Right where I am 2013: three years, three months, eight days

Just like the past two years, Angie at Still Life with Circles, has encouraged us all to share right where we are at this moment in our grief.  My post from last year can be found here.

So, where do I stand in this up and down journey on this rugged terrain of grief? My grief has changed shape and size in the past three years, as life takes me down more paths that intertwine with this same road that I've trudged along. Right now, I am stuck. That's the only way I know how to describe it. Losing my daughter, Avery, three years ago at 25 weeks caused a ripple affect that has not seemed to cease. It's brought about so many other circumstances that I was never prepared to face, and now, I still face them everyday.

My son, my Rainbow Baby, will be two years old next month. As he gets older, my insatiable desire for more children gets stronger. Because of the unpredictable nature of my high risk pregnancies, I have been strongly advised to never attempt another pregnancy again. This has been a struggle that I still have never been able to accept. Right now, I am watching everyone who was pregnant with their Rainbows along with me become pregnant once again. Their bodies no longer fail them. They've seemed to be able to remedy what caused them to have their losses. But not me. Even those who have the exact blood clotting disorders I do have gone on to have healthy, full term pregnancies, and are having third babies now as well. My premature Rainbow was nearly lost as well, my body barely responding to what was supposed to fix it. All of this leaves me with so much anger. I don't understand why my body was not made for the one thing my heart has always longed for. I am grateful for my precious Jude, but I never wanted him to be alone.

When I had Jude by emergency c-section while on blood thinners, it caused me to develop blood clots in my lungs. I was hospitalized for his last week in the NICU, and it was one of the most traumatic experiences I've ever endured. I thought I would be over it by now, but it still haunts me. I have been left with a ridiculous struggle with anxiety. Because of the clots nearly two years ago, I am on coumadin and have to get my blood checked once a month (PT/INR). My anxiety has turned these routine finger pricks into horrifying moments to dread all month long. As they get closer, I am filled with fear. I know there is nothing to really worry about, but I cannot shake the feeling of dread over it. Things that never would have bothered me before have my stomach in knots now. I worry that I could lose my husband. I worry that my son could get cancer (ever since his febrile seizure seven months ago). I think about things no one should dwell on. I rob my life of the joy I should have by marring it with the fear of what isn't. I truly cannot control this and sometimes it consumes me.

Right now, I long for another daughter. I so badly want to be able to raise a little girl. I eat my heart out at the store, glancing over the sweet pinks and frilliness of the baby girls' section, knowing that the only baby girl clothes I'll ever buy are in a box in the top of my closet, purchased for a sweet girl that never made it home. I long for the little sandals and the dresses. The dolls and the bows. I love having a son, but I want a daughter again too. I was supposed to have that. I feel like there will forever be a gaping hole in my heart without a daughter to watch grow up. I'll never see my little girl as a bride. Never share girly heart to hearts or give mother-daughter advice. There's so much I can't have and I am dreadfully aware of that. I wish I didn't want it so badly, but I do.

I have a hard time with people who question my situation, just shrugging it off like I could just go to a specialist if I want another baby. They don't understand how serious it is. I almost died twice having my son. He almost died. My daughter did die. Since there are no guarantees at all when it comes to pregnancy for me, how could anyone think I should try going against the advice of more than one doctor? Then people nonchalantly suggest adoption, as if I've never heard of it before. That is not something that we can afford. And my heart aches for my child, so adoption does not heal what is broken. My dream is surrogacy, if that is even possible one day. If someone is truly selfless enough to give us the greatest gift imaginable. It's a huge deal. And very unlikely, but even so, I still keep a mental log of my favorite names... just in case.

I am convinced that if what happened to Avery was the end of our losses, that I would be a much better version of myself now. I grasp onto my loss more tightly than I would if we hadn't lost our future children as well. When I was pregnant with Jude, and everything was going perfectly, I felt at peace. I thought of her lovingly, without so much pain attached to her memory. I felt like I could survive and move past it, always carrying her close but never letting her death define me. But as soon as things went badly with Jude, and I lost all of his future siblings, a dark cloud moved in and it's hovered over me ever since. I'm stuck in the mud. I'm standing still while everyone moves on... But at least I'm standing.

Goodbye, Bailey

 

On June 10th, our beloved pug of 13 years, passed away.  He had been deaf for some time and his health was deteriorating quickly so it wasn't much of a surprise that it was his time to go. I always feared losing Bailey in all the years we loved him, but when it finally happened, it was admittedly not the tragedy I had pictured. 

I remember when we got Bailey. In January of 2000, my parents came to pick me up from school (I was in 10th grade) and when I approached my mom, she had something furry sticking out of her coat that she was trying to keep closed. I'll never forget when he popped his little face out and I saw him for the first time. He was so cute and tiny, almost silly to look at. I paraded him around to my friends, so proud of my cute new friend. 

It took us a couple days but we finally all agreed on Bailey's name (Parker and Cyrus were also in the running). I spent his first night on the floor outside of his cage while he cried in between sleeping. It didn't take long for Bailey to get his chubbiness that we loved, exaggerating his wrinkles even further. He was fun and sweet, chasing my little brothers around the house. He would come running the second you called his name. He loved treats and pizza crust the best. I loved how he always wanted to be where we were. If you left the room, he followed, just to be close by. 

Bailey was never aggressive, never threatening. He was the perfect dog for us. He lived with Daniel and me for 14 months after we got married. He was such a good sport, moving to a new place and then moving back home after our new landlords didn't allow pets. 

I always loved Bailey's snoring and I'll miss that. He was always wagging his tail... even up until the last minute. What a good boy. It's hard to believe he's gone now, the last piece of childhood faded away. 

Now, I have personal insight to the whole 'comparing losing a pet to losing a baby' issue that exists in the baby loss community. I have come across so many women who have had someone try to comfort them by saying they can relate since they lost their dog. I had that said to me as well. Now, after losing Bailey, I can honestly say that it is not the same thing whatsoever. Yes, I was sad losing Bailey. At times I felt like he was my baby, but that was before I ever had my own baby. It is very different to birth a child that is your flesh and blood, than to raise an animal in your home. Losing Bailey did not paralyze me in any way. Losing my daughter has marred me for life. It does seem that the people who try to compare it don't have children of their own. They must not, because then they would understand what they're saying. I hope that doesn't offend anyone, but I have yet to meet a bereaved parent who has not been hurt by that false sentiment. The life of our children cannot be compared to that of an animal or anything else. No two losses are the same. Comparisons are not necessary, no matter what they are.  It's okay for someone to consider their pet to be their child, but they cannot assume that someone else would hold their pet to the same esteem as their lost child.

So, with that tidbit of recently affirmed knowledge, I say goodbye to a dear old friend, who made life sweet and memories sweeter. We love you, Bailey!

