When to Try Again

E and I always agreed that we wanted more than one child, even if the final number is still up in the air (it is one thing to fantasize about how many kids you want and another thing altogether once you’re living in the reality of child rearing). That day in the hospital when we found out A had died, I already knew I wanted to try again. But I also want to allow both E and I enough time to grieve and heal a bit. What is enough time? I don’t know. Nobody knows. No one can tell me because it’s different for each person.

I promised E we’d wait at least 6 months before even discussing it so we could focus our energies and emotions on grieving and honoring A’s life and memory. April marks 6 months and it’s taken all of my self-control not to speak to E about having another baby until now. I am beyond ready to get pregnant again.

I’ve been dedicated to getting my body, mind and spirit into the best possible shape in order to fairly provide baby #2 with the best beginning and the best Mom I can be. For 6 months I’ve been taking prenatal vitamins, a folic acid supplement and a calcium supplement to replenish my stores. After gaining 60 pounds with A, I spend considerable time contemplating what I eat and exercising consistently in order to get as close to my pre-pregnancy weight as possible before conceiving again. I don’t want any additional complications from issues that arise with being overweight and pregnant. Although the hours of reading, researching and questioning doctors have not provided a conclusive answer about why A died, it has provided a sense of peace that I’ve done my due diligence; that I’ve tried my darnedest to determine what happened and can now move toward acceptance that we will never know for sure. I take the grief work very seriously, believing that if I pay it forward now, I will be better off in the future. Journaling, counseling, support groups, honesty with my feelings, whatever I can do to move the process along and heal.

Like I said, I am very ready to start trying to conceive. But I know a subsequent pregnancy will be remarkably challenging in many, many ways and I will need E’s support more than ever. Thus the importance that he also feel ready. I planted the seed (sorry for the pun) a couple weeks ago explaining to E that I was more than ready and asked him to think about if he was ready.

We haven’t spoken of it since. It’s very hard for me not to bring it up again. It dominates my thoughts. I’m sure I could convince him into trying to get pregnant right now, but I absolutely do not want to influence his decision of when to start trying. I genuinely need him to feel ready of his own accord.

This of course does not stop my brain from calculating birth months if we got pregnant in April, May, June, etc. Or from fastforwarding to how we’ll plan for the birth (most likely an induction), or baby names, or how long to wait before announcing, or how our family and friends will react, and on and on and on. I just can’t share these thoughts with him. I bite my tongue so as not to pressure him.

No amount of subsequent living children will make me miss A any less. But a living, breathing baby in our arms and in our home will help to fulfill some of the loss we’re dealing with (more about that in this post). To my fellow bereaved blogo-mamas who are trying to conceive (Tash, Kate) or currently blessed with new hope (Aoife, Mama Bear, Renel,) and those who’ve lived through subsequent pregnancies (Jess, Mary Beth, Janis), I hope to join your ranks soon. 

Lost

"We lost the baby."

Those were my exact words. That's how I announced the news the very first time, on the phone with my parents from the hospital. That’s how I informed various friends.  In the beginning, the word “lost” was much easier to say than "died" or "dead." But in a more literal sense we really did lose A. I did everything in my control to “keep” him; nourished myself with healthy food, drank quarts of water, rested, went to every single prenatal appointment, avoided extreme heat, unpasteurized cheeses and loads of other risks.

For nearly 10 months my body, mind, hormones and emotions had all been anticipating the arrival of our baby. We made adjustments to our life, stocked the house, made arrangements. Every aspect of my life was devoted to preparing to bring A home. So when we didn't bring him home I felt lost.

Most obviously, my body expected a baby and my breasts filled to bursting-levels with milk; hormones coursed through me compelling me to nurture. I've read about bereaved parents sleeping with their baby's stuffed animal or blanket. Personally, I felt compelled to rock A’s fleece snowsuit (and did so often). Surely emotions play a role, but I'm convinced on a more atavisitc level our bodies and brains push us toward cuddling and coddling. In fact, it’s been documented that chimpanzees, baboons and other primates will carry their dead infants for days, up to months. I can relate to that bond. I can understand because every ounce of my being wanted to stay with my son. Walking away from A was counter to eons of evolution it went against nature herself. Weeks after A had died, the thought occurred to me, “We could have snuck him out in our duffle bag! Then at least we’d have had a little more time together.” Intellectually I knew his deteriorating body would upset me, but that thought of taking him home did not generate from the intellectual part of my brain. It was more biological, instinctual.

More bizarrely, there have been a few instances where I genuinely felt the urge to go look for A. I felt that I needed to find him. It wasn't logical. It wasn't even conscious. But the message was clear; he should be here with me. In the middle of breakdowns I would sometimes sob, "Where is he?"

After so much anticipation and preparation it's natural that I'd feel lost without my baby. And it continues, months later just not as intensely.

Although he is lost, I feel lost without him.

Note: I considered linking to an image or video of a mother chimp carrying her baby’s corpse. But it was too disturbing. If you’re interested in learning more about how primates mourn, a simple Google search ought to do it.

----------------------------------------------------

Happy first Easter Sweet Boy! And Happy first Dyngus Day tomorrow My Little Poopka!

I wrote the above entry earlier in the week to post today. Then this morning, I started my day, not even out of bed yet, bawling. I have not stopped crying all day. Is it the Easter holiday? Is it the many family gatherings? Is it the 6-month anniversary approaching?

It does not matter which combination of triggers keeps my tear ducts working overtime. The fact is I am especially sad and I miss my son extra today. I have not had a day like this since early on. I don’t have much more to say about it, but wanted to share openly how melancholy I am right now.

March Baby Madness

My co-worker’s son was born this week. I knew he and his wife were expecting; I knew they were due in March; I knew it was a boy. Every Monday morning I’d arrive at the office anticipating the news of a weekend delivery.

Wednesday afternoon, he texted the big boss to share the news that the baby was born including a snapshot of little Ethan swaddled in a hospital blanket. The big boss passed this photo on to the entire staff via email. My initial reaction was nausea. I literally felt sick to my stomach.

What an awful response to the news of a child’s birth? I am not a wicked person. On the contrary, I understand the lack of guarantees when it comes to bearing children and the joy that comes once that baby is safely in your arms. But hearing of his arrival and seeing his photo made my gut flip-flop.

Naturally I cried and then put my headphones on to drown out any discussion around me of the cute new baby and tried my damnedest to make it to 5 o’clock. Though I ended up crying a couple more times at office.

Of course the kindhearted folks I work with stopped by my cube to see how I was doing and offer support. They're so wonderful. But they also say the stupidest things that are not supportive at all. "Your day will come." "You'll be a mom someday." "Someday it will all be ok." I wholeheartedly believe all of these things. But guess what? Knowing those things does not make me feel any better. It does not make me miss my son any less. It does not make the day any easier to survive!

March was rough. Between family, friends, neighbors, coworkers and acquaintances there were 6 babies born. Perhaps it’s our age, but every time I log onto Facebook, it seems every single Friend has photos of their children or are expecting. It makes me glum and angry. I avoid FB for the most part because of this. And after one particularly teary, rageful evening E said to me “No more Facebook on Sunday nights, ok?” *sigh*

Knowing that someday we'll have living children and I'll be a mom does not make it any easier to watch hugely pregnant peers go into the hospital and a couple days later bring a baby home HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE. Why does everyone else get to keep their baby?!

A Word on Counseling

Years ago I saw a counselor who helped me through a tough transition (or two).  After A died, I went to a grief counselor – someone specifically trained in bereavement and grief. It wasn’t what I needed.

What I need from a counselor is someone who listens well but then offers feedback, not just validation. Someone who gives me suggestions to change my own behaviors. Someone who offers tips on coping or altering outcomes. Counseling isn’t just a place to vent, I am looking to make actual changes – otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting on the couch in the first place!

So after the second visit with the grief counselor, I decided we should break up. I called up my old counselor and have been seeing her ever since. It seems that many people who are considering individual counseling, not just for baby loss but for any reason, give up if they don’t click right away during the first visit, with the first counselor. I’ve been to several counselors over the years before I found my current counselor who I like very much. I try to encourage others who’ve never done it to go two or three times before deciding if it’s no good for them. And then try a different counselor or two or three. Find someone whose personality and approach is compatible with you and your needs. Admittedly, this takes a lot of effort and if you’re seeking the assistance of a counselor, you’re struggling with some aspect of life and may not have extra energy to devote to test-driving various counselors. But it’s definitely worth it. Once you find that person, you’re set for a very long time.

My counselor is not a psychologist. She is a social worker. Titles don’t matter. Compatibility matters. I’m not trying to preach that everyone enroll in counseling. I’m saying from personal experience, I know that counseling can provide guidance that only an unbiased, third party can offer.

Plus, after A died I felt so helpless to make myself feel better that I was willing to try any avenue available: individual counseling, support groups, literature, websites, blogs. I had to do something! I don’t feel the need to attend counseling as often these days, or support group for that matter. But early on those appointments couldn’t come soon enough.

Dichotomies Abound

An extra hour of daylight. The return of the songbirds. Buds on the trees. Unseasonably warm temperatures. Springtime is here with aplomb. At once I feel refreshed, upbeat and optimistic. Then I notice the families out walking, pushing their infant in a stroller. A toddler exploring at the park. A father and his 8-year-old son playing tennis. And all of a sudden the feeble mend on my heart rips open again. I long for A. I want to show him his world, the excitement of Spring. Share irreplaceable experiences and make memories together. I want to be that family at the park, doing nothing extraordinary, just enjoying the day, loving life, getting to know their baby. From reenergized and optimistic to sullen in milliseconds.

Experiencing such a polarity of emotions at the same time – hope, rejuvenation, despair, agony – is confusing, but becoming a defining characteristic of life in Griefland. Right from the very beginning of this god-forbidden journey I’ve been floored by powerful emotions from opposite ends of the spectrum. When A was born I was elated; so thrilled to finally meet our child who we’d been waiting so long for. I was very proud. Simultaneously I felt deep sadness, disbelief and anguish.

After attending support group for the first time, I was encouraged to hear that these families had survived such unthinkable tragedy and had gone on to live fulfilling lives, but in the same breath I was discouraged because their stories, their very existence, attest that this would be with me forever; this unimaginable reality was never going away. In the same vein, after hearing some bereaved mothers speak of the few hours they spent with their infants I felt jealous. I never got to see A alive aside from ultrasounds. Moments later that jealously was countered as I empathized with women who are unable to get pregnant and/or carry to term. On the tail of envy came gratitude, I am thankful for the time I had with A, for the remarkable experience of being pregnant and for the fact that E and I are able to conceive easily.

Four days after the due date is when we found out A had died (see earlier post for details of A's Story). We’ve spoken to various medical professionals - perinatologists, pathologist, midwives – and no one can tell us what happened. No one can explain why A died. The pregnancy was healthy. His autopsy was completely normal. I didn’t have any condition or infection. The cord and placenta were healthy and normal. Concurrently I am outraged and relieved. Outraged that A didn’t have to die. He didn’t have any anomaly or genetic defect that was incompatible with life. He was 100% perfectly healthy. So why the heck did he die? Relieved because I know E and I can produce healthy children.

All of these dichotomies are really trying. Typically, I am a black and white thinker. How can such disparate emotions exist at the same exact time? It’s difficult to get my head around. But I am trying to accept it. Accept the feelings as they come; don’t judge them, don’t over think it. Just accept and go with the flow. Another powerful lesson from A. (Although I’d prefer to stay ignorant if it meant he would be here with us).

Glimmers

The sun finally broke through in Griefland. It's yet to be seen if this is a brief crack in the clouds or if brighter days are truly in store. Recently, I have felt glimmers of acceptance. Accepting that this happened to us; accepting that this was somehow destined to be and there was nothing I or anyone else could have done to prevent it; accepting that much good will come from A's life and tragic death. These moments are fleeting but god do they raise me up.

They say everything happens for a reason. And while I cannot come up with any justifiable reason that my son died, I have a sense of some greater purpose. That this horrendous tragedy had to occur in order for some bigger good to come about. 

You know, it's like how some of the bereaved mother's who lost their babies years and years ago say things like "I wouldn't have it any other way." This horrified me when I first heard it. But maybe there's a deeper wisdom to it.

I don't know. But hopefully I'll figure it out more down the road. Meanwhile, I apprehensively await the other shoe to drop and depression to descend again. That's the thing with this grief rollercoaster, even when I have a streak of "ok" days and feel a little like my old self, I'm anxious; expecting the storm to come barreling through at any second.

Homecoming

My mother-in-law, bless her soul, took care of all the arrangements with the funeral home and cremation. She graciously kept A’s urn at her house, safely and lovingly watching over him until we were ready to bring home. It’s been over 4 months since A died and was born. Just this past week we brought his ashes home.

Cupping the tiny urn in the palm of my hand I gave A a tour of his home. The home we joyfully prepared for him.

This is your front porch. Remember how we used to sit in the summer sunshine out here? This is your living room. You surely would have loved snuggling up on our huge couch. This is a spider plant – it doesn’t have any spiders in it; it just looks like a spider. This is a basil plant – can you smell it? This is your dining room. You’ll recall all the delicious memories we had in here! This is Mommy & Daddy’s room. You can come in anytime. We’re always here for you. This is the bathroom where we were going to have such fun at bath time. This is your room. Mommy & Daddy picked out everything here special for you. These are your books and your toys. Whenever you want a story, just ask, we’ll always read to you. This is the kitchen, Daddy’s making dinner right now. Do you smell that? Those are onions! And this is your backyard. In the spring, Mommy will teach you all the names of the different flowers. Daddy will grill up snacks during the summer. And we can all run and play in the yard.

After the tour, we returned to the nursery and I rocked my little boy’s ashes as if it were really him. “You know Love, this is the same chair that your grandma rocked me and your Uncle in when we were babies. And before that, your Papa sat in it when he visited his grandmother’s house. This rocker belonged to your great-great-grandmother. And your dresser is special too. That was Daddy’s dresser when he was a baby. Before that it was your great-aunt’s when she was little. It belonged to your great-grandparents. And now it’s yours my son.”

Finally, as we prepared for bed, E said, “Should we put him in his bassinet tonight?” I replied, “Of course. That’s where he belongs. Snuggled in, right next to our bed.” So I tucked A’s little urn in, wrapped in a flannel sheet and fluffy Sherpa blanket. Bending down to kiss him goodnight.

It was an intensely emotional day. I am so very happy to have A at home with us. We still haven’t decided if we’ll keep his ashes forever or if we’ll spread them somewhere special. But as I’ve learned during my tenure in Griefland, do not rush decisions. With time, we’ll know what the best choice is for us. Until then I am looking forward to more rocking, chatting and storybooks with my little guy. Welcome sweet boy.