April Fools

I have always disliked April Fools Day. Even as a kid, I was overly compassionate (not gullible, there's a difference) and I despised the embarrassment that would ensue when I fell for a friend's poor excuse for a joke. I don't know who came up with this ridiculous day, but I'd like to think that they didn't intend for it to be used to harm and hurt anyone. I think the jokes were meant to be light and silly. But they never are.

Of course, as anyone would expect, my biggest April Fools pet peeve is the fake pregnancy announcement. I hope to not rant too much or make a huge deal about this but honestly, I have yet to come across a baby loss mom or a woman struggling with infertility that isn't hurt by these "jokes." To us, it's not a joke whatsoever. It's a serious, sacred thing to be pregnant. Even before I lost Avery, I held it to that high esteem. I can't fathom how not everyone does. My loss didn't change that, I grew up that way. I understand that everyone is different.

Sadly, there have been several women in the baby loss community who were berated for expressing their feelings about the "joke," hoping to spread awareness that there are countless numbers of women out there who could be hurt by it. I cannot believe they were treated so poorly, with such ugly words thrown at them for being honest and asking for sensitivity. I try to put myself in a "normal" person's shoes and look at it from their point of view. I still can't imagine getting so defensive and going against a person who knows such agony and defending a stupid joke over their pain. If I had no idea what losing a baby (or what not being able to have the kids I wanted to have) was like, I'd be grateful for the heads up, as I may not realize that it could be hurtful. I would never want to unknowingly hurt someone with something as petty as a joke. It's okay to not know. Our community doesn't expect people to understand. But we ache for sensitivity and validation. That's why we share our hearts... to raise awareness. We have to journey through this life without our babies. We need help from those around us. It makes it so much more bearable when we feel like people care. I just don't understand why people could get so angry to find out that certain jokes hurt people. It's sad that we live in a world where people don't want to choose compassion for the needs of others. Instead they get defensive and mean. I wish it could be different.

Real pregnancy announcements strike my heart with this searing ache that I can't really describe. It's not a spiteful jealousy, but I long to be like the woman expressing her joy. When I see/hear an announcement, it's like someone held up a mirror for me to look at myself. In my reflection, I see a broken mother with an incredibly flawed body, with arms only half full. The announcements remind me of what I have lost and of what I cannot have. They have nothing to do with the mother sharing her happy news, or with her precious unborn baby. But it reignites this internal struggle I've been battling to be content and happy with what God has allowed for my life.

That being said, I know many other women who struggle with pregnancy news for similar reasons and with similar feelings. I'd do anything to be pregnant again. It's not a joke to me. So to see an announcement that is intended to fool people and see them accept all the kind congratulations and excitement from the gullible ones for a baby they essentially made up, just hurts. Some may think it's overly sensitive, some may think it's asking too much because everything is going to offend at least one person... But why can't some things in life just be universally sacred? Babies/pregnancy/baby loss. Cancer. Handicaps. Things like that should never be joked about.

I was watching Jimmy Fallon last night and Alec Baldwin was one of his guests. Alec told a story about how he pulled an April Fools prank on his daughter by pretending he was having a heart attack. He went as far as to let her call 911 before finally letting her know it was a joke. He laughed as he told the story and thought nothing of it. Okay, that's just rotten. How could you put your child through that for even a minute? To let them think you may be dying and they're about to lose you. I would be so upset with my dad if he did that to me (he would never). It would hurt me that he would put me through that for the sake of a prank. Jokes and pranks should leave everyone laughing at the end with a playful, "Oh, you got me! Good one!" Not trying to stop tears as you realize no one is dying or trying to hold your heart together as you are once again reminded that pregnancy is something that brings you devastation while others can easily throw it around like it's nothing. It makes you feel all alone all over again.