Baby Girl

What's it like to hold your own chubby pink baby girl? What's it like to buy all sorts of pink and fill a room with girly cuteness? What's it like to hang and fold the sweetest of dresses? What's it like to paint tiny finger and toenails? What's it like to attend playful little tea parties, and watch your little girl breeze through the room dressed like a princess? What's it like to braid her soft hair on her small head, or give her a ponytail? What's it like to have your daughter?

I am left only to imagine what all of this is like. I've spent countless hours imagining all of this. The absence of this. The loss of this. I ache for my little girl. The one I lost. The one I can't have. I never dreamed I would never have the chance to have another girl after we lost Avery. I thought surely we could fix this monstrous defect inside me. That medical intervention would be all we needed to get the rest of them here. The sweet little lives I dreamed of bringing into this world. The ones that will never be. Who would they have been? I'm sure at least one would have been another girl. I still desire that so much. I ache to raise a little girl. To have the sweet relationship I share with my own mother. To watch her grow into a beautiful woman.

I had my heart set on raising my little girl. More than halfway through my pregnancy, I never thought I would lose her. I didn't know I'd be faced with a future without her. I believed she was my future, for the rest of my life. Then the rug was pulled out from under my feet, taking her away with it. All the plans and the dreams that were planted in my heart the moment she was planted in my womb. I have a daughter... but I don't. I have my daughter waiting for me and I will be with her again one day in Heaven, but here, my arms are aching for her. Aching for a little girl.

Sons are amazing. I would know, I have one. He satisfies my desire of having a son. He fills my heart with joy. He is exactly the son I dreamed of raising, when I named my first son Jude long before I even married his father. His entrance into this world was not what I had in mind, but I'm just thankful he made it here at all. If given the impossible ability to have more sons, I would accept them in a second and be grateful for them and love them completely as well. But still, my heart would ache for what I was supposed to have here.

I just wish so badly I could have another daughter to watch grow up. I think about it so often. I feel so incomplete. It's so difficult to have already lost what you wish you could have.

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.

Avery's 3rd Birthday

{To read Avery's birth story, written on her first birthday, please click here.}

I am sure I've already said it but I still can't believe it's been three years since Avery came silently into this world. It sounds so much longer ago than it feels.

Avery's day this year was gentler at first than I expected. Daniel, Jude, and I went out for the day. We stopped at Old Navy to buy Jude a shirt for St. Patrick's Day this weekend. Daniel and I can never help browsing over the girls' clothes, and today was no exception. I mentally pick out outfits I wish I could buy for Avery... ones that could hang in her closet... ones I would love to wash a fold... ones I'd give anything to watch her run and play in.

We settled on a green polo for Jude, since the boys' section is almost always lacking the same kind of cuteness as the girls' clothes. From there, we had lunch together at Texas Roadhouse. It's always strange going out on this day... We're not celebrating something... not quite. But in my family, we always go out for dinner on our birthdays and I guess I don't want Avery's to be an exception.

When I'm out in public on this day, I can't help but think about how isolated I feel, watching strangers around me. They have no idea that this day is the day I gave birth to my dead daughter. As the host asked me how I was, and I generically answered, "Fine, how are you?" he had no clue what today actually was for me and how I actually am. When the waitress thanked us at the end of our meal and told us to have a great night, she had no idea we'd be spending the evening in a cemetery, releasing balloons for our absent baby girl. I know everyone has their own story and their own trials and pains, but so often, I feel so alone. I feel like there aren't many people like me around here, in my day to day life.

After we ate, we stopped at Michael's to buy Avery some decorations for her stone. Jude was getting bored so Daniel took him outside. I browsed the aisle's on my own, picking out a few Easter decorations for next week. I remembered to check out the yard decor section. As I looked through, finding a pretty white ceramic bird on clearance, I thought about how pathetic it was that I was shopping for my daughter's birthday presents in the garden section... that essentially, we get to buy her lawn ornaments. It's an empty feeling, really. But it's all we have. It's the only way we can take care of her and treat her.

Next came Publix, the grocery store, for balloons, fresh flowers, and a small cake. This part always stresses me out. I don't like being asked whose birthday it is. I don't like having to feel the awkwardness that ensues when I answer honestly that the balloons are for a release for our daughter. I am aware that I don't have to disclose anything about the function, but in past times when I have tried to be vague, it has backfired and turned out worse than just telling the basic truth. Thankfully, the woman who filled the balloons, the woman at the bakery, and the cashier didn't pry. Jude even got his own little balloon to keep him busy while we waited for the 13 we needed. It was his first balloon and we had to tie it to his belt loop.

My family and Daniel's met at the cemetery at 7:00 pm. My cousin, Rachel, came this year, which I loved. She and I have grown extra close in the past year. I'm almost 12 years older than her, but as she's growing up, she's quickly becoming a close friend. Even though she's only 17, and not even a mother, she somehow has this compassion and understanding for the life I live. She's very sensitive to it and she loves Avery as if she knew her inside and out. Not many people care the way she does and I cherish that.

We each wrote a message for Avery on our balloons. Jude wanted to explore so it was a bit more difficult this year, but we managed. I'm usually surprisingly affected by releasing the balloons to Heaven but I was too distracted this time. I guess that makes it easier. We decorated Avery's spot with some pink roses, a tiara, a bird statue, a new pinwheel, and a pink stuffed bunny. I think it looked very sweet, though of course not as sweet as she would have looked if she was here to enjoy her birthday.

 

We take a family photo each year in front of Avery's plot. This year, it didn't turn out so well. Jude had no interest in posing. It was windy and chilly and getting dark. And we just weren't in the genuine smile mood. I guess this photo shows our mood quite well. But it's real. And I like that.

My dad took us out for pizza afterwards and that was nice. No matter how "well" the day goes, it's still not what I wish it was. It's never going to be what it's supposed to be. That's the problem. March 13th should mean nothing to us. Avery was supposed to be born at the end of June. She was supposed to be my summer baby. But instead, we're stuck with the "should have beens" and "what ifs" and Sharpie scrawled balloons in a cold cemetery at dusk to "celebrate" her birthday. I can't get over how ugly that is. I can't get over how scarring and wrong it is to survive her.

So each year, and every day in between, we remember her. We honor our daughter because that's all we can do. We are left with almost nothing. We cling to all the pieces we can. Keeping her alive through these special dates, remembering the short time she was here, beneath my heart, is the least we can do for the little girl who changed our world. She made me a mother, made Daniel a father. She waits for us in Heaven. We will hold her again. So I won't forget her. I won't stop loving her and missing her. She is mine.

Happy birthday, sweet Avery... As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be.

