To Come Back

I was recently asked by a friend what to think about a situation she was in. One of her good friends lost her baby last year. And she told me that she felt like she was distant. Maybe even avoiding her. My friend had a baby of her own very recently...and just wanted to understand. 

It's so hard. So so hard to explain. 

But the short answer...if you ever feel like a friend or family member is being distant after losing a baby...is yes. Yes they are being distant. 

I hid Facebook friends who had babies. The truth was that seeing their perfectly normal lives and babies made me incredibly jealous. Envious of their lives. Of how simply it came to be for them. When we'd lost so much. It broke my heart watching their babies' milestones when my Luke should have been right there alongside them. But he was gone. 

It wasn't their fault. I didn't blame them for what happened. And I would never wish what happened to us on anyone. But watching it come across my newsfeed triggered so many hard feelings. Tears. The unfairness is unfathomable unless you've been there. 

It's so hard to comprehend what it feels like to watch your entire life crumble before your own eyes unless you've been forced to live through it yourself. It's hard to even put into words, really. 

What's so hard for others to understand is that when you lose a baby, especially far into pregnancy or after birth, you will never be the same person you once were. Never. 

I think so many of my friends expected me to just...come back. Come back to work--you're OK again, right? I haven't seen you in a year...you're all good now, right?

The truth is, the pain of losing Luke will never go away. It's always there, lurking in the back of my mind and heart--no matter how amazing my life is going right now. I will always carry him and his memory with me. 

And I'm only a year and a half out. There's still so much life left to be lived. Without him. 

But the thing about life? It is always changing. It's always different. I can say now that I'm happy. I am not in the same place that I was last year at this time, when we'd started trying again. Or 18 months ago, when I found out just 2 months after losing Luke that both my siblings were having a baby.  My experiences have brought me here. I wish the road had been different. That things had been easier. But I'm still standing. Somehow. I was knocked down for awhile, but I'm here now. And I realize that my journey is different from any other mom who's lost a baby. We are all in different, lonely boats. Trying to find our way back. Sometimes we're lucky enough to be led back toward who we were by a rainbow baby. Sometimes it's really soon after, and for others, it's a long time after. And for some, there will never be a way back. 

So if you're a friend--of someone trying to find their way back--please know:

It's not your fault and we don't blame you.

But sometimes, it's easiest to hide in the fog that's covered our lives. 

And some of us may seemingly bounce back. 

But some of us can't. And won't. 

Some of us will want to stay lost on our lonely boat. 

It doesn't mean that we don't want you as a friend. 

It's just that it's hard. 

Unfathomably hard...to return to what and who you once were. 

We have to look toward the rest of our lives... without our own flesh and blood. Without ever knowing them. We've been robbed. 

And that's just incredibly hard to bounce back from. 

So be their friend. Try. Give it time. In the end, they may not be the same person. And things will be different. But try not to be hasty. Because that mama probably needs a good friend like you. 

I'm lucky. I have so many people that weren't hasty with me. I knew I had to do something to get through this. Therapy. Trying again. It all takes courage. When I'd already been through so much. But my friends and family held me up, and I could never repay them for that.  My courage came from them. 

Filling that hole (in my ♥)

Lena is 2 months old already.

The time has completely flown by. And all I've been doing for the past 2 months is watching her. Watching her eat. Sleep. Cry. Throw up. Grow. There are times when I feel like I can literally see her growing. Today she was so interactive with me and Jeff. She knows us and our faces and voices. We make her happy (sometimes?). 

It's already going so fast. 

I've felt a sensation of relief these past 2 months that I haven't felt since losing Luke, though. Relief that things are normal again. And I know that's weird. I feel like I should be more paranoid now that I have her here. But just watching her become who she is...it's settling. It makes me so happy to see. 

Maybe I'm relieved because I know she's getting a chance to be things. To know us as her parents. The chance that Luke never got. 

In a way, I feel like I'm betraying my grief--by being happy. But I know that it's at a turning point now. I still think of Luke. Every. Single. Day. I sometimes hear Lena coo and wonder to myself if that's what his coo would have sounded like. If he would have made the same squinty duckface smile that she makes. 

And then I know I'm not betraying my grief or him. These questions will haunt me for the rest of my life. I might not ask them as often at some point. But they'll always be there.  There's a pain in knowing that.

But watching her grow will so often trigger these feelings. And all I saw for him was in my imagination. They were my dreams for him that will never be realized.  

So it's a relief. To know that Lena can take my dreams for her and make them her own. To know that she'll know me as her Mom. That's the part about losing Luke that hurts still--that I never knew him outside of my body. Our relationship was in my head and imagination--In the future that now never existed.

To never have had a give and take relationship with him...still gets me. So I'm going to take every day I get with his sister and try to make it count enough for both of them.

Stillbirth--leaves a hole in your heart.  That space will always be occupied by my hopes that never got realized for him.  But slowly, I feel like my heart is filling in with other love. 

Thank god for the evolution of grief.  For letting me realize that there's room in there for both of them.

From both sides now

The past month and a half have been the fastest days of my life.

