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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.