The Ugly Brown Chair

I’ve been spending a lot of time resting in this ugly brown chair as I recover from surgery; it’s the only place I can get comfortable.  As I sat there last night, trying to sleep, I had a vivid flashback to the other times I would sleep in this chair. 

We bought this chair almost 6 years ago now. After we found out we were having twins, I knew I needed a big comfy chair because I pictured myself spending hours rocking and feeding two babies. We went to the store to pick one out and I remember not caring at all what it looked like but knowing that it needed to have wide, soft arms. I sat in the showroom of the store with my growing belly and put my arms up as if I was holding the babies and thought, “this will be perfect”. 

Before I knew it, the chair wasn’t needed anymore as the babies had come into this world too early and now Mary was gone.  There was now only one baby and he was stuck in the NICU.  The months that followed their birth, I reluctantly ended up in the chair.  I slept in the chair many nights as I set my pumping station up there. Without a baby home to feed all night, I would still be up pumping every couple hours and calling the NICU. I would lay in the chair wide awake at 4 am and stare out the window wondering how this was our life.  I wondered how anything would ever be ok again.  I cried. Oh, there were so many tears shed in that chair.  

Today, there is pain in my belly from a missing organ.  Five and a half years ago there was pain in my belly from my missing babies.  Although no physical wound then, the pain now is nothing compared to that.  

I’ve realized most of my worst nights have been spent in the ugly brown chair. There have been many nights of pain, both physical and emotional. When Walter came home from the NICU, I spent the first few weeks sleeping in this chair in his room since the line from his oxygen tank wouldn’t stretch far enough for him to be in any other room.  I’ve stayed up in the chair with a sick baby propped up on my chest all night. And now I sit here as my kids try to gently snuggle with me and help bring me snacks.  This chair has seen a lot of pain but also a lot of recovery... a lot of hurt but a lot of love.  So. Much. Love. 

Infertility... Again

I had expected it since we walked through our journey of infertility to get pregnant the first time, but dealing with infertility after losing our daughter seemed extra cruel. Although I anticipated we would probably have to go through fertility treatments again once we were ready to conceive after Mary died, a part of me thought that surely we would get a free pass. Surely things had to be easier this time because we’ve already experienced the worst pain we could ever imagine when our daughter died. There’s no way the added stress/disappointment/sadness of infertility could be added onto that.

Just yesterday I was going through photos on my phone and found countless quotes and verses that I had saved to stay positive and to help give me strength during those horrible days. Yes, we had walked that path before– the waiting, the hope, the disappointment, then doing it all over again every month. Somehow, looking back, our first infertility experience wasn’t as tough. Although sometimes bleak, there was still hope and promise for an incredible outcome. Facing infertility after loss is a very different story.

Our hearts have already been broken more than we ever thought possible and each new cycle is a new little tear in a heart that is barely being held together. The whole struggle is extra hard after loss because, well, a big part of us knows that getting a positive test does not mean we get a baby to keep at the end of it all. But don’t we deserve a chance? Don’t we deserve to feel that life growing inside of us again…just to be filled with life again? As much as we may have been destroyed by loss, we would do it all over again for a chance at that incredible love that exists only between mother and child.

As devastating as it is, facing infertility after loss is the ultimate declaration of bravery and of love for all of your children. You have had your heart broken before, yet you continue to endure the pain every month because you know that it’s worth it. You know that the mother’s love you have in your heart needs another child here on this earth to pour into. That is one of the bravest things any woman can do.

Choosing To Embrace The Now

I have spent most of the last 2.5 years wanting to go forward or back in time. I was living in the past; wanting to go back to before Mary died, before our world crashed down. I was living in the future; I wanted to move, I wanted another baby, I wanted a lot to change because I didn’t like where I was. What I wasn’t doing was being present, therefore I couldn’t help how low I was feeling.

Since our rainbow has arrived, I have slowly and consciously been able to start to bring more focus to the now. In that, I have found a slightly new sense of peace.

What is my “now”? I am the mother of micro preemie twins (one that fought so hard and is here with us and another that fought so hard and is in heaven) and a sweet baby boy. That is my life right now no matter how much I would like to change that. No matter how many times I replay those days and weeks leading up to Mary’s death, I can’t change it. I can’t continue to live in the regret of all the things I would’ve done differently. Missing her hurts and it will continue to hurt. I know that won’t change. It will hurt and my heart will be incomplete until I’m with her again. I have learned to accept that as our now and live with it.

Focusing on what I have and the family we are now has helped tremendously to lighten my heart. I know that however I say this it’s not going to come out right, but I really think I’m doing ok. Of course, I get sad thinking about all of the things we’ve missed getting to experience with Mary. When I focus on right now… Right this moment I have a sleeping toddler on my lap and a little baby falling asleep and I close my eyes and feel Mary here. When I stop thinking about what I want next or what I wanted then and I focus on right this moment…I feel her light, her spirit, her strength and her beauty and I’m ok.