I wish we were more unified as people. That we would understand that everyone has their battles and that we all need grace for those journeys we walk through. No one likes to be the so-called party pooper or to demand people to meet their needs. But we could all think twice about the things we say or do that could cause people unnecessary pain, and not just on April Fools Day, but in our day to day lives. Why is it so hard to be nice? To care? To lighten the burden even just a little for those going through hardships. To have patience and understanding for people who seem to have unrealistic needs. It may seem ridiculous from the outside, crazy even, but just have a little grace. They walk a much different road, one that they'd never want you to walk down, even if you chose to show them no compassion. <3

The Inevitable

I've been a part of this awful wonderful community of women since I started my blog in June of 2010. The community of baby loss moms. Before I started my blog, I was alone. I was the freak of nature whose baby died inside her. I knew no one like me. The only outlet I had was, sadly, Facebook... the vast sea of normal people with constant pregnancy announcements and photos of living chubby pink babies. I felt so alienated. So isolated. I didn't start getting better and healing until I started finding mothers like me.

I had so much anger, so much pain, so much grief... I didn't know what to do with it. How to express it and how to just release all of the pent up emotions that were plaguing me. Finally, when another baby loss mom's blog inspired me to start mine, it was the best thing that could have happened. I was able to get all of those tormenting thoughts out but I also found so many other women out there who had been thrown into this journey around the same time I had.

We'd all lost our firstborn babies within months of each other. We were all in the very early raw stages of our grief, some of us still trying to process our losses, some of us still waiting for the results to tell us what had happened to our babies. We went through so much together, pouring out tortured posts and leaving each other encouraging and loving comments. We started adding each other on Facebook and being a part of each other's lives. I didn't feel so alone anymore. It made such a difference to have people that understood this. It was vital in trying to heal.

The next step we all worked toward was being ready for our Rainbow Babies (a baby born after a loss... the rainbow after the storm). It seemed we all started getting pregnant around the same time, one after another, until we were all pregnant again together. It was very exciting and hopeful, sharing these sacred pregnancies together, sharing our fears and understanding each other's worries. And of course our babies are all pretty close in age (though Jude came a bit earlier than he was supposed to). One by one, we had our precious Rainbow Babies. Each miracle entered the world, healthy and perfect. It was glorious.

But then things changed... It was me who quickly found out that Jude would be my last. It was me who was told not to have any more children. Even though I have come to know a few other women who have the same exact blood clotting mutations I have, I was the only one who didn't have a successful Rainbow pregnancy with the same corrective medical regimen. The other women carried to term. None formed blood clots. None had their future children taken away from them. It was just me. My body still failed to sustain my unborn child. My emergency c-section almost killed me... twice. I was the only one with complications. What is wrong with me? Why can't I just be like them?

Even though all of these new realities came to be, I was, for the most part, still the same as these mothers. We were torn between happiness and sadness. Thrilled to finally hold our living, breathing children like we'd always dreamed. But we were sad because it reminded us all over again what we'd lost with our first babies. We were all experiencing what we'd bawled our eyes out for through dozens of agonizing, sleepless nights. It was glorious. And we all shared it together. First smiles. First visits to the cemetery to meet big sister/brother. We all understood each other. I felt like I belonged so well, though I knew one day, it would change again...

And that time has come. I knew it would. I was fully aware it would happen. I don't think I expected it to start happening so soon, but it has. My baby loss friends are slowly getting pregnant again. I'm surprised by how much it bothers me. I am, without a doubt, happy for them all. I would never want any of them to be in the same boat as me. I wouldn't want them to never have more babies. I know I would if I could! I would never want any of them to think they have attributed to my struggles. Trust me, the struggles were already here! I have no bitterness or ill will toward them. Am I jealous? Sure. My feelings all stem from how I feel about myself... how I feel about the cards I have been dealt... the horribly unfortunate flawed nature of my body and its inability to do the one thing I desire more than anything. The sadness I feel is not geared toward these lovely mothers. It is not their fault. They're just doing what they have every right to do... what I wish I could do. And I feel sorry for myself. I'm slowly becoming different again. But I'm so glad they're not like me.