Day 12: The Day Before Goodbye

Again, I am sharing a post I wrote two years ago, on the first anniversary of this difficult day:

March 12th - The day of waiting and induction

Today, last year, was another hard day. It was the day between the knowledge of death and the day of birth. We started off this day very weary and emotionally broken. I had not slept. We had to be at my doctor's office to meet with my OB early, around 9:00am if I remember right. (Times are the only trouble I have in my memory of these days. I recall the events perfectly, but minutes and hours melt together and I couldn't tell you what time many things occurred.)

It was very painful to sit in my doctor's office, waiting. The place where I had just been only three days before for a routine visit was now a place of torment. Pregnant women everywhere, while my baby lay dead inside of my womb. Of course, the office would have to be busy today. Finally, I was called back and Daniel and I followed the nurse to a room where we sat and waited for the doctor.

She was very kind to us and was visibly broken for us. She said she went through my chart over and over again to see if there was something she had missed but could not figure out why our baby had died. I could tell this was something that bothered her, that she felt she had failed us as a doctor. I didn't feel this was her fault though. According to ultrasound techs (at a separate facility) Avery was doing just fine.

We decided to go through with inducing and the nurse's assistant got on the phone with the labor and delivery department at the hospital just around the corner to set up a time. The first available delivery suite wouldn't be ready for me until 6:30 that evening. A long day of waiting. Waiting for the most bittersweet moments a person could possibly experience. The birth of a dead child.

We went back to my parents' house since they live no more than five minutes from the hospital. We took our places on the couch where we had sat all the day before and just cried and shared our thoughts. I broke down over and over again, thinking of all the things I had lost. First smiles, first laughs, first crawls, first steps, first words... So many things that some take for granted as just being typical life. Family frequently called my dad to see how we were doing. I couldn't bear to talk to anyone.

Then my dad was on the phone with his friend, who owns a funeral home. He would be the one to come and pick Avery up from the hospital. He wanted to know what our preferences were for the funeral. We had to pick what color her casket would be. (We chose white.) And then, he needed to know her name for the obituary.

At this point, we hadn't chosen a definite name for our little girl. Only two weeks before, at our last ultrasound, we were given an '80-90% chance' that she was a girl. Up until this point, we'd been considering Sawyer for her, but hadn't made it definite since I was afraid others would think it was too boyish. So when thinking about our sweet little girl, Sawyer just didn't fit anymore. I thought through my mental list of favorite names, back to the one we loved originally. I started to cry when I thought of it. "I want to name her Avery," I told Daniel. He immediately agreed. We decided to give her my name as her middle name, as a way to have a piece of me with her. Avery Nicole. We had just named our baby.

The day went on. So much crying. So much agony. Awaiting what was to come that evening. I hadn't eaten in almost two days. The thought of doing so made me so incredibly sad, thinking about how Avery used to share my food with me and now she no longer would. Regardless, I forced myself to eat half of a bagel, figuring I may need some energy for that night. Who knows how much pushing and labor I may have to go through. My attempt failed, however, because I threw it up almost immediately.

Suddenly, it was somehow time for us to go to the hospital. My parents drove us there and my brothers and Daniel's family would be meeting us a bit later. I had my mom check in for me and tell the front desk why I was there, but even she could barely get through the words. My amazing nurse, Daniele, appeared and called me to her side to show me to my room. She put her arm so lovingly around me and I just leaned against her and started sobbing once again. She knew exactly what I was going through. Not too many years ago, she had a baby girl who died shortly after birth. It felt nice to have someone there who understood this pain.

In my room, I had to change into a gown. I went into the bathroom and just started crying all over again. I had always dreamed of coming to one of these rooms to have my own baby, instead of just being here to visit everyone else's. Finally, I was here to deliver my baby, but it was all wrong. So wrong. She would not be coming home with us like everyone else's has. This was not the happy moment it was supposed to be, the excitement of bringing a crying chubby pink baby into the world, our eyes about to meet for the first time. No one would bring 'It's A Girl!' balloons or stuffed animals. No one was celebrating her life... just mourning her death before she was even here. When I think back on these horrific moments, I feel so insulted by some of the women who complain at the end of their pregnancy, who are upset that their baby hasn't come when they wanted them to, acting like it's a huge cross to bear. I understand that one could become impatient since it's uncomfortable to be that large and that pregnant, but there's a difference between being uncomfortable and being ungrateful. And also the people who sympathize with the ingrates and act as if the woman is enduring something terrible by having to wait longer. Really? If you are going to be pushing out a living child that you get to take home and watch grow up, then you deserve no pity. Go through labor to deliver a dead baby and leave the hospital empty-handed and then see how 'miserable' you feel. End of rant.

Once in bed, I'd been given the medication to begin inducing labor, which was administered in a very uncomfortable and violating manner (that I will not speak of) every three hours. It was probably about 7pm at this time. Daniele stayed with me even after her shift ended. She told us the story of her baby girl and even brought some humor into the room. I actually smiled. I felt guilty at first, but realized how amazing it felt to be distracted enough to show positive emotions. Another nurse, who'd lost a son due to preterm labor, came in. She had been one of the nurses who had tried to find Avery's heartbeat the day before. She brought in a crocheted blanket and matching hat for Avery to wear when she was born. I remember thinking that the hat looked so tiny and there was no way she was going to be that small, not according to her gestational age. I would find out later that that same hat would be much too big and we'd end up with an even smaller one.

Soon, my brothers, and Daniel's parents and siblings had arrived, followed by my aunt and uncle. Everyone just sat around, some trying to lighten the mood. I could hear a brand new baby just on the other side of the wall, crying. Every time I heard that little one, tears poured down my face. I knew my little one would never cry. She would come silently into this world, just as silently as she left it.

Every hour I had to get up to use the restroom. Every time I'd drag my IV pole inside and shut the door, all the emotions would flood in all over again. Maybe it was being alone that did it. But I would look at myself in the mirror, hold my belly and just hate and dread everything. I got extremely upset when I began bleeding. Pregnant women aren't supposed to bleed. But technically I wasn't pregnant anymore. This medication was taking my baby away from me. She wasn't supposed to be gone. Each time I exited the bathroom, my eyes fell upon the the little, wheeled hospital bed that the babies are supposed to sleep in. Seeing that pierced my heart every time. I knew my baby would not be using that. In fact, it would only be used to wheel her out of the room for the last time. Thankfully, I couldn't see it from my bed.

Hours passed and I could feel my contractions. They got more and more painful as the time went on. I wanted to brave them without any pain medication for as long as possible. I was allowed to have an epidural if I chose, but I knew I didn't want that. Not this time. I'd save that for a bigger baby, I thought. I remember thinking that I wanted to feel the pain. I wanted to hurt for Avery. I had no idea if she suffered but if she had at all, then I wanted to suffer some too. I waited almost seven hours before I finally asked for pain medication. I waited until they hurt bad enough to make me cry. I could no longer be distracted from why I was here.