Feeling Less

After losing my daughter and learning how to parent her surviving twin, I just felt like less of a mother. I was supposed to be a mother of two. I felt like I couldn’t quite connect with my son how I envisioned I would. I felt less present than I should’ve been. I felt less useful. I felt less alive.

In those early days and months, I was still in such a fog that I felt like less of a mother and less of a wife. I couldn’t quite function. I was going through the motions and that wasn’t enough for any of us…but it had to be because that was all I had. My household duties just didn’t get done. Our house was a mess; our life was a mess. As time passed, I was slowly able to function more normally but that feeling of “less” never really went away. Before giving birth to my sweet babies, I had so many visions of what kind of mom I would be. I would be so tuned in to their every want and every need. I would get us all dressed and take them on play dates and still have a connection to the outside world. None of that happened and I not only lost my daughter but I lost the kind of mother I wanted to be or thought I could be. As someone who had always tried to be the best and do my best, this new feeling of less was very new and rather sad.

I not only felt like I was less of the person I used to be or wanted to be but I also just had fewer feelings. I used to be so empathetic and understanding and kind. I could no longer bring myself to feel sorry for someone who hated her job or someone who lost her cat. The idea that someone else’s trivial plight was so hard on them just made me annoyed and bitter. They have no idea. Their lives will continue with little change and my whole world and everything I dreamed of and everything I was is now gone.

When I was pregnant with our rainbow baby this worried me a bit. Would I be able to really connect with him and love him the way I should? Did I even have that in me anymore? I did have a lot of fear that I just wasn’t capable of the type of connection he deserved. However, with every ultrasound and every kick, my love for him only grew. I found my heart starting to loosen the negativity that had been so tightly wrapped around it since Mary died. I found a light starting to come back into my heart and into our lives. I’m sure I could’ve done more to make this happen faster but, as I said before, I just felt less in control of my life and my emotions. It was something that, thank God, just happened naturally. I allowed myself to feel all the feelings I needed to and that got me to the point of joyfully and lovingly welcoming our rainbow baby into this world knowing that he has an incredible big sister watching over him.

So, I guess there is really no way to control how you feel or what you feel and you shouldn’t have to. I found that just allowing myself to feel mad, annoyed, bitter, apathetic, less or nothing at all was ok. But when it came down to it, this insane love has always been there in my ever-changing heart and that has carried me through losing our daughter, raising her twin brother and welcoming our rainbow.

Fear of Forgetting

After I got pregnant with my rainbow I was presented with this new fear– the fear of forgetting. Now, this fear was two-fold. It was the fear that, with this new baby, people would begin to forget about Mary; they’d forget that we were still hurting. They’d forget that our family was still incomplete. However, I was not just afraid that others would forget. There was a part of me that was afraid I would forget.

I know it’s absurd because there’s really no way I could ever forget about that perfect beautiful girl that I gave birth to, but I was afraid of forgetting the details. I was afraid that her perfect teeny tiny feet would become a distant memory once I saw my newborn son’s feet and was able to watch them grow. There was a fear that after kissing my son every day, I would forget what those final kisses with my daughter felt like. Her dimpled chin and her itty bitty fingers wouldn’t be as vivid after I felt my son grab my fingers or after I wiped milk from his chin. I don’t want to forget those things. I don’t want to forget anything about her. I just wasn’t sure that the front of my mind could hold all of these memories and images.

The fear also came when thinking about friends and family forgetting about her. Would they remember to consider us a family of five now? Would everyone think that our hearts were magically healed now because we have a new baby? Would they forget to ask about her or say her name? It is difficult because I can’t control what other people do/say but what I can do is continue to remind them. I can continue to include her as part of our family. I can continue to talk about how we as a family are grieving now.

Now that my son has been here for a few months, I can say that the part about me forgetting is…complicated. Mary is not forgotten or far from my heart. She is always a part of my day and part of our lives. However, as painful as it is to say this, she isn’t in my every thought anymore. Instead of the pain of losing her overcoming everything I do, it is a bit further away now. It doesn’t consume me or haunt me, but it lives within me in a nice little pocket built just for her. The pain is always there, her memory is always there and her life is always there. I could never ever forget it but it has made its way deeper into my brain and my heart and not necessarily at the front of my mind daily. And I think I’m ok with that.

Learning to Parent While Learning to Grieve

Learning to parent a medically fragile baby while also learning to grieve as a bereaved parent was beyond confusing and overwhelming. I know that I am not alone in being a parent of a “twinless twin”. When my babies came into this world 15 weeks too early, we were instantly shoved into parenthood. We were terrified and unsure what this new world would look like. Unsure how to be good parents in the NICU, we were eager to listen to doctors and nurses and learn all we could. When our world crashed down two days later with our daughter’s death, we were suddenly forced into a new kind of parenthood; one of both bereavement and medical uncertainty.

Becoming a parent is a beautiful learning experience but these are not the things I wanted to learn. I didn’t want to learn about PDAs and ROP and CLD and brain bleeds and ventilator settings. I certainly didn’t want to learn about burial options and gravestone choices and memorial cards but this was my intro to parenting.