I feel stuck in my grief. I like I can't move on like I would be able to if I could continue having more children. I feel like I grasp onto Avery tighter than I would if I could have another daughter. Not that she could or would be replaced. But that ache in my heart to raise a daughter could possibly be quenched. I wouldn't know what it would be like to raise Avery and watch her grow up, but I could experience a daughter and all the girly sweet things I would have experienced with Avery. Now, none of that is possible and I am left with dreaming of what could have/should have been. I can't fully move on because I am still being injured by all of this. What took Avery nearly took Jude and it's taken away all of the babies I thought I would have... All the babies I wanted so badly and still do. I will never feel life fluttering away inside me ever again. I will never bring another life into this world. I will never caress another newborn cheek in the middle of the night. I'll never cradle another tiny body close to my chest. I still can't get over that. I can't get past it. It's all I've ever wanted. I'd do anything to change this.

I get so angry when I think about all of this. About this life I have been given. This life sentence of losing so much of what I wanted for my life. I planned it all out since I was a kid. But I'll tell ya... This body of mine has really screwed up so much of my life. I've always hated my body, but never more than I do now. There's this sense of betrayal. A sense of failure... That because of my body, I cannot do what a woman is made to do. That a life was lost because of my body and another was severely compromised because of it as well. It really takes a toll on how I feel about myself. I know it's not my fault. But my body, inside and out, has always been what's wrong with my life. I always feel like I'm trapped inside this disgusting shell. I wish I could just break out of it and be normal. Be happy.

I wish we could start talking about another baby and decide when we're ready to start trying again. I wish we could make another pregnancy announcement and tell the world with excitement that Jude is going to be a big brother. I wish we could reuse all the precious clothes we loved on Jude. I wish Jude wouldn't grow up alone. I wish he could know what it's like to share life with a brother or sister who would always be a friend. I wish I could watch my belly slowly get bigger, counting the weeks with joy. I wish I could feel the kicks and the rolls once again. I wish I could feel the excitement of the ultrasounds and the thrill of the gender reveal. Keeping the list of names. Journaling every little tidbit. Dreaming of who it is dancing beneath my heart. I miss it. I miss all of it. I hate how much I want it. I swear I was given the wrong fate. Why has God allowed me to grow up with this insatiable desire if He knew I'd be denied it? I just don't understand.

Day 8: Tribute

In the early days, reaching out to other mothers like myself was very comforting. There was something therapeutic in having someone who understood the pain. Through our blogs and then later Facebook, we banded together and tried to help each other somehow feel better. We did whatever we could to remind each other that our babies are important to this world, no matter how long they lived, whether they took a breath on this Earth or not. We all needed that so terribly.

One of the biggest ways we honored each other's children was writing their names and taking a photo. One day, while at the beach, I wrote as many names in the sand that I could think of and took photos. I posted them on Facebook, tagging the mothers of those sweet babies. They loved it. And I loved making them happy, if just for a moment. The photos that I have received have been such a blessing to me. I've printed them and added them to Avery's much too short photo album. The fact that someone who doesn't even know me in real life thought of my precious daughter and took the time to write her name and photograph it has such an impact.

I've asked my followers on Instagram if they would do the same in honor of Avery's 3rd birthday. As these years pass, it's easy to feel like people forget. The pain of Avery's absence is still so present for us. It's not ever going to go away. So I felt like I needed a boost. Some proof that people do care about her. A sweet gesture that can bring some comfort on these hard days, that each year, take me further and further away from her.

I thought I would ask here on my blog as well, if anyone reading is interested in contributing a photo with Avery's name, I'd love to post it here in a few days along with the Instagram submissions. They can be as simple or creative as you want. No pressure! ;) They can be emailed to nicolefeller@gmail.com (or posted on Instagram under the hashtag #myaverynicole). Thanks!

Thank you, CarlyMarie, Kristin, & Kalialani

Blog thoughts

I've been thinking about my blog a bit lately. It doesn't appear to have too much of a following and usually I'm torn on how I feel about that.

To be quite honest, on the rare occasion that I get an email alerting me of a blog comment, my first reaction is nervousness. Sometimes I fear that someone doesn't like what I have said and has commented to ridicule me on my unpopular grief-induced opinions. This has thankfully never happened but I worry about it. In that way, I'm happy with my very small following, with much less of a chance that someone could attack me. I cannot handle confrontation. Another one of my anxieties. I don't share my blog link in my Instagram profile and I no longer use Facebook so I don't share each post there like I used to. I'm also a little afraid of putting my family out there. If you google image '31 weeks gestation,' Jude is the 19th photo (and the 46th). But when I google 'premature baby boy' Jude is the FIRST photo. It's a little scary to have my precious boy floating around in the cyber world. But I don't know how not to share my story.