By this time it was 1:30am. My nurse gave me some pain medicine and sleeping pills so I could finally get some rest. It had been a while since I'd slept. All of my family, except Daniel and my mom left for the night. I felt so tired but even with the drugs, my mind kept working. I wondered when Avery would finally come and what she would look like. I was so afraid of how much it would hurt to see her and so quickly say goodbye. Trading a lifetime with her for just a few hours. Eventually, I fell asleep, but it was definitely not peaceful.

 

Day 11: Falling From Cloud 9

Today, three years ago, is the day we found out we'd lost Avery. The day of the ultrasound that showed her still, lifeless little body. The day we found out I'd have to deliver her. There really isn't anything else that I can write for today that I haven't written before. I decided to just repost what I blogged on Avery's blog on this day two years ago, on the very first anniversary. It may be of special interest to newer readers who may not know the whole story. But first, I would like to share a photo from today when we took Jude to visit his big sister.

Originally posted on The Avery Diaries on March 11, 2010:

March 11th - The hardest day

Today, a year ago, our whole world came crashing down. Last night, a year ago, I had the strangest feeling that something was wrong. Heart palpitations all evening. Worry. Out of nowhere, really. Then, it all escalated into tears and a small panic attack. I believe in my heart that that's when our sweet girl was leaving us for Heaven. My body and my heart knew. But my mind wouldn't until the following day.

It was Thursday, March 11, 2010... I had called my mom and told her my concerns. She thought it would be best to go to labor and delivery at the hospital just for peace of mind. After all, we did have a date later to see Dear John at the movies together. So Daniel and I went. I felt kind of silly, assuming I didn't know what I was talking about since this was my first baby. But I needed to hear that Avery was fine and I didn't care if they thought I was paranoid.

After an agonizing wait, which was probably not half as long as it felt, they called us back and hooked me up to a fetal monitor. Well, they tried to. They couldn't pick up a heartbeat and decided to go with a regular fetal doppler. Three different nurses tried their hand at it. None of them said anything but I could see it in their faces that this was not good. Plus I knew Avery. In the doctor's office, her heartbeat was always found so quickly. Still, I refused to entertain the thought that she was gone. I couldn't handle that.

They sent me over to ultrasound and I got on the table, actually feeling a little excited to see our baby on the screen. A part of me was still hoping that the doppler issue was a fluke and that the ultrasound would show us a healthy beautiful girl. But she was so still. She looked so cloudy, faded. Two different techs looked for a heartbeat. I could see the flatline across the screen as they typed 'NO FHT.' No fetal heart tone. They weren't allowed to tell me Avery was gone, but I knew it. The techs left Daniel and I alone for a moment and I turned to him and finally beginning to cry, I said, "I'm going to have to deliver her." His eyes welled up, "No," he answered, still not wanting to believe it.
The tech returned and told me to go to the restroom. I remember it so perfectly. I felt like I was in a dream. I closed the bathroom door behind me and looked at myself in the mirror. I whispered, "This is the worst day of my life." Then I added, "My baby is dead." That's when I started crying more. To say it, to admit it... I knew it was true.

 

They took us back to OB and had us wait in an empty delivery suite. I looked around the room, knowing I wouldn't be coming to one of these rooms with joy. I would come back here to say goodbye. In a few moments, a nurse, Daniele, entered the room. Her face said everything. I was already crying. She came right up to me, knelt down in front of me and just pulled me to her. That is when I lost it, sobbing and sobbing. And that's when she finally said it. She told me 'the baby is gone.' I really don't think I've ever cried that hard before or since. It was truly the most devastating and painful moment of my life.

Daniele and another nurse, Vicki, told us our options. We could stay and I could be induced to deliver right then. Or I could go home, meet with my doctor in the morning and decide when to come back. It was all too much, too soon. We decided to come back the following day. I couldn't part with our sweet girl just yet. The nurses left the room for a moment and Daniel called the pizza place he delivered for at that time to tell them he wouldn't make it in that night. I started crying all over again when I heard him tell his boss, "I just found out my baby died." It hurt me so much to hear him say that. I hated that he was hurting so much. But Avery is something we share together.

One of my biggest memories from that day is when I called my mom. I dreaded her answering because I knew I was about to shatter her world too. "Mom... she's dead," was all I could manage to say through my tears. "No, don't tell me that," she answered, immediately crying. I don't remember much else from our conversation, but I know I told her they couldn't find a heartbeat and the ultrasound confirmed she was gone. I'm sure I told her we decided to come back 'tomorrow' to induce and deliver. My father was appalled that I had to deliver a dead baby. But that was the reality of it.

After we left the hospital, we went straight to my parents' house. My parents and two of my brothers met us at the door. I broke down all over again when I saw them and they each hugged me. It all just felt so awful. More than awful. There is no word for it.
We spent the rest of the day and evening sitting in the living room. I cried all day and night, wishing I could be consoled. I just kept thinking about how my sweet little baby was dead inside of me. I hated it so much. I felt so much dread and sadness. I was afraid of what the next day would bring. So much pain. So much devastation.

I'll never forget how my dad wanted to try anything he could to help me. He ran out and got me a liter of Mountain Dew, my favorite drink of all time, and Doritos and a Butterfinger, which are a couple other favorites. I couldn't bear to eat, but I did allow myself to have the soda. I stayed away from caffeine through my pregnancy so it was nice to have it. Little good my caffeine avoidance had done.

That night, when Daniel and I finally got home, we got into bed. We cried for a while, holding each other so miserably. It was pretty late. Daniel is blessed to be able to fall asleep easily no matter what. I, on the other hand, was awake all night. I cried and cried. I pictured how the next day would go and what it might be like to see our baby. How would she look? Would it be disturbing? Would she look normal? Would she look beautiful and perfect? So many questions and worry. But most of all I was just afraid of how much it would hurt my heart to go through that. The labor to deliver a child is worth it, but to deliver a baby who is not coming home with you is a like a kick in the face.

Of all the days surrounding Avery's death and birth, this day was the hardest. Finding out that the baby I had waited my whole life to have was gone, was really and truly the very worst thing that I have ever been through. Sometimes I still cannot believe that this happened to us and that our sweet little girl is not here. Today is hard for me, reliving the day and remembering exactly how I felt to know our baby died. I will never forget that.

Thank you for reading. These days are so sacred to me.

Day 9: How Three Years Feels

I still cannot believe we're already hitting the three year mark on this road without Avery. So much has changed and yet so much has not changed at all.