Lena has been with us one month and 16 days now, and it seems like she's been with us forever.

Getting the hang of parenting a newborn though...is hard. I know now what it means to have a newborn to take care of. Who needs your attention nearly 24 hours a day. 7 days a week. Who needs you in order to continue living.

It's so strange--watching the living, breathing thing that Jeff and I created--every day. Watching her grow and become more than she was yesterday.

There are times when I look at her and lose it. When I cry because of so many things. Sometimes it's because I'm so shocked at how perfect she is. Sometimes it's because I'm so tired of the screaming and crying that I just have to join her. And sometimes it's because I literally see her brother.

So many times in the past 16 months...I've thought about what Luke would look like. What he'd be doing. How he'd be progressing, developmentally. And it's so weird being on this side of things now. It's so weird being able to watch everything progress just how it should.

I've seen it all, from both sides now.

I'm surprised actually, how healing having Lena has been for me. I'm not consumed by my grief for Luke. But the moments that get me most are the times when she's quiet. When she's sleeping peacefully with her lips pursed together.

That's when my brain goes there and puts the two of them together.

I never got to see air breathe through Luke.  All I know of what he looked like was his quiet peacefulness.  His eyes closed.  His lips closed.  His body limp.  And there are times in the past month and a half where I've picked Lena up and seen him--perfectly.  It's both healing and heart-wrenching. 

I'm so happy she's here.  Taking care of a newborn is incredibly hard, obviously.  There have already been days where I've been so frustrated I just cried.  But for the most part, it's been amazing.  In some ways, I'm relieved that she looks so much like him.  At least they would have looked like siblings.  But Lena will grow up to be whoever she wants to be.  She'll reach her milestones at her own pace and grow and learn and just be.  

And until the end of time, I will never know any of that about Luke.  He's a forever-open book.  That will never be written.  I spent so much time looking forward to take part in his story, to teach him and learn from him--and still--to this day--I don't want to put that story to rest.  But I don't have a choice. 

There's no going backward to see him have life.  He is frozen in time with us for just that one day.  It's so hard accepting that that's all we got with him, when we'll have so much more time with his sister. 

It's so not fair.  That we can never be together or make it right or even know who he would have become.  My entire life--This wonder will always be there.  Without answers.  Just comparisons to his sister. 

Parenting from both sides, now.  They're both incredibly taxing.  Both emotional.  Both filled with love and exhaustion.  I guess they're not so different after all.  It's just too bad that the physical representation is completely different.

Joy

On December 12, true joy came back into our lives.

The joy that was supposed to come with you, Luke, came with your sister instead.

We went to the hospital and got there by 5:30am. I went to bed confident, feeling Bowie's kicks as I drifted in and out of sleep. I was nervous. Excited. Scared. What if everything somehow changed when we got there in the morning?

But it didn't. We got there, and got moved into a pre-op room immediately. We were greeted by awesome nurses--who knew us. They knew our story. Total relief. They hooked us up to a contraction and heartrate monitor, and everything looked good. They drew blood. Then we waited for the doctors to arrive. It was just daddy and I, and we couldn't wait till we could meet her. Soon. So so so so soon.

Before we knew it, it was 7:30, and I was getting moved into the operating room for the c-section. Daddy stayed behind in the pre-op room while they prepped me. When we got inside, it was SO COLD. It was a cold morning as it was, and that room was beyond freezing. Soon, our anesthesiologist came in, and it was the same doc that was there that night with you, Luke, when I got my epidural. She remembered us too. We waited for the spinal to kick in, and just like with the epidural, my blood pressure crashed pretty fast. I felt like throwing up, but the anesthesiologist was on it and got me some epinephrine to stop it. And before we knew it, the surgery began.

Daddy was right by my side, and he watched the whole thing. I was relieved I couldn't really see them cutting me open, as the smell from the cauterizing kinda made me sick. Mostly I felt drunk. But it happened so fast--And then, we heard your cries.

Finally. Finally. Finally. She was here, and she was alive.

A delivery that we've been waiting for for almost 2 years.

They took her aside to do all her vitals and to get her cleaned up, and before I knew it, Jeff was leaving the room to go be with her. The docs took their time to get me put back together, and then I was also getting wheeled down the hall--into our room--where we could finally be a family together. I couldn't believe it was finally real.

I got into the recovery room, and there was daddy holding her. She was perfect. 9 pounds 8 ounces and 22 inches long. Almost as big as you, Luke, but not quite. She had a head of hair as well...and honestly, she looked just like you. I cried. Tears of joy and happiness, all mixed together. They left us alone after a few minutes, and I still felt like it wasn't real. But slowly, reality set in. Our baby girl was here and we were all OK. The relief was indescribable.

Lena Bowie was here.

After the baby-moon, the nurse came in to run a blood sugar test to make sure she was eating ok. All was well. So we were to be wheeled up to the postnatal care 5th floor. When we got there, we got to do the thing we also didn't get to do with you, Luke. We got to ring the bell that rings Brahm's Lullaby at the hospital everytime a baby is born and moved up to recovery. Doing that...made everything feel like it was coming full circle. I hate the fact that we didn't get to do that with you, Luke. But we never left the L&D floor. We just went home.

