Grief Quotes #7

"Grief can be terrifying.

And why would we not be afraid? Deep in grief, we look up and see the reflection in our mirror is not our own, not us as we have previously known ourselves. We are changed, and we do not recognize the stranger we have become. We long for our old lives, our old selves; we crave meaning and belonging - we ache for them.

The yearning is unquenchable.

And that sense of emptiness propels us toward unsuccessful attempt to fill that person-shaped hole. The distractions we use to take us from our feelings are one way we try to state that emptiness.

The only alternative to distraction is being with grief - one painful, terrifying moment at a time."

- Dr. Joanne Cacciatore

From Bearing the Unbearable

This passage resonates with me. Because A was our first child, I had the luxury of throwing myself into my grief. I didn't have living children who needed me to be functional. E stayed home with me for the first two weeks. After that, I had another 4 weeks of maternity leave to hole up and relinquish myself to the waves of emotions. It was exhausting; it was ugly and most of the time I wondered if any of the grief work was having an effect.

In retrospect, I do believe that those early weeks and months of devoting myself to processing A's death and being with the grief put me in a better place when Dragon came along. Once we had a living baby, there was hardly a spare minute to cry and breakdown. If I hadn't faced my grief head-on in those early months, I wouldn't be the functional person I am today.

Not that there isn't a place for distraction in traumatic grief. E and I binge watched every season of The Big Bang Theory (online shows meant no chance of diaper commercials triggering a meltdown). I guess, like most of life, it's about balance. Balancing distraction and "being with grief." And, like most of life, it's easier said than done.

Seven

My boy would be seven. S-e-v-e-n. A lanky, second-grader comfortable after two years at elementary school and able to provide support to his little sister just venturing into kindergarten.

Like all of these birthdays, seven seems to hold its own significance. Maybe not in the most direct of ways, like the firstbirthday or even the fifth birthday. But it's made me think about an event I attended at a local Native American community center many years ago (well before I ever had kids which feels like an eternity ago). The speaker presented on the significance of the number seven.

She explained that human embryos begin to develop genitalia at 7 weeks gestation. This is the first outward evidence of gender; differentiation and a step in identity.

At age 7 years, most children are shedding their baby teeth and assuming their adult teeth; another major transformation.

Seven years after that, at 14, another major life milestone - puberty. When adolescents' bodies mature and are now capable of reproduction.

Unfortunately, I cannot recall what she said about age 21, the last in her series of 7-year divisions. But I think it was something along the lines of becoming a full-fledged adult who contributes to the community.

Seven years, is also the state-mandated medical record retention policy in our state. When A died, we took advantage of all available opportunities to try and determine why our healthy full-term baby died suddenly. We signed off on lab tests and agreed to an autopsy and genetic testing. After we had all of those reports in hand, we visited two different perinatal specialists in our area to see if they could glean a cause of death. They each came to different hypotheses; one said it may have been some sort of pressure on the cord. The other said, it could have been an infection. We will never know for sure. One of them did note, that A’s heart was enlarged (per the autopsy report it weighed 17.3 grams, well above the high end of average at 14 grams)

In the months after A was born, I requested my prenatal and labor and delivery records along with all of his hospital records. Fresh in mourning and with an aching heart, I read through the autopsy report. It ripped me apart to read how much each of his organs weighed, trying to avoid thinking about some stranger in a lab coat dissecting my boy, cutting open his body and snipping loose each organ. But we wanted answers, for our sake, for A’s sake and for the prospect of future children.

My recollection was that while reading through the autopsy report, there was a single instance where his heart was reported to have been of normal size. That there was one digit off, a typo. This morning, I scoured the house looking for A’s medical records. I needed to find that autopsy report and call the hospital to have it corrected. This week is seven years since treatment, which means they’ll destroy his medical records this week. I need the record to be accurate.

The records weren’t in his box – the one with all his memorabilia. They weren’t in my filing box. They weren’t in his binder that holds his photos. WHERE ARE THEY?! I began sobbing, hyperventilating, spinning into a panic. I had to find them. The hospital will destroy them any day now. This is my last chance to set the record straight.

Finally, in the farthest corner, in a bin I didn’t even remember we had, I found the records. I sat down and went through them again, agonizing over words like “the usual Y shaped incision was made.” I read through the entire autopsy report and didn’t find the discrepant heart size. I re-read the autopsy report. I again, only found the 17.3 gram reference. I picked up the thicker stack of records; my medical records and went through them page-by-page. No discrepancy. Had I misread it all those years ago? Am I misremembering now?

I went through A’s and my records several more times searching for a different measurement of his heart. Nothing.

I have resigned myself that I will not be reaching out to the hospital to right an incorrect report. But I don’t know if I’ll ever shake this nagging feeling that it was an error.

And what does it matter? So what if his heart was enlarged? His brain was also much above the high end of average weight. (Oh the thought of his skull being opened and someone removing his brain with two hands and placing it on a scale!!!!). It may not be an important clue in this medical mystery of why he died. Maybe more than anything, it’s just a manifestation of my need to parent my dead child and there being so few opportunities to do so.  

Why he died?

Dragon, age 3 years 1 month, in her bed looking up at A's photo on the wall:


Dragon, "Where's A?"

Me, "He's right there, on the wall where he always is."

Dragon, brow furrows, pondering

Dragon, "He died?"

Me, "Yes, Love. He died."

Dragon, "He passed away?"

Me, "Yes, he passed away."

Dragon, "Why he died?"

Me, "We don't know. He was just a little baby when he died."

Four Year Ramblings

My sweet still baby would be fours year old. He’d be more than a month into pre-K by now and getting excited for his birthday and Halloween shortly after. I’d be bustling around to get all three kids ready for Halloween, decorate, stock up on candy and also plan my son’s fourth birthday party. I imagine he’d be more of a boy and not so much “toddler” anymore. I’d marvel at how fast the time goes and swoon over the memories of him as an infant. What was his first word? When did he take his first steps?