I thought I knew what kind of mother I would be and this is definitely not it. Being in the NICU while one baby fights so hard for his life after you have just watched his twin die in your arms is devastating. The fear for any parent in the NICU is huge but once you’ve seen the “worst case scenario”, that fear is exponentially greater. Each step forward was coupled with great sadness and grief and each devastating moment of loss was paired with pride of reaching new milestones. The dichotomy of these highs and lows constantly existing at the same time is so difficult to understand.

There is no way that this rocky beginning didn’t affect me as a mother. I’m constantly full of anxiety when it comes to my surviving twin’s health, “Is he ok?” “Is that normal?” “When do I take him to the doctor?” I know that a lot of first time parents have these thoughts but for us who have lived through the worst, it’s just… Different. It’s more real. The fear and anxiety is for a reason. We are walking around with fragile broken hearts and know that we can’t take another loss like that!

The three times that my son has slept through the night (he’s almost 2.5 years old), I did not welcome the extra sleep…I was terrified. Is he breathing? Is he alive? I have great anxiety being away from him or having someone else watch him (even if for a very short time). I know that these (maybe totally unfounded) feelings stem directly from having lost our daughter.

The start of our parenting journey was, well, pretty traumatizing. It changed me as a mother. It made me more fearful, more reclusive, more frantic. It has also made me pray more, appreciate more and love more.

One Piece of Advice

Someone recently asked me what my one piece of advice would be for new parents. “Crap!” I thought, “I am clearly not the person to ask about how to be a good parent.” I’m not even sure what I said to answer that question but thinking back on it now, I think I know how I’d answer. It is simply this: “This is the most important work you’ll ever do. You’ll never feel like you’re doing it right but you’ll always do your best. This is the only job that truly matters.”

I realized I was not asked how to be a “good” parent but rather what to say to a new parent. I don’t know that anyone always feels like they’re doing a great job. Sure, we have those moments where you think, “damn, I’m good” but those come less often than the moments of “where did I go wrong?”.

I think as mothers who do not get to parent all of our children here on earth, we can be much harder on ourselves. As much as we can keep telling ourselves that we didn’t fail, there’s often that little thought that can sneak in and remind us of our ultimate failure to keep all of our children. We know it’s not our fault and we did nothing wrong but still feel incomplete as a parent.

Losing my daughter has taught me what is truly important in this world. I know that I parent differently now because of her. I’m not going to worry that the high chair tray doesn’t get wiped down right after a meal. That’s not a failure. I don’t care that the laundry may sit unfolded for a few days (or maybe not even make it out of the dryer). That’s not a failure. I won’t be bothered that I had to carry my son out of the store kicking and screaming because he wanted to climb the mannequin. That’s not a failure.

Even on the days that I can get down on myself that things aren’t going right, I know that I am doing my best in that moment. Some days my best is just getting out of bed. The grief can magnify every little issue or disappointment into something huge if you let it (believe me, I have let it so many times). So my advice to parents, especially those parenting after loss, is that this is the most important work you’ll ever do. You’ll never feel like you’re doing it right but you’ll always do your best. This is the only job that truly matters.

Uninvited Hospital Guest

Although there were a few similarities– labor spontaneously started early (this time at a much later/safer gestation) and labor progressed insanely fast– I wanted everything with this labor and delivery to be different from last time.
I wanted new doctors in a new hospital.
I wanted to call family on the way to the hospital to let them know we were about to have a baby.
I wanted to feel like my baby was ready to safely enter this world.
I wanted to have a name prepared to call him when he came out.
I wanted to have the house ready and a hospital bag packed. One thing I unintentionally packed in that hospital bag was a whole lotta fear!

The thing I wasn’t expecting was that, oddly enough, there was more fear this time. Although I went into labor at exactly 25 weeks last time, I was strangely calm and not very fearful. I knew my babies would have some hardships and struggles, but the thought of death really didn’t cross my mind. Sure, I knew that there was a 50/50 chance of survival, but I wasn’t going to lose a baby. That wasn’t my story. That happens to someone else, not me. Oh, to be that naive again!

This time around, I was in the delivery room so afraid. Why? I don’t know! I guess because now I am the woman whose baby died. That is my story now. It’s my reality and it happens. It happens in the most traumatic and unexpected way. Was that going to continue to be my story? Would I be the one people say “oh, did you hear… She lost ANOTHER baby?” I now know that most awful and horrendous pain of birthing a baby you don’t get to keep…the pain of saying goodbye. I couldn’t do it again. How could I handle that? That was where the loads and loads of fear came from.

The first time around, although I should have been afraid I wasn’t because I wasn’t exactly sure what to be afraid of. This time, however, I know what every second feels like. I know the heart stopping moment when the doctor tells you the baby you created is dead. I know what the days, weeks and months following feel like and how peeling yourself out of bed is the greatest daily victory. I know the intensity of the pain and I couldn’t even imagine having to stack that onto the pain that already exists in my heart after losing my daughter two years ago.