We got settled in our room, and things started sinking in that everything was really OK. That first day in the hospital, Lena met her Nana and Opa, her cousin Ethan, and Auntie Lauren and Uncle Pooter. The general feeling was relief. Everyone was so relieved that everything went right this time.

That first night in the hospital, they checked her blood sugar again, and it was really dangerously low. Down to 13, when it was supposed to be about 40. They took her to get her formula-fed ASAP, and that was single-handedly the scariest part of our hospital stay. Apparently it's common for bigger babies to have issues regulating their blood sugar after birth, but her's was scary-low. They spent the next day checking her sugar pretty often. Sometimes by actual blood test, but mostly by pricking her heels. I felt so bad--her poor little heels were pricked apart.

By Saturday, it looked like her blood sugar was getting more normal, and we were cleared to really try breastfeeding without supplementing. That day was rough. I didn't have much, and even the lactation specialist kinda just told me to wait till my milk came in. She did give a LOT of valuable info, though, and that was awesome. By that night, my milk had come in, and all was well in feeding land.

Sunday, we got checked out by everyone, and were cleared for discharge around noon. The happiness...when we were told we could all three go home--together...welled up in my throat. I still couldn't believe it was happening. We got everything loaded into the car, and finally it came time to be wheeled out of the hospital. This time WITH our baby.

With a full car seat.

And a full heart.

I cried on the way home, driving down the same streets we drove down after we drove home without you, Luke, just 15 months ago. This was was the way things were supposed to be. Last time, so many thoughts ran through my head as we drove that agonizing trip home...How was I going to get through planning a funeral? How was I going to get through losing you? How would my life continue? Every question seemed so heavy. I had no idea what the answers were.

This time, the questions were so different. They were the same questions that every new parent asks themselves as they leave the hospital. How am I going to take care of this baby? Can we afford it? Will we ever sleep again? Questions that will all be answered...in time. But they were certainly not as heavy as the time before.

I've come to the realization that Lena wouldn't be here without losing you, Luke. In some ways, I hate that, but in some ways, it makes me love and appreciate you, and in turn, her, that much more. It makes me feel like there's a part of you living in her. You were the only two who ever lived in the same place. Maybe not together. But that will always tie you together.

Lena is 2 weeks and 2 days old right now, and she is absolutely perfect. When I look at her, my heart feels full, which I honestly never thought that I'd feel again after losing you.

I know our lives will never be perfect, because of all we've been through. But this is a start to feeling like things can be happy again.

Missing you always, though.

Thanksgiving and two weeks to go

This Thanksgiving is already incredibly different than last year's.

And while we're still here, missing you every day, Luke, this year we have so much to be thankful for.  I'm so thankful that in just 2 weeks, our lives will change forever once again.  That we'll finally meet your little sister.

I'm thankful for all our friends and family that have held us up this past year.  For those that speak about you, and still remember you as part of our family.  I hope that never changes.

And I'm so thankful that I've found some sort of healing this past 14 months.  I'm thankful that I've been able to work through my grief to find joy in my life again.  It hasn't been easy.  And even though I can be happy again, I will always be missing you. 

But I have hope right now. I'm not sure if you're pushing that down on me from wherever you are, but I'll take it.  This pregnancy has been hard, but I'm surprised that I feel hope right now.  That I feel that everything can and will be OK with Bowie.  We have a plan.  Our doctors' visits have gone amazingly well.  And I truly believe that she will be OK. 

I accept that the panic will probably set in soon.  I have two weeks to go, but it makes me feel better knowing that we have a c-section scheduled already and everyone's as ready to go as can be. 

But the one thing that I approach with...maybe not hesitation so much as just...trepidation...is seeing your sister's sweet face for the first time.  I know I will be comparing it with yours.  And I wish I could just accept her for being herself...but with you missing, I don't know how I won't. 

And I fear that will make me miss you that much more.

But I will also be incredibly distracted.  With everything I missed out on with you.  And that worries me too.  I never want to be so distracted that thoughts of you fall by the wayside.

So onto another chapter of figuring out how to live this new life.  With your sister here with us, and you watching over us.   

One week to go...

Until your first birthday, Luke.

I wish I was planning your birthday party right now.  I wonder a lot about what you would be interested in at this point.  What kinds of toys would you pick out at Target?  Would you be walking like a pro yet?  What your favorite foods would be?  How much hair would you have and how big would you be?

Seeing your new cousins develop so quickly makes me realize the vastness of what we missed out on with you.  Everything happens so fast.  They're starting to recognize voices and be more aware of what's around them.  They're starting to react to smiles and laughter.  They're not newborns, already.   

They all seem like small things that happen so quickly.  Most parents kind of just forget that their children could never smile at them or laugh at them in the beginning.   I wish we got anything.

