Thankful

I'm a few days late, but I wanted to post something about the many things I have to be thankful for this year.  It's tough to see the forest through the trees when you're grieving, and I've spent a lot of time over the last few days reflecting on the things I've been blessed with, rather than what I feel has been taken from me.  It really boils down to me being grateful for my family and friends, but there are a few small moments from the last several months that have really driven home how lucky I am.

I recently received a letter from a college friend.  She expressed her condolences, shared that she had suffered a loss recently (on the same day I lost Emma, in fact), and generally said some of the kindest things I've read.

My friend Melissa texted me recently to tell me about a song she thought I might like, from an album called "For Emma, Forever Ago."  I've been listening to it ever since. Knowing that Emma is in my friend's thoughts, as well, makes me feel like she's reaching out to all of us.

Lindsay recently sent me a note saying that she'd had a dream of Emma, looking beautiful in purple.  Again, that she was thinking of us (even subconsciously!) means so much to me.

My mom continues to send me inspirational notes and emails, often when I need them the most.  It's like she can feel from miles away when I am having a tough day.

Jen wrote to me on Thanksgiving to let me know she was thinking of me, and that she knew the holidays had to be hard.  It was a lot easier than I thought it would be, in large part because I knew I had so many wonderful people supporting me.

Alli sends me some of the funniest, most random texts and emails - again, she has a knack for reaching out when I need a laugh the most!

My aunt Mary sent me a beautiful wooden block engraved with Emma's name and birth date.  It is lovely, and looks perfect in her room.  It's nice to have a permanent reminder that we can bring everywhere with us.

I have the best co-workers in the world.  Whether it's going out to lunch to talk about Emma, asking how I'm doing, or making me delicious chili for no reason, I don't dread going in to work on tough days because everyone is so great.

My husband.  He's pretty much the best.  I had a really tough day a couple of weeks ago, and he left work early to come home and be with me.  And then he bought me pizza and wine and cupcakes.  It was perfect!

My dad, my dogs, my grandma, my aunt Cindy, Jeff's sisters and parents - they are all constantly doing little things that make me grateful to have them.  I could never list the things that everyone has done to help Jeff and I, so I will have to make do with a blanket, "Thank you."

Second Class Concerns

So I've done a lot of writing about the horrible things that I have dealt with post-stillbirth.  However, there are a lot of things that are absolutely secondary concerns to everything else, and feel a little silly to whine about.  But you know what?  I have decided I'm not going to limit myself to whining about the big things.  Here are the (distant) second class concerns that we "angel parents" (still not a fan of that term, suggestions for something else are welcome and encouraged) deal with:

1. Play-Doh Body.  Oy, with this.  It's not enough that we are dealing with the hormonal side effects of pregnancy and birth, we are forced to deal with post-pregnancy bodies, as well.  Does this sound shallow?  It is.  And it makes me feel like a part of the mother tribe to share this shallow complaint.  I was blessed with genetics that allow me to be 5'10" and know that I would have try extremely hard to become morbidly obese.  The unfortunate side effect is that I have never had a huge need to exercise or watch what I eat (how sorry for me do you feel?).  At this point I am baffled by the way my body looks - it's like a child was molding a Barbie doll out of Play-Doh and lost steam.  There are lumps and bumps in completely nonsensical areas.  And I don't understand why when I do Pilates once a week(ish) and work out with a trainer once a week and sort of watch what I eat but also cheat with Qdoba nachos I'm not losing weight.  It's a mystery.

2. Bills, Bills, Bills.  This is a huge insult to injury.  Leaving the hospital without a baby in your arms is heartbreaking.  Getting bills in the mail for months after losing your child feels criminal.  Shelling out thousands of dollars for what feels like nothing (except the aforementioned Play-Doh body and enough material to start a blog) is a pain in the ass and a constant reminder of what you've lost.

3. Lactose Intolerant. Losing a child at any point beyond 12 weeks can result in a woman's milk coming in.  I have heard that this is painful.  It didn't even occur to me in the hospital that this would happen until my doctor told me.  Apparently there used to be a shot that would halt milk production, but it had cardiac side effects that were less than desirable.  Within a couple of days of getting out of the hospital, it happened.  My boobs were like the Grinch's heart.  They grew three sizes that day.  Sadly, Jeff could not even bear witness to this event (I have never been what the kids would call "well-endowed" - kids say that, yes?), as I was essentially binding myself down with the tightest sports bra I could get.  To women in my position, I have very few tips to help you through this, except for one: cabbage.  It helps.  It's gross.  But it helps.

So those are my top three annoyances.  Petty?  Sure.  But as I said, it makes me feel like I'm a normal mother - something that's a rare occurrence in my daily life.

Save Me, Jessica Lange

Last week's "American Horror Story" was quite intense.  And not just because of the crazy "Evil Dead" chainsaw homage (BTW, spoilers ahoy!).  There was a scene where the divine Jessica Lange was high as a kite on prescription drugs in a hospital (who hasn't been there, amirite?).  She wanders the halls and eventually enters a room where a woman has just given birth.

The woman is curled up and crying, and a baby lays motionless in a bassinet nearby.  My stomach dropped and my heart skipped a beat.  "Was it stillborn or did it die after?" asks Jessica.  "Stillborn. What is it?  They didn't even tell me."  "She's a girl," whispers Jessica.  She picks the baby up, and hands it to the mother.  She tells her to tell the baby that she loves her, and that she's beautiful, and that she'll never stop loving her.  And then she touches the baby on the head and walks away.  The baby takes a breath and starts to cry (oh, if you don't watch the show, Jessica Lange is a super powerful witch).  And my head explodes and I feel like Ryan Murphy is trying to make me insane.

What I wouldn't have given for someone to save Emma like that - to save me.  That scene was gut-wrenching for me.  Shocking because stillbirth is so rarely mentioned on television.  Touching because a lot of the things that the woman said to her daughter were things that I said to Emma.  Heartbreaking because I know that it's fiction and fantasy and there's not a chance that ever could have happened to me.  Even as I gave birth and hoped against everything I knew that she would cry and breathe and it would be a miracle.  But there was no miracle to be had that day.  Maybe Jeff and I getting up every day and going on with our lives and trying to heal are the miracles?

Day 31: Sunset

Today is the final day of Capture Your Grief.  The word today is sunset.  Of course it has been raining all day today, so I didn't have the opportunity to take a photo.  I asked Jeff if he had a sunset photo he wanted me to use, and he sent me this one:

This photo was taken in Florida when we were on vacation last spring.  I was seven months pregnant, and I spent the trip imagining how different the trip would be next year, when Emma was along and Jeff could take her to the beach, and we could take her swimming.

This month has been hard for me.  The first half was uplifting and liberating, and the last two weeks have just been weighing heavily on my heart.  I feel like I'm having some form of PTSD.  Halloween is the first real holiday we've gone through (4th of July was so close to Emma's birth that it barely registered), and I was looking forward to picking out her costume and taking pumpkin pictures and taking her trick-or-treating so that Jeff and I could keep candy for ourselves.

Someone I know was diagnosed with a serious illness, and that's been difficult, as well.  This year has just dealt devastating blow after devastating blow, and I can't keep seeing people that I care about being knocked down.  It seems like every time I hear from someone, things are going awry.

So what does this sunset mean to me?  I hope that it means that the sun is setting two months early on this nightmare of a year.  I hope that it means that I can wake tomorrow and refocus my energy on healing and looking at the good things in life.  I hope that it means that the people I love are going to be able to do the same.  As a general rule I avoid any sense of entitlement, but I think we all have earned it.  We deserve for things to turn around.  So here's to the sun coming up in a day of hope and positivity.  And the red squiggle under positivity will not deter me, I am declaring it a real word.

