"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.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Thursday, August 15, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
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.
"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.
Monday, August 5, 2013
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.
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.
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