On a brighter note, I'm proud of my blog and wish that more people could see it. From time to time, (like last night) I randomly redo my header and I enjoy the way it represents my family and me. With each layout that I come up with, I feel that my design improves. I enjoy being creative and making my ideas come to life in Photoshop. But even more than the aesthetics, I desire for the content to mean something to someone. I would love for others to read my writing and feel less alone. For something to strike a chord in someone's heart because they've read the exact description of what they couldn't put into words themselves. I would love to help people and to use my suffering for good. If I could be a guide for a newly bereaved parent or a comfort to a new preemie parent, or even help a non baby loss person better understand the needs of a bereaved loved one, it would make such a difference for me.

I guess sometimes I worry that Avery has made no impact. That her memory has dulled for the few that knew her here. It's been almost three years since she came and went. With each passing day, her image even in my mind fades a bit more. Without her photos to refresh me, she may be nearly lost by now, no matter how many times I memorized her face in that delivery room. These truths are heart shattering to a mother. For your child to leave no legacy is another loss in itself. But to be able to use that loss to better something or someone. To give purpose to something so devastating. To bring beauty out of such a wretched tragedy. To make beautiful things out of the dust... I've always wanted to do something meaningful. I desire for someone to need me the way I needed someone who knew how this felt when the days were raw with the newness of it all. To cling to a baby loss veteran who could be proof that I would, in fact, smile again.

Does this blog help anyone? Has it made a difference? I would like to think so, even if it was just one person for a fraction of a second. Just one resounding phrase that touched their heart. I love to write. I love to express my heart. I need to. This has been therapy for me these past nearly three years. Blogging was how I met so many amazing women that I never would have found otherwise. I'd be roaming the treacherous streets of this journey all alone.

I have ideas for this blog. I'm adding a 'resources' and 'how to help' page in my navigation section. The resources will point baby loss parents to different websites and organizations that can aid them on their path toward healing. The help page is the one that makes me nervous. I've been working on it, writing more as it comes to me. It's the inevitable 'what to say/what not to say' bit. The what does and doesn't help that I and so many I've met have agreed are true. Something I know I would appreciate if I was struggling to know how to be there for someone who'd lost a child, if it was something I couldn't relate to myself. I'm sure I'll be working on it for a little while, to be sure there's nothing that can rub someone the wrong way. Because as I've already established, I just can't handle that.

With all of the uselessness expressed, I'm glad I blog no matter what. I like that I can come on here and see a running log of our life and how Jude is growing and changing. I love editing and sharing my cherished photos. I enjoy pretending like my life is exciting and important to the world. I like keeping my little girl's memory alive by telling her story and sharing her life. I like having the potential to help people. Anything is possible.

Capture Your Grief : Day 19 // Project

Not too long after Avery died, I was overcome with an immense desire to do something, to channel my grief into something good. I wanted to give back, or bless other people in my shoes, or better equip hospitals like the one I went to who seem to fall short on their preparedness for stillbirths. I wasn't exactly sure where was heart was at. I just wanted to help someone.

I was very surprised how quickly the world around me moved on after Avery died. I guess if it didn't happen to you, it's easy to just go about your life as if nothing happened. For me, life ended. My heart stopped when Avery's did. I could no longer function as a human being. I was a mere suggestion of the person I used to be. I ached for the comfort of those around me in the early days. I longed for words of encouragement and to know people were still thinking of us and remembering Avery. I needed it.

I was out with my dad one afternoon and we stopped at the grocery store. He needed to pick up a graduation card for his friend's daughter. I skimmed the sympathy cards, internally seething over the fact that they had a 'loss of pet' section but lacked a 'loss of child' section. I thought about all of the generic cards I'd received and wondered if their purchasers were any bit dismayed over the poor choices of cards for such a loss. And in thinking about those cards, that desire for encouragement and comfort returned, and I wished I could still receive such love and confirmation that my struggle and my agony was cared about.