Although this birth was clearly less traumatic, the fear hung out and slept with us (ok, I didn’t sleep, but my husband did) in the hospital. It lingered in the curtain and in the beeping of the fetal monitor. It crept through the room with the most irrational stories of freak accidents and things gone awry. That was until that final push and the doctor placing a crying baby on my chest. He’s alive and he’s here. He was ours and we can keep him. We will bring this one home! And we did! The next afternoon we brought home a new beautiful life! As disappointed as I was at myself for not keeping the fear at bay, I did my best and that is all any of us can ask for!

Rainbow Connection: 10 Things I’ve Done to Bond During PAL

I have found through the fear of this pregnancy after loss, bonding and connecting with this precious baby I’m carrying has been harder than I expected.

After recognizing my distance, I knew I had to make a change. The following are 10 ways that I flipped the switch in my mind to begin to connect with this baby:

1. I had to force myself to look at it this way: Worst case scenario and I lose this baby too… Would it hurt more if I felt disconnected to this baby or if I felt like I knew him and he knew me and we were forever bonded? That set my mind and heart on the path that I had to get to know this baby and sometimes force myself to connect with him because the pain of feeling like I neglected him at all for any of the time I was blessed to have him would just be too much.

2. I recognized that it was that fear of losing him that made me reluctant to bond with this baby. So, I had to think long and hard on what would possibly help ease my fears, even the slightest bit. One answer to that was to make sure that I had a doctor (or doctors) who just get it. Someone who would see me anytime even if my fears were irrational. Someone who knew I needed extra appointments, extra monitoring, and extra compassion. I found an incredible team of high risk doctors and they have definitely helped me to release some fears.

3. Another fear-lessening tactic was to doppler. I know some people find it causes more fear if they can’t find a heartbeat right away, but for me… some days it has been the only thing to keep my sanity. When there is no other way to know anything about baby, putting that wand up to my belly not only calmed some fears but also helped me to remember what a precious miracle and blessing I am carrying. Those heart tones belong to MY living baby. The baby we worked hard to create. I felt like I knew him better. I could hear his movements. I knew where he was. I felt connected to him.

4. Another decision I had to force myself to make was to share the news with family and friends early on. We actually ended up sharing the news of this pregnancy with our families even earlier than we did last time. I knew that their excitement and prayers would help to make it all feel real to me. Some days, especially early on, their excitement and love for this baby was contagious for me and helped me feel more positive.

5. As reluctant as I was, I made the decision that taking bump pictures through this pregnancy was important. I couldn’t get myself to do it every week but compromised to take them every-other week. I am glad I did. I love going back through my pictures and seeing my bump growing and knowing that my sweet baby was getting bigger and stronger in each picture.

6. Finding out the sex of this baby was very crucial to helping me bond with this little one. It may be the opposite for some people but for me, I want to know everything about this baby. I don’t want to miss one second of seeing him on the screen during an ultrasound. I had enough surprises with everything that happened during my last pregnancy and I do not want ANY “surprises” this time around. I needed to visualize and mentally prepare myself to hold a baby boy or a baby girl. My heart needed time as well to accept and process whichever sex this baby would be.

7. I had to make the conscious effort to take time and shop for this little one! It’s another simple thing that takes a lot of effort and overcoming a lot of fears in a pregnancy after loss. I don’t want to have to return things again or pack away the things we never got to use in a box. This baby deserves some things of his own. He deserves some sweet little outfits. As scary as it was to shop in the baby section again, it did bring me some excitement to think of my new little miracle wearing the things that I picked out just for him!

8. This may seem silly and obvious but talking, reading and singing to this precious one has been a big piece in helping me connect with him. I know it’s pretty much a “duh!” but some days it was just much easier to pretend this all wasn’t real and try to avoid the fear for a while. Making myself have a conversation with this baby not only helped me feel closer to him but helps him to know me. I want to know everything about him and I want him to know all about me. I want him to know my laugh, to know my horrible singing voice and to know just how much I love him.

9. Sharing everything with my husband and helping him to connect with our little baby has helped me connect even more. I get to feel every time baby moves and feel his hiccups but my husband does not. So, I needed to make the effort to grab his hands and help him to feel this baby; to encourage him to talk to my belly. Talking about our baby and sharing hopes/dreams/plans for him has helped us both to bond with our baby.

10. Naming this baby!! Ok, we suck at this and are having a really hard time coming up with a name. However, we are trying and having that conversation (almost daily) and thinking about what we could name him has helped us feel like we know him even more. We know what names don’t feel right for him. We think of the personality he has already shown us, we think of all the ultrasound pictures we have, we think of his relationship he’ll have with both our twins; the one in our arms and the one in our hearts.

These may not be sure-fire ways for everyone to bond and connect with their pregnancy and baby after a loss but these have been the 10 most important ways that I have found in these past 36 weeks that I could form that bond that has taken more effort than I had hoped.

A Guilty Disappointment

I am aware this may be a difficult subject and some people may not understand, but I feel compelled to share. I know that I am not alone in these feelings, as I know many other loss mamas who have been in the same boat. 