I live my day to day life in a relatively normal way, enjoying Jude and Daniel, and taking care of our home. It's the moments that come and the occasional thoughts that haven't really changed. I still want my daughter here. I still miss her. I still feel the scars of those traumatic days that I somehow lived through. They were so emotionally scarring, something impossible to get over. I live on but I don't move on. That is my child. I carried her. She's me and Daniel, just like Jude is. I dreamed her whole life out. That love doesn't just stop. The pain of losing that entire life doesn't just shut off when the pregnancy is over.

I really believe I'd be a bit better off if my situation were different. If Jude didn't have to be the last child we have, I think I'd have a healthier heart and mind. I wouldn't ache so much inside. I will never raise a daughter. I will never buy those irresistibly sweet little girl outfits that rip my heart out when I see them in the stores. All I'll ever have are the few outfits we bought for Avery that still sit in a box in the top of my foyer closet. I can't part with them; they're a fraction of all I have of her... which isn't much to begin with. I lost Avery, and the future daughter I wanted to have. I never thought Jude would be it. I always hoped we had learned all we needed to know from Avery to save Jude and the rest of our children from the same fate she suffered. I thought I had the magical fix during Jude's pregnancy. But that still wasn't enough. It started to happen again. It would have happened again.

I try to be graceful. But sometimes I feel angry. Sometimes I just feel so bitter about all of it... that we couldn't change it, couldn't fix it. That the agony didn't end with losing Avery. We had to lose our future babies too, and endure a rough and frightening start with Jude, that nearly took my life and left me medically dependent. Most times, I just don't understand.

I know if things had turned out differently-- if the Lovenox injections and folic acid pills had been the successful regimen it was supposed to be-- I would still miss and love and ache for Avery, but I think the pain would fade a bit into the background, and not be such an agitated sore. I felt myself healing and accepting Avery's absence when I was pregnant with Jude. As soon as things went wrong at 31 weeks and my doctor gave me the news the changed my entire future, I felt that band-aid rip off, tearing flesh with it. A new wound, a new scar, a new loss. And that's where I am.

Yes, it's been three years since we lost Avery. It sounds like a long time from the outside. It sounds like enough time to get over a baby we didn't know... if you have no idea what losing a baby feels like. Three years is like three months. It doesn't take long for the time to pass, but time and grief are irrelevant to each other. If anything, the passing of time makes it harder. It's been longer since we've been with Avery and were able to touch her, feel her, hold her. As time goes on, everyone forgets. The world moves on even when we don't. I am always feeling like most people in my life forget her, don't count her, and don't remember what we went through. If they do, they don't show it. Some do. Most don't. I wish people would approach the situation through my eyes and not theirs. It's my situation after all. I need the acknowledgment. I cannot be denied her or what I've been through. It makes the difficult life even worse. It makes it harder to truly heal.

My desire is to be the kind of person Avery would be proud of. I want to be strong and happy and inspirational. I don't want to be praised or applauded, but I don't want to be the walking sad story who drags around the darkness of her struggles. I'm trying to be better and feel better. I'm trying not to want what I've always wanted because it hurts too much. I am a work in progress. Always.

Day 7: Words For Her

I got an iPad for my most recent birthday. Not much later, I was feeling creative and downloaded a journal app. It's been years since I've written poetry. It's something I used to do a lot of, but in the last few years, I've struggled to successfully be poetic.

Despite my writer's block, on October 29, 2012, I made an entry in that journal app, just typing out whatever came to mind, trying to eloquently express the way I feel. I never planned to share it, but this is what I came up with:

I miss you. 

Who would you be right now? What would your voice sound like? What would you say to me? What would be your favorite things? Would you sing? Would you dance? What would you pretend as you play? Would you have curls like your brother? Would you be brave and bold or shy and reserved? 

So many things I don't know and that's what makes it so hard to be without you. 

A lifetime of knowing and loving and living left undone. 

Goodbye without hello. Kisses you never felt. Words you never heard. 

You're so gone. So missing. So absent. 

Yet you're here, etched into my being, the void in my heart screams your name.

Aching to feel your weight in my hands again, dreading the day I forget the feel of your skin. 

Slowly slipping away, the touch, the scent, the sight...

But the memory of silence is engraved like a scar. 

The torture of the stillness, no cry, no breath from your perfect lips. 

Day 6: One More Week

It occurred to me today that there is only one week until Avery's third birthday. Wow, that came up quickly. I am always amazed how quickly time goes. As the years go on, I think time moves even faster. Yet, some moments stay frozen in time or seem to last forever. Those moments we endured three years ago next week. Those days lasted for weeks. How quickly those days pass now. They'll never be normal dates anymore. Always significant. Marred by agony and graced by her.

We haven't yet decided how we will spend her day. We only know that it won't be the day we wish it could be.

Day 5: Happy Memories

In early March of 2010, Daniel and I tagged along on a fun outing to celebrate his father's birthday. Daniel's brother and sister came along too. We went to place that had a go cart track, rides, and arcade games. I was 24 weeks pregnant with Avery so I wasn't allowed on any of the rides-- not even the little carousel!

It was a beautiful day. The weather was perfect. I spent a lot of time sitting by myself while I waited for Daniel and his family to finish each ride. I didn't mind waiting. I sat there thinking about my sweet baby, dreaming of her arrival. Dreaming of holding her and seeing her face. I felt so content even through my impatience. I can't believe how vividly I remember sitting there, watching the carousel, picturing that one day my little girl would ride one, laughing and smiling. I pictured her with curls like her dad.

Every few minutes, Daniel would speed by me on the go cart track and each time he would smile real big and blow me a kiss as he passed by. I loved seeing him enjoy himself and have fun. At the time, he was working three jobs so leisure time was scarce. But his joyful grins and boyish excitement made me so happy that day, knowing all of the beautiful moments that were ahead of us with coming birth of our first baby.

We all had dinner at Hard Rock Cafe. I had chicken fajitas with lots of guacamole, one of my most common cravings when I was pregnant with Avery. I remember as we walked to the car, Daniel's sister asked me what baby kicks feel like. And I told her they feel exactly what you'd think they feel like. I didn't know she should have been kicking much harder than that by then. And I didn't know I'd stop feeling her in just a matter of days.

But on this day, all of those horrors were far away in the unknown, not yet a part of reality or my world. I like to think back to the days before I knew this could happen to us. Before I knew we'd have to face life without her and all of the things we thought we would share with her. I like to remember the joy and the excitement and not only remember the pain and the grief. Avery deserves that. She should never be diminished to a source of agony or a sad story. She is my firstborn, the first to hear my heartbeat from the inside. She made me a mother and she will always be the joy of my heart.

Day 4: Regrets

It's strange how on a frequent basis, I think of blog posts that I would love to write having to do with Avery. Just random and completely out of the blue topics that seem somewhat out of place in normal day to day life -- like I would need an excuse like her impending birthday to get away with sharing these thoughts and memories that I haven't specifically shared before. And guess what? Now that I've presented myself with the liberty to do so, all of the previous mental blog posts have disappeared. Go figure.

