2013

This year was much different. It was probably the most healing year I've experienced since Avery died. Life was relatively normal this year. Of course, it wasn't without conflict, but it wasn't fraught with profoundly earth-shattering circumstances to hurl us off course like previous years. I struggled horribly with my anxiety in the first few months and it wasn't until my writing took off that I felt some relief from that.

Possibly the most thrilling and notable detail of this year would have to be my novel. I can't stress enough how writing has saved me. I was becoming a shell of the person I'd been, so full of fear and sadness. I was constantly worrying about something, convinced that demise was certain at any moment. Writing gave me a reprieve, new thoughts to dwell on, something to be excited about. My characters became special to me and their fictional world my refuge. It might sound crazy to those who don't write, or to those who haven't experienced emotional turmoil. But this was the change I needed. 

Sure, I still have my occasional setbacks and I still have bouts of anxiety and worry, but I am no longer paralyzed by the darkness that was consuming me. My monthly doctor appointments don't grip me with fear any longer. I've learned to contain my thoughts better. 

The struggle I do still deal with is the insatiable desire for more children. As Jude gets older, it only gets worse. He is growing up alone, not even with any cousins, and I long for him to share life with someone like him. I grew up with three brothers who, to this day, remain my very best friends. It hurts that Jude won't know that bond. I find myself still holding onto hope that someday surrogacy will be possible, because that's all I have. I'm not sure what plans God has, but hope is greater than despair. 

New babies are still painful to me. Pregnant women still have me turning my head the other way. It still hurts very much and it's so difficult to be stuck in this place where everyone else around me can move along in their life while I cannot. 

I turned the big 30 this year, which I'm still in disbelief of. I don't think 30 is old, I just can't believe that I'm here already and that time has gone so quickly. Jude turned two in July and that is crazy to me as well. Didn't we just bring him home? 

We lost Bailey this year, but I was surprised to find how quickly I was able to get past it. I guess after losing my own daughter and my grandfather, the loss of a pet wasn't quite the crisis I'd imagined it would be.

Daniel left his CNA job at the health and rehab center and now works at a hospital. He's so much happier and I love that. Lately he's been caring for an elderly man in his home a few days a week and that has definitely helped us out financially. Less stress is nice! Next week, Daniel will begin nursing school to get his RN. I know that will open up so many more opportunities for him and a better life for us a family. 

I pray 2014 is gentle and kind. I pray I can continue on this better path. I look forward to watching my precious boy grow and learn. I will be finishing my book soon and will be publishing it in the coming months. I am very excited about that! 

Dreams are mean

Last night, I had such a sweet dream. It was very unrealistic, which isn't like my usual dreams. Surprisingly, I tend to have dreams that do a good job of coinciding with my normal life. Once in a while I'll get an odd surprise, but not usually. I never dream that Avery is alive. I only ever once dreamed that she came back to life after she'd been born, but that was years ago, just days after she died.

And last night came a dream that I never have because my mind knows better. It knows it's not possible. Last night, I dreamed I was pregnant with a third child. There was no fear, as if it were just a normal thing for me to get pregnant again. I'm not sure if Avery existed in this impossible universe, but I know Jude did. In the dream, we also quickly found out that this unexpected baby was a boy. There were no thoughts in my mind that he could ever die or that I was in any danger. It all just felt so calm and easy, like I assume most normal women feel when pregnant. I remember being excited to pick out a name. And just like in real life, if we were able to have another son, we chose the name Jonah.

I remember feeling so happy and so delighted over Jonah. I was excited that Jude would be getting a brother and that we would get to raise another baby. But then, inevitably, I woke up and Jonah disappeared. There won't be a Jonah.

And as I brushed my teeth and recalled the dream, I felt angry. I want to accept the fact that I can never be pregnant again, but if my mind is going to betray me (even in my sleep), then this will be so much harder than it already is. I wish so badly the dream could be real, without any possible consequences.

I just wish I could have Jonah.