I do not feel like the mother of a four-year-old. And I certainly don’t feel like the mother of a boy. Our girls are not girly by any means, but they aren’t the energy balls so often prone to destruction that little boys tend to be.

E came home from the grocery store the night before A’s birthday with a pack of beer and two packages of Oreos. Let the emotional self-medicating commence. (I’m shoving fistfuls of Oreos in my mouth as I type this. It doesn’t make me feel any better but it’s kind of a distraction.)

I watch Dragon play with the four-year-old neighbor boy – born 5 months before A – and instantly my mind fantasizes about her interacting with her big brother. She watches the neighbor boy enthralled with his super squirt gun but she has learned not to grab or even ask for his things because he is not a good sharer. She waits until he drops the squirter to get another toy and then swoops in behind his back and starts fiddling with it. She’s trying to figure out how it works, but doesn’t want to ask because that would draw attention to the fact that she now possesses the coveted toy. She emulates whatever he does. You can see the adoration in her eyes as she watches the neighbor boy. On days when it’s just us at home, she’ll pick out a shirt to wear and tell me that the neighbor boy “likes this one.” Why is she seeking his approval? Must be that he’s older and she looks up to him. I can only imagine what kind of big brother A would be. I’d give anything to watch the three of our children play/argue/fight together like normal siblings.

 ________________________________________________________________________________

“What do you want to do for his birthday?” I ask E. He thinks briefly and says, “Something he’d want to do.” I suggest the zoo, museum, bounce house or indoor trampoline park. “All of them?” he responds. My brokenhearted husband, I know it hurts even when, most of the year, you don’t let on.

So this morning we set out to have a special day for Big Brother’s birthday, doing things he’d like to do as a four-year-old. We went to the trampoline place and then out to a restaurant for lunch. A nice elderly couple complimented us on how cute Sheep is at 3-months old and joked with E that two daughters is really like having three wives. No mention of our absent son.

I wish had more time to spend with my son and with my grief this fourth year, but a 2 ½ year-old and a 3-month-old don’t allow for much alone time. In fact, I’ve hardly cried so far this month. I think it’s mainly because if I have a moment of time to myself, I try to lay down (not a whole lot of sleeping going on. Eh hem, I’m looking at you Baby Sheep.). Finally in the shower this week I began sobbing. Now I just need like 15 more showers this weekend to get all the emotions out.

Four years old and I wonder who he’d be. Four years old and I miss him like crazy.

One Way or the Other

I’m almost 38 weeks. Because no one knows why A died at 40weeks 4 days, my doctor won’t let us go past the 40-week mark with this pregnancy. I don’t disagree with this strategy. However, due to the details of my emergencyC-section with Dragon, I am not a candidate for an induction this pregnancy. This is disheartening because induction, though not ideal, has been a nice middle ground for us because we didn’t have to wait past the due date and I did’t have to deal with the risks and ordeal of major surgery.

Except now I do. Or at least, I might. If labor doesn’t start spontaneously before the due date, I’ll have a scheduled C-section. The doc will do it as early as 39-weeks but after E and I discussed it, we’d rather wait the extra 7 days and schedule it for 40-weeks. The doctor isn’t available on the exact due date so we’ve set it for 39 weeks 6 days.

I very much would prefer to deliver this baby vaginally. I’ve had both a vaginal delivery and a C-section (under general anesthesia) and can say that I prefer the vaginal experience and recovery. Plus, for four years I’ve been thinking about and planning for a natural childbirth. I’d like to know what it feels like. At this point, it would be very healing and redeeming. I think it would also help me to regain some trust in my body after being so brutally betrayed by it. 

While I wish for spontaneous labor, I realize it is unlikely. With A, I was barely 1cm when we induced the night we found he was dead; I was at 40 ½ weeks. Last checkup, on Tuesday, I was 50% effaced, barely 1cm and -3 station, so nothing really happening. I am tempted to intervene with homeopathic labor inducers – evening prim rose oil, acupuncture, etc. but I worry about pushing my body, and baby, too hard before it’s ready. I’ve met those families who went in for a checkup at 38 weeks, had the membranes stripped, contracted all night at home, went in the next morning and the baby was dead because it was too stressful for the baby. I guess we’ll stick to sex and walking since those seem to be less aggressive.

I’m trying to keep my perspective that although we’re anxious to get this kid out, I don’t want to gamble the baby’s well being just to ease my worrying.

As you likely know, a significant number of intrauterine deaths happen overnight. There are several different theories –  low maternal blood pressure, melatonin levels, etc. – and I have always suspected that A died overnight based on his normal active periods. This, of course, makes nights nerve wracking. Several weeks ago, E suggested I drink a large glass of water before turning off the light at bedtime and then, when up to pee during the night, drink more fluids to ensure that I was up at 2-3 times each night. This would buoy my blood pressure and give me a chance to pay attention to baby’s activity during the night.

That strategy has hardened to setting an alarm to wake every 2 ½ hours over night and do kick counts – sometimes we check in with the Doppler too. It is rather miserable to be forcing my waning will power to wake when I’m so flippin’ exhausted, but if a few weeks of sleep deprivation means getting baby here safely, then it’s worth it. I say that, but I also recognize how quickly things can change and that this baby could very well die during one of the 2 ½ hour periods between kick counts. Are we really protecting our child? The only certainty is that it alleviates some of the helplessness we feel as parents.

In addition to the vigilance at home (I’m doing 5-6 rounds of kick counts each day, including the overnighters) I am also going for regular OB visits once a week and biophysical profiles twice a week which is 3 appointments each week. I spread them out so that a professional is checking in on the baby every couple days. Again, the peace-of-mind is short-lived because the minute the ultrasound wand comes off my belly, I know that kid could go into distress and I may, or may not know it and it could all be over. There is just no reassurance for a babylost mom.