Day 23: Jewelry

Today's word is jewelry. I have two pieces that remind me of Emma:

The bracelet is a silver Kate Spade bracelet that reads, "hand in hand in hand" over and over.  The inscription inside the bangle says, "There's strength in numbers."  My sister works for Make-a-Wish, and her wonderful co-workers purchased these bracelets for Alli, my mom, and I.  It reminds me of the generosity of strangers, and that Allison has a great support group of her own.  Her co-workers drove her up to Milwaukee from Indianapolis the day that we were in the hospital.  The selflessness they displayed was inspiring.

The necklace is a few different things.  The diamond is from a necklace that Jeff gave me on our wedding day.  The ring is the ring that was in Emma's hand when we were in the hospital.  Jeff bought me the chain for my birthday in July.  I have worn it every day since.  Holding that ring in my hand makes me feel like I'm touching her again.  It's a bit hard, because I know that this ring will always be too big for her tiny fingers.  She will never grow into and out of it.  Still, there's a comfort in touching something that touched her.

Day 21: Honor

Or Honour if you're feeling fancy.

Many things have been done in Emma's honor.  Some of my wonderful friends got together and registered a star in her name.  Many of our friends, family, and co-workers have made donations to Make-a-Wish in her honor. The idea that our little girl is fulfilling someone else's wish is bittersweet.  We took all of the diapers, wipes, and creams that were given to us so generously and donated them to the Sojourner Family Peace Center.  We will continue to strive to come up with new ways to honor Emma and make sure her memory lives on.

This blog also serves as a way to honor her.  I am working every day to educate people about a subject that is still taboo.  I don't want to feel awkward talking about her or writing about her or letting people know that she existed.  Keeping her memory alive is the best way I can honor it.

Day 20: Hope

Today's word for Capture Your Grief is Hope.  Obviously it's an abstract premise, so I don't really have a photo.  I will say that this is one of the hardest words for me to write about.  When I was pregnant with Emma, I didn't realize how much I wanted to be a mom.  More than that, I didn't realize how much I wanted a child.  It wasn't until I lost her that I realized how much I needed her.

I am hoping that I will be able to have another child and fulfill that need.  It's a tough thing to hold on to, when I feel like everything I wanted was stripped away in an instant.  I know that I have many other things in my life to be grateful for, and I've written about those things at length.  Unfortunately the one thing that is out of my grasp seems to be the most important thing right now - isn't that always the case?

I hold on to this hope for myself, and for Jeff.  For our families, our friends.  For the people who have stood shoulder to shoulder with us and cried with us and who I know hope this for us, too.

Day 15: Wave of Light

Today's words are Wave of Light.  Jeff and I lit this candle tonight in honor of Emma Dean.  I also dedicate this candle to the people we know who have suffered similar losses.  This day has been interesting for me.  It's amazing how my heart has felt simultaneously heavy and light.  It is heavy for all of the loss that I am now aware of, for how atrocious this year was (full disclosure, at some points this year I wanted to drink bleach - fine, maybe just drink).  It is lightened by the love and support we have received and the friends we have made as we've gone through this loss.  How blessed we are to have such wonderful people in our lives!

When this flame is extinguished tonight, I hope that the bad energy of this year disappears into the ether with the smoke.  Too many of us have had heartache and sorrow this year, and I am filled with hope that this night will be a turning point.

Day 12: Article

Today's word for Capture Your Grief is Article.  This article at Still Standing is one of my favorites.  Grief is an angry, bitter thing sometimes.  And there tends to be an expectation that the grieving should be full of grace and understanding when others don't know what to say around us.  And most of the time we are.  But when I'm caught on an off-day?  Oh, the things that will set me off.  I am striving to be as gracious as possible, but with my tendency towards sarcasm (and occasionally outright bitchiness), it can be difficult.  Not much to add about the article, it's beautifully written and I think it speaks for itself!


http://stillstandingmag.com/2013/03/easy-for-you-to-say/

Day 11: Trigger Happy

Day 11's word for Capture Your Grief is Emotional Triggers.  The things that give me the hardest time are seeing women who are late in their pregnancy and enjoying life without a care in the world, and seeing brand new, tiny little babies.





It's really hard to articulate these feelings, because I think that people misinterpret it as some kind of envy.  What I really feel for the pregnant women I see is a longing for that simple time when I believed everything would be okay, and that I would end up with a beautiful, healthy baby in my arms.  I was half right.

When I see those tiny babies, I am filled with an almost crippling pain that I never got to bring my baby home and take her to those places.  Bed, Bath, & Beyond, a pizza restaurant, a wine bar...perhaps I need to think of some better examples.

I know that with time these triggers will become less sensitive, but for now the pain is still so raw that I flinch when I see them.

Day 9: Music

Day 9 of Capture Your Grief...today's word is Music.  The song that best describes how I feel is "In the Sun".  I first heard the song in the movie "Saved" (which is fantastic!  Mandy Moore has the best lines.  Examples include, "It's 'Born Again,' not 'Born A-Gay" and "No, I'm not okay!  I just crashed my van into Jesus!").  The song was re-recorded by several artists (including one Mr. Justin Timberlake!) after Hurricane Katrina.

The lines that most remind me of Emma are:

I know I would apologize if I could see your eyes
'Cause when you showed me myself, you know, I became someone else
But I was caught in between all you wish for and all you need
I pictured you fast asleep
A nightmare comes
You can't keep awake 

I think about how I never got to see her eyes, how she showed me a part of myself that had seemingly laid dormant until she existed.  I worry about her being alone and hope she knows how much I love her.

When I'm feeling extra sorry for myself, this part can bring me to tears:

I pictured you in the sun wondering what went wrong
And falling down on your knees asking for sympathy
And being caught in between all you wish for and all you seen
And trying to find anything you can feel that you can believe in

It's hard to find a belief system when your dreams and hopes and plans are quite literally ripped from your body.  I find myself oscillating between wanting another child and fearing that history will repeat itself.  I am searching for the strength to move forward.

Day 8 - Color

Today's word is Color.  I've been really excited about this one.

Emma's color is purple.  Jeff has always loved purple, and when we found out we were having a girl, I knew that we would decorate her nursery in that color.  We spent hours upon hours searching for the perfect color for the walls, for the perfect bedding, artwork, and a rug.  I love her room.  I know she would have loved it, too.

The amazing thing is that since I've started associating this color with her, I've been seeing it everywhere.  Wild flowers growing on the side of the road, a lone balloon floating through the sky.  It seems like they always show up when I'm thinking about her.

Day 7 - That's Way Harsh, Tai

Day 7 of Capture Your Grief is "You Now."  I don't have a photo that represents this, but thinking about where I am now caused me to realize some harsh truths.

Earlier today I had a thought that I'm ashamed to admit.  I was thinking about this month and this project and what it means to me, and I thought, "I should post something about the people who haven't reached out to me and how I'm not angry at them for not writing to me in this difficult time."

I actually thought that.  And thirty seconds later, I thought, "What a sanctimonious, condescending, selfish little asshole you are."  Where do I get off "forgiving" someone who hasn't done anything to "deserve" my forgiveness?

I have spent the last ten years being unbelievably self-involved.  How many times have I scrolled by the misery of someone else and not extended so much as a kind word to them?  Whether I was too busy feeling sorry for myself because my parents got divorced, or I was feeling sorry for myself that my job wasn't as good as the job I was convinced I deserved, or I was too busy planning my wedding, my selfishness knew no bounds.

I have seen people reaching out for a kind word or thought, and I have left them to fend for themselves.  In the darkest time of my life, I have been lifted up by my friends and family.  I have been lifted up so high that I can see myself clearly and honestly for the first time, and I am deeply sorry and ashamed.  That I expected people who are essentially strangers (who happen to have a shared history) to extend a hand to me when I did nothing of the sort for them is despicable.