So, here it goes… When I found out the sex of this rainbow baby, I was really sad; like, pretty devastated actually. I know that it sounds absolutely horrible because I should just be grateful to have seen a healthy, living baby on that ultrasound. And I was and am so grateful for that, but something inside me just lost it. 

Two years ago when we had boy/girl twins on the way everything just felt right. It was perfect and that’s how our lives were supposed to be. We were supposed to have a boy and a girl to raise and to love. We were supposed to have mommy/daughter and father/son days. We were supposed to have tea parties and go fishing. So many of those dreams instantly shattered the day we lost Mary. I had to re-identify myself as a mom with just a son here on earth. Yes, I will always be the mom to a daughter, but she’s not here and “parenting” her is not the same. 

When we finally got pregnant again after Mary died, my husband and I were both convinced we were having a little girl. We both know that absolutely no one could ever replace her; no daughter or son will ever fill the giant void in our hearts that she left. However, our dreams of raising a little girl could be real again and we were so excited for that new experience that we missed out on. When I saw that little penis on the ultrasound screen I didn’t want to believe it. I’m not a mom to boys! My head and my heart know that I will always be a mother to a daughter as well…but physically, at the park or out shopping, I’ll look like a mom of boys. I don’t want people to say “you and your boys” because then Mary’s always left out. If we had a girl this time it would be “your babies” or “your kids” and I could assume that was including Mary. I’m also struggling with this new revelation because, well, this shit is hard! Getting pregnant has been so stressful and being pregnant and trying to keep this baby alive and well has been beyond draining physically and emotionally. I don’t know if I can do this again! Had we had a girl this time, I think we could have been done. Now, however, I feel like there’s still something else missing. Yes, our family will never be complete without Mary, but it also feels more incomplete because we haven’t been able to have the experience of raising a daughter like we planned for and dreamed of. It has been 11 weeks now since we found out and I am excited to welcome this sweet little boy. Some days it hits me harder than others that I still won’t get to use those cute bows and dresses that I have packed away. Most days I feel good and honored to be carrying this beautiful boy, and I know that he has an amazing big sister watching over him and protecting him. “Gender Disappointment” after a loss is much different from someone who was just wishing for a certain sex. It involves a lot of past emotions, broken dreams, tiny rips in an already broken heart. There’s a lot of expectation as well that we can only be happy and thankful for this growing life and we don’t want people to think that we’re not happy and thankful. We know, better than anyone, to be grateful for each and every second that we are given with these sweet babies because we’ve experienced what it feels like to have one (or more) ripped out of our lives in an instant. The sadness felt does not, in any way, diminish the joy or amazement at growing our rainbow babies, it is just an additional emotion added on to this already crazy ride of pregnancy after loss.

Our Rainbow of Hope and Fear

(Featured on Pregnancy After Loss Support)

It has not been a secret that “getting pregnant” does not come easy for us. We conceived the twins using fertility treatments and we knew that we would have the same issue if/when we decided to try again. The risk of multiples, prematurity, and neonatal death are very real to us. After living through all of it, the fear of any of that happening again was very overwhelming.

After Mary died we felt right away that we wanted another baby. I think for a lot of loss parents, that feeling creeps up pretty instantly. Sure, in the beginning it’s fairly irrational. You just want a baby back in your belly because there should still be one there! As time goes on, it becomes less of a “give me my baby back!” and more of a “help heal my heart!” desire. It’s not that we think a new baby can “replace” Mary or “fix” our struggle. However, everything in my heart and my mind is telling me that I’m supposed to have two babies here with me.

We know that without her here, our family will never be complete but at the same time… We know that we could feel a bit closer to complete than we do now. We’ll never be able to fill those memories that we didn’t get to have with Mary; her first smile, her first steps, her first words. The pain of missing every day with her is always very real. We are aware that, because we miss those so much, we long to experience those moments again, with another child.

We knew within a few months after losing Mary that we should start trying again because, like the first time, it would be a long process. After lots of appointments with specialists and consultations with high risk pregnancy doctors, we were feeling confident in our plan and their support to try again. Of course, the stress and anxiety of every failed cycle was tough. It was actually harder this time around because it just felt like, “come on, can’t we catch a break? We’ve already had to lose one baby and now we can’t even make another one!”

After a good 15-16 months, we were finally pregnant. We were ecstatic…but terrified. We now know the reality of loss and there is no such thing as a guarantee of a baby at the end of all of this. Being pregnant after loss is way more difficult than I would’ve imagined. There is no innocence left, no naïveté; just fear and hope. I sometimes just have to awkwardly laugh to myself when I see other pregnant women celebrating “V Day” or reaching the infamous 24 week “viability” mark…As if that means anything. Mary died at 25 weeks gestation and through this journey, I have met incredible mamas who have lost their babies at 28 weeks, 31 weeks, 36 weeks, 40 weeks, 41 weeks. I know there is no safety, there is no guarantee and I have been forced to see that and live that first-hand.