Anxiety Returns

I believed I was all better. I hadn't felt paranoid or anxious in a few months. Not since Jude's seizure, really. It all began last Friday, when Daniel and I were out celebrating our seventh dating anniversary. It was one stupid thing after another, all strung together to pull down my happy mood.

I'm also struggling with all these pregnancy announcements, that seem to be pouring in daily. BLMs and non-BLMs. I think almost everyone who was also pregnant while I was pregnant with Jude is already having another one. I know if I had the choice, I wouldn't be ready to make Jude a big brother for probably another year, but just watching everyone else have their own choice and the ability to add another baby to their family has awakened a fierce ache. It feels a lot like the ache I had when Avery was gone and I was watching everyone else have their healthy living babies. Just so happens, last weekend, another announcement struck me at a vulnerable moment and I fell apart.

I felt so angry at God. In my head, I yelled at Him, asking Him why He chose this for me. And even if He didn't choose this plan for my life, how could He allow it while I had such a desire for the opposite? Why would He allow this desire to anchor so deeply since childhood? Then, inevitably, the guilt over my anger, mixed with the pain, and just made for a really down evening. It also set the stage for what was to come over the week.

Oddly enough, just like last April, my period decided to be late. Three days this time. I was supposed to get it Saturday, so when Tuesday rolled around, and it still hadn't come, I was panicking. The same thoughts from last year surfaced. The possibility of losing another baby or losing my life trying to get that baby here plagued me constantly. These situations are so painful for me, like being kicked right in the face. It's insulting to pray away what you wish so badly you could have. You are forced to not want what you really do want.

Daniel couldn't take it anymore and went out and bought me a pregnancy test. I never thought I'd have to take one ever again. I was so scared of what it would say. I felt like I was about to find out if I would live or die as I watched the test. When it came up with just one line instead of two, I burst into tears, clutching Daniel so tightly. I was so relieved that no one would be dying... but I was all over again, so upset that this is my reality. That I live a life like this where I'm denied so much of what I dreamed of... and having it anyway, could literally kill me... or innocent babies.

I thought things would be looking up after that. But I guess all of the anxiety and the fears came to head on Wednesday. That night, right before Daniel had to leave for work, I started having an anxiety attack. I was having hot flushes and nausea. It was coming in waves. Finally, being alone and fearing I should go to the hospital, I called my mom. I felt bad waking her, but she was exactly what I needed, especially since Daniel was at work. She knew I'd been under a lot of emotional stress lately and felt that my symptoms came from that. I hoped she was right. After all, some of my biggest fears involve my health and ending up back in the hospital like I was for my clots. But thank God, after talking to my mom for a while, my symptoms started to fade. She calmed me enough to distract me and the symptoms stopped completely.

I was so relieved that it was all in my head. I looked up the symptoms of anxiety attacks and I had almost all of them. Wow. It's never gotten that bad before. I spent the next day with my brothers and parents and I felt much better getting out of the house. There were a couple anxious moments over the weekend, but somehow I managed.

Today, I finally feel more like myself. I'm a bit disappointed that I have allowed myself to get that low again, to where I let my emotions make me physically ill. I'm aware that I can't help it, but I wish I was stronger. Some people suggest taking medication for my anxiety, but I would much rather not, if I can help it. I'm not against it and I believe it can be extremely necessary for people. But I would really like to try getting through this without it.

I really don't want to live this way. I don't want the joy of others to bring me so much pain. It makes me feel ugly. While I never wish any ill will toward them, it still makes me feel bad about myself that I don't know how to separate their happiness from my misfortune. I wish their blessings didn't trigger the inevitable reflecting of myself. I just want to be happy and enjoy what I do have, without being so reluctant. I don't want to compare myself to everyone else and feel so deprived. I pray it's something that will fade over time.

I'm hoping and praying that things get better from here and that the anxiety stays away!

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.

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 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.

What do you call it??