That's when I came up with BLM Penpals. It has seemed to sort of fizzle out now, but two years ago, it was a very comforting tool. I presented it to the readers of Avery's blog and they jumped at it. All of the baby loss moms who were interested submitted their home addresses, information on their precious babies, and some information about themselves. The idea was that we would all send cards, letters, small gifts to each other and continue to build each other up long after the world moved on. Over 30 women got involved.

It was so wonderful to open the mailbox and have a cheery, loving card from a kind stranger. Especially on the days when formula samples would arrive for a baby that was no longer alive. I enjoyed growing closer to these women and doing nice things for them. Instead of just dwelling on myself, I was thinking of others and trying to brighten their days. To this day, several of us send out Christmas cards. We always know how to reach each other if we'd like. I really enjoyed the early days of BLM Penpals. I think it blessed a lot of people at just the right time. I know it did that for me.



 

Capture Your Grief : Day 14 // Community

I have not had the opportunity to attend an event for the baby loss community. Each year, it seems that any walks or special remembrance functions are always much too far away from me. I would love to attend a walk in Avery's honor someday. I think it would be so moving and so wonderful.

The baby loss community itself, however, has been a huge part of this journey through grief. I have met dozens of women online who have walked the same path of loss. I first met many through my old blog, The Avery Diaries, that I started three months after losing her. I was inspired by the amazing Kristin Cook, after her blog, Dear Stevie, touched my heart and sparked a need to share my daughter and express myself and my grief. I connected with many of the women on Facebook, furthering our friendships.

I have sent and received many cards and letters with these lovely women. We have exchanged Christmas cards each year since our losses and continue to keep in touch through our blogs, Facebook, Instagram, and even Pinterest. It's so calming to know that there are other mothers out there like me, who live this life and endure the struggles as I do.

13 week rambling

I am now 13 weeks pregnant with this precious baby. Just one week left of the first trimester. It's nice to know I'm out of the woods in miscarriage territory, but in my case, that's not the worry here. Yes, I worried a bit anyway (especially when some of my precious fellow BLMs (baby loss moms) miscarried their sweet rainbows) but I know my problem lies later on in pregnancy. I do like to believe that all this baby needs is for my blood to be thinner, which is what my daily injections are doing. Maybe that's all that went wrong for Avery. Blood clots forming in her cord that cut off her nutrients. Maybe that will never happen again now that we know what is wrong with my body. These are the thoughts I have a lot of the time, convincing myself that I'll never know additional loss. And a lot of times I really believe it.

I already feel physically pregnant. Last week, my stomach started to round out a lot more. I'm not tiny to begin with, but with Avery, I didn't think I looked pregnant at all until about 18 weeks. Here I am, at 13 weeks, looking pregnant and not just fat. I would say that means this baby is doing well, on track for size. Avery never was and they never noticed.

I've already been able to find baby's heartbeat with our doppler twice in the past two weeks. I love it so much. But as soon as I find it and Daniel confirms that it's not my pulse that I've found, I just start laughing and lose it again. I can't imagine ever taking that precious heartbeat for granted.

Lately, I'm feeling impatient about finding out baby's gender. I have an appointment with the perinatologist again on May 13th when I'm just two days shy of 20 weeks. I'm pretty sure they'll do another ultrasound and I'd assume they could tell me the sex of the baby by then. That's just a little more than 6 weeks away!! I can't wait to put a name to this little miracle. This little one is such an intimate part of us and it feels so wrong not even knowing the gender or name. People have been asking me if I have any intuition telling me which it'll be. At first I had absolutely no inkling whatsoever, but so many people have been saying they think it's a boy. I guess since then, I have been picturing a boy more, but I still find myself picturing a girl too. I really have no preference. I just want to bring him or her home with us! The only thing that makes me prefer a boy is that I have no girls' names that I'm in love with. I have a list of 'okay' names that I'm not even sure I can fathom using. Our boy name is chosen though. He will be Jude. Just like Avery would have been if she'd been a boy. I've loved that name for at least four years now.

I'm so excited to find out who this little love is. But even more excited to bring him or her home with us to stay. <3