On this very day, one year ago, I was still naive.  I wasn't scarred.  I remember at this point...I'd gotten SO much done to get ready for you.  We'd just finished having our bathroom redone.  Our new insurance had kicked in and I wasn't worried about going into labor early anymore because whatever--It had kicked in!  I was researching where to get our carseat installation inspected, just in case, and made an appointment at the local CHP office.  I'd just started not driving into the office anymore because I didn't want to be far from the hospital in case I went into quick labor.  Jeff had just found out that he passed his comps, and there was no more to worry about because he'd gotten his MPA.  I'd literally written in my journal: "This time next month, we'll be parents. And I'm sure I'll be sleep deprived and delirious. But that's ok. At this point, I feel like we're ready for a change of pace in our lives. It's scary and exciting all at once."

We were so excited to meet you then.  There was so much to look forward to.  We were going to be PARENTS.  Finally.     

We were excited about the life-altering events that were supposed to happen in just a few weeks.  But we never once could have predicted that those life-altering events didn't include bringing you home.  We were in the safe zone--nothing can go wrong at 38 weeks.  Or after that.  Right?

I still can't wrap my head around how all of this happened to me.  To us.  These kinds of tragedies only happened to other people.  How could we have prepared ourselves to bring our son's ashes home instead of a living, breathing child?  

This has been the hardest year of my life--by far.  No one ever plans to lose their child.  I never thought I would know that pain.  But here I am.  Surviving.

I don't really know how, but it's probably because it's the only thing I know how to do.  I changed my calendar at work today, and seeing your birthday written on THIS month brings everything rushing back to the forefront.  An entire year without you. 

I miss you every day.  And I know I will for the rest of my life.  I'm feeling wistful and nostalgic this week.  I wish I could go back to last year and have everything be different.

But there are no genies to grant me three wishes.  Or time machines.  There's just now.  And now, all I can do is do everything I can to keep your memory alive, and do all I can to make sure things turn out different with Bowie.  

I miss you, big guy.

This week, instead of buying Luke a birthday present, I would ask anyone that wanted to to give a donation to his team at OC Walk to Remember. I'd love to break $1000 by his birthday next Tuesday...So if you'd like to help us out, please click the logo here:


Thanks to you all for being there this year. I'm quite sure that it would have been MUCH more difficult without having others' stories and pain to relate to. To feel less isolated means everything to me.

On your 6 month birthday--without you

At 6 months, I think we've found a small sense of peace with everything that happened, Luke.

It still hurts that there really wasn't any legit medical reason we lost you. Part of that is easy to let go of, because it's so vague, but then part of it is incredibly hard to let go of because of the vagueness. It's a catch 22.

I've been told by many people that I'm doing really well, considering. I feel that I am too. It doesn't change the fact that I miss you like crazy and feel incredibly angry that I don't have a happy 6-month-old son to deal with. That I don't know what you would look like or be like at this age.

I wish you were here...

But I feel your presence more than you know. So much. There are tiny reminders here and there. And then there's the huge, bizarre coincidences when I feel like you're somehow still with us. Like what happened earlier this week. I picked up your big-doggie-sister, PJ from doggie daycamp at Petsmart. I got back her report card...and this is what it said.

PJ made a new doggie friend this week. His name was Luke Skywalker.

I didn't read that until we got back into the car, but it made me cry. Tears of joy and sadness at the same time. I don't know what I believe about the afterlife, and I don't pretend to have it all figured out, but there was a sense of your presence reading that note. There's been a few times these past 6 months where I truly feel that you're pulling strings from wherever you are and that gives me comfort.   

Today, Daddy ran in his first 5k ever.  He started running this year, and I'm so proud of him, because for the most part, he's doing this for you.

We're hanging in there, Luke.  It feels like these past 6 months have been a time warp that went both fast and slow at the same time.  But I feel like you've also made us be better versions of ourselves, too.  I wish it didn't take your absence to have done that...but if there's anything, there's that.

I wish you were here today, though. I really do.

It's hard to think that there will never be a day or a birthday that I don't wish that.  I hate that this is permanent.

I love you, sweet boy, till the end of time ♥♥♥    

Sharing is Caring

First things first, I'm sure that many of you babloss mamas saw the call for this on many email lists/Facebook feeds you may be subscribed to, but if you'd like to participate in a perinatal loss study, please read below:

"Have you experienced perinatal loss (loss of a baby shortly before or after birth) within the past year? Do you know a woman who has experienced perinatal loss within the past year?
New RESEARCH Opportunity - posted on behalf of Jennifer Huberty, PhD - an ASAP member...... pelase consider participating in this important study.....

We are looking for women who have experienced perinatal loss to participate in an interview related to health and physical activity behaviors. If you do not reside in Omaha, NE you can participate over the phone. To participate in the study please contact
Dr. Jennifer Huberty, PhD at jennifer.huberty@asu.edu 602-827-2456 or Katherine Rolfsmeyer at info@befitminded.com"

I'm finding that lately, I feel like it's all I can do to talk about my experience. About Luke. To make him matter. And amazingly, lately, it doesn't bring me to tears. Last weekend, we went to get massages at a local day spa. We'd had a gift certificate there for quite some time, and we finally decided to use it for some fancy massages. I was pretty excited. When I made the reservation, I didn't really care if I got a female or male masseuse--whoever's available, I said.