This morning, as I was getting ready for the day, I was trying to think of an acceptable topic that I could write about and my mind wandered to my regrets. Yes, even three years later, I still dwell on the things I regret surrounding Avery's death... And her life as well.

I regret that we didn't try getting any clothing for Avery to wear. I know we weren't sure how small she would be but I wish we'd tried. I know going out shopping was the last thing I wanted to do while I carried my dead baby inside of me but maybe it would have broken up the sickening monotony of the waiting. To this day, doll clothes haunt me as I pass by them in stores. I mentally evaluate whether it would have fit Avery or not. Usually I quickly decide that it would have and the regret washes over, wishing I'd done that for her. I never got to dress my daughter.

I also regret that I didn't bring my own ink pad or get some kind of kit to take impressions of her hands and feet. The hospital did give us a few sets of her footprints but they only did one of her hands and you can barely tell what they are. I wish they'd done a better job. I wish I'd brought my own ink and done it myself.

I regret that I forgot about Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. I wish they could have been there to photograph Avery. Because it was up to us with (at the time) our point and shoot, we don't even have a family portrait. I regret that so much-- that I didn't realize we hadn't taken a family photo. I don't care how sad of a photo it would have been. At least we would have it. I wish the hospital knew to contact NILMDTS. Several things left me feeling like I was their first ever stillbirth. I wasn't even given any information on grief and loss and how to cope.

I regret giving Avery my name as her middle name. I wish it was something beautiful like Grace. After my grandmother. Instead it's Nicole. Just filler. I'm not a fan of naming my children after us. At the time I guess it made me feel like she would always have a piece of me and now I feel it's just lack of time and creativity. And we always thought we could have another daughter. Surely, her middle name would have been Grace.

I regret that we chose Avery's stone so quickly. It was the day after her funeral and for some reason I felt like it had to be done as soon as possible. I don't know why I felt that way, as if there was no option to wait. I wish it said something better, sweeter. I wish we'd spent more time waiting for a better design. Sure, hers is pretty, but I still think it could have been better.

I know Daniel wishes he'd been one of Avery's pallbearers. We didn't know he had the option. It may seem strange but he wishes he could have laid our baby girl to rest for the last time. Instead, it was the funeral director (who thankfully is a friend of my father's) and a random cemetery grounds worker. I regret that we didn't know to ask more questions. I wish the professionals involved who weren't blinded by grief had spent more time with us to let us know what our options were and what we may wish we had done.

I regret that I didn't start blogging sooner. And that I didn't start when Avery was still alive. I kept a personal journal though at least. Blogging helped me so much. Maybe I would have started healing sooner if I'd started sooner.

So right now, these things are my regrets. Why think about them? Why torture myself with what I can't change? Well, sometimes you can't help the what ifs. But I'm hoping that in sharing mine, maybe someone who reads them will be more prepared if, God forbid, they find themselves in a similar situation. Also, in a world where baby loss is a hushed taboo, I find it important to express the lasting effects of loss. And to remind anyone who might think that time or Jude could erase her, that she still matters very much.

Day 3: Avery's Heartbeat

I don't have an awful lot of physical proof of Avery's life. I have a handful of ultrasound images. I have a few sets of her perfect tiny footprints. But the most precious thing I have in my possession is a sound clip of her heart beating. I thank God that Daniel recorded it at our very first prenatal appointment in December of 2009. It was also the very first time we heard her heartbeat. It was an amazing moment and we have it forever.

I remember sitting and just listening to the clip over and over as she grew inside me. It made me feel closer to her, to be able to listen to her heart. After she died, it was painful and a bit strange at first, to listen to a heart that no longer beats. But after a while, it brought me comfort. The proof that her life happened and she existed. She was alive inside of me, a real and whole person.

I'm so grateful to have this piece of my baby girl. To be able to hear the sound of her precious heart long after it no longer beats.

Day 2: Avery's letters

I grew up very sentimental and nostalgic. I had planned for a while to write letters to my babies. I started Avery's journal of letters when we began trying to get pregnant with her. I guess I just couldn't wait, and it kept me busy for those five months while we waited impatiently for that positive result.

My relationship with my daughter started long before the day she was born. I dreamed her my whole life. I wanted her since I was a child. Daniel and I talked about our children even while we were just dating. When we were only engaged, we had Avery's name picked out. We decided to start a family just eight months after we got married. (We even wanted to start sooner, but we felt obligated to become more financially secure first. Yeah, we still aren't.) The first letter in this journal is dated April 14, 2009, the three year anniversary of when we started dating.

It was so surreal to make that decision to have a baby. I remember it so well. I couldn't believe I was finally going to live the rest of my dreams (Daniel being my first dream). Excited doesn't even describe how I felt. We even went out to an expensive restaurant (thanks to my parents) to celebrate the beginning of our journey.

Of course, there was that fear that I wouldn't be able to get pregnant, and even when I did, I feared miscarriage for the first trimester. I would write my letters and I had a thought in the back of my mind... What if I lose this baby? What about these letters? A part of me worried that my baby would never read them. I wish I hadn't been right. Even so, I kept writing them, believing everything would be fine like it was supposed to be, like it always was for everyone around me.

I introduced myself to Avery in the letters, told her my thoughts about being her mother. Daniel wrote a couple of letters, telling her about his three jobs and the fun things he dreamed of doing with her. I wrote because my longing to be with her was so strong, I had to do something. And I formed a love and a relationship with her, even deeper than it already was from my desires that stemmed since childhood. I already loved her. I didn't need to meet her first. She was so wanted.

I decided that I wanted to share "a few" excerpts from this journal of letters. I always feel the need to express how much Avery was loved while she was alive so it can be better understood why she is still so loved even now. She matters. She is part of our family. She isn't just a lost pregnancy. She isn't the loss of something that never was. She was and she is.

"I was looking at baby clothes today at Baby Gap just for fun while I was out shopping with my mom, your Grandma! Oh, it made me want you! I almost feel like I miss you. But I can't say that cuz I've never had you. But I already love you, and I care about you, and I think about you... so it makes me sad that you're not here with me. I guess that's what makes me feel like I miss you. I don't know how else to describe it. One day, Baby!" - May 18, 2009 (almost a month before we started trying)

"I'm a little nervous. Not about having you, but about being able to easily get pregnant and to be able to keep you without anything going wrong. I need to not worry, but you are what I've wanted since I was a little girl. I guess it seems too good to be true that I get to have you soon!" - June 5, 2009

"Baby! We found out on the 16th that you are here with us!! As of today, I'm only 5 weeks and 2 days along but you are growing everyday! Daddy and I were so excited when we read the test and it said 'Pregnant,' I have been praying to see that for so long! You are what I have dreamed of my whole life. You and your Daddy... and of course your future siblings someday. :) Everyone is so excited that you're coming! I can't wait to find out if you're a boy or a girl. I can't wait until I can feel you living inside me. Stay healthy, baby! I can't wait to meet you and I already love you!" - October 22, 2009

"I haven't been feeling too well lately, but I don't even care. I'm just so thrilled that you're here with me. I pray for you all the time, that you're healthy and that God will keep you safe. Sometimes I'm so scared that something could happen to you. I shouldn't ever think like that, but I guess it's just cuz I want you so badly." - November 12, 2009

"We've moved to a new house since I wrote you last. This is the house you'll come home to. I picture cuddling with you in these rooms and I can't wait 'til you're here with us." - December 11, 2009 (right before our very first ultrasound)

"Hello Baby, I think about you constantly. I wonder what you think about. I know you're young and don't understand life yet but I know that you experience sensations and some emotions. I bet you're happy -- all warm and nourished. I wish I could see you. You're so close to me, within me, and yet you seem so far away. I can't wait until we can find out what gender you are, so I can know who you are -- who it is I've been loving. My son or my daughter. Jude or Avery." - December 16, 2009

And then on March 30, 2010...

"My sweet Avery Nicole, It's been 20 days since you met Jesus. It's been 17 days since I held you for the first and last time. Something suddenly went wrong and we lost you. You were born on March 13, 2010 at 5:05am, a beautiful Saturday morning, weighing 8.2oz and just 8 1/4in long. Despite the fact that you were already gone, you were still so beautiful and perfect. Daddy and I already loved you, so seeing you just deepened that love. We held you and kissed you and savored you for about 7 hours before we said goodbye. Oh. baby girl, that was the hardest thing I've ever done. I relive those moments with you over and over. We miss you so desperately, Avery! Your funeral on Tuesday, March 16th was bittersweet. So many people came. So many people love you as if you'd been here a lifetime. It was so hard to see your small, pretty, white casket, knowing you were inside it instead of in my arms... or in my belly where you should still be. It's so hard without you here, sweet girl! I cry all the time cuz it hurts so bad. But it's not your fault. God needed you. We don't know why, but we believe He had a special purpose for you. I'm so proud of you, Baby! You touched so many lives and you changed people. I miss you, my sweet Avery. I wish I could cuddle with you right now. I hope you're having fun in Heaven. Picturing you playing and laughing always makes me feel a little better. I love you, sweet girl. Forever, Mommy."

March is Here

I've come to sort of dread March. It's unfortunate because it kicks off with my youngest brother's birthday, followed by my other younger brother's birthday three days later, and then it ends with my mother's birthday. So many celebrations speckle the calendar, strewn amongst the jagged pain that is March. The joys and the sorrows interwoven in these weeks. Making new memories each March as my loved ones get another year older, and reliving old, gut-wrenching memories of a birth day
that was anything but joyful. In twelve days, Avery will be three. But not really.

I was thinking about possibly writing a post each day, through Avery's birthday. Just random thoughts and/or memories about her, leading up to her day. There isn't much else I can do to make these days count. I can't be with her, can't celebrate with her, can't marvel over how much she's grown. All I have is what I remember, what I captured on camera, in words. The sacred remnants I held onto, that still sit in a box on my dresser. She matters too much to do nothing about. To forget her is to lose her in a way that would sting as badly as her death. I cannot deny my child. She lived and she was born. I have to honor her. She made me a mother. She is a soul in Heaven, basking in the Glory of God, waiting for me until I join her. You better believe she still matters.

It's so strange how the anniversary of an event can break open the flood gates. How it can bring back all of the emotions of those exact days in years past. I guess it sort of pulls off the band-aid, tearing at the scab that never quite seems to heal. Maybe one day it will finally become a scar... but even scars never go away.

Taken Back

This time of the year always gets me. The January-to-March time, ever since Avery died. These last weeks when she was still alive three years ago. Three years? It sounds like it should feel so long ago, like I should be so removed from it by now, but really it was just a breath ago. Time somehow passes, but a piece of me stands still, frozen in that moment forever. Anything can take me back to it, and make it feel like yesterday. A song, a smell, an article of clothing- anything - can trigger it, like a time warp. As if it's happening right now. I just can't forget it. And I can't ever forget her. Even if I could, I wouldn't want to. This is all I have left of her. Even this aching in my heart is better than having nothing left of her.

We had two ultrasounds in February of 2010. One at 20 weeks, and another at 23 weeks, which was actually tomorrow, three years ago. Looking back, there was a difference in her appearance the second time, just two weeks before she was gone. The tech said she was sleeping and it was the reason she was so inactive. Her chin was resting against her chest exactly how it rested when we held her lifeless body. I truly believe her health was already declining at this ultrasound. Sure she may have been sleeping but it was probably because she was so deprived of nutrients and blood flow. So tomorrow marks three years since the last time we saw our little girl alive...

I try not to allow myself to dwell on her last days. I try not to wonder about her suffering or possible pain. I try not to imagine that she felt any discomfort. I like to think that maybe she just fell asleep and peacefully slipped away. And then I step back from it and realize how horrifying it is that this all happened in the first place. That it happened to my little girl. That it happened inside my body. It may have been nearly three years ago, but the reality of it still shocks and astounds me. How did I go through this? How is this my life?! Why does this happen? Why me?!

And that's my broken record. On and on, as another year pushes us even further away from her and the time she was here.

Fear and healing

I never dreamed fear could have a positive outcome. It has plagued me through so many seasons of my life in the past nearly three years. My fear has kept me from so much joy. It's caused anxiety, paranoia, and even hypochondria. But this time, my fear actually set me free.

How could that be? Fear is not from God. Perfect love drives out fear. (1 John 4:18) But in this case, I believe God used my greatest flaw -- my uncontrollable, sometimes paralyzing tendency to worry and fear -- to heal a very broken piece of my being.

This terrible, unnecessary fear set deep within me four days after Jude's seizure. He had a follow up appointment with his pediatrician two days after that horrific ordeal. Everything looked great, his ear infection had even cleared up already. Jude's doctor looked through the charts from the hospital and was not pleased with the practically inconclusive blood test results from the ER. They hadn't been able to get a good sample of Jude's blood so it clumped up a lot, throwing off some of the results. He wanted us to take Jude to get another complete blood count (CBC) just to be thorough. We did just that and I didn't think much of it because Jude seemed fine and it was just a precaution.