Every little thing in this pregnancy is filled with fear; every ache, every pain, every strange pregnancy feeling all make me want to run to the doctor. At 23 weeks, I had already had at least 10 ultrasounds and that still didn’t seem like enough. I don’t feel like I can trust my body anymore. I don’t trust that I will know if something is wrong. I don’t trust that my body can carry this baby to term. I try every day to cling to prayer and God’s promise that He will carry us through and bring this baby safely home with us. However, the doubt and the very real fear of our past repeating itself always seem to creep in. Sure, some may say that clearly my faith isn’t strong enough but after Mary died, I’ve had to rebuild a lot of that trust and belief and I am much stronger than I was almost 2 years ago.

Trying to conceive after loss and pregnancy after loss are two of the most difficult things (aside from actually losing a child) that a mother can go through. It takes an insane amount of strength, courage, desire and love. If you have found yourself in this situation currently or in the past, I commend you, mama! You are so strong! If you have not been through it personally but know someone who has or is… I beg of you, please be kind to her and recognize how much courage she has to take this chance again after what she’s gone through.

The Badge of Bereavement

I wish there was some way to distinguish a fellow loss mother in public.  There should be some sort of symbol, a badge if you will, to easily share with the world that, despite your smiling and happy demeanor, you are hurting inside.  It would be sadly but proudly worn.  It would symbolize the strength of a woman who has been through the worst kind of heartbreak, yet is still standing. 

Ok, let me set the scene.  I'm taking my son for a walk through the neighborhood and spot a cute young couple walking toward us about a block away.  Of course, I play out in my head what they're thinking/talking about and it goes something like this 
Wife: I love you!
Husband: I love you too!
Wife: Awwww, look...cute baby. I can't wait to have babies with you.
Husband: Me neither, let's have one!
Wife: ok, yay! 

And naturally, I see the rest of their story play out.  They go home and start trying and five weeks later... Positive pregnant test!

Just as I'm starting to get really annoyed, I see them see me and they quickly turn the corner.  Hmmm. 

Maybe the site of me walking around the neighborhood with a cute baby in tow hurt them.  Maybe they've been trying to get pregnant for the last year or two.  I just want to scream at them from afar, "We have tried for years to get pregnant and this one right here... is our surviving twin, my daughter died.  I know pain!"  Instantly, I flashed back to my feelings when I would see the same thing and I would've turned that corner so fast too.  I don't know why but when I have worked so hard to make a baby (or two) seeing another family with a healthy little baby just feels like a punch in the gut.  I imagine them getting pregnant on their honeymoon or worse yet... "Omg, we weren't even trying!".  Barf. 

Now having lost my much sought after, much loved and much desired daughter two days after she was born, seeing families with babies is like a double punch in the gut... And then a stab and twist with knife.  The pain I feel when I see other people's happiness is embarrassing.  I don't want to feel so awful, but I do believe that pain just comes with the territory of suffering through such an incredible heartbreak. 

However, if I know a woman is part of this (awful, yet totally supportive) club known as bereaved motherhood, I would have such a warm heart at seeing her happiness with a healthy child in her arms.  It just seems easier knowing that a woman "gets it", that she will never take one second with that child for granted, that she knows happiness through the pain, that she will always hold and kiss that baby as more than just one baby.  

This life of a bereaved mother is one that I would never wish on anyone. It is more pain than should ever be allowed in any lifetime.  However, when I know that someone else is unwillingly part of this life too, their happiness is my happiness.  

So, there's my predicament.  I don't know how to make the instant gut-punch subside when I see a woman with a baby (or super pregnant belly) unless, of course, she is wearing her badge of bereavement.  

An Open Apology To My Family and Friends

I'm sorry I'm not the same "me" anymore.
I know I've changed but I don't know how anyone could go through something so traumatizing and heartbreaking and come out on the other side unscathed. Oh, how I wish that I could be the "old me", untouched by the reality that babies die.  Fundamentally, I'm the same person...just a bit heavier (metaphorically, well, literally too) now with maybe deeper priorities.  Maybe I've lost my spark, but what good is a spark anyway? Ok, that sounds a little cynical but I guess that's one of the new traits I've picked up on this journey through grief. It's a long, dark and lonely road... You'd be a bit jaded too.

I'm sorry I can't "get over it". 
I can tell you right now that there is absolutely no getting over it.  She is my daughter and I'm still her mama.  Her death has shaken me, moved me, and changed my heart.  I'm going to be sad every day of my life. That is not to say that I can't experience joy also, but there will always be a sadness that I carry with me and her absence is not something that I can forget about or get over. It is with me always. 

I'm sorry I talk about her too much.  
Talking about my daughter is one of the few things I have left.  I don't get to hold her or rock her to sleep or dress her up in pretty dresses.  I do get to talk about her, though...and that I will never give up.  I fear that I will wake up one day in the near future and no one would have talked about her, asked about her, or worse, thought about her. If I don't keep her memory alive, who will? 