So of course, Jeff and I get taken away to our separate massage rooms, and I meet my massage therapist. She seems nice enough. We start chatting, and we pass by Jeff and his lady in the hallway. She asks if that's my husband, and I say yes. Then she tells me he's cute. HA!

So we get to our room, and we start chatting. It's funny how some people are very chatty during a massage, and others aren't. I think I tend to project an air of "please talk to me," because it's really what people tend to do when I'm in this situation. I really don't mind, but this time was interesting.

She asks me if we have any children, right off the bat.

This girl was younger--Certainly much younger than me and Jeff. But I made the decision that I'd answer this question from now on with "Well, it's complicated." Because if anything, that's what our situation is.

I told her about Luke. And I didn't cry. She saw my tattoo, and said it was amazing. And then she told me that she had a miscarriage last year. It was only about 9 weeks, she said, but she's still devastated by it. She tells me that she's still struggling with it, and that her husband's parents went out of their way to blame it on her for happening. She said it was a cultural thing...

My heart broke for her. I'm so lucky, in that I honestly and truly have NEVER been made to feel guilty for what happened to Luke. If anything, I projected guilt onto myself at first...but it never came from anyone else. And I can imagine that just making the situation twice as heavy.

Maybe that's why I feel like I've reached a sort of healing in what seems like such a short amount of time? I don't know. It's probably a combination of my surroundings and my general outlook on life. But I'm so glad things weren't made even harder than they should be by people who should have no say in how this feels.

We chatted a lot about what it's like, losing a child. I'm hoping it was therapeutic for her, because it was for me. When I left, I left her a note in the tip envelope, to remind her to check out the OC Walk to Remember's website. For support and information about participating in the walk itself in October.

I hope we end up seeing her at the walk in October. I wish nobody new ever had to join our cause. But I hope she shows up, at least to share a day with people who understand.

Tax Man

Last Monday night, we got our taxes done.

We've been getting them done by the same guy for a few years now, and we really like him. He's the type of guy that you can sit and talk with and feel like you've been friends for years, but you know, he also does our taxes. We'd probably be friends with him outside of the situation if the right opportunity presented itself.

Anyway.

Last year at tax time, I was pregnant. About 3 months, to be exact. I remember discussing with him how this year would be sweet, because we'd get to take another deduction for our baby! He was pretty excited about it himself, being a tax guy.

This year was totally not as we expected, obviously.

Both of us went to the appointment, which probably wouldn't have been the case had Luke been alive. I'm not sure if he'd made a note in our file about changes for next year or not, but he didn't mention anything at first. Then we inevitably came to the part of the meeting where we discussed our disability pay for the year--whether there was anything we needed to do? I took my full maternity leave, so my W2 was missing a substantial chunk of my pay for the year, which dropped my reported income considerably. We were also sort of confused about Jeff's claim...And oh yeah, are therapy bills tax deductible in any way?

So all of that led up to the inevitable part where we filled him in on what happened in September.

Life presents strange opportunities, sometimes. And the look on his face when we told him what happened was not really what I expected. He seemed to take it pretty personal. And then he told us why. This happened very recently to one of his friends...Nearly the same exact scenario. And it's been hard, because he didn't know what to say or how to act or what to do for them. And then he flat out asked us what he should do, because he's been struggling with it.

First, the fact that he cared so much about doing the right thing at all struck me. Most people blurt out the same tired cliches over and over when they hear someone died. "He's in a better place." "God needed another angel." "Everything happens for a reason." I know in the end...they're all just trying to make you feel better. But the reality is...nothing will make this feel better. All of those thoughts are just cliches to TRY and make us feel better. But they're just words.

I told him that the worst thing he could do is avoid them. And maybe the best thing to say is just "I'm so sorry this is happening to you." I'm not an overly religious person, and it bothers me when people play the religious card in death. The bottom line is that life equals death, in the end. We're humans, and that's all there is to it. There is no rhyme or reason to the order in which these things happen.

I told him to really, honestly, try not to make any discussion with them be about how he feels. Inflicting your thoughts and beliefs onto them...at this time of incredible pain, is mostly just self-serving, so don't make it about you. I've now been the shoulder that people cry on--ABOUT US--a few times, and I can't tell you how awkward that can feel. Sometimes I feel like joining them. But then it also angers me that I'm having to be strong for them. It's my life they're crying about...and I'm the one getting cried on?

I told him to try not to be afraid to talk to them about their child. Their child was real, just like Luke. And bringing them up doesn't make us sad...because we're already sad. That part is forever. They're at the forefront of our minds 24/7. There's no "bringing them up" because they're already there--a constant. So don't feel like you mentioning them is going to make us hurt. That part is already done.

Getting all of this out--to someone that genuinely needed the guidance--felt so good. I hate that we're getting asked for advice in this scenario, but if our experience can help someone be a better friend, or family member, or person, then I'm all in. All in. Because grief isn't spoken about enough. It's something people sweep under the rug...trying to avoid the inevitable pain that already exists in our hearts.