I am sorry.  If I have wronged you, if I have slighted you, if I have ignored your moment of pain because I was too self-involved to see beyond myself.  I am sorry.  If I pushed you away when you were trying to help me, if I rejected your cries for help, if I let you slip away from me because I just "didn't have time" for you.  I am sorry.

I have been trying to work on myself since Emma's death.  I am striving to make up for the things that I've done wrong in the past, but I can't do that without being honest about them.  I guess that the person I should be angry at for not reaching out to help me is myself, because this self-reflection wasn't that hard to come by.  It just took a little honesty.  And being way harsh didn't hurt, either.

Day 6: Ritual

Day 6 of Capture Your Grief...today's word is Ritual.

I have read that many people come home from the hospital after a stillbirth and immediately dismantle the nursery.  We chose to leave Emma's nursery intact.  She was cremated, and it was important to me to bring her home and put her in the room that we had lovingly decorated for her.  This shelf container a photo of Jeff and I holding her tiny hand in ours, her urn, a letter "E" that a friend of mine created for her as a shower gift, and the purple hat she was wearing at the hospital in some of her photos.

I do have a ritual.  It's not every day, but it's most days.  I go in and put a hand on her urn and close my eyes and tell her I love her.  I pick up her little hat and smell it...it smelled so much like her when we brought it home, but I fear it's fading now.  Still, knowing that it touched her makes me feel that a physical part of her is always with me.

Legacy & Memory

Yesterday's word was legacy.  Today's word is memory.  I am trying to honor both with this blog.

I initially started this to preserve Emma's memory.  I wanted to make sure she wasn't forgotten, that there was an indelible imprint of her somewhere besides my heart.  It has evolved into something that I want to use to honor her legacy, as well.  I would love to be able to reach other people who are going through this right now.  People who think they have hit the bottom and have realized their worst nightmare and don't know how they can go on.  To be able to show someone that my daughter's very existence has made such an impact is my ultimate goal.

Myth Busters

I skipped yesterday.  Obviously.  Today's word is Myth.

The biggest myth about stillbirth is that "it's better she was taken that way instead of after I brought her home."  I've already written about this, but it continues to bother me.  My sweet daughter's crib would be empty either way.  When I walk into the nursery and hear only silence, and see a room that's too quiet and orderly, and feel a physical ache in my arms from longing to hold her again, I can't imagine a worse reality.  And if this is "better" than the alternative?  God help anyone who is "worse" off than me.

Capturing Grief

I'm taking part in the 31 Day Project to Capture My Grief.  It's a photo project.  October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.  Each day (or as many days as I feel inspired), I will be posting a photo and what that day's word means to me.  Today's word is Sunrise.

It's a little blurry, but there it is.  Today's sunrise signifies a new beginning for me.  I am ready to become a mother to another child, and I am filled with hope and excitement on this day.  I'm also filled with anxiety and fear.  But today I'm going to let hope and excitement win out.

As I was driving to work this morning, a tree was dropping leaves right in the sunlight.  It was beautiful.  I actually stopped the car and scrambled for my phone to get a picture...until the leaves stopped falling and I saw the car behind me.  But trust me, it was beautiful.  And it made me even more hopeful than I was when I took the photo at sunrise.

Roads Diverged

Today was a hard day.  It was the day I'd been dreading since I came back.  The day of a co-worker's baby shower.  I skipped it.  I couldn't make myself go and listen to the planning and excitement and anticipation that I experienced at my own shower a few months ago.  Before my entire world turned inside out.

I told Jeff I wasn't going, and he looked a little...something.  He was very careful and said, "I just think you need to get back to doing things again."  I was initially hurt and angry, but then I realized that he was trying to help me.  We grieve very differently, men and women.  My limited experience has taught me that men tend to be more logical, and we women are all about emotion.  Jeff has admitted that he's in a better place than me.  He didn't have the physical connection to Emma that I did, and that definitely plays a role in how we grieve.  He is able to look forward to the next chapter and is able to reconcile what has transpired.  I am apprehensively optimistic about the future, but I'm still so angry and bitter about losing my daughter.

And this is the most unfair thing about grief.  As humans, we are such social animals.  We long to share everything with someone else (far too much, in some cases - social media is a blessing and a curse.  Just ask Amanda Bynes).  Grief is the one thing we cannot share with another.  It is the loneliest road we walk, and at a time when we need and yearn for someone else, we often have no one else who feels the same way.  We have to forge our own way, clear our own path.

As I make my way along this winding and seemingly endless road, I have found myself changed.  I know that when (if?) I make it to the end of this road, I will not be the same person I was a few months ago.  I've seen and felt and know too much now.  I know that there will always be one chair too many at my dinner table, one gaping hole in family pictures.  My house will always be a little too quiet.  These are the things I'm learning as I travel this road.  What have you learned on your own journey?

Honoring Emma

I haven't posted in a bit.  I've been a little bitter lately, and I can't put a pin in why.  I went to see a therapist a little over a week ago, and I think it stirred a lot up.  It was good, and I think I'll go again, but it's left me a little raw.

I decided to dig myself out of my sad dark hole today and think of some good things.  It's been important to Jeff and I to honor Emma.  We've been talking about it since we left the hospital.  So far we have donated all of the diapers we received to the Sojourner Truth House here in Milwaukee.  We have had many donations made in Emma's name to Make-a-Wish.  We chose Make-a-Wish for a couple of reasons.  My amazing sister Allison works there, and I know what a great organization they are.  It was important to me to know that the donations being made in her name were going to a good cause, and would make an actionable difference.

We've also been doing small things to just make sure we remember her.  This summer we went up north to visit my sister-in-law, and we released a Chinese lantern in her honor.  It was really beautiful.  We also made a small memorial in our front yard.  My nieces made a beautiful stepping stone with her named carved into it, and a friend of Jeff's gave us a small angel statue and a wind chime that says, "If love alone could have spared you, you would have lived forever."

When we were in Florida last month, we went for a walk on the beach.  It is one of my favorite places, and I know Jeff and I were both looking forward to bringing Emma there.  I was excited to teach her to swim, and play by the pool with her, and Jeff was looking forward to walking on the beach with her and taking her fishing. 

Having her name in the sand made me feel like she was there with us.  I know that whenever I walk on that beach, I will feel like she's with me.  

I'm looking for other ideas to memorialize her, and I am hoping to do more good things in her name.  I want to make sure that she's not forgotten, and that her impact on the world is a large one.

I had to update this post because some of my amazing friends honored our sweet girl in a beautiful way.  They had a star named after her.  Knowing that my baby girl is watching over us warms my heart and makes me smile.  It's just fantastic to know that other people love our little girl as much as we do.

Burden Me

I got a phone call from a very good friend of mine a couple of weeks ago.  He started the conversation by saying, "I know you have a lot going on right now, and I don't want to bother you with this, but I really need your support right now."  He proceeded to tell me that someone close to him (who I also know) is very sick.

I was stunned, and so glad that he called.  I wanted nothing more than to help him, to be there for him and this person in his life.  The support that Jeff and I have received from our friends and family (including this friend) has been nothing short of incredible.  I truly believe that when we are lifted up by our loved ones, they lighten the load of our grief.  This allows us to carry the weight of another's heartache and hardships.

I grieve every day for my daughter.  On days when the weight of it is almost too great to bear, I will receive a phone call, email, or text.  I am reminded that there are people in my life who share in this unbearable sadness, and there is an odd comfort in that knowledge.

I will never "get over" this.  I will always feel a longing for what could have, should have, might have been.  But I would not get out of bed every day if I didn't have hope for the future and a love for my friends and family that drives me.  I am drawn to those who are also hurting, as being able to help them makes me feel useful again.  It makes me feel less alone, so I suppose there's a selfish motivation there.

To this friend - to all of my friends and family - I am here for you.  You have been there for me in the darkest hours of my life; you are why I claw and scrape and dig my way out of the hole that threatens to swallow me when I am overwhelmed with sadness and despair.  I know it hasn't been easy, and I know it hasn't been fun.  I want to help you now.  If I am really as strong as people keep telling me I am, then know that I can handle whatever you have to throw at me.  I'm ready.

