things handed to us and decide to turn them into good things in our lives, but I don't think that those good results are the reason we suffered. Sometimes, there are just no answers. No answers to the burning question "why?!" The answer is that there are no answers. For Haven, it was probably a cord accident, based on our recollection of events that week. Pressure on her cord. An awkward position, restricted blood flow, and death. All with no obvious sign until we put together the pieces in the following weeks.
A friend nearly lost her son just three weeks before we lost Haven, and she told me about the signs and the "bad feeling" that lead her to go to the hospital, where an emergency C-section saved her son's life. That's a part of what eats at me and why I feel so damned culpable. Because if there was a sign, we missed it. The only thing that might have been a sign were accelerated movements the night before, but they happened during her usual busy time, so I didn't think it was odd. She had been increasingly active for about two weeks, so this wasn't a red flag. We laughed, thought it was cute. Thought, "she is getting so strong, she must be almost ready to come!" Now I just have a sick feeling in my stomach when I think about that last night, because the last time I for sure remember her moving, she was probably dying. She was dying, and we were laughing.
Anyway. I know none of this will bring her back, and it's torture to think this way. I know it's a part of grieving when this kind of thing happens and that someday I will no longer unjustly blame myself, but punishing myself makes me feel a little satisfaction because there is no one else to punish. No one to blame. Accidents happen, and terrible things happen to good people. The end.
I just wish it all could have been different.
Thursday, 6 March 2014
Stretch Marks
When we first found out I was pregnant, I was in shock. I had suspected that I might be pregnant, but because we had been planning to start trying about seven months later, my mind somehow didn't believe it could have happened that one and only time...
Shock eased into cautious excitement pretty quickly. Then, after the first trimester, I started to relax and settle into motherhood. I watched my belly grow with delight. I relished every change, every pain, every new sign that my little girl was growing strong. The sight of other children made me smile. Holding babies made my heart sing. I found myself having a greater capacity to love others because I loved the little person growing inside of me so very much. Joy bubbled up inside of me at the thought of her, and I marveled at the beauty of life.
I really believe that carrying my precious daughter made me a better person. A kinder person. Being a mother changes the way you think and the way you experience life. I found myself seeing every person I met as someone's baby. I am about to say the cheesiest thing ever: loving Haven made my heart grow. My heart has "stretch marks" now, much like the beautiful stretch marks that Haven left on my skin. They show the world that she was here, that she lived.
My baby may not be in my arms, but I am a mother now. I hope that I never forget the things that she taught me.
Shock eased into cautious excitement pretty quickly. Then, after the first trimester, I started to relax and settle into motherhood. I watched my belly grow with delight. I relished every change, every pain, every new sign that my little girl was growing strong. The sight of other children made me smile. Holding babies made my heart sing. I found myself having a greater capacity to love others because I loved the little person growing inside of me so very much. Joy bubbled up inside of me at the thought of her, and I marveled at the beauty of life.
I really believe that carrying my precious daughter made me a better person. A kinder person. Being a mother changes the way you think and the way you experience life. I found myself seeing every person I met as someone's baby. I am about to say the cheesiest thing ever: loving Haven made my heart grow. My heart has "stretch marks" now, much like the beautiful stretch marks that Haven left on my skin. They show the world that she was here, that she lived.
My baby may not be in my arms, but I am a mother now. I hope that I never forget the things that she taught me.
Wednesday, 5 March 2014
In the Quiet
I am someone who loves quiet and solitude. My husband is the opposite and would be perfectly happy to have the t.v. on all day, or to spend most days with friends. The funny thing is, since Haven I have been craving distraction. I'm afraid to stop and think, because thinking leads to the most painful memories, and to longing, and to guilt, and to self-blame. I suppose trying to distract myself from my grief is not the healthiest thing, but it seems to be the only thing that is helping me hold it together.
Oh, the thoughts I think...
"What if it was something I ate?"
"What if I wasn't sleeping on my left side enough?"
"What if she had been born a few days earlier? Would she still have lived?"
"What if there were signs and I missed them?"
"I was laughing the last time she kicked me - what if that was a warning sign and I laughed?"
"What if I had gone in to the hospital sooner? Maybe her heart would have still been beating!"
"What if I had taken that last week off like I had planned? Maybe if I hadn't been so tired and distracted, I would have noticed something was off!"
"Will they ever find an answer or will I be tortured for the rest of my life wondering?"