But it never really goes away. It just becomes a part of our existence. Luke will always be a part of me, and to share his story with others gives him meaning...

Inked

I did it.

I've been thinking about getting a tattoo for what seems like forever. I'm not really one to take these things lightly, though. I REALLY felt like I needed to be POSITIVE about putting something so permanent onto my body forever--It had to be something that meant the world to me. I used to want to get something Ryan Adams related...maybe the rose he uses all the time? It'd be something any fan would get.

That all seems so trivial now?

But when all this happened, I knew exactly that my first tattoo would be for you, Luke. I just had to figure out what to do. But that came to me pretty easily too. The quilt that I had made for you--with chibi Star Wars characters--seemed obvious to me. A baby Luke Skywalker.

Last weekend, I met with a local tattoo artist, and I got good vibes from him. He said he'd draw it up for me, and if I wanted, we could get it done that Wednesday. I left him my ideas, and spent the next 4 days anticipating what it would look like when he gave me that drawing. I got there on Wednesday night, and he handed it to me--It was EXACTLY what I pictured. To a T. So it was time. I sat down in the chair, and got ready for what I figured would be a LOT of pain? Turns out, no. Not at all. I don't know if that's because I've probably lived through the worst pain possible, but honestly, getting a tattoo is no big deal. I was borderline shocked at how simple it was. Mostly, I was nervous about how it would come out to look ON me. I decided to have it done on my right chest, above my heart. When Josh finished it up, and I went to look at it in the mirror, my eyes welled up.

It was perfect.
Now you'll be with me--forever, as much as possible. Just looking down at it there makes me happy. It's every bit adorable as I know you'd be.

For some bizarre reason, it's almost a relief that I have this done. Like somehow I wasn't complete without it? I don't even know how that makes sense, but it does to me right now.

Healing. I think that's kind of what this is.

Tiny Gifts

Monday night, two pretty awesome things came my way.

I got home from the gym, and Jeff had left out a Christmas card on the table. He handed it to me, and it was a card from his his brother's family. Inside, was a check. No small check. And they told us to do with it whatever we wanted.

First, it made me cry. Everytime I've received a card this holiday for Luke...I've cried. And not out of sadness, I don't think? I think it's more about being thankful. Thankful that everyone remembers him along with us. That people write his name down and acknowledge that he's our son. That he really happened. I hate that it scares people to talk to me about him. I can't guarantee that talking about him won't make me cry, but it makes my heart full. And sometimes that just triggers tears in my eyes.

So we decided that that check would be going into a college fund for Luke's potential brother or sister. We can't even thank them enough.

Then I opened an email from my sister...and well, it pretty much made me bawl. She told me about how she'd been to a book club meetup Sunday. She was casually invited by a friend, and that she actually hadn't even read the book, but decided to go anway, in a spell of spontaneity that she rarely exhibits. They discussed a book by a woman named Cheryl Strayed, who is also sometimes an advice columist on The Rumpus as Dear Sugar. Anyway...Ali mentioned that the girl next to her mentioned a passage. One that strongly resonated with her personally, as someone who'd been through many miscarriages.

Someone had addressed a letter to Sugar about the stillbirth of her daughter at 6 months. Any baby-loss parent should read this here. Because it's...everything. EVERYTHING.

Here's just some of it...

"Though we live in a time and place and culture that tries to tell us otherwise, suffering is what happens when truly horrible things happen to us.

Don’t listen to those people who suggest you should be “over” your daughter’s death by now. The people who squawk the loudest about such things have almost never had to get over any thing. Or at least not any thing that was genuinely, mind-fuckingly, soul-crushingly life altering. Some of those people believe they’re being helpful by minimizing your pain. Others are scared of the intensity of your loss and so they use their words to push your grief away. Many of those people love you and are worthy of your love, but they are not the people who will be helpful to you when it comes to healing the pain of your daughter’s death.

They live on Planet Earth. You live on Planet My Baby Died.

It seems to me that you feel like you’re all alone there. You aren’t. There are women reading this right now who have tears in their eyes. There are women who have spent their days chanting daughter, daughter or son, son silently to themselves. Women who have been privately tormented about the things they did or didn’t do that they fear caused the deaths of their babies. You need to find those women, darling. They’re your tribe.

I know because I’ve lived on a few planets that aren’t Planet Earth myself.

The healing power of even the most microscopic exchange with someone who knows in a flash precisely what you’re talking about because she experienced that thing too cannot be over-estimated. Call your local hospitals and birth centers and inquire about support groups for people who’ve lost babies at or before or shortly after birth. Read Elizabeth McCracken’s memoir An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination. Find online communities where you can have conversations with people during which you don’t have to pretend a thing.

...