And so, this baby will be born one way or the other – vaginally or C-section, dead or alive – in the next couple weeks. I will be sure to post something once baby arrives.

34 Weeks

I'm 34 weeks and am unraveling. Like my friend Jen said, at this point the baby would likely live if it were born but it's all on you to notice if something abnormal is going on in there. The truth is I'm not confident in my ability to detect if something is wrong in my own womb.

The anxiety and worry are ramping up. For example, Baby #3 has had the hiccups several nights each week for the last couple weeks. I lay there and wonder if I should act. Yes, hiccups are considered "good" because they're evidence of practice breathing in utero. But they can also be a sign of distress that there's intermittent cord compression and it's baby's body's natural reaction to try to get up off the cord. If I wait until the hiccups are over, then fall back to sleep and the baby is dead by morning how can I live myself? But can I really put myself and E through the fright of running to the ER three times a week in the middle of the night and having to call someone to come stay with Dragon while she's sleeping? 

Or how am I supposed to know if that burst of vigorous movement is a reassuring sign or a redflag that baby is in distress and trying desperately to reposition? 

I'm doing the best I can to walk the line of vigilance and hope. I cried through most of my checkup today. Not because the baby is in danger. Simply because there is so much pressure on me to be attuned to what's happening inside my body and I don't trust myself or my body to keep this baby safe. 

Presently I attend regular OB checkups and also weekly biophysical profiles with a perinatologist's office. This means a professional is checking in on the baby every 3-4 days. It's always nice to check in but I know how quickly things can change so the peace-of-mind is short-lived. 

Further, the weekly BPP's only take specific measurements and don't look for cord entanglement. We don't know what killed A, but two separate perinatologists have theorized it was an umbilical cord accident of some sort. He was born with a single cord loop around his neck; though they don't believe this is what killed him. Fifteen months later, when the specialist saw the cord wrapped around Dragon's neck twice on ultrasound, he recommended we induce that day at 37 1/2 weeks. I'm batting a thousand when it comes to nuchal cords. 

Yes, I realize the cord is floating everywhere and with a big ole third trimester baby it's hard to visualize the cord. Yes, I understand the majority of babies who are born with the cord around their necks are totally fine (85% is the statistic I've heard). But if something happens to this kid and it could have been prevented or I could have taken some sort of action...how the hell am I going to live with myself? These were the bullet points of the back-and-forth conversation I had with my OB provider today. Her point is, what are you going to do if there is some sort of entanglement? Implying that ignorance is bliss and looking for entanglement at each week's ultrasound will only cause me to worry more. I don't know what I'll do if they see something suspicious. It really depends on the circumstances. Is it a single nuchal cord? Is the cord around baby's neck and also looped around the ankle? Is there a true knot in the cord? 

I do feel that I'd be more levelheaded than I was when approached about Dragon. Instead of immediately pulling the trigger (without even discussing it with my husband), I'd ask the specialist what the alternatives are, get input from my OB provider and think it through a little before making a decision. Yet I know from experience, it's hard to keep any faith when you're so scared and so vulnerable and the stakes are so high.  

So after a tearful conversation (I think I've cried at 60% of my OB checkups this pregnancy), she agreed to send the order to the perinatologist asking them to look for entanglement while they're doing the BPP scan each week. My husband's response to this sums it up, "Thanks for being such a great advocate for our children both dead, alive and cookin'."

I am trying to take it day-by-day but damn these emotions are getting the best of me.  

A’s 3rd Birthday

I wrote this to A on his birthday last month. I am finally getting around to posting it here.

My Darling Son,

We are having exceptionally warm weather. That last time we had such unseasonably mild October weather was in 2011 as we were counting down the days to your arrival.  I remember wearing sandals up to the week before you were born - convenient because my swollen feet didn’t fit into my shoes. I remember walking over to the hospital in a light t-shirt and rain jacket. I remember feeling the wetness of Daddy’s raincoat when he collapsed on my chest sobbing during that final, conclusive ultrasound.

Each beautiful sunny, autumn day makes me ache for you. As your third birthday approaches I wonder what theme you’d have chosen for your party this year? Pirates? Dinosaurs? Outer space? And what about Halloween, my Love? What would you like to be this year? Whatever you choose, we’ll come up with a corresponding costume for your little sister; it’s probably the last year before she asserts her own opinion.

I often wonder what the sibling dynamic would be between you two. I wish that I could be witness to that evolving relationship. Daddy and I have decided to have another baby. If we are fortunate enough to bring a new baby home I know it will break my heart all over again watching your sister dote on that baby. I fantasize about a 15-month-old you meeting Dragon at the hospital for the first time, kissing her face sweetly, insisting on holding her by yourself!

It is undeniable that you, dear boy, have made me a better mother than I would have been. I have shed my pride. Inhibition, embarrassment and judgment do not influence my parenting as they once did. I have clear priorities that spending time together, with Dragon and with family, are far more important than any chore or job or mess. I am liberated from concern about what others think or feel about me or my choices. Now I can do what is best for us without hesitation. Just one of your many gifts.

I love you with all my being.

Love,

Mama

Familiar Territory

A’s birthday is nearly here. As in years past, I start to get weepy and emotional as soon as the weather changes and it begins to feel like fall. Then, October arrives and I withdraw into myself. 

Right now, things are very similar to the weeks right after A died. I am lethargic, unmotivated, grumpy and very fragile. I feel utterly drained. Today, I literally laid on the couch while Dragon brought toys and books over to me; climbing atop and over me. I just didn’t have the energy to play. Poor girl. What will she think of this annual unraveling?

We put her to bed and I crash onto the couch watching mindless television until we head to bed ourselves. (This was our tactic in the early weeks to distract our minds from the stinging reality.) But, as it always is, I cannot fall asleep. Instead, my brain plays flashbacks of A’s days over and over. I berate myself for not having kissed him more, for ever having laid him back in the isolette; why didn’t I hold him the entire fucking time?! 

I have learned from past years and so this year I took offof work the entire birthday week. I am incapacitated. I’m barely functioning and facing my son’s third birthday makes most other things completely insignificant. There is no way I’m able to focus on work. Plus, the breakdowns are coming more frequently. You know how it is, puttering along washing dishes or something and then you just can’t suppress it. The tears come, you collapse, body shuddering with sobs. Eventually, you pull yourself together, gather the pile of wet tissues and try to get on with the day.

Also as in the early days, I’m avoiding going out in public. It is so incredibly uncomfortable and downright frightening. It isn’t just that I’m extra fragile right now and could have a meltdown at any moment. But it is more clear this time of year that I do not belong; that I am very broken. I do not know how to navigate social situations anymore and attempting to do so is very taxing to my already low energy stores. If it weren’t for Dragon, I’d stay in the house the entire week. Well, there is an exception. This year I planned ahead and scheduled some self-care by way of a massage. Though it gave me anxiety to go out in public and put my vulnerable self up on the table, it was totally worth it. Like all the chocolate I’ve been eating, it didn’t relieve my pain and sorrow, but I did feel more grounded afterward and definitely more relaxed.

New this year was the stay-super-busy-so-you-don’t-have-time-to-think strategy. It started subconsciously but I quickly realized what was going on. I packed my days full of chores, projects and the like. Much more so than the usual crazy multitasking that goes on around here. At the end of a ridiculously busy (and productive) day, I was beat and fell into bed only to get on the hamster wheel again in the morning. If there wasn’t any down time then my mind couldn’t register the anguish within, couldn’t notice that it was nearly October, couldn’t redirect my attention to the heartwrenching reality that we live in. This technique, of course, is only effective temporarily because inevitably all of those things do creep in. And, as noted above, eventually the grief becomes crippling and despite those lingering to-do lists, I am, essentially, in a catatonic state.

E, per usual, has stepped up as I have fallen apart. He picks up the slack around the house and tends to Dragon. He is extra supportive and always asks what I need. I find that I avoid making eye contact with him; the second I do, I devolve into tears; because he is my rock, because he is hurting just as badly as I am, because we are in this together and it is so fucking intense.

In the coming days I am trying to set aside time to let the tears flow and the rage run. I will sit down and go through A’s album again and again. I will go through his box of stuff. I will read the sympathy cards I saved from three years ago. I will cradle, kiss and talk to his miniature urn. I will carefully remove his hair from the envelope that houses it and roll the downy softness between my fingers; sniffing it in hopes of catching a whiff of my baby boy, before meticulously putting it away. I will read his little sister the book, Someone Came Before You which chokes me up every time and we only read on special occasions and holidays. I will curl up on the ground and bawl and howl. I will write to A. I will do all of these things because this is how I know to grieve and although the day-to-day functioning is easier than it was three years ago, the pain, agony and longing are as intense as they ever were.

Little Boys

It’s been a couple years since I attended my company’s annual summer picnic. In 2012 I opted out because I was still a mess over A’s death. Last year I had planned on going but fortuitously Dragon got sick that week. This year Dragon and I went. Fortunately I had the nap excuse; by the time she woke up and we got there, there was only an hour or so of obligatory niceties left.

The picnic is a time for the families of the all the staff to gather. I have to admit it’s insightful to meet my coworkers’ and bosses’ spouses, children and significant others. There were some “big kids” [read: school aged] and Dragon was entertained by their running and wrestling antics. But she naturally migrated toward the only other toddler-sized person at the picnic – my coworker’s son who was born 5 months after A. She pursued this little boy until his shyness abated and they happily played together tossing a ball back and forth. He was very sweet to her. Toward the end of the picnic all of the coolers had been emptied and Dragon made a beeline to the giant piles of dumped ice cubes and water. The next thing I know she’s got a dirt-covered ice cube in her mouth and the little boy comes running up saying, “No! Don’t eat that. Yucky! No!” and swats it out of her hand.

For the most part I was able to swallow the lump in my throat and make small talk with the little boy’s mom and dad. But that ice cube encounter was a dagger to my soul. It was such a kind, brotherly gesture that I just about lost it right then and there.

Our neighbors and good friends also have a son who is roughly A’s age (he was born 4 months before A). We see them often and while his behavior toward Dragon can be doting, he is, for the most part, pretty mean to her. He hates to share, snatches things away from her, hoards toys and has pushed her more times than I can count. Hopefully this is just a phase that he’ll outgrow as he learns better social skills, but I also recognize it as natural 3-year-old behavior.

I try to avoid children who are A’s age (he’d be three in October) and I try even harder to avoid situations where children who are A’s age get to play with Dragon. It is a mirror to the life we ought to have. It is a glimpse into what it might be like to watch my two children interact, both the good and the bad. I am not deluded to think that if A were alive our lives would be rosy and my kids would get along 100% of the time Flanders style. When I fantasize about how things would be with a living A, I can clearly see a possessive older brother and a tantruming little sister; a big brother who takes advantage of his age and size to trick her out of snacks or other coveted things.

It also makes me wonder how different Dragon would be with the influence of her elder sibling instead of the attention-filled daydream of her current existence. My friend Julie sums it up well when she recently wrote, “Bode’s personality is in part shaped by being the only living child in our home, by our grief and paranoia about his safety, by our desperate love.  He would certainly not be the same boy if his older brother, 17 months his senior, was growing up alongside of him.” Click here to see her entire post.

Ever since she could register facial expressions, it’s been obvious that Dragon loves to be around other children. She especially loves to be with ‘big kids’ and will watch, enthralled, as they ride scooters, play ball, jump waves or simply run amok. I’ll never know what the dynamic between my two children would have been, but I know that they’re both cheated by not having each other.

Two Years' Raw

A’s second birthday was last week. The pain and rage were as raw and intense as they were two years ago. The agony was so overwhelming that the thought of killing myself crossed my mind (as it did those wretched first weeks). Not as a serious plan, but because there is no other way to escape such oppressive anguish. Be assured I am not going to harm myself, I couldn’t cause E or Dragon any more heartache.

Last year, I sent out birth-announcement-style cards for his first birthday asking our family and friends to perform acts of kindness in his honor. That, coupled with it being his first birthday, elicited much response. This year I did not send anything nor planned a get together of any sorts. We received a handful of texts and calls plus a few cards in the mail. A mere fraction of last year’s showing. It was pitiful.

I have never felt so alone in my grief.

If A was alive to celebrate his second birthday I am certain he would have been inundated with cards, calls, messages and gifts. I know many of our loved ones were thinking of him on his birthday so why the silence?

With his birthday came a heavy depression. I am apathetic towards work and daily responsibilities. It is a chore to drag myself out of bed each morning, yet I toss and turn trying to fall asleep at night. I’m moody and short-tempered. I’m emotional and distracted. I am utterly overwhelmed by the life obligations facing me. I want to hide beneath the bed covers for days. How I wish the world would give me permission to grieve like two years ago; afford me another bereavement period. Weeks of moping around the house ignoring phone calls, bills and responsibilities. No reason to leave the safety of my home.

But life doesn’t stop. And neither does this adventurous 9½-month-old dragon who crawls, clambers, climbs and explores every waking second. So I must tend to my living child. I must fulfill my scheduled work hours. I must keep up the house and feed the family. Because of my depression and grief, I cannot engage in life. However, I cannot fully commit to grieving and depression either, which leaves me in an uncomfortable, unresolved purgatory state.

Overcompensation

When Dragon was born we were flooded with presents. The deluge continued for months and months. It was an overwhelming outpouring of generosity – toys, books, baby gear and clothes, so many clothes! But that jaded bereaved part of me always felt that some of the gift giving was compensation for A’s death. Like people felt so bad and pitied us so much that when the opportunity arose to shower us and our newest, living baby with presents, they went above and beyond, overcompensating for their own sorrow and discomfort and for our pain as well.

This shouldn’t bother me. I feel like a jerk even thinking it. I wish I could just shut that part of me up and be grateful that so many people in our lives care about us and adore our daughter.

The same occurs when we run into folks for the first time after Dragon’s birth. To my wary ears when someone emphasizes their joy over the birth our daughter it feels more like relief regarding our son’s death and the subsequent fallout. “I’m so happy for you two!” Why because you think we’re fixed? Because you think we’re moving on and healed? Truth is we are healing and moving forward with our life but I don’t want that misinterpreted as we are “okay” or “over” A’s death. We are still absolutely broken and anguish over our missing boy each and every day. 

Related to the overcompensation is, I think, a sense of relief for family, friends and acquaintances. Relief that Dragon arrived safely. But more so, relief that this must mean E and I are doing better and that judgment alone makes my guard fly up.

When we became pregnant with Dragon six months after A was stillborn, I immediately knew I didn’t want to discuss my pregnancy or feelings with anyone other than E and some close babyloss moms who knew where I was coming from. To that end, I sent an email to all of our family, friends and even my coworkers asking them to please not ask anything and to not expect me to share much about the pregnancy. For the most part, they respected our wishes. Perhaps that restriction fed into the overcompensation when Dragon finally arrived alive and well. That I held our loved ones at arm’s length for a time that when the floodgates finally came down the gifts rushed in.

I really do wish I didn’t feel this cynical. But I can’t help but think about what the response would have been to A’s birth and homecoming had he lived. Sure our there would have been fanfare surrounding our firstborn child, but would it have been as over-the-top? 

Resurfacing

Hello out there. I realize it has been some time since I last posted. There is a negative portrayal of dead baby mamas who cease blogging after their Rainbow is born. While I can see the appeal and distraction of a new live baby, it isn’t the whole story of what’s been going on in Griefland.

After baby Dragon’s unexpected and traumatic birth, we had the usual no-sleep, constant baby-tending couple months. She then settled herself into a nice predictable routine. And then, the wheels came off. She was fussy and needy. She wouldn’t nap unless someone was holding her. She was crying while nursing and bucking at the breast. Her nighttime sleep actually worsened. I was at my wit’s end trying to understand my child and what she needed because clearly I was not guessing correctly. Meanwhile I was back to work part-time.

Fast forward another 6-8 weeks and after the pediatrician erroneously diagnosed her bloody stools as an anal fissure the G.I. specialist suggested Dragon had an allergy to the dairy in my diet. Since I have been dairy free our daughter is a happier, easier baby. AND THEN she started waking up every 45-60 minutes at night, all night long. WTF kid?! I thought we just fixed your tummy troubles. I was no longer functional – not mentally, not emotionally, not even physically (I was bumping into things, stubbing my toes…).

I’ll save you the drama of sleep training but we are making progress and finally all of us are getting some sleep.  All of that to say, I’ve been absent because I’ve been struggling to meet the bare essentials. I haven’t had the time or brain power to blog. I hope I don’t come off as complaining, I adore my daughter and am thankful for every minute we have together; I just want to explain that these first 6-months have been far more challenging and exhausting than I ever could have imagined and only now am I starting to get back to “normal” - like brushing my teeth twice a day!

Sometimes I wonder if we were “chosen” to have such a high-needs baby. If she had been our first, we’d probably be quite resentful and completely out of patience. But having lost A, our gratefulness at having Dragon keeps the rest of it in balance.

Obviously, if all my time and energy has been devoted to caring for her, I haven’t had much time to spend with A. And the chronic sleep deprivation has eroded the walls that compartmentalize my grief so when I’m laying in bed or admiring my daughter, my eyes well up and I’m flooded with memories of my sweet missing son. I really need to set aside some time to sit and be with him, to be with all the emotions. I miss him.

Most of energy still goes to treading water but now, at least, my head is above the surface. Lately I am struggling to survive but it is a different kind of survival from the grief stricken days. 

The Things People Say

There is always a concern that a rainbow baby will mislead others to thinking you are ‘all better.’ I have found that since Dragon was born only a few people have brought up A in conversation. This is more than a little disheartening. It doesn’t have to be a long, deep conversation about how I’m coping with this living infant given A’s stillbirth but even something more superficial like, “Do you think she looks like her brother?” Or “How much did A weigh when he was born?” You know, typical questions a mom might be asked when her second child is born.

So it is especially wonderful when those few people do talk about A. In particular, I was touched by a card one of my mother’s friends sent, a woman who I have met only a couple times and who (to my knowledge) has never lost a child. She wrote this:

“Congratulations! I remember feeling a little sad during my second pregnancy – not wanting to displace my first or love him less. Then number 2 comes along and miraculously it is wonderful! Your heart just gets bigger and you love even more. A is not forgotten. God bless both your children.”

It was a perfect sentiment. Without minimizing the stressful subsequent pregnancy, she made me feel like a ‘normal’ mom; plus she acknowledged A and his absence.

In contrast, I sat across the room from E’s aunt the other night. She had Dragon in her arms and we were chatting. She asked me if Dragon was my mother’s first grandchild. Obviously she didn’t think that question through, but I wasn’t going to just let it slip by; let A slip by. So I replied that A was the first grandchild for my parents and that they are over-the-moon in love with Dragon. Sheesh!

And so the quest to keep my son in people’s minds and lives continues with the added challenge that they are happily distracted by his little sister now.

Some more...

...random thoughts.

My sleep deprived brain, which is coursing with mommy hormones, is playing tricks on me. It's telling me to return to the hospital. That he is exactly where we left him. Down the hall to the corner room. Crack the door and peek in to see our precious son in the isolette right beside the window. We wanted him to experience the beautiful sunset that fateful birthday. 

Let's just go get him. He must be there, right where we left him.

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We are 5 weeks into breast feeding. My boobs leak, often. Most times it just happens naturally an hour or so before she's due to eat again. But they also leak when I think about my babies. I was laying in bed trying to fall asleep and all I could think about was sweet A. Sure enough the milk starting flowing. In a way this comforted me. My boobs, my body still recognize him as my child even if so many others no longer mention him.

Many family members and friends are lining up to meet Dragon. A few of them, for various reasons, have never seen A's photos. I want to make it a rule - If you haven't sat with us in the heartache of looking through his album, then you don't get to snuggle this warm, living bundle of adorable-ness. You cannot acknowledge half of my children. It's all or none.

And don't me started on our friends who never sent a text, card, email or called after A was stillborn. Never said a thing, even 7 months later when we got together or the first time since his birth.

But I don't make any such rules. And I don't cut said friends out of my life. I am trying to be forgiving. Trying.

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It is low tide. The waves gently carry my son further away from me. I stand on the shore his infant sister at my breast. Clutching her with one hand, my other arm reaches desperately for him. He floats calmly on the waves. I cannot reach him. I cannot put her down to dive in. I scream; call his name, implore him to come back. I crumble to the ground sobbing, knowing he is beyond my reach. I glance down at the baby on my chest and cry harder.

Why does it feel like one or the other?

Musings

This is just a quick, disjointed post of random thoughts.

I wanted this second child to be a boy. She is not. I worried (worry) about raising a daughter because of my own tumultuous relationship with my mother. Now that she’s here, I feel a little better. Perhaps I can keep the mother-daughter anxiety at bay until she hits middle school and the shit hits the fan.

I really thought this baby would look like A. She shares some characteristics – I see A in her nose and eyebrows – and her resemblance to her brother is growing as she does, but she is also her own person. Sadly, the time when she most looks like her big brother is when she is so soundly asleep that her tiny mouth drops open. With her eyes closed and her mouth agape she looks like her stillborn brother whose sweet mouth would not stay closed.

Like all babylost parents with their Rainbows, I often think how different it would be if A were here too. As hundreds of questions run through my sleep-deprived brain (When to introduce a bottle? How do we treat her crusty eyes? When will she sleep longer stretches?), I feel resentful. If A had lived, we would already be seasoned parents. We would know the answers to these questions and have loads of experience under our belts.  I also contemplate how challenging it would be to have a toddler running amok while trying to tend to a newborn. Seriously, this tiny dragon is wearing us down. I don’t know how we’d be able to manage a 15-month-old on top of this; but I still very much want him here.

Little Sister

Baby Dragon is still alive and healthy. We are combating jaundice with frequent feedings. This is working and it’s also packing on the weight. She’s gaining an average of 2 ounces a day!

The frequent feedings have left E and I complete zombies, but it’s worth it. Plus we just got the go ahead at her 2-week well child checkup to relax the feeding schedule to on demand. If we’re lucky she’ll give us a solid 3 ½ hours between feeds.

It’s been just 2 weeks and already she is changing so much. Her face looks more like a baby than a newborn. Her belly is distended now. Her arms and legs are thickening with new creases showing up daily. A few of her features resemble her big brother’s but for the most part she is her very own person. Although I wished for this baby to look like A it is so much better for me that she’s uniquely herself.

The feeding schedule afforded me barely an hour between feeds which meant I could either sleep for an hour, eat something and shower or make a few phone calls before it was time to put her back on. While I love the closeness of nursing, I am only just now beginning to enjoy her like I had hoped. Now with a bit more time in between sessions I can kiss her, play with her; just plain stop and admire her. Except that is dangerous territory. Whenever I take some time to stop and wonder at this tiny, beautiful being, I well up. I’m still trying to grasp that she is our daughter, that she is ours to keep.

I cry at least every other day. Sometimes because I am so grateful for Dragon and so in love with her. Sometimes because I envision our future with this child and already I want to slow down time – I want her to stay tiny and curled up for a long time. Sometimes because I miss A even more now that I know how it’s supposed to go. Sometimes I can’t even discern what brings on the tears.

To be honest, with the traumatic birth, general anesthesia and then strict nursing schedule I haven’t had much time to process it all. I need some quiet time to process her birth, how it all went down. I need to process that she is mine and allow the maternal connection to really sink in. I need to re-assess A’s birth now that I can compare it to a “normal” delivery experience. I need to re-mourn our darling son because now I understand much better what he and what we missed out on – there is so much more to grieve.

Like I said earlier, they detected the umbilical cord around Dragon’s neck at our weekly BPP. It was actually wrapped twice around her neck. This was the impetus to induce right away.  Most of that Wednesday we just hung out in the labor/delivery room. I was admitted early in the morning and the Cervidil wasn’t inserted until 3pm. So we ate, listened to her heartbeat on the monitor and tooled around the internet trying to calm our nerves.

By 11pm I was having painful contractions that required me to focus my breathing. At 3am the Cervidil came out. I was 2cm (I can’t remember what percentage effaced). I had hoped to be further along and was on the brink of tears. The hospital staff assured me this was good progress given we started at high, tight and not even 1cm. Some women, they said, require a second round of Cervidil.

After a 2-hour break, wherein I was allowed to eat again, they started the pitocin drip. Throughout this ordeal I was constantly doubting my decision to force my body into labor. Every half hour the pitocin drip was turned up a bit. By 6am we called our doula and she arrived. I continued to breath through contractions and tried to rest in between.

Our midwife, who is awesome, allowed me to continue to eat throughout the day. We changed positions, walked the halls and sat on the birthing ball trying to help things progress. When I was checked mid-afternoon and found to be 4cm I again felt like giving up. I considered how much “easier” it would be to have a C-section. I felt envious of the anonymous women in the room next to me who had delivered her baby hours ago (you’d think they’d soundproof the walls of labor/delivery rooms better). I wanted to call the whole thing off. My confidence was non-existent. My conviction to continue laboring without pain medicine was waning – big time.

In early evening I was 6cm and we were at the full pitocin dosage. The midwife gave me the option. We could stop the pitocin and take a break. (This was very enticing because I had been laboring since 11pm the day before without hardly a wink of sleep.) But when we started back up we’d have to start at the lowest dosage and work our way up again. Or we could dial the pitocin down a couple notches and see how we progressed. As tempting as it was to pull the plug and have a Pit vacation, I knew I didn’t have the mental or emotional endurance to start from scratch.

The pit was dialed down and I kept working through each contraction. They were getting very intense but I had a good 2-minutes between contractions, which was just lovely (no seriously it was; I’m not being sarcastic). By 6pm the midwife, doula and nurse were prepping the room for delivery. Baby was coming within the hour they said.

I continued to change positions as suggested by the knowledgeable team and baby sank lower and lower. The external heart rate monitor remained on Dragon the entire time. I could feel her very low in my pelvis but did not yet have the urge to push. The midwife suggested I lay on my right side. I did. Baby Dragon fell off the monitor so they suggested I flip to my left side as baby obviously didn’t like this side. I flipped over and then felt lots of discomfort high up under my ribs. This was unusual because all of the pain and discomfort had been down low. I mentioned this out loud but the nurse was too busy trying to locate Dragon’s heartbeat again.

The midwife reached in to check if I was dilated fully and could start pushing. What she felt entering the birth canal was a tiny hand, not a baby head. In addition she could feel a portion of cord.  This is where things get frantic. Immediately she paged the attending doctor who came in and confirmed Dragon’s hand and cord were coming first. Now there are a handful more staff in the room palpating my belly trying to determine how baby is lying. They wheel in an ultrasound machine and throw an oxygen mask on me. I am still having intense contractions and trying to breath best I can but the scene is panic inducing.

Someone shouts out to prep an OR stat and all of a sudden the cords and monitors are whipped off me and they’re wheeling my bed down the hallway. E has to remain in the labor room – there is no time for him to get prepped and they’ll be knocking me out with general anesthesia because I did not have an epidural.

The anesthesiologist is in my face urging me to focus on her and only her. She’s asking me pertinent questions about past surgeries and my experience with anesthesia. Simultaneously there are a dozen people rushing around the OR - two people are wrapping my calves, one inserts the catheter, another drapes and swabs my belly, two separate people strap my arms down, a resident is holding an oxygen bag over my face. It is crazy.

The doctor tells me they’re going to push the anesthesia and that’s the last I remember. Next thing I know, I’m groggily waking up in the post-op recovery room. I feel like hell and am very confused. E is there holding a bundled baby and tells me it is our baby. That our daughter is here safe and sound. I can hardly keep my eyes open. With the assistance of the doula, E manipulates my breasts and gives our tiny Dragon her first feed. I can’t muster the strength to raise my arms. Shortly thereafter E leaves with the pediatric nurse to accompany Dragon for her first bath and examination. I am pushed to our maternity recovery room to get settled. E and Dragon rejoin me a little while later but I’m still very drowsy.

Fortunately, she was never in distress and was healthy upon delivery. E says they brought her to him approximately 15-minutes after I was hectically wheeled out of the room. He was able to stay with her from that point on.

Supposedly what happened is this. The umbilical cord was not particularly long and it was wrapped twice around her neck. As she descended the tension on the cord increased. To relieve the tension and save her own life, she twisted at the last minute into a transverse position. The midwife says in her entire life, she’s never seen that happen. I have to credit our little girl for that maneuver and the incredible hospital staff who got her out so quickly.

Like I said, we are home and trying to adjust to the lack of sleep. Dragon is thriving and we are over-the-moon in love with her. Honestly, I just can’t get enough of her.

I may fade and in and out of the blogosphere, but I am always here reading and abiding. Thank you for taking the time to read to the end of this post.

Dragon's Here!

A's little sister was born yesterday evening after 20+ hours of induced labor. She caused some major scares and drama but in the end she is here safe and sound. We are feeling well and recovering in the hospital. Dragon is an excellent breast feeder, let's hope my nipples can keep up with her.

I will share details of her birth story once we are settled at home. She really gave us a fright.

Thank you all for your well wishes and your support during this challenging pregnancy. You online BLMs are a lifeline!

Better Safe Than Sorry

This morning I headed to the perinatalogist's for our weekly BPP and NST. The ultrasound tech took extra time to examine cord blood flow with the Doppler and seemed to try a dozen different angles looking at the cord. Having had 8 previous sonograms in the last few months, I knew this was unusual. She commented that my fluid was 9.8, well into the normal range, but just last week it was 16. So a significant drop. She said she would bring it up to the doctor while I was on the monitor for my NST. Moments after being hooked up totje monior, the doctor hastened into the room looking quite serious.

"Many baby's are born with the cord around their neck. Only in about 15% of cases is it serious or dangerous. However, with your history I think we should induce. I'm going down to talk to Labor and Delivery."

The fluid level is not a concern, but Baby Dragon's nuchal cord is. I immediately called E at work and told him we were having this baby and they were admitting me. Good thing I just packed the hospital bag and washed baby laundry (literally in the last 48 hours).

An hour later the paperwork was done, IV in, vitals taken and E was here by my side. My cervix is high and tight, not even 1cm. All the pineapple, red radpberry leaf tea and sex these past couple weeks could not force my body into an unnaturally early labor.

Because my cervix is still mostly closed  a manual dilation like the foley bulb is not an option. We have opted to delay the insertion of Cervidil because our midwives are not on call today but they come on in the morning. Twelve hours of Cervidil then the pitocin is started and by that time our midwife should be here.

I don't mind waiting because we are constantly on the monitor. As long as baby looks good, there is no rush.

All that being said. I am still terrified and very anxious. I am not looking forward to hours and hours of medicated labor. So far I've kept it together but the tears are barely below the surface. I will surely break down at some point here. I think E is just as scared, anxious and excited as I am.

37w3d. 1 hour until Cervidil is inserted. Wish me luck.

Holiday Wishes & Terror

This post is negative, whiney and rather pessimistic. You may want to skip over this one.

The holiday greetings conundrum is an exaggerated version of the usual dead-baby-conversation icebreaker all babylost parents face. When a friend, neighbor or colleague asks how my holiday was I have a choice. I can throw out a customary answer, “Busy; you know how it goes.” Or I can answer honestly, “It’s really difficult. Our son would be at a very fun age this holiday season.” The former discredits my daily experience but allows the social interaction to occur and end without the opposite party feeling uncomfortable. The latter often leaves the other person’s brow furrowed with disconcertment. Usually the other person says something they believe to be sympathetic and sensitive. Usually what they say is actually insensitive and makes me feel worse. 

I would out-and-out regret being honest at all in the first place, but part of me feels as though I am crusading for all bereaved people. That by using the opening in conversation to push my ongoing grief into the spotlight momentarily, I force the unscathed to remember my tragedy and to recognize, even briefly, the agony I continue to live with. Sure I walk away feeling worse because of their ineptitude and insensitivity, but maybe they’ll be more aware with the next bereaved person they confront.

If one more person wishes me a Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays I am going to punch them in the face. The random strangers bother me less. It’s the people in my life who ought to know better. Passing in the hall at the office this week a coworker says to me, “Did you have a good Christmas?” “No,” I replied flatly and kept walking. She stopped dead in her tracks, jaw slightly agape. “What?!” “No. It’s really shitty without my 14-month-old son.”

I had similar exchanges with three staff members at the perinatologist’s office the day before. And in all of these brief conversations the other party, lacking any substantive reply always, always responds with a reference to Baby Dragon – “Well you’ll have this little one next Christmas!” This is infuriating. Surely if they took a minute to think first, they wouldn’t say something so stupid. But social pressure insists we wrap up our chat neatly and on a positive note.

We are at 37-weeks. If this kid doesn’t come on it’s own we’ll induce at 39-weeks which means one way or the other we’ll be having a baby in the next couple weeks. And yet the hospital bag is not packed. The car seat is not installed. The baby laundry is not done. Is it denial? Probably a little bit. Part of me is still hesitant to truly believe we are having a baby and that this baby will actually be coming home with us.

I sometimes feel like Charlie Brown. Like I’ll come charging up to kick the football and at the very last second, it is whisked away and I end up flat on my back, hurting with the breath knocked out of me.

I am petrified. We’re at the finish line of this pregnancy and this baby could die any minute. Just -- like -- last -- time. My naivety has been obliterated. I know now, that I cannot protect this baby any more than I could protect A.

Maybe the fear is feeding the denial. If I don’t think about the approaching due date then it isn’t real, right? All of a sudden I am deflated of any self-confidence. I am scared of the pain of labor (even though I dreamed and prayed for it back in the spring when we were trying to get pregnant). I am terrified but I can’t put my finger on exactly what I’m terrified of. I do know that this terror is preventing me from spiritually and emotionally welcoming this child to the outside world. Said emotional and spiritual clamping up is probably affecting my body and preventing labor from starting on its own. I am too scared to welcome this birth with unabated enthusiasm.

The fear is paralyzing. I sit and stare at the to-do-before-Dragon-arrives-list but don’t actually do the things listed. In fact I’ve found it harder and harder to get out of bed each morning – a classic avoidance technique I honed in college. You know the sleep for hours and hours tactic?

And yet as in the darkest days of my grief, time ticks on which means birth is inevitable regardless of my acknowledgement or readiness. 

Stay safe baby Dragon; stay safe.

Tired

I am tired.

I am tired of being pregnant.

I am tired of fighting so hard to advocate for my children.

I am tired of pushing for A’s acknowledgment.

I am tired of feeling so sad.

I am tired of unpredictable moods and emotions.

I am tired of just getting through each day.

I am tired of living in the throes of anxiety.

I am just plain tired.

I wish I could lie down, close my eyes and wake up in two weeks time.