The questions just swirl around in my head, and images and mental video play over and over. The look on the nurse's face, then the look on the doctor's face. That sick knowing feeling as we went into the hospital. The fear. The wailing I couldn't hold in. My sweet husband being there by my side through it all, being so brave and so helpful. Holding her and kissing her cold little cheek. The softness of her skin.
I will never forget these things. I take some small comfort from others who have gone down this sad, sad road. They say it becomes easier to bear with time. I really hope they are right. Right now the grief cuts like a knife.
Oh, the thoughts I think...
"What if it was something I ate?"
"What if I wasn't sleeping on my left side enough?"
"What if she had been born a few days earlier? Would she still have lived?"
"What if there were signs and I missed them?"
"I was laughing the last time she kicked me - what if that was a warning sign and I laughed?"
"What if I had gone in to the hospital sooner? Maybe her heart would have still been beating!"
"What if I had taken that last week off like I had planned? Maybe if I hadn't been so tired and distracted, I would have noticed something was off!"
"Will they ever find an answer or will I be tortured for the rest of my life wondering?"
The questions just swirl around in my head, and images and mental video play over and over. The look on the nurse's face, then the look on the doctor's face. That sick knowing feeling as we went into the hospital. The fear. The wailing I couldn't hold in. My sweet husband being there by my side through it all, being so brave and so helpful. Holding her and kissing her cold little cheek. The softness of her skin.
I will never forget these things. I take some small comfort from others who have gone down this sad, sad road. They say it becomes easier to bear with time. I really hope they are right. Right now the grief cuts like a knife.
Tuesday, 4 March 2014
The Worst Day
"I'm sorry, I don't know what to say...there is no...we cannot detect a heartbeat." The doctor looked at me with sad eyes, then at the monitor, then at his feet.
They wheeled me down to another floor for a second ultrasound. It didn't show anything different. She was still. No whooshing, galloping baby heartbeat came from the machine. My husband began to weep, and grief ripped its way from some dark corner in the center of me and out my mouth, filling the room with a ragged animal wail. It went on and on and I couldn't control it. A part of me had already known. I had known as I waited to be buzzed in at the door to the maternity ward. I knew when the fetal heart monitor was silent, when my belly felt oddly squishy as the nurse felt around for my baby's position. I knew before the first ultrasound and before the second. But I'd hoped....I'd hoped. The bottom fell out of the world. All joy was sucked out of my life in that instant. Colours grayed, music lost its sweetness, and food lost its taste. She was gone, my beautiful baby girl was gone, and so was the person I used to be.
It was just over two weeks ago. It was Valentine's Day and my last day of work before maternity leave. A day of celebration. I finished up some projects for my work replacement, then went for lunch at one of my favourite restaurants with my closest coworkers. I opened a gift: tiny, hot pink ballet shoes, a plush, hooded baby towel, a practical onesie. I oohed and awed. We ate and joked about the baby, talked about what I was looking forward to the most. "Everything," I said, with a shy, crooked smile. I poked at my belly a few times during my meal. Shook it gently from side to side. "You're awfully quiet in there today!" I was glowing. Powerful. Triumphant.
I was also a little uneasy. Was she sleeping longer than usual? Wait...had I for sure felt her move that morning? Or had I only felt Braxton Hick's contractions pushing things around? I went back to work and called my husband. "Don't be worried, but I haven't felt the baby move much today - I think we should go to the hospital, just in case."
Every memory of that day makes me feel physically sick. I hate the me I was on that day. I wish I could shake her and scream at her, "it's too late! She's already gone! You lost her in the night while you were sleeping and you don't even know it yet! How could you not know?" I also envy that me. She was so brilliantly, beautifully, perfectly happy. She was so hopeful. So confident. So alive.
We had been calling our baby "Shrimpy" since the week we found out we were pregnant; my pregnancy book had said that she looked like "an oddly shaped prawn." But her true name we had picked out long before and had kept it secret from all but family. Haven Melody... "safe place" and "music, song." When we found out at 19 weeks that we were indeed having a girl, we were overjoyed. Haven was real, and she was ours. We had imagined our future daughter for years, and now a surprise but welcome pregnancy would give us a chance to start the family we so wanted. We were going to have our longed-for, dreamed-about baby girl. We had joked about so many scenarios over the years, tried to imagine what she would be like. This little person growing inside me already had a personality and a history that she didn't even know about yet.
