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 10: Together Again

I found this quote on Pinterest recently and I've fallen in love with it. Nothing delights my heart more than the thought of being with Avery and sharing my life with her. To think that she is aware of me and loves me as deeply as I love her brings me joy.

I am comforted by picturing her in Heaven, as a beautiful little girl, running and laughing through that field of wildflowers, like the kind that grow here along the roads as Spring rolls in, during golden hour when the sun is low and everything is bathed in a glorious light. In this daydream, she knows me. She remembers that she's mine. She's just my curious, excited daughter, running ahead to explore, trying to catch a butterfly that's almost as pretty as she is.

One day, my time will come and I will leave this world. I'll find myself at the edge of that field of flowers and my eyes will find my Avery, smiling and laughing. I will know her immediately because she is mine. Immediately my heart will be whole. She will turn around and her face will light up, brighter than Heaven's sky, when her eyes meet her mama's. She'll run toward me, her curls glowing. Then finally, I will take her in my arms once again, tears of awaited joy streaming down my face. Her embrace will erase all the earthly pain I have endured without her. It'll be just a foggy distant remnant of my brief life on Earth. Avery and I will walk off, hand in hand, to sing with the angels and bask in the company of Jesus.

This will be our eternity, together forever, a Heavenly family, slowly joined by all those we love, and finding those we've lost before. This endless time of perfect beauty will one day be reality. Avery is already a part of it, taking it all in. She's just waiting for me across the field.

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 8: Tribute

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

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

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

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

Thank you, CarlyMarie, Kristin, & Kalialani

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.