I'm sorry I don't act like I'm grieving.  
It's been over a year since we said goodbye and in that time I have learned to live with the pain a little more than I did in the first few months.  It hasn't lessened but I have found a place for it.  I may smile and laugh now but that doesn't mean that I have forgotten about her or that losing her isn't still tearing out my heart.  It just means that time has allowed me to make room for sadness and happiness, sorrow and joy, tears and smiles. 

I'm sorry if I can't be very social anymore.
I have developed a lot of social anxiety through all of this. The fear that someone will ask something or say something that I don't want to hear is always in the front of my mind.  Thinking about a stranger asking me how many kids I have (and the questions that will follow) makes me nervous and fearful.  Sometimes I want to talk about everything! Sometimes I don't! I don't know how I'm going to feel in that moment and that makes me want to avoid it all together. 

I'm sorry I can't be overjoyed at the idea of your new baby.  
Yes, before losing my daughter I would be instantly sending you "congratulations" and baby gifts...but I just can't do it now.  It hurts too much.  It's not that I can't be happy for you, it's just that your happiness at this beautiful new life is such a punch in the gut and reminder of how I didn't get that.  Sure, that may be rather selfish but for me to see countless pregnancy and birth announcements online just hurts my heart.  I wish it wasn't that way and I'm assuming with time it will get better, but for now if I can muster up a "like" for your big announcement, that's a huge step for me! 

I'm sorry if it doesn't seem like I appreciate your support. 
It is so hard for me to even comprehend the amount of support, well wishes, gifts and thoughtfulness we have been so thankful to receive.  Sometimes it's too overwhelming to try to express my gratitude because I simply cannot find the words. I wish that I could tell you just how much every kind word spoken (or written) to us has meant.  If it seems like your thoughtfulness has gone unnoticed, trust me, it most definitely has not.  

I'm sorry if all of this makes you uncomfortable.  
It sucks, it's sad and sometimes awkward to talk about.  I know that.  However, it is my reality. It is the life I live every second of every day.  My job is to simply survive.  I do not have the energy to put in to make you comfortable.  Maybe that sounds harsh but your comfort is not my priority.  If you do not want to be part of this...walk away, "unfriend" me, whatever you need to do, please do.  

I'm sorry this happened. 
I'm sorry that this is my life. That you are in some way a part of it.  I'm sorry that my story may make you sad or bring the idea that "babies die" to your mind. I'm also sorry I'm not sorry.  Me talking about my daughter helps to make her real to you and me.  I am doing the absolute best I can with the cards that I've been dealt.  I wouldn't wish this grief on anyone but I have it and I'm going to own it.  I never would have guessed that this is where I would be and I don't know how things will be in two, five or ten years from now but I can only do my best with what I have. Some days will be good, some days will be bad but they are my days and they are filled with an overpowering love and memory of my daughter. 

Living For Her

Mary didn't get to live her life.  
As much as I hate everything about that sentence, that means we need to live our lives for her. 

It hurts so much that we don't know all that much about her.
We'll never get to know her favorite food (I'm guessing chocolate like her brother). 
We'll never get to meet her best friends at school or her favorite teachers.
We'll never get to see what sports or activities she would do (although I just know she would love to dance).
We'll never get to see her get dressed up for her first school dance.
We'll never get to see the man she would pick to marry.


What we do know...
-She was BEAUTIFUL!! She had so much dark hair (just like the rest of us) and the cutest dimple chin!
-She was so patient and sweet!  We got to see her on ultrasounds every week and Walter would be kicking her and punching her and she was always so calm. She would usually just put her hands up to block her face.  
-She was tough!  Although so kind to her brother, one day she did finally kick back!  Now, I wouldn't normally condone violence but I was very proud of her for that!  
-She also fought so hard!  Every week in my belly she had less and less fluid but she held on so we could meet her and although much too brief, she held on for a day and a half.  
-She is loved soooo much!!!

I hate that she was robbed of this life, that we were robbed of her precious life.  

Since she can't be here, we are going to fight so hard to make sure that her kindness, beauty and love is shared with this world.  
We are excited to see random acts done in Mary's memory in hopes that next Sunday, on the anniversary of the worst day of our lives, the kindness, beauty and love shared in Mary's memory will make the world a little brighter. 

Twin Party For One

As we approach the twins' first birthday, the anxiety is overwhelming.  Instead of the pure joy and excitement that should come with a first birthday, I find fear, sadness, regret and emptiness added in.  Don't get me wrong, I am so glad that I get to throw a birthday party at all.  However, this party should be for TWO.  We should have "boy things "and "girl things", blue and pink, Mickey and Minnie.

Missing Mary has become part of our daily lives but there are certain days that just hurt more than normal.  We now approach what was, last year at this time, just two meaningless dates and they are now the two most meaningful dates of our lives.  First is the day that was filled with so much fear, uncertainty, yet still hope...the day the babies were born 3.5 months too early.  Second is the day that all of our hopes were crushed; the day our innocence was lost, the day we lost our Mary.