This is how you get unstuck, Stuck. You reach. Not so you can walk away from the daughter you loved, but so you can live the life that is yours—the one that includes the sad loss of your daughter, but is not arrested by it. The one that eventually leads you to a place in which you not only grieve her, but also feel lucky to have had the privilege of loving her. That place of true healing is a fierce place. It’s a giant place. It’s a place of monstrous beauty and endless dark and glimmering light. And you have to work really, really, really fucking hard to get there, but you can do it, honey. You’re a woman who can travel that far. I know it.

...

You will never stop loving your daughter. You will never forget her. You will always know her name. But she will always be dead. Nobody can intervene and make that right and nobody will. Nobody can take it back with silence or push it away with words. Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can’t cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away. It’s just there, and you have to survive it. You have to endure it. You have to live though it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal. Therapists and friends and other people who live on Planet My Baby Died can help you along the way, but the healing—the genuine healing, the actual real deal down-on-your-knees-in-the-mud change—is entirely and absolutely up to you..."
Dear Sugar: July 15, 2010--How You Get Unstuck

I read this with tears. I've read tons about the process of healing, but I don't feel like anything has hit me as hard as reading this has. In a bit of serendipity, I'd mentioned to my sister yesterday that I'd started reading that book Sugar recommended above, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination and that I'm really connecting to it...Not knowing that they'd discussed this the day before at the book club meeting.

It helped us both feel that we're still somehow connected to Luke. Maybe he's doing something from wherever he is that pushed my sister to go to that book club meeting so she could find this guidance and share it with me--from him. That's how I like to think of it, anyway.

The End of the Innocence

I really can't say just how happy I will or will not be when 2012 comes to a close and 2013 makes its appearance. There's a part of me that says "Fuck 2012." But then there's a part of me that yearns for...ALL of this year, EXCEPT the terrible part. How can one year simultaneously be both the best AND the worst of your life?

2012 started with so much promise. We found out we were pregnant on January 13. I was shocked, but we were SO happy and excited that we'd become parents THIS YEAR. Things really seemed to be coming together for us--For once. My pregnancy was so smooth. We took Luke to his first concerts in my belly--Wilco, Ryan Adams, and then finally, Coachella. Jeff graduated with his MPA in May. We got a lot of things done to our house that we've been putting off for awhile. Jeff passed his comp exams RIGHT in the nick of time--so that we could FINALLY concentrate on being Mommy and Daddy.

And then September 10th happened.

I've never had my world turned upside down so quickly. In one instant, our entire lives were altered forever. I suppose that's what tragedy does to you. I've been lucky enough to not have to experience tragedy in my 33 years on this planet. But it caught up to me--to us. That day was supposed to be the most amazing day of our lives--the day we met our firstborn child.

And we got to meet him. But he had no heartbeat.

Falling in love and saying goodbye at the same time hurts more than anything else. I can go back to that panicked feeling--when they told us Luke didn't have a heartbeat anymore...and I feel it all over again--just at the thought. The shaking...I stared at the ceiling. I couldn't believe something like this was happening to us. How were we going to get through this? How could I deliver our son...knowing he was gone?

I've been able to find a LOT of courage in these past 3 months. Everyday...I bristle at the bitterness. The pain and bitterness of seeing Luke's things around our house. His crib. I bristle at Facebook--At everyone's happy families and baby pictures. The jealousy is incredible. I want to be happy for them--they're people I care about...but I always just end up feeling sorry for myself and Jeff. I want to delete my account on Babycenter so I can stop getting age appropriate emails telling me he's 3-6 months old this month...but I can't bring myself to delete him. It's just...wrong. I shouldn't have to choose to delete our child.

We went into this process--of having our first child--with an INCREDIBLE naïveté. Not a worry in the world. Not until that terrible day when our innocence was shattered. There's no pregnancy book in the world that really delves into the possibility that you can carry your baby--with no sign of problem--for 39 weeks, and NOT take him home with you. Not a single one I read, anyway. The thought never crossed my mind that WE could experience the terribly insignificant chances of stillbirth. We won that lottery. Somehow. I wish that could've been the Powerball, and not the shittiest lottery imaginable. 1 in 160 births are stillborn. That's a 0.6% chance there. But only 2%-4% of those stillbirths are cord accidents like we experienced--when the doctor is too late to save them. The odds...are insane.

And now our innocence is lost. We had a funeral service for our son. This year. I want nothing but to have a living child now. But I know what can happen. I know now that making it to the end of the first, second, or even third trimester...Doesn't mean anything. At least not to me. Sending pregnancy announcements and ultrasound pictures will never guarantee us that we get to take home our baby. Having the most "uneventful pregnancy ever" doesn't necessarily mean our son will be born alive. I can take care of myself...carry him as a completely responsible mother--no gestational diabetes, no strep, nothing, and STILL not get to take him home.

There can just as easily be "no reason" we lost him. And we just have to somehow accept that. Talk about breeding pessimism.

I wish I could go back in time to the innocence we once lived in.

We don't have the luxury of time to wait around for it to return, unfortunately. I feel that we're doing the absolute best we can getting through our grief. I feel like we've carved out a space in our lives where Luke will exist--forever. But I wish we didn't have to walk through hell and experience all of this. I wish we could be those naive parents that just get to go through life with their living children, complaining about all the things new parents complain about. I wish we could be those people.