Signs 2: Sign Me Up

Well, I asked for it.  I wanted to see a sign from my baby girl, and boy, did she deliver.

On Saturday my mom and I went to Madison to visit our good friend Jen for a lunch date.  We had a great time at lunch, laughing and catching up.  After lunch we decided to go across the street to a cupcake shop.  When we walked in, we noticed that the store was connected to a cute little boutique.  We headed into the boutique, and as we were looking around, a woman came up to me.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you," she said, pulling off her sunglasses.  "Are those shorts you're wearing orange?  They looked orange from across the street but I couldn't decide."

"Well, yeah, kind of.  They're like a coral-y, orange-y color.  They're from the J. Crew outlet," I said, assuming she was complimenting me (the color was lovely, I must say).

"Hm, okay," she said, "Well, the reason I ask is that I had my prayer group this morning and we were asking for God what we should look for when we're looking for people to pray for, and He said, 'Orange.'  So do you have something going on in your life that you would like for me to pray for?"

My mom put her hands on either side of her face, "Oh my gosh, I just....I have to walk away.  Thank you so much, I just can't..." and she wandered off and left me with a stranger.  Jen looked at me with her eyes wide open and said, "I just can't believe it!"  And then she wandered off to join my mom, leaving me completely unattended (albeit in their sight line) with a stranger.

I looked at the woman, who was looking very confused and a little concerned, and said, "Um, it's interesting that you approached me.  I lost my daughter Emma Dean to a stillbirth back in June, and my husband and I have been talking about starting to try to get pregnant again in the coming months.  I've got a couple of issues that can cause the pregnancy to be complicated, and I'm just kind of nervous and anxious."

She looked completely shocked and said, "Okay, wow.  Wow.  Now, what was your name?  I remember Emma Dean, what was your name?  I'm going to pray for you.  I'd like to pray for you right now, do you mind?"  I shook my head, and she put a hand on my shoulder.

I can't remember the whole prayer because I was in a state of disbelief, but I know that she asked that we be protected from the forces that will cause us to doubt any subsequent pregnancy, and protect the baby in a cocoon.  I know that she said that Emma was safe with God, and He would keep her safe until I get to see her again.

I hugged her and she left, and I walked over to Jen and my mom.  "I can't believe that just happened!  I have chills," said Jen, "Jeff is going to freak out!"

I called Jeff after we left Jen, and he did not freak out.  He was more concerned that I was accosted by a stranger who followed me across the street and into two stores.  We are not particularly religious people, and the whole situation was very odd.  But I don't think the woman was malicious or crazy, she was a devout woman who was doing the work that she felt she had been called to do.  And if that work brought her to me and made her feel like she made a difference, all the better.

I have been asking for a sign for months, and if this isn't one, I don't know what else will be.  Thank you, sweet girl.

The Hardest Question

"So, you have any kids?"

I froze.  Five seconds ago I was laughing and drinking wine and hoping my flight wouldn't be delayed any longer, and then it was like the wind was knocked out of me and I couldn't breathe or think or speak.

Earlier this month I was in New York for work.  It was the first time I saw many of my vendors, and they were wonderfully supportive.  It was a great trip, and I actually found myself enjoying the city for once.  Naturally, the salad days never last.  I got to the airport and my flight was delayed an hour.  Then another hour and a half.  So now I had four hours to kill.  I grabbed a seat at the bar and ran into an old co-worker from a previous job.  We caught up and had a great time, and I was able to be someone besides the woman who lost her baby.  An old vendor of his showed up, and we started chatting.  And that's when he asked me.

This is the thing that I never thought about before it happened to me.  It's a simple question.  But is it? I have no simple answer or solution to anything anymore.  The most basic of questions can no longer have an easy answer.

I stared at him for a moment, and then I finally said, "Um, I'm sorry.  I just...I just went through a stillbirth six weeks ago and I don't know what to say.  I guess, I did - I do have a daughter.  Sorry, you're the first person who has asked me and I'm not prepared to answer it."

He looked at me for a second and said, "No, you do have a daughter.  You're right."

And I felt vindicated and validated.  And then today I had someone else say casually, "So, do you have any kids?"  And I said no.  Because I was in a room of four other people, and I didn't want to make her feel bad, and I didn't want to get into it.  So I said no.  And I didn't do it because I'm ashamed or embarrassed or I want to forget my beautiful baby girl.  I did it because it was easy and I didn't want to deal with the sad eyes and sympathetic head tilt.

I keep hearing that "No one can parent your dead child better than you can."  I just don't know.  We're in an odd spot, we parents of the dead.  We are shepherds with no sheep, teachers with no students, artists with no canvas.  I don't think anyone can honor my child better than I can, but unfortunately my role as an active parent was as short as her all too brief life.  I am a parent, and a mother, but what can I do without my child here to execute it?  I live it every day in my soul and heart and mind, but I yearn to live it in experiences and tangible moments with my baby.

So, do I have any children?  Yes, I do.  I have a beautiful daughter.  But the answer really isn't as simple as that, is it?  It will never be simple again.

Katniss Everdeen & I

On Tuesday Jeff and I met with a maternal fetal specialist who focuses on clotting disorders, hoping to get some insight in how we will proceed in our next pregnancy.  Holy cow.

We had been given a head's up from my OB and from a friend of ours who has worked with him that he wasn't going to be a really warm, joke-y type of guy.  He was actually very kind and even made a few jokes. He is clearly very smart.  So smart that he forgets that we did not go to medical school.  I kept having to stop him and say, "Okay, so what does THAT mean?"

Before we went in, we figured that we would be hearing about how I will need to go on blood thinning injections.  While that was part of it, there was also some new information that was hard for me to digest.  He wanted to test me for some additional clotting disorders to assess risk factors.  As he was talking through the tests, he mentioned a KB test, then said, "I'm sure it won't show anything, it would just mean that you had a presence of fetal cells in your blood.  I had a woman come in and her fetus had transferred all of his blood volume into her body."

Jeff mentioned that at the hospital we had been told that there were fetal cells in my bloodwork.  The doctor said that there is always a presence, but we told him that we were led to believe it was a higher than average amount.  He called a nurse to request the test results, telling us, "I'm still sure it's nothing.  I've only seen 5 cases in 25 years, and I might see 2 more before I retire in 10 years."  As I've mentioned, the odds are rarely in my favor.  My name would absolutely be drawn for the Hunger Games.

Of course I was his 6th case.  Approximately 2/3 of Emma's blood had transferred back into my body as a result of a fetal maternal hemorrhage. I had come to terms with a blood clot being the cause, and now I was being told that I had a clotting disorder that may or may not have been a factor, plus this new mystery thing that is extremely rare (2% of stillbirths are caused by fmh).  I stared at him for a minute and finally said, "I feel like I have a lot of things working against me right now.  If there's a small chance that it can happen to me, it seems to be happening."  He looked a little confused, and Jeff jumped in to say, "I think she's looking for some reassurances."

The doctor nodded and said, "Look, you have a lot more positives than negatives going for you here.  We're going to monitor you closely, I'll induce you at 37 weeks next time, and we'll know what to look for.  I can't tell you it won't happen again, because it's biology, and I can't predict that.  I can tell you that it's rare for these things to reoccur.  And it's important for you to know that there's absolutely nothing you could have done.  Nothing."

I left that meeting feeling oddly defeated and upset.  I'm not sure why.  I really think it was a result of having so much information presented, and learning this new thing that terrified me to my core.  When I thought it was a blood clot, I still thought I could have done something. Now I found out it wouldn't have mattered when I got to the hospital, the outcome was inevitable.  Even if I could somehow do the impossible and go back in time, I couldn't save her.  There was a finality that I had a hard time accepting.

That night, Jeff and I talked a lot, and he lifted my spirits with his optimism and confidence.  I'm still terrified of what will happen when I get pregnant again, but I know that with the amazing team we have behind us, we'll be well taken care of and they will do everything they can to help us.  I'd really like to stop being part of the 1% sometime soon.

My Littlest Confidante

There are days when I fear I've exhausted everyone around me by talking about Emma.  I know it's not true, and I know that all of my family and friends have been very kind and supportive when I want to talk.  Talking about a stillbirth has a tendency to grind conversation to a screeching halt and discourage any topics someone wanted to bring up.  There's not a really easy transition one can make from, "My baby died," to, "OMG, so sad, but have you been watching 'Pretty Little Liars'?  Is CeCe Drake Red Coat?!"

I have one friend who I am able to talk to about Emma, and then transition to whatever else I could talk about.  Her name is Claire, and she is my 3 (she would say 3.5) year old niece.  When I was first pregnant, all of my nieces were beyond thrilled about the new addition.  They were so excited when they found out we were having a girl - they've amassed quite the army (4 girls against 2 boys, and one of the "boys" is a man - the other is 3 and says he's a man), and adding another soldier to the mix was an exciting prospect.

Whenever the girls saw me, they flocked to me.  It was adorable, and I suffered no illusions that it had anything to do with me; rather I was the wrapper and they were just waiting for the delicious candy center.  While the older girls were excited, Claire was positively fixated.  She would tickle my stomach in an attempt to tickle the baby, and she was ecstatic about the fact that her mom was going to be babysitting Emma during the day.

I know that my sister-in-law was concerned about how the girls would react - I don't even understand what happened to Emma, I can't imagine explaining it to three young children.  Jenny didn't want them to upset me or say anything that would hurt me further.  Jeff and I felt it was important to talk to the girls and let them know that if they had questions, they should feel free to ask.  I didn't want them to be afraid to talk about it, and I didn't want Jenny to be afraid that they would say something out of line.

The older girls didn't dwell too much, but Claire continues to ask about her.  The last time I saw her, she jumped onto my lap, laid her head on my chest, and said, "I'm really sad that Emma died."  I hugged her and told her that I was sad, too.  She said that she never got to meet her, and I told her that I know she would have loved her.  Claire always wants to look at pictures of Emma, and when I show them to her she says, "Emma!" in the softest, sweetest voice I've ever heard.  And then she flips through the rest of my pictures, saying, "There's your mom.  There's your sister.  There's Jeff..." and so on.  Then she runs off to play.

It's nice to have my sweet Claire to talk to about Emma, because we don't have to dwell.  We can talk about her, and then move on.  There's no awkward transition.  I can't wait until we are able to talk about her next cousin, and she is able to hold him or her and play with him or her and love him or her as much as she already loves Emma.

The "B" Word

"You're so brave!"

"You are one strong lady."

"You're the strongest person I know."

All of these and a hundred variations have been said to me over the last seven weeks.  I think that's giving me a lot of credit.  I don't have a lot of other options.  I can live my life and deal with things as they come, or I can allow this to overcome me.

It's often said that grief is like the ocean.  It's a cliche for a reason - it's very true.  There are days when I feel almost buoyed by the love and support I've received, and seconds later I am pulled under and feel like I'm drowning.  Grief is dark and all-consuming and rough, and there are moments of blissful calm where you are able to find peace and comfort.  It's all part of that process.  And that's where that strength and bravery comes in.

You can allow yourself to be swallowed up by this ocean of grief and loss and despair, or you can force yourself to swim against that current.  When I was home from work, I made myself do three things every day: take a shower, leave the house one time, and do at least one household chore.  I was able to force myself to function and behave like a normal person.  It was exhausting some days, and some days I showered, went to the gas station, and unloaded the dishwasher.  And that was it.  But it was something.  To me that's not an overwhelming strength, it's a necessary part of life.

If I were to stay home and lock myself inside and not force myself to do these things, I would go insane.  Because all I would do is replay the events of that day.  I relive them enough as it is, but there's something masochistic about allowing yourself to go to that place and dwell.  When I say I would go insane, it's not hyperbole.  I really think it would actually make me crazy.

I know there are people out there who are struggling to do those three basic things, but it makes all the difference.  That sense of normalcy and responsibility was critical.  It's allowed me the luxury to grieve on my own and take the steps I need to.  If that makes me strong and brave, I'll wear the mantle.  I think it just makes a person instead of "that sad girl who's baby died."  And that's what I want right now - to be able to survive and gain understanding.  To be able to be an active participant in the grieving process instead of being a ship tossed along the waves.

9 to 5

I started back at work last Thursday.  As I wrote, it was a day that I was dreading.  It was both more and less stressful than I anticipated.

I was greeted with hugs and warmth by many people.  Many people simply said hello and avoided any mention of Emma.  Again, I'm sure they were worried about "making me uncomfortable."  Well, they succeeded against their better efforts.  It was really awkward at times.  I spoke to a vendor who managed to cliche all over me ("It's better this way, there's a reason, God has a plan, I know someone...").  It was excruciating to stay on the phone and thank her for giving me such good (and original!) advice.

The hardest part of all is that the girl who sits next to me is pregnant.  She's due in October.  I listened to her talk about needing to buy diapers and baby clothes and get the nursery ready, and I felt like I was sucker-punched.  Do I ask her to not talk about her child in front of me?  I'm struggling with that question.  I went through something terrible, but do I have the right to ask her to not celebrate this time in her life?  I'm not sure.  I know that it's going to be a hellish two months until she delivers, and then I'm going to hear about the baby when she comes back.

I didn't think this was going to be so tough for me.  I thought I could rise above and be a bigger person and be happy for her.  I AM happy for her, but with a huge undercurrent of bitter and sad and resentful.  I know that eventually I won't feel so gutted when I see pregnant people and new moms, but that time feels very far off.

Treat Yo' Self

Last night I made my triumphant return to the gym.  By "triumphant," I mean I went to the gym.  For 30 minutes.  Trust me, it was a feat of nature.

I was on this arc-trainer elliptical-type thing, and I intended to do 30 minutes of cardio.  I immediately doubted myself - it's been 9 months since I've worked out, and even then I was doing Pilates, not cardio.  But I decided to try it out.  I looked down, and it had been 10 minutes.  And I was okay.  And suddenly I had Sue Sylvester's voice in my head saying, "You think cardio's hard?  Try going through stillbirth, that's hard!"  I knew I could do it.  It was such a small thing, but I realized that if I can walk through fire, I can pretty much do anything.

It was an important thought for me, an important breakthrough.  As people, but as women especially, we are so quick to put ourselves down and believe we can't do something.  We beat ourselves up over everything.  There are very few times that we're truly kind to ourselves.  Every misstep, no matter how large or small, is cause for self-doubt and even self-cruelty.

So here's my challenge, to myself and to you: Be kind to yourself.  Treat yo' self.  You've likely set standards for yourself that no one else recognizes.  Broken promises to yourself that no one else realizes you've made.  Fallen short of goals that no one but you knows you've set.  Because we're all doing it - we're all dealing with the same shit and fighting the same demons.  Mine have different origins than yours, but they're still there.  Telling me I can't do this and I can't do that and I'm a bad person and I let someone down.  Fuck that.  I'm done with it.  I'm a warrior.  I've gone through the greatest battle a mother can go through and I'm still standing.

So stand with me.  Whether you're doubting that you can get a promotion, lose ten pounds, be a better wife, mother, friend, sister...tell yourself to shut up.  You're already doing it.  Every day.  You're fighting that voice in your head and you're persevering and you're moving on with your life.  Give yourself a break.  Treat yourself.  Whether it's kind words or cupcakes (or, my personal favorite, a huge glass of wine).  And then move on.  Just do it is a slogan for a reason.  Get past the doubt.  You owe it to yourself.  And your family, and friends, and children, and pets, and whoever and whatever is important in your life.

Tonight will be the second night in a row I'm at the gym.  And we're meeting a trainer, and I suspect it will be harder (I also suspect - by which I mean, I'm absolutely certain - there will be MUCH more swearing involved).  But I'm going to fight through it.  Because I want to do something for myself.  I owe it to myself to be the healthiest person I can.  And possibly this weekend I'll treat myself with a cupcake.  Or five.  Whatever, I cheat on the weekends.  Shut up.

If I Forgot to Mention It, My Baby Died

Today I had lunch with two of my good friends from college (at a truck stop diner, no less!).  It was delightful.  We laughed and caught up, and it was a wonderful reprieve from my daily life of doing very little.

While we were talking, I brought up my anxiety about going back to work.  "Is it easier for you if people don't bring it up, or do you want to talk about it?" asked Jen.  "I'd rather talk about it," I said, "I'm still a parent.  My daughter died, but I'm still a proud parent who went through something that all mothers go through (meaning birth, labor, etc), and I'd rather talk about it."  I told them that last week I had a happy hour with a group of co-workers, and no one brought it up.  "Do you just sometimes want to yell, 'My baby died!'?" asked Lindsay.

I was thinking about this on my drive back to Milwaukee.  I mentioned the other day that I've found very little humorous about this situation, but for some reason the vision of me yelling, "My baby died!" struck me as rather funny.  There are few things in this world that a person can say that will stop conversation in its tracks.  Unless you're a cast member on this season of "Big Brother" (speaking of, you guys need to cut that shit out.  Seriously.  People watch that show to see who gets fat, who's stupid enough to have sex on camera, and who lies the most.  If we wanted rampant racism and homophobia, we'd watch "The Real World").  Ahem.  Anyway, there are very few NON-racist/homophobic/xenophobic things a person can say that will literally cause conversation to stop.  "My baby died" is one of those things.  It kind of negates anything else you say, and would probably excuse a lot of bad behavior.

Then I started thinking about how far I could really push this.  Some ideas I've come up with:

In my Monday morning meeting at work, when everyone inevitably starts squawking and complaining, I'd like to yell, "Shut the fuck up!  Please!" and then, just before I'm reprimanded, I'll say, "I'm sorry, my baby died."

"That outfit is terrible.  You look really slutty.  Are you even allowed to wear that to work?  I'm sorry, my baby died."

"I can't interview for that promotion?  That's okay.  I mean, my baby died, so it's not like my husband and I REALLY need the extra money."

"What do you mean I can't wear sweatpants to work?  I gave birth (remember, my baby died and I had to go through labor?), and now none of my clothes fit, and you wouldn't let me interview for a promotion, and now I don't have money to buy all new clothes.  Who are you, anyway?  Regina George?  Do I have to wear pink on Wednesdays?"

Perhaps I shouldn't try to push it at all.  But if I'm going to make people uncomfortable, I'd at least like to enjoy it.  Do I sound bitter?  Maybe I am.  My big issue is that people try to say, "I just don't want to make Kim uncomfortable by talking about it."  That's bullshit.  You don't want to make yourself uncomfortable trying to come up with something to say.  By ignoring my daughter's very existence, you ARE making me uncomfortable.  I went through a terrible thing.  One of the worst things.  But it happened to ME, not you.  I don't need pity, I need understanding and support.  Can't you give that to me?  After all, my baby died.

The Blame Game

There are a lot of articles out there about blame.  That when you go through a stillbirth, you cannot blame yourself, because you will go crazy.  I keep telling myself this, and yet I find myself doing it, all the same.

Louis CK has a bit that he describes as, "Of Course...But Maybe..."  The premise is that the decent part of his brain knows something to be true, yet the darker part of him has a contrary point of view (look it up, it's hilarious).  I've been having quite a few of these moments lately.

Of course if I could have saved Emma I would have.  Of course.  But maybe I could have done more.  Maybe I could have been more concerned about the lack of movement instead of getting a pedicure and taking a nap and eating gelato the day she died.

Of course I'm not a terrible mother because this happened.  Of course not.  But maybe I am.  When you're pregnant, you have one responsibility.  To bring your child in to the world safely.  Once they're out, there are hundreds of outside factors you can't control, but when they're in your body, they're with you constantly.  I had one job.  And I failed.  My child died inside of me.  It's a thought that lingers on the perimeter of my mind because if I allow it to become a real thought, it will cripple me and I will never be able to go on.

Of course Jeff and I want to have more children.  But maybe I'm not meant to.  I'm terrified of going through this again.  Since we lost Emma, we've met people who have had 2, 3, 4 miscarriages, and some who have had multiple stillbirths.  How do these people find the courage to keep trying?  Once has paralyzed me with fear.  The thought of enduring daily blood thinner injections and countless extra doctor visits, only to potentially have the same outcome?  It's my own personal horror movie.

At the end of the day, I can't allow these thoughts to overcome me.  So I will try to end my cycle with this one:

Of course it's natural to blame myself.  But maybe doing so is a disservice to Emma.  Instead of worrying about what I could have, should have, would have done, I should be honoring her.  Loving her and remembering her.  Maybe someday I will be strong enough to listen to myself.

Putting the "Ism" in "Defense Mechanism"

I've always used humor as a coping technique.  Whenever things are really serious, I'm the one to be counted on for an inappropriate, frequently ill-timed joke.  It's served me well over the last 32 years, but now I've come across the one circumstance I can't seem to find humorous.

When I was in the hospital waiting for the ultrasound to find Emma's heartbeat, I still didn't realize how serious things were.  I was joking with the nurse as she asked what medications I was on, if I drank alcohol, if I smoked ("Does crack count?  No?  Then no.").  The second we found out Emma had died, I started sobbing.  I didn't know if I'd ever stop.  There was nothing to joke about, no way to make things light-hearted.

Right after I gave birth to Emma, Jeff and I spent fifteen or twenty minutes alone with her before our families came in to see her.  When he came in, Jeff said, "You have to be strong for them."  So I shut it off.  I don't know how I did it, but I shut everything off.  It was like I left my body and was watching the events from someone else's perspective.  It was all very sad, but it seemed far away.  Jeff told me later that I was a rock all day.  I was just doing what he told me to do.  But it was perceived as strength.

So that's what I've been doing ever since.  I have my private moments where I cry, but when I'm around anyone else who is getting upset, I just shut it off.  I keep comparing it to "The Vampire Diaries" when any character "switches off their humanity."  I wish that at 32 years old I had a more profound literary comparison, but my brain has been marinating in pop culture for the last 16 years, and this is the best I've got.  I'm not sure it's the right approach, but it's kept me from weeping openly in public for the last five weeks, so it seems like a good start.

I feel like I should be able to joke or make some witty comment about everything, and it would be better than this shutting down approach.  But, again, there's no humor here.  There's nothing funny.  And it seems disrespectful to Emma's memory to try and find something.  I've laughed almost every day since she was born, and I continue to find humor in the every day.  But not in her circumstances.  Never.  And I think that's okay, that's part of this process, is discovering that I can't resort to my defense mechanism for everything.

I'm starting back to work next Thursday.  Every time I think about it, I am gripped by anxiety that is nearly crippling.  It's not so much the work part that I'm concerned about; that will be fine.  It's the dealing with everyone I encounter part that is troubling.

When you go through a loss, there are a few key phrases that people say to you.  "I'm so sorry."  "You're in my thoughts and prayers."  Those are standard for any sort of death.  Stillbirth is its own kind of terrible, in that it's not something that is spoken about much, so it makes people very uncomfortable when they have to come up with a comforting platitude.  This leads to a lot of comments that are generally inappropriate, albeit completely unintentionally.

I've heard it all, but the one that I have a hard time dealing with is this:

"It's better that it happened this way than if you'd taken her home and she'd died there."

I'm sure it is.  It's better that it happened that way than if a lion had escaped from the zoo and attacked us in the hospital at the same time.  It's better that it happened on planet Earth than on Mars.  I don't need to be reminded of the ways in which my terrible, shitty situation could have been worse.  I get it.  I still think what happened was PRETTY terrible and shitty, though, so I'm not sure what you're trying to accomplish.

I know that it's not an intentional hurtful comment, it's really meant to be helpful.  Please stop trying to help me.  The hardest part is that I can't say anything back.  I have to smile and say, "Yep, you're right, that would have been worse," because this person isn't trying to make me feel bad.  They're genuinely trying to help, and I don't want to make them feel worse.  Telling me about someone you know who had a stillbirth and then died in the process doesn't make me feel any better about the child I lost, it just makes me feel bad for the husband who lost his child AND his wife.

Which brings me back to Thursday.  I'm going to deal with those comments, and the people who don't mention it at all because they don't want to make me (or themselves) uncomfortable, and the people who give me the sympathetic head tilt and say, "How ARE you?"  And then there are going to be the people who don't know what happened and ask me how maternity leave was and how the baby is, and then I'm going to have to tell them and make them feel bad.  I just want to fast-forward a few weeks and get past all of this.  But I can't, and it's one more aspect of my life that I never saw coming.

One Month

In her book, "An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination: A Memoir", Elizabeth McCracken writes about the normalcy of her life post-stillbirth.  When you decide to have a child, you are making a conscious decision to change the course of your life.  When the child you are planning on changing your life for dies, your life remains dramatically un-changed.  There are no midnight feedings, no packing of diapers and sippy cups, no pumping...the crying at night is over your child.  The only thing you carry in your purse are extra tissues.  The sameness of your life is a slap in the face.

I mentioned that last week I had my post-delivery follow-up with my doctor.  I had to take a post-partum depression survey.  One of the questions was something like, "Things have been piling up on me and I have been unable to keep up with day to day tasks."  I asked Jeff, "What do you think?"  He's a normal human man that would like to have sex with his wife again someday, so clearly he said, "No, I think you've been keeping up with everything.  It's been fine!"  I believed him about 0%, but I do think that if I was living in "Hoarders" level squalor he would let me know.  The next day I was waiting for Jeff to get home (he works until 8 p.m once every other week, and it was his turn), and I decided to vacuum.  Because that's something normal people do, and I'm making every effort to be a normal person who maintains her home in a respectable (esque) manner.  I ran the vacuum, and then I sat down on the couch.  I kept thinking of the random sludge that I saw on the kitchen tile and decided to steam mop the floors, as well.  Then I cleaned the sink and the stove, and I organized the linen cabinet.

I felt a twinge of a sense of accomplishment, followed by a sting.  The fact was, I wasn't supposed to have time to do these things.  Day to day tasks should have been piling up on me, and I should have had a stack of laundry to do in the basement instead of a stack of clean clothes to put away.  I am one month out from the birth of my sweet Emma, and I am still struck by the sameness of the day to day.  I still shower, take the dogs to the bathroom, watch the news...little has changed from the exterior.  Yet I still relive the events from one month ago each day.  My mental life, my emotional life, my spiritual life, have been rocked by this loss.  My physical life continues to exist.  Because it has to.

I miss you so much, sweet girl.  I can't put it into words because it's a love that I don't yet understand.  I miss you with every fiber of my being, and it's a pain that resonates so deeply inside of me that it's become a part of who I am in a short time.  I love you, Emma.

Yesterday I had my follow up appointment with my ob.  She's an amazing woman - Jeff and I couldn't have made it through this without her.  I can't believe it's been over three weeks since Emma was born.  I keep reliving what happened when we went into the hospital, so I'm hoping that by "recapping" it here, I can get it out of my head for a while.

On Saturday I went to get a pedicure and have lunch with my friend Nicole.  She wanted to do a "Kim Day" where I would get to do things I wouldn't be able to do for a while once the baby came.  Then Jeff and I went to dinner.  He asked me how the baby was doing, and I realized that she hadn't been moving much that day.  I told him as much, and he asked if I was worried.  I said, "Let me put it this way, if I was worried, we wouldn't be sitting here right now."  Ask me how much that haunts me.  Afterwards we went out for gelato with his parents.  That night, I lay there with my hand on my stomach hoping she would move.  I was getting a little nervous, but I had been to the doctor the day before and everything was fine.  Plus, she had dropped and I knew that she would be less active.

Sunday morning I got up and had breakfast (after helping Jeff install the car seat).  When she didn't start wiggling around after I ate, I decided to call the hospital.  They said I could wait a while to see if she moved, or just come in.  I decided we should go in.  I still wasn't worried.  We were brought upstairs, and the nurse tried to strap on the heart monitor.  She couldn't find the heart beat.  I started to get worried, but was told that it could mean the baby was facing another way.  She brought in another nurse, who seemed to find it.

I was so relieved that I wasn't noticing a lot of the things that Jeff later told me.  He said that the first nurse came in with the ultrasound machine and was starting to break out in hives on her chest.  The doctor came in and started looking at the ultrasound.  She said that the heartbeat on the monitor was mine.  She kept patting my hand and saying, "It's okay, it's okay."  I still didn't get it.  Finally, she said, "If I could see anything, we'd be running back for an emergency c-section, but I'm not seeing anything."  I looked at Jeff in confusion, and he said incredulously, "Are you saying that the baby's dead?!"  The doctor nodded and said, "Yes, I'm afraid so."

From there it was a lot of crying, and Jeff was in and out of the room making phone calls.  I was told that I would have to deliver Emma, and I immediately asked for a c-section (I've found that this is very normal, as most women are eager to just get it over with).  I was informed that this wasn't an option, and was not ideal for later births.  I was wheeled into a delivery room and told that I would be induced.  I told the doctor, "I don't want to feel anything."  Again, from what I've read this is also common.  Because at that moment, you're feeling everything. Your whole body, your whole being, is one exposed, raw nerve, and the last thing you need is one more reminder of what you've lost.

At that point, things proceeded as if it was a normal induction.  I was dreading the birth, yet I had some shred of hope that I was holding onto - she was going to come out and cough and it was going to be a miracle!  She came out and there was silence.  The birth itself was not as terrible as I thought it would be.  And I've come to appreciate the fact that I wasn't given a c-section as requested.  I was able to spend time with my family and come to terms with what was happening, instead of having Emma ripped from my body.  It's sort of a metaphor for the grief process itself.  You can't speed through it, you have to go through the steps.  I'm going through them every day.

Jeff and I just took a long weekend to go up north and visit his sisters.  It was wonderful to get away, but from time to time I did find myself despondent about all of the things we would never do with Emma.  She would never ride the speedboat with us, or jump on the water trampoline, or go fishing with Jeff.  I'm trying to balance those thoughts with some gratitude for the things we did experience in her short time.

I'll never know the color of her eyes.  How ridiculous is that?  There are basic things we should know as parents...length, weight, hair color, eye color, and I'll never know one of those things.  I was very upset about that in the hospital, and Jeff said, "They can be whatever color you want them to be.  I like to think she has your eyes."  It was a sweet sentiment, but I didn't want to guess.  I still don't.  I want to know for a fact.  Even though I'll never know the color of her eyes, I know she had dark, curly hair.  She had my nose and Jeff's mouth, my feet and his ears.  She had my nail beds.  I was fascinated by that.  Such a small thing, but she had the longest nail beds.  She was perfection.

I'll never see her walk or crawl or turn the wrong way in her first ballet recital.  She'll never use the play sets that now sit on shelves in the basement.  But I felt her move within me for months.  Her own ballet of turning, kicking, and punching.  We had dance parties in the car together.  When she grew weary, she would park herself in the upper part of my right rib cage.  Such a stubborn child, I could never get her to move.  What I would give to have that discomfort again.

I'll never hear her laugh or cry or hiccup or say her first word.  But I was able to hold her and touch her and smell her sweet scent.  Skin softer than any rose petal, hands that I was able to grasp in my own.  Jeff and I each changed her diaper and swaddled her.  I held her in my arms and kissed her and cried to her and told her all of the dreams I had for her - for us.

My time with Emma was sickeningly brief.  It was a blink of an eye.  But it was something.  I was able to say things I needed to say and make sure she knew how loved she was.  The things that will never be will never be, and I can't change those.  I am grateful for the things that were, however insignificant they may seem.

Five Things

"Grieving parents don't usually go to the Internet when things are going well...so posts can tend to be gloomy."  Touche, grief pamphlet.  Touche.

Today I resolved to post something positive.  Jeff and I have been striving to do good in Emma's name, and to find good things in our lives wherever we can.  So here are five good things going on in my life right now.

1. I have discovered what a true friend is.  It's more than someone who will laugh with you when times are good, it's someone who will cry for you when times are tough.  Someone who will go out of their way to make you laugh on a bad day.  Someone who will send a card, flowers, a note on Facebook, a text, cook you dinner, or just send out positive energy to get you through the day.  It's been amazing to find these true friends.

2. My family is more incredible than I ever knew.  My sister has basically been a rock, my mom took wonderful care of Jeff and I.  My dad has been an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on.  Jeff's family has been great, too.  His oldest sister and I have grown closer, and that's been fantastic.  His parents have checked in on us frequently.  Our extended family has been a great support system, too.

3. Jeff and I have found our love for another deepening.  These events tend to drive a wedge between couples, or push them closer together.  It's not a big secret that I suffer from depression, and Jeff was concerned that I would pull away from him.  I've made a conscious effort to stay close to him and let him know what I'm thinking, even if it's not, "I'm okay, I'm doing really good today!"  He still loves me, and that makes me love him more.

4. My work family has been a support system I never imagined.  Three years ago, I was working from home.  Jeff urged me to get back into an office for a more steady career.  I was nervous, because change is always scary.  It's been great in so many ways.  I've made incredible friends (those cooks I mentioned in point number 1), and I've challenged myself every day to learn new things.  I never imagined that this group of people could be so supportive.  Instead of dreading going back to work in a few weeks, I'm looking forward to seeing everyone and getting that sense of normalcy back.

5. The good we've been able to do in Emma's name.  We donated all of the diapers and wipes we received as shower gifts to a local women's shelter.  Donations have been made in her name to Make-A-Wish.  I love the idea that a child's dream will come true in her name.  We're seeking out these opportunities because we want to honor her memory and ensure that her legacy will be a positive one.

So that's my list.  There are other things, I'm sure, but today five seems like a good number.  It's a beautiful sunny day, it's my husband's birthday, and I'm going to revel in these five things.

Signs

Jeff sees signs everywhere.  He always has.  I don't know if he looks for them, or if they find him.  We had a Yorkie puppy who had to be put to sleep after an accident five years ago.  The morning after, Jeff went outside and wrote, "I [heart] Moxie" in the snow.  The wind blew away everything but the heart, and Jeff knew that Moxie was telling him that he was okay.

The Wednesday after Emma was born, Jeff was standing in the garden.  He came inside and told me that the tiniest bird he'd ever seen had landed on the edge of the garden, flown to the fence, and sat there for a moment with him before flying away.  "And all I could ask was, 'Is that my baby girl?'" he told me with tears in his eyes.  The following week at Emma's funeral, we released balloons to symbolize letting her spirit go.  One of the balloons caught on a tree.  Jeff went out later to pull the car up, and the balloon came free and floated away.  These signs gave him comfort.  They made him feel like Emma was telling him that she was okay, and he would be, too.

I haven't seen any signs.  On Friday, I sat outside with a book.  I finally put it down and stared at the sky.  Tears streamed down my face as I whispered, "Please, baby, please, give me something.  Some kind of sign that you're okay - that I'll be okay.  Just show me something.  Please."  Nothing.  A leaf fell from our maple tree.  I desperately searched for meaning.  The leaf is a symbol for RTS (Resolve Through Sharing, the hospital's grief support group for people who have lost a child) - that must be it!  But it wasn't enough.  I asked for something else.  Nothing.

I wonder why I don't see these things.  Is it because I don't want to heal?  Everyone else smiled when we released the balloons - it was cathartic.  For me, it was something else to make me angry.  I didn't want to release her spirit.  I want the one thing I can't have, I want her here, with me.  Is it because I'm more jaded than Jeff?  I've seen more death in my life than he has, maybe I just don't have the belief system that he does.  I'm not sure.  I've been paying closer attention to things around me, thinking that maybe I've just been unaware of my surroundings.

Maybe the searching is the problem.  I need to let her come to me and find me when she's ready.  I'll be here, sweet girl.  Waiting for you.

As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror this morning, I was amazed.  Aside from the dark line running down my abdomen, there is no evidence that up until two weeks ago, I was pregnant.  I should have been standing there this morning, marveling at how I didn't think my skin could stretch further.  Wondering how I was going to make it through the last few days of this pregnancy in the oppressive humidity we're experiencing.  Instead, I'm sitting here, wondering how I am going to make it through the next few hours without thinking of my sweet baby girl.

I've been muddling through the last couple of weeks with a lot of help.  My mom and sister were here, and they took over all of the mundane tasks that would distract me so I could rest.  So this morning I decided to distract myself with those chores.  I cleaned the bathrooms, ran the dishwasher, watered the plants I had forgotten about, and got rid of the dying flowers.  And now what?  I sit here, and I wonder what I should be doing and feeling and thinking.  I'm angry, and I'm grateful.  I'm bitter, and I'm loved.  I'm lonely, and I'm blessed.  I'm told these are all normal reactions.  Normal for who?  For the 1 in 164 (or 1 in 115, or 1 in some number that is slightly over 100, depending on where you look) women who undergo a stillbirth each year.

Up until two weeks ago, I didn't even think it was a possibility.  Not for me, anyway.  Jeff and I had gone through enough with this pregnancy.  A subchorionic bleed at 14 weeks (another event with low odds - roughly 1%), a car accident resulting in the car being totaled and chronic back pain at 20 weeks (odds of being in a car accident where the car is totaled? 1%, of course), and a number of other, smaller issues.  When I woke up on Sunday morning and Emma wasn't moving (after being relatively inactive the day before), I decided to call the hospital as a precaution.  Jeff and I thought it would be a quick trip in; we even made plans to go to a friend's lake house that afternoon.  An hour later we were being told that there was no heartbeat.  I had been to the doctor Friday afternoon and heard her strong heart - how had things changed so drastically in 36 hours?  

Intellectually, I know there's little I could have done.  It was discovered that I have a genetic clotting disorder that likely resulted in a placental abruption.  I know that.  But I still keep imagining that I could have gone in on Saturday afternoon.  Jeff would be working, and they'd whisk me away for an emergency c-section, and it would be scary and dramatic and touch-and-go, but our sweet baby girl would pull through.  I'm told this is a "normal" reaction, as well.  

Right now my thoughts are clearly all over the place.  I'm angry with myself for not being able to see more positives.  The outpouring of love and support I've received has been overwhelming.  Can I not be happy to have so many wonderful people in my life who will do anything for me?  My husband and I have grown closer through this tragedy.  Does this deeper love not bring me joy?  I think that there is a hole in my heart, and while my heart is fuller than ever of love for my friends and family, that hole and the pain it causes remains, and it is excruciating and dark and all-encompassing.

The happiness will come, I know that.  Grief is a process, I'm told.  The only way around it, is through it.  On the other side I hope to find peace and understanding.  For now I will search for solace in getting these thoughts out rather than holding them in.