It's so hard thinking what we were doing at this time last year. We still had so many dreams, so many laughs, everything positive.  I know that once we hit those two important dates this year, every other "what were we doing at this time last year?" will be filled with the sorrow that now fills the hole in our hearts.

As difficult as it is, I want to celebrate their special day.  I know it sounds awful but, we will never have any other "firsts" for Mary.  The only really meaningful dates we have for her are her birth and death.  We'll never take note and celebrate her first smile, her first tooth, her first steps, her first day of school, her first kiss, her graduation, her wedding.  Her birthday is the only day we have to celebrate her.  Yes, we "celebrate" her every day, but there's nothing like a birthday.  It's an extra special day, a day for not just us but everyone to celebrate her.

I'm trying hard to make this birthday and party include her. She deserves so much more than just a mention as Walter's twin. She was a beautiful girl who should be here with us celebrating.  Since she can't physically be here, I want to take extra care to make sure she feels our love and celebration on that day!

YOU ARE

You are my strength. You are my hope. 

You are my future. You are my past.

You are my light. You are my shadow.

You are my peace. You are my sorrow.

You are my day. You are my night. 

You are my heart. You are my spirit.

You are my dreams. You are my memories.

You are my kiss. You are my embrace. 

You are my baby. You are my forever.

I love you, sweet girl! 💜 - Mom

2014 Has To Be Better

Blissfully happy a year ago ringing in 2013 while 7 weeks pregnant.

2013 has been filled with more heartache than I ever could have imagined. For that reason, I am happy to see it go.  However, 2013 was also filled with more love than I ever could have imagined. The first 4 months were the most incredible months of my life watching those babies grow in my belly and eventually getting to meet them. Getting to hold each of them for the first time was terrifying but I also felt such a tremendous love that can only be felt when one becomes a parent. I hate to leave those moments behind but here's to a new year that is filled with less heartache and even more love, growth, remembrance, joy and hope. This next year I hope to let go of the anger and embrace the family that we have; we are parents to a beautiful boy we get to watch grow daily and a sweet girl who gets to help us all grow daily.  I am cautiously optimistic that this next year just has to be better. 

Have Yourself A "Mary" Little Christmas

The festivities, the fun, the photos, the decorations, the dinner, the delight all seem so empty without you here.  This was supposed to be our first Christmas with you. We were supposed to wake up early and watch you and your brother open your very first presents. Instead we sit here with an aching in our hearts on what should be such a wonderful day.  When there are celebrations to be had, there just doesn't seem like much to celebrate without you with us. When I should be holding you and feeling your soft skin, your dimpled chin and your cute little butt I am instead forced to try to feel you in everything I do. I try to feel you with every fiber of my being and know that you are in some way here with us but that doesn't help the longing to have you in my arms. We should have two "Baby's First Christmas" ornaments on the tree this year but instead, we have one "My first Christmas in Heaven" ornament. We have so many beautiful ornaments for you. I know you would love to stare at them against the shining white lights on the tree. I still can't believe that this is just the first of a lifetime full of Christmases tinged with sorrow and grief now that you're gone. We had books to be read and songs to be sung and cookies to be baked and lights to be hung. I don't want any of that. All I want is you. Everything else feels so hollow. I miss you my sweet girl. Merry Christmas, Mary!

Day 31: Sunset

Wow! I can't believe it's been 31 days already and now the end of this photo challenge. This photo #nofilter was the very first sunset that we watched after Mary passed away. This was in one of our favorite spots to watch the sunset over Lake Michigan. It was so beautiful! I know that Mary made it extra special for us and for Walt's very first sunset. As I watch the leaves fall and the sun set on another day, I am reminded that it is just one day more that I am away from Mary. Someone reminded me, however, that I am also one day closer to seeing her again... And that is something I can be excited about. This photo challenge has been incredibly healing for me. I'm going to miss it. It was a chance for me to show all the love I have for Mary and just how much she means to me. I miss her every day and every day is filled with different challenges. This photo challenge helped me to capture that and forced me to say the things I couldn't say. I appreciate the kindness and understanding as I opened up about losing Mary this month. She is my baby girl and every day is difficult without her but the love we receive from family and friends helps, even the slightest bit, to ease some of the pain. 

"I'll find you in the morning sun

And when the night is new

I'll be looking at the moon

But I'll be seeing you" I miss you. I love you, sweet girl! I'll be seeing you.

Day 30: Growth

I have grown in a lot of ways; some good, some bad. No question, I am not the same person I was 6 months ago. There is an innocence that I've lost. I have lost a lot of sympathy for other people and their trivial woes. Sometimes I feel bad that I don't feel bad. I think the bigger issue is that I've come to realize what is truly important, meaningful and good and what I used to think was, has now exponentially diminished. I don't take any day or moment for granted. I have lost a huge tolerance for people complaining about their pregnancy; if it results in a healthy baby or rather a baby at all, be happy and embrace it for the sheer miracle it is. I have lost and am getting back to growing in my faith. I'm in a place I never thought I'd be but I am learning to accept it as our new-- much sadder but much more appreciative--reality.