Unimaginable

Each year as October rolls around I can feel the grief settling in. Not that it isn’t always present but it becomes extremely heavy. My mind becomes foggy. Fatigue sets in. 

I have learned over the last twelve years to embrace this time. To lean in to my grief season. I take off work the entire week of A’s birthday. To tap into the grief, I go through his photo album, re-read sympathy cards from 2011, watch movies about death and dying, read books about babyloss and grief. I want to get those big, stormy emotions flowing. I’m going to be lethargic and emotionally fragile this time of year no matter what (it’s like my psyche remembers even if I try to distract myself) so I might as well make it therapeutic. 

This year, with a two-year-old at home, I have packed up my grief kit and left the house. I cannot fall apart when my toddler is nearby constantly needing me and my maternal spidey sense is on alert. So I’m here at the public library, stifling my crying while I sit in a corner with soft instrumental music coming through my headphones and reading Brooke D. Taylor’s memoir, “Unimaginable.” 

Maybe you know Brooke and her story from her blog - by the brooke. Either way, it seems like every other page she hits me right in the heart. Her ability to verbalize the experience of stillbirth and the aftermath is such a gift for me. It affirms what I’ve been through, how I have felt (and still feel). It crystalizes my own experience in ways that deepen my comprehension of it.

I haven’t even finished the book yet (I likely will before grief week is over) but I absolutely recommend it. Thank you Brooke for being brave enough to publish your most vulnerable times and feelings.

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.  

Grief Week

With seven years of grieving experience, I have come to know what to expect during my grief season and what I need. This week is A’s seventh birthday. I planned ahead by taking the entire week off of work so that I can fall apart and get in touch with all of the emotions I so often quell throughout the year. I also stocked my freezer with ice cream and my pantry with Oreos*.

This morning, E and I drop the girls off at their schools and he continued on to work. I returned home and set up (grief) shop. A thick blanket on the recliner, water bottle and coffee within arm’s reach, a box of tissues, A’s tiny urn. I settle in and delve into books that get me in touch with my grief and that validate my feelings and my experiences (like They Were Still Born and Bearing the Unbearable and Love You Forever – all of which were written by bereaved parents).

This week, for me, is an opportunity to inhabit my grief. I wade into the thick stew of emotions and, without judgment, embrace whicheverfeelings come. I give myself permission this week to fall apart; to abandon my usual responsibilities (ie regular showering, laundry and making meals for my family – we’ll subsist this week on pizza, frozen chicken tenders and mac-n-cheese) and to do whatever feels right in the moment. Could be sleeping. Could be exercising. Could be gardening. Could be journaling.

I will go through A’s pictures; all of the ultrasounds and also the photos of our one day together. I will watch the short video my husband took, unbeknownst to me at the time, while I cradled that long, limp boy and delicately caressed his perfect body while quietly uttering, “I don’t understand.” over and over again.

I will listen to songs that trigger tears. I will bawl, howl and sob. I will re-read the condolence cards we received seven autumns ago (only those with heartfelt, genuine notes). I will mound the used tissues up, wet with tears and snot, until they topple onto the floor.

I will honor my love for my boy by honoring my grief over his absence.

*I am in no way compensated for promoting Oreos. I doubt Oreos need any promotion.

Fives Year Out

Five years old feels like such a milestone. Kindergarten, big boy interests, growth spurts. And yet, there is so little to say because I’ve said it all before. I wonder who he’d be. I wonder what he’d look like. I want him here in the midst of our hectic, messy life. I want him here with his little sisters. I want very much to know him.

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A’s death has undoubtedly affected my parenting. In many ways, I am a much better parent because of A and because of his death. But there is also a level of fear that I don’t think non-babyloss parents feel. I fear that my living children will die or my husband. Because this terrible tragedy befell us with no warning sign, no explanation and not due to anything that we did, it often feels like bad things will continue to happen to us.

This paranoia was clear over the winter. Baby Sheep was still a smooshy infant and we had gotten her accustomed to sleeping in her crib in the room right beside ours. If she got cold during the night, she’d wake up, which sucked for everyone. But if I overbundled her, I was sure I’d kill her. (Overheating has been linked to an increased risk of SIDS). So there I was every bedtime stressing out, standing at the changer hemming and hawing over what to dress her in. I’d finally decide. Zip her into her sleepsack and put her to bed. Later on, while laying in bed myself, trying to fall asleep, my anxiety would rev up wondering if she’s quiet because she’s sleeping soundly or because she’s dead.

She did not die last winter and at 15-months of age now, I’m (a little) less concerned about SIDS. But every night for months I was sure the pajamas I chose were going to be her demise.

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A’s birthday falls on a Monday. E and I are both taking off of work but still sending the girls to preschool and the sitter respectively. We don’t have definite plans but I expect we will go through A’s photos, finger the soft tuft of his hair and cry…a lot. I’d like to spend some time outside. There is something soothing about being in the quiet of nature.

We’ll pick up the girls a little earlier than usual and head to the local toy store to pick out something 5-year-old A would like. Maybe we’ll do something fun like last year or maybe we’ll stop for a special treat at the ice cream parlor. And every year we do an act of kindness in A’s honor. Though we haven’t decided what that will be yet.

All of these things are good and I want to do them. But there is still part me that is angry and resentful. Makes me want to knock all of the toys off the shelf at the store; throw my ice cream cone against the wall and scream at the happy “complete” families walking down the street. Because photos, snippets of hair and “would be” fantasies are not enough. Nothing will ever be enough to right the wrong of his absence.

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.

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“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.  

Group No More

E and I attended our first bereaved parents’ support group a couple weeks after A died. I would have gone sooner but that was the next scheduled group. Before I was discharged from the hospital I knew I wanted to try the local support groups. I was desperate to try anything – the books, the groups, the blogs – whatever stillbirth and babyloss information I could get.

For more than three years I have been attending babyloss support group. In the beginning, it couldn’t come soon enough. I wished that they were every single week. I craved the solidarity and the chance to talk about my son. As time wore on, the grief was less debilitating, less consuming on a daily basis and so I’d go to group as needed instead of every month. I could always count on that second Tuesday of the month if I was feeling especially sorrowful or when the holidays rolled around or whenever I needed a little extra support.

Recently, the facilitator who runs what was the most popular (by attendance) babyloss support group informed me that group was on a hiatus. Over the last year attendance at monthly support group had dropped significantly. Lately, there were only 2-3 people showing up, and sometimes, just one. The facilitator feels that that few of people doesn’t constitute a group because if someone did not want to talk, they would feel pressure to.

The facilitator has talked to other local support group leaders and even reached out to colleagues in other states; apparently this is a national issue one that isn’t restricted to babyloss support groups. The new trend, according to her, is digital support.

I have found tremendous support with the online babyloss community. I started this blog three months after A died and had been reading other blogs within a day of becoming a babyloss mother. The validation, camaraderie and support of all of you who read and write out here on the internet is invaluable. But it isn’t the same as face-to-face meetings. For me, there is value in both online support and in-person support group. That’s why I’ve regularly utilized both for the last 3+ years.

One of the benefits of support group is that I get to tell A’s story every time I go. And, to this day, I still breakdown while recounting the short life of our firstborn. By now, I am considered a “veteran” at group. Most of the other parents who are there are much earlier in their grief journey. I respect this important role as a “grief elder.” These parents are so freshly shattered and I can immediately go back to the place myself. I can empathize with the emotions, the challenges, the shock. When I walk out of group now, I don’t feel the relief that I once felt, but it is rewarding. I belong to the local bereaved community and also to the online community. And just like the women who have come before me, those I’ve met in person and those who I communicate with online, I want to be here for the unfortunate families who come after me.

So I am disappointed and disheartened that our local group is no more. I feel it is a disservice to the community. The facilitator is considering starting a few different Facebook groups (early loss, later loss/stillbirth, subsequent pregnancy, etc.) but it won’t be the same. I respect that not every person gets something out of support group. But I know I do. I wish there was more I could do to rally these broken parents and encourage them to drag themselves out of their isolation and to group. Truth is, so does the facilitator and she gets paid to do that, yet the numbers still dwindled and now the future of face-to-face support group is up in the air.

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.

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.

Oof!

I finally feel like I’ve got it together (most days); juggling work, baby, home, husband and other life responsibilities. It is exhausting and consuming, but as of late, I’ve felt that I have a handle on it (most days). There are times I am so engrossed in the day-to-day necessities I forget I even reside in Griefland. And then, while traipsing along, focused on keeping all of my juggling balls in the air – WHAM - I am knocked flat on my back.

Saturday morning I walked outside into the bright, warm sunshine and inhaled the crisp, cool autumn air. It was a picture perfect fall day and it brought me to my knees. 

I went out running errands. As I drove, I admired the day and breathed in the season; my eyes welled. I pulled it together to run into my first stop. Fifteen minutes later, back in the car alone, I spot a small tree already changed color; my eyes well again. I park at the grocery store and blink hard on my way in. I manage to do all the shopping without a break down. In the car on the ride home I cannot deny it any longer. It feels like the wind got knocked out of me. It feels like there is a cinder block on my chest. I sob.

This gorgeous autumn day left me trampled.

I miss him. I want so desperately to know him.

Toddler Tantrum

“I don't know about anyone else, but a massive toddler tantrum before 6 a.m. is exactly how I like to start my morning!”

This is a FB status I read recently. What I immediately thought was, “Yes please. I’d start each and every day that way if I could.” But, as always, I don’t write anything. Truth is I was rarely on FB before A died and since his stillbirth have avoided it even more so for the obvious reasons. What makes this particular post sting even more is that this girl’s son, the toddler culprit, was born a couple weeks before A. They’d be the same exact age.

I know many babylost parents have expressed it more eloquently than I, but this is just another example of how losing A has affected my parenting. Not that I took things for granted before, but when Dragonette is extra fussy or won’t nap unless she’s held, I am far more patient than I would have been if she was my first child.

I am not a saint of a mother. There are times when I cannot deal with her and pass her off enthusiastically to Daddy or Grandma. On rough days I look forward to a break in caring for her. But this newfound patience is most certainly a gift from my son. He has taught me what is really important in life and to cherish each small moment.

So when she won’t go back to sleep after eating at 3 a.m., I begrudgingly, but not resentfully, get up to walk and jostle her for an hour.

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.

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.

Merry Christmas My Son

We were only a couple months out from A’s stillbirth at Christmastime last year. Heavy in the fog of early intense grief, E and I did not do anything specific in his memory. He was included in my extended family’s gift giving which pleased my heart; they made donations in his honor to various bereavement organizations.

Maybe because I am more energetic and clearheaded a year later or maybe because a 14-month-old at Christmas is more engaging than an 8-week-old, E and I decided to shop for our son and whatever we bought for him we’d donate to a local toy drive. We went to a couple different stores because we each had a special gift in mind. I wanted a ride-on, push-able toy. I figure our guy would be practicing out this walking business about now and would utilize a large, sturdy toy on wheels that he could push and thus walk around. E really wanted to get an animal puppet. We had seen them at a local shop before A died and he’s thought about it ever since (he got one for Dragon too).

In addition to those two items, we picked up a few more things. Surely the other holiday shoppers passing us in the aisles wouldn’t have thought anything strange about our conversation because we discussed it as if A was alive and well. 

“Do you think he’d like these magnets?”
“Eh, he’d probably put them directly into his mouth.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Plus it says 3 years + on the box.”

“Which puzzle should we get him? One of these with the knobs or a block puzzle.”
“The knobs.”
“Dinosaurs or farm animals?”
“Umm, Farm.”

“Ooh, the classic Fisher Price corn popper.”
“Hell no. That thing is so noisy and annoying. I don’t want it in my house.”
“Ha ha ha, fair enough.”

Once we brought the toys home I had the strongest urge to lie down with them; to surround myself with these packaged playthings. As though that would somehow make me feel more connected to my son and the little boy he would be right now.

I wanted to take a photo before I dropped them off at the donation center. Perhaps this will become an annual tradition; buying age appropriate gifts for our missing son. As emotionally difficult as it was, I’m very glad we did it and in a way it does make me feel closer to A.

A's final haul

Bittersweet

After A was stillborn, we were fortunate enough to receive outreach from several local support groups and babylost organizations. Through one such organization I befriended a woman whose firstborn child was born still thirteen years ago at 38 weeks from a supposed cord accident, though cause of death was never conclusively decided. She got pregnant soon after her son’s birth and just four days after the first anniversary of his death she gave birth to a living son. She went on to have one more subsequent living son a couple years later.

We really seem to get each other and I have leaned on her a few times so far during this subsequent pregnancy. Her insight is that her son’s birthday is bittersweet. Each year she is sad that her eldest is not here but then a few days later she celebrates her “miracle” baby who wouldn’t exist if his older brother had not died.

I’m not quite to bittersweet yet, although I do feel grateful for Dragon and this new pregnancy even in the midst of my continued angst of missing A. But for me they are two distinct emotional experiences – I feel angry, sorrowful and severe pain because I yearn for my son, and I feel distinctly excited and thankful for this new life kicking me in the ribs. Perhaps with time, like my friend, I too will know how to hold two contrary truths together in my heart simultaneously, to find holidays and special occasions bittersweet.

She tells me that life is wonderful since her second son arrived and that she thinks it will be wonderful for me too one day.