I keep feeling the need to have a specific term for my child-bearing situation. The "I can't have any more children" statement is too vague and gives false implications. It makes it sound like I have physically lost my fertility or my ability to conceive. Though I don't get pregnant quickly, I am still very much able to... I just shouldn't. I'm just too high risk to safely carry.

It seems cumbersome to state "I've been medically advised not to have more children." That leaves too much room for questioning. And way way too much room for people to insist other possibilities that involve me having another baby under the care of other specialists or after more testing. This is bothersome because I have a hard enough time accepting the reality, and I don't need anyone feeding me false possibilities. If it were possible to safely have another baby, I would not have been advised not to have any more. My doctors, my husband, and I know much more about my case than anyone else. So their suggestions really are unnecessary.

In a way, I feel like I have some sort of infertility issue. My body can conceive but it cannot carry a baby to term. The placenta always fails and forms clots and infarctions. My babies literally begin to have their blood flow and nutrients cut off from them... and in Avery's case, completely cut off. :( I researched the types of infertility and it all seems to refer to the ability to get pregnant at all. Even though the terms don't fit by definition, I feel like I identify with it... possibly secondary infertility... in that my body does not allow me to have a baby (after having one) and I wish so desperately that it could.

I'm not sure why I feel the need to have a medical term for this. Maybe I just don't want to have to explain things. I know as Jude gets older, people who are ignorant enough to somehow not know what's going on in my life (and those damn nosey strangers) will be giving me the "it's time for another one, eh?!" comments. I'm aware that I could just chuckle (while I die inside) and brush off the comment, especially with a stranger, but on the other hand, it really annoys me that people think they can just say whatever they want, and treat sacred, potentially tender topics so cavalierly. Not every supposed typical life event is very typical for everyone. Sometimes I like to make people aware that they need to be more sensitive and more careful with their words, though it can be awkward. I'm never rude or insulting, just honest. So if I get asked anytime soon when we're going to have baby number three (oh, they better not say number two), I may have to be honest and give them that long-winded answer about being medically advised blah blah blah...

And that's when it would be easier to have a simple term. Like if I had an answer like "I got my tubes tied" or "I'm battling infertility"or anything else that would clearly imply no more babies, the nosey questioner wouldn't prod any further. If I lied and said we don't want any more children, I may get a barrage of questions about why we don't. That would just be a huge mess, especially since I desperately do. I have learned that people can be crazy and there is no limit as to what may come out of their mouths.

Maybe I dwell on things too much. As I lay in bed alone at night while my husband is at work, trying to fall asleep. As my only living child sleeps quietly in the Pack N Play next to my bed, I think and I think. I prop myself up on one elbow and peer over at Jude, lightly illuminated by the TV playing One Tree Hill episodes on Netflix because I'm too scared to sleep in the dark. I watch him until I'm sure I can see him breathing, and then I lay back down to try drifting off again. In all of these moments, I ponder things I shouldn't even think about. I try to name my situation, as if giving it an official title makes me less of a freak of nature and more of a normal occurrence in medical history.

I guess I want to wrap all of this anguish and devastation up into a tidy little box and not have to rummage through it and unpack its contents every time someone blindsides me with an overly personal question. If I could just instead point to the label on the box, they would know what I have to endure and leave it at that, without offering me medical advice or trying to talk me out of the blatant evidence I have about my own body. Even if this all just seems silly, it would just be easier. And in these situations, easy is something I could use a bit of.

Flashback : 1.21.11

Today, two years ago (two years already?!), we found out I was pregnant with Jude. I remember it so well, still. Such an amazing and unbelievable day.

It was so difficult, trying again for another baby, when we were supposed to be raising our little girl but weren't. The fear mixed with the excitement mixed with the frustration. Not only was I trying for something I was supposed to already have, it was taking longer than it should. For couple who struggle with infertility, I know nine cycles is a dream. But for me, who is supposedly "normal" is that department, it was just another nagging thing. I can't imagine being one of those women who get pregnant on the first try... or even on accident. I can't fathom how that's possible.