The third trimester came and we drank the Kool-Aid. Stillbirth was something that happened to other people. Something that didn't happen very often. We had no idea that babies are born still every day and no one ever talks about it. Not your family doctor, not your obstetrician, not your pregnancy book. It's the dirty little secret that is hidden from pregnant women to protect them from worrying. We had no idea that, as first-time parents, we were at a higher risk of it happening to us, even though I had a normal, healthy, "picture perfect" pregnancy (my OB's words). That 50% of the time, parents get no answers, even after an autopsy. That research is scarce, and "stillbirth" is an umbrella term that can mean one of so many scenarios. That it can happen very suddenly, with no warning, and you can go from the heights of happiness to the depths of grief on the turn of a dime. Death can rob you in your sleep.
She's gone. My baby. My hope, my future, my joy.
We are among the "babylost." Parents with empty arms and a hollow ache. Adrift. But she is still in our hearts...our love for her is Haven's Melody.
They wheeled me down to another floor for a second ultrasound. It didn't show anything different. She was still. No whooshing, galloping baby heartbeat came from the machine. My husband began to weep, and grief ripped its way from some dark corner in the center of me and out my mouth, filling the room with a ragged animal wail. It went on and on and I couldn't control it. A part of me had already known. I had known as I waited to be buzzed in at the door to the maternity ward. I knew when the fetal heart monitor was silent, when my belly felt oddly squishy as the nurse felt around for my baby's position. I knew before the first ultrasound and before the second. But I'd hoped....I'd hoped. The bottom fell out of the world. All joy was sucked out of my life in that instant. Colours grayed, music lost its sweetness, and food lost its taste. She was gone, my beautiful baby girl was gone, and so was the person I used to be.
It was just over two weeks ago. It was Valentine's Day and my last day of work before maternity leave. A day of celebration. I finished up some projects for my work replacement, then went for lunch at one of my favourite restaurants with my closest coworkers. I opened a gift: tiny, hot pink ballet shoes, a plush, hooded baby towel, a practical onesie. I oohed and awed. We ate and joked about the baby, talked about what I was looking forward to the most. "Everything," I said, with a shy, crooked smile. I poked at my belly a few times during my meal. Shook it gently from side to side. "You're awfully quiet in there today!" I was glowing. Powerful. Triumphant.
I was also a little uneasy. Was she sleeping longer than usual? Wait...had I for sure felt her move that morning? Or had I only felt Braxton Hick's contractions pushing things around? I went back to work and called my husband. "Don't be worried, but I haven't felt the baby move much today - I think we should go to the hospital, just in case."
Every memory of that day makes me feel physically sick. I hate the me I was on that day. I wish I could shake her and scream at her, "it's too late! She's already gone! You lost her in the night while you were sleeping and you don't even know it yet! How could you not know?" I also envy that me. She was so brilliantly, beautifully, perfectly happy. She was so hopeful. So confident. So alive.
We had been calling our baby "Shrimpy" since the week we found out we were pregnant; my pregnancy book had said that she looked like "an oddly shaped prawn." But her true name we had picked out long before and had kept it secret from all but family. Haven Melody... "safe place" and "music, song." When we found out at 19 weeks that we were indeed having a girl, we were overjoyed. Haven was real, and she was ours. We had imagined our future daughter for years, and now a surprise but welcome pregnancy would give us a chance to start the family we so wanted. We were going to have our longed-for, dreamed-about baby girl. We had joked about so many scenarios over the years, tried to imagine what she would be like. This little person growing inside me already had a personality and a history that she didn't even know about yet.
The third trimester came and we drank the Kool-Aid. Stillbirth was something that happened to other people. Something that didn't happen very often. We had no idea that babies are born still every day and no one ever talks about it. Not your family doctor, not your obstetrician, not your pregnancy book. It's the dirty little secret that is hidden from pregnant women to protect them from worrying. We had no idea that, as first-time parents, we were at a higher risk of it happening to us, even though I had a normal, healthy, "picture perfect" pregnancy (my OB's words). That 50% of the time, parents get no answers, even after an autopsy. That research is scarce, and "stillbirth" is an umbrella term that can mean one of so many scenarios. That it can happen very suddenly, with no warning, and you can go from the heights of happiness to the depths of grief on the turn of a dime. Death can rob you in your sleep.
She's gone. My baby. My hope, my future, my joy.
We are among the "babylost." Parents with empty arms and a hollow ache. Adrift. But she is still in our hearts...our love for her is Haven's Melody.
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