Two days after the test, Jude's doctor called me and told me that his levels were a bit off, some varying drastically since his ER lab results just two days prior. His platelets were low and so were his white blood cells. As soon as he mentioned white blood cells, my mind immediately shot to cancer. I felt so sick with worry. The doctor explained that he believed they were both low due to viral suppression from the high fever, seizure, and ear infection. He spoke to a hematologist, who happened to specialize in oncology, just to verify and she completely agreed with him but she wanted Jude to get retested in two weeks to make sure his levels returned to normal. Cue the longest, most fearful two weeks of my life (well... Since the 31 weeks I was pregnant with Jude).

Before hanging up with Jude's doctor that afternoon, he assured me it wasn't time to worry. He expressed his belief that it couldn't be due to any cancer (because you know I asked him about it!) but he confessed his concern. When I hung up, I was close to tears and felt no peace at all. There was no way I could refrain from worrying.

All day, I had a knot in my stomach and that night, after Jude went to bed, I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't help but imagine his next results being no better or even worse. What would it mean? What if something was horribly wrong inside his little body? What if the seizure was a gift from God, so we could find out something was wrong with him before it was too late? All of these morbid fears forced their way into my thoughts. My imagination reeled with sickening visions of losing my baby. I suddenly felt like I was no longer guaranteed a life with my son. I felt like all my mothering duties may be temporary. It was a sick and awful feeling and I tried so hard to push it all away. But over the two weeks, it kept rearing its ugly head.

During that time, Jude started cutting two molars and one incisor all at once. Before we realized this, Jude's appetite changed and he wasn't eating well. Of course, my fear caused me to think something was wrong with him, that he was getting sick from whatever horrific thing was brewing inside him. Noticing the swollen gums, I felt some relief but nearly everyday, Daniel had to convince me that Jude was okay for one reason or another.

For those two long weeks, I felt like I was holding my breath. I was dreading the day we'd have to take Jude back for more blood work. I was dreading the phone call that would proceed. I imagined how my stomach would drop when my phone would ring and I'd see Jude's doctor on my caller ID. I pictured our conversation going so many ways, but naturally, against my will, what I pictured always left me feeling sick to my stomach. But then there was another side of me that couldn't wait to get it all over with. I wanted to be able to really enjoy the Christmas season and I couldn't manage to really do that with all of the fearful unknown looming over my head.

Finally, the day came and went. I prayed so much everyday leading up to it that Jude was healthy and strong. And he is. I burst into tears of relief on the phone with Jude's doctor. He knows me well enough by now and was not surprised by my reaction.

I believed in my heart that Jude was fine but my fear kept telling me I was wrong. It kept whispering ugly lies and planting that seed of worry. It really ate a hole. It festered and tormented. It was so unbearable at times. I felt so weak. I was disappointed in myself for folding so easily. Like it didn't take much for me to fall apart. That I couldn't face the situation with faith and trust, boldly and gracefully holding my head high like a dignified woman of God. But after weighing all of the things I've suffered through concerning my children, I decided to give myself a break. It's okay to be scarred by what's happened to me. I need to be patient with myself. It will take time to live confidently and to shake that paranoia.

So how did all of this fear and obsessive worry actually benefit me? During all of the stress, I kept thinking to myself how hard it was to worry so much about one person. To have so much of my heart, life, and love invested in one person. If I had to worry so much about the well-being of just one person, how could I manage that much more worry for the well-being of even more? The way I started to see it, the more children you have, the higher the chance of something awful happening to one of them. And half of my children are already dead so the odds don't look so hot. Morbid "humor" aside, I think I've endured too much for my heart to handle worrying for so many lives. I carry enough concern for Jude.

The other way the fear helped was in how much I despised the way our normal life twisted into a huge fear fest. I desperately wanted to return to our normal days. I wanted our old life. I missed it. I missed my biggest problem being how I couldn't have all the kids I wanted to have. I decided I'd gladly take that problem over there being something wrong with Jude. I willingly surrender the dreams of my future children for Jude in all his perfection. I'd much rather have "just" him than the possibility of others.

For the first time since I found out I couldn't have any more children, I am content with it. I never thought I would say that. That is the healing the fear brought. It was the lesson it taught me. Jude is enough. He has always been enough but I always longed for more as well. Now, I'm okay. Of course I would have a few more children if things were different and I still wish that were so, but It's okay that I won't have Jonah or Uriah or Ezra (a new beautiful favorite). It feels amazing to accept that. I feel more whole than I have felt in a long time. If it was even possible to love Jude more than I already did, I do.

I feel like the wounds from the babies that were taken away (past and future) have finally stopped bleeding. I feel like I can live my life now. Like I can be happy. That I don't have to be defined by my grief or my suffering. Yes, I am a baby loss mom. Yes, I have two children. Yes, my daughter is in Heaven. But I cannot live in that devastation anymore. Life is beautiful. My family is beautiful. I have so much, despite what I've lost. I know the Glory of God and the love of a husband and son. With humbled and gracious tears in my eyes, I know full well that I am blessed.

 

 

 



Capture Your Grief : Day 31 // Sunset

Today concludes the Capture Your Grief project for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. The theme for the last day is sunset. Now I have to be honest. Because of it being Halloween and spending time with my family, I wasn't able to make it outside in time to capture the sunset. But I do have a lovely photo of a sunset from a few days ago that I will share.

This month's project made me think a lot about my grief journey. I'm really glad I participated. It was  good to get some thoughts out and articulate some feelings. This journey isn't over. I'll carry this for the rest of my life. But being able to express myself and have a voice has made a lot of difference.

Capture Your Grief : Day 30 // Tell the world

If I could tell the world one thing about grieving a lost baby, no matter the gestation, is that it's a real, legitimate pain. That our babies are real and they still belong to us. We don't mourn for just a moment. We lost them for a lifetime and that's how long we have to cope without them. I wish people were more willing to be empathetic and just imagine being in the shoes of a bereaved parent. Most say "I can't even imagine what you're going through." Why not? Just picture what it might be like, imagine the horror and the agony. For anyone who's ever loved a child, it's not hard to imagine that life would be hell without them. No one would ever want to erase the joy and the beauty of the years with their child, just like we did not want to give up those years.

Above all, I desire for everyone to count Avery. If I consider her my child then there is no question. It's not up for discussion. It's not for anyone else to decide. Just because she wasn't here long or because some didn't have the chance to see her, it doesn't change how real she is and that she existed. Her heart beat on this earth beneath mine. She is in Heaven waiting for us and we will be with her again. Jude does not replace her. Death does not erase her. Time does not erase her.

I long to know she is remembered. I long to hear that she's missed. I love to hear her name and to know she's crossed someone's mind. That is such a gift to any bereaved person. No matter who you have lost. The first horror is losing them. The second horror is that they will be forgotten.

I have two children. Not just one. Someone very special came before my sweet boy. She is the reason he is here.