So today, two years ago, as soon as I got up that morning, I dragged Daniel into our bathroom and took a test. I wanted to just put myself out of my misery and see that we failed yet another month. I thought it would be easier for the test to tell me than to wait for my body to. We stood there for just seconds, it seemed, as the little hourglass displayed on the digital screen. Suddenly, there was just one beautiful and alarming, glorious and terrifying word: Pregnant. I couldn't believe it. I let out a joyful shriek and threw my arms around Daniel. It was the beginning of a lovely and scary journey that would end in both victory and defeat.

Pregnancy after loss is such a rollercoaster of emotions. In one moment, you can feel both excited and scared. Both confidence and doom. The bliss is gone, but there's still so much joy in carrying life again, in the same exact spot where there was so much loss. I remember I used to think about how strange it was to have Jude dancing around where Avery died. That his heart beat exactly where hers stopped. He is the only person to be in the very place where she lived, and the very place she passed away.

Her death saved his life... Her death is the reason he is even here, just as he is. I never would have gotten pregnant two Januaries ago if Avery had lived. She'd only be 2 1/2 right now if she'd made it to her due date, so I doubt we'd even have another baby by now. Even when we would give Avery a sibling, in this alternate universe where she never died, it wouldn't be the Jude we know now. He would be a completely different person. It's crazy to think of that. I'd never change Jude, but I wish Avery was here.

I'm so grateful how everything turned out with my second pregnancy, despite the new horrors that came with it. Standing in my bathroom with that positive test in my hand, I was not promised that our second baby would make it here alive. There was so much left to uncertainty. So much fear and worry. So much hope and joy. I've never prayed more in my life than I did when I was pregnant with Jude. Most days, I begged God for his life. I thank God He brought Jude here safely, even if it was too early and not the experience I dreamed of. I'm so glad this day in our history is still a happy day, the day we found out our boy was coming.

"Mighty glad you stayed..."

Not allowed

Tonight (yes, after American Idol), I was watching the local news and there was a story about a wife and mother who desperately needs a kidney donor. My initial thought was that I wish I could help her. Of course, even if I was a match for her (I'm not), I would not be able to do something like that. Major surgery doesn't go well with someone on blood thinners... and surgery was how I got my blood clots in the first place.

After seeing that woman's touching story, I kept thinking about all the things I wish I could do for people. I used to donate blood, back before I was married... before I knew anything was wrong with me. I didn't mind doing that. I enjoyed feeling like I was helping. Now, with two blood clotting mutations, I am not a candidate for donation. Every time I see one of those blood mobiles parked somewhere, I feel a little guilty that I can't help.

Another thing I would love to do, is surrogacy. I would have no problem carrying a child for a couple facing infertility. I love being pregnant. My heart breaks for those who cannot conceive and who ache to hold their own baby. I know what that longing is like. I wish I could help even one couple. But of course, as we all know, my body cannot handle pregnancy. I can get pregnant, I just can't stay pregnant without my body failing the baby. I can't even carry another of my own babies without the risk of death (for both of us) let alone for someone else. I wish that weren't at all the case.

I've always enjoyed taking care of other people or using my abilities or resources to bless others. I know if I was the one in need, I would pray someone would step up to help. I wish these issues in my body didn't have to affect so much of my life and my desires.

I'm sure there are dozens of other ways I can help people, especially in situations close to my heart. I just have to realize them and go for it.

Capture Your Grief : Day 26 // Her age

 

 

I began my 25th week of my pregnancy on Tuesday, March 9, 2010. Every Tuesday, I took a new belly photo, waiting to get bigger and bigger. I never knew this would be the last time I would photograph myself pregnant with Avery. Two days later, on March 11th, we found out she was gone.

Avery was 25 weeks gestation. One week past viability. Micropreemie status. Only 15 weeks left to go. Just three months and three weeks until she was supposed to be here. My Summer baby. But instead, she was my Winter baby. Oddly fitting with the chill in the air.

I used to wish that I was much further along if I had to lose Avery at all. I thought maybe she would be considered more legitimately my child had she been bigger and older. That she would count without question.

But she was 25 weeks old. She was perfect. And she is ours always.

Capture Your Grief : Day 25 // Baby shower

I never got to have a baby shower for Avery. I was 25 weeks pregnant when she was born still. There were no shower plans in the making, no guest list being worked on... But we had registered at both Target and Babies R Us. We couldn't wait to do that. We loved it.

We had many things for Avery, waiting for her in her room. Anytime my mom and I would go out on a shopping date, she would buy a few things for her. Each week, Daniel and I would pick up another outfit, and we'd even purchased Avery's coming home outfit -- a cute little brown and pink dress with flowers on it.

All of these things remained in her closet, in her room until we were moving and had no choice but to pack up her things. Even now, they're still in the same box, up in a closet. I still dream of another little girl to come home in that little brown and pink dress.

Capture Your Grief : Day 24 // Siblings

After we lost Avery, I couldn't imagine a day when I'd be okay with offering up my womb to another child. I knew I wanted to have more children one day, but in the depths of my grief, I couldn't fathom emotionally surviving it.

Surprisingly, it was only three months before Daniel and I decided we were ready to try again to make Avery a big sister. It took us nine long cycles to conceive Jude. Each month was another slap in the face. It was easy to worry that Avery would be the only child we could ever have. But finally, on January 21, 2011, we found out Jude was on his way.

It was a beautiful and horrific 31 weeks, but Jude made it. And he came to stay.

I wish Avery and Jude could grow up together, the way that I have grown up with my brothers. Because I had siblings, I always had friends. It makes me so sad to think that it's more probable than not that Jude will grow up alone. Whenever I see a big sister and a little brother together, I can't help but think of my kids and how they are supposed to be together.

We will raise Jude to know who Avery is and to love his big sister as if he knew her himself. She will always be special in our home. She will always be a part of our family. And she will always be Jude's big sister.

Capture Your Grief : Day 23 // Name & photo

I still remember the exact moment we settled on Avery's name. My dad was on the phone with his funeral director friend and he needed her name for the obituary. That's when she was officially named. I hate that she died before it was definite.

When I was first pregnant, we had always said, if it's a boy, he will be Jude and if it's a girl, she will be Avery. That was it. But we began to question things, as I'm really bad at coming up with girl names and Jude had been set in stone since before we were married. We considered Sawyer Grace for her for a short while, but ultrasounds at both 20 and 23 weeks couldn't completely determine her gender. It was probably because she was slowly dying. But of course, we didn't know that.

Daniel and I just looked at each other, wondering what our poor lost baby should be called. She was still with us, but gone at the same time. Not even born yet, but already in Heaven. She no longer felt like a Sawyer. I hadn't been sure it was girly enough anyway. (I worry about what other people think) I asked Daniel if he wanted to name her Cadence, his favorite, and he shook his head. I agreed. Then I started to cry, knowing her name in my heart. "I want to name her Avery," I choked out. And he knew it as well. We weren't sure on a middle name, and at the time, didn't feel like it mattered a whole lot. We gave her my name as her middle name, to kind of keep us "together." And now I regret that. I wish she had a beautiful, meaningful middle name. Avery doesn't mean anything special... (Elf ruler?!) so it would have been nice if it was something like Grace (after my grandma and just the beautiful trait itself). But that's her name. And it's okay. There are worse things... like her being gone.

I love the name Avery. I think it's the most beautiful name in the whole world. I wish I could actually call that name and see a precious little head of ringlets turn to answer. I wish I could hear that name spoken on more lips. I just wish she was here to have her name and use her name and be her name.

"Remember me," she said, smiling. "Write my name somewhere safe..." - Jimmy Eat World

Capture Your Grief : Day 22 // Place of care

I love my doctor. I love her staff. I always enjoyed going to my appointments. It makes me sad to think I'll never go there again for another pregnancy.