But we can never be those people. We'll always have a sadness behind our eyes...where Luke will be forever.

And in 2013, we'll try again. I started out 2012 reading pregnancy books that were so generic--The Mayo Clinic Healthy Pregnancy Book. And I finished 2012 reading Empty Cradle, Broken Heart: Surviving the Death of Your Baby. I definitely didn't see that one coming. Ali gave me Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart for Christmas, and that's next on my reading list...and I hope to start reading more pregnancy-after-loss books in 2013. Hope.

I'm scared to possibly get pregnant again. Hell--I'm scared for everyone I know who's pregnant. I don't wish these feelings on anyone--Ever. I know I will be a complete wreck...worrying when (if?) we get pregnant again. Is the heartbeat there? Will the baby get stuck in the cord again when he or she turns down? The feelings of having to deliver another baby...Going through the same motions again...scare the hell out of me. Having to have two children full term...just to come out with one. It's so unfair. So so so unfair. Thank god I have an amazing therapist.

But if I've learned anything this year, it's that we have no control over our lives. We have limited control, yes. But in the grand scheme of things...what will happen, will happen. You can do everything right. Be a good person. Take care of yourself and your family and friends and your child in your own womb. And still find yourself in the depths of darkness. This is not a place you ever expect to find yourself in. Nothing you could plan for. And yet it happens--to so many of us.

I didn't know how strong I could be. I think I know now, but I think the real test will be having to go through this all over again...hopeful for a different ending. I'm so thankful that so many baby-lost parents now blog and write about their experiences. Reading that my feelings are exactly the same as so many of yours makes me feel like so much less a freak. And I'm so thankful for the people I have in my life to lean on. They know who they are.

2013 is going to be filled with a lot of new, scary, and exciting experiences. My fingers are crossed that this will be the year things go right for us. We've already beat the odds...so this time, hopefully we can just not.

Guilty of the Norm

It's hard being a mom who's lost their only baby at the brink of being born.

We're coming up on 3 months without you, Luke. Monday it will have been 3 months since that terrible yet amazing day we met. The crazy moodswings and bursts of tears are definitely fewer and farther between, but your absence still crushes me to the core sometimes. Usually when I think too hard about our reality.

One quarter of one year--gone by--without you. When you should've been here.

Lately, I find myself feeling guilty. Everyone says not to--and deep down, I know I shouldn't feel this way. But I feel guilty for not honoring you more while I was pregnant. For not taking weekly pictures like everyone else seems to do. I feel guilty for saying I wasn't a huge fan of being pregnant. Guilty for being sort of mad that you were a boy. I feel guilty because I feel like my life is going on, and yet you're left behind. You'll forever be lodged in my memory at the hospital that day. You'll never grow. You'll never change. You're stuck in those moments. Forever.

And here I am, moving forward, somehow. I think about you every day. A lot. But I'm finding it easier to have fun. To smile and laugh with my friends and family. Sometimes I catch myself in the middle of being happy, and feel guilty. Shouldn't I be grieving you more, still? Sometimes I even feel normal--Like the normal I was before you. And I hate that. Because my entire normal was supposed to change when you were born.

Talking to my therapist the other day, I came to the realization that the most fucked up part of this entire journey is the fact that on that day almost three months ago, our entire lives were supposed to have been turned upside down by a screaming, crying baby boy. We were supposed to have been dumped into the world of parenting, having no idea what we were doing, but doing it anyway. I was supposed to go on maternity leave for awhile--to spend time bonding with you.

We were so ready for that change.

But instead, we left the hospital that day, and were forced to go back to our lives before you. That normal. Our normal lives. We spent 9 months getting ready for our normal to change and do a 180. But now we're in our real normal life again. We go to work. Go to the gym. Come home. Have dinner. We go out with our friends and walk the dog. Everything is back to normal.

Except totally effed up.

Sometimes I feel like I'm normal-old-me again. But it's different. I guess it's that New Normal that all baby-lost parents talk about. There's always a deep sadness that I can dwell on at the drop of a dime, and if I go there, it still hurts.

I guess sometimes I feel guilty for feeling normal. Like somehow that's not honoring you. But deep down I know that's not what you'd want for me. That's why I'm trying to embrace that old normal again. It's just that now my old normal includes you.

Healing

Tomorrow it will have been 4 weeks since we lost you, Luke.  Today is 4 weeks since we found out the horrific news that you no longer had a heartbeat.

One month.  It doesn't seem like very long, but in some ways, it feels like an eternity.

It feels like it was so long ago that I was pregnant with you.  My body is pretty much physically healed at this point, and that makes me sad.  It means that almost all traces of you are gone from me.  The spots that appeared under my arms are gone.  That pain in my pelvis is almost unnoticeable now, aside from a few creaks here and there.  My feet don't hurt anymore.  My stitches have dissolved, and I'm back in my pre-pregnancy clothes already.

It hurts to think that you were so fleeting.  Here and gone so fast. 

But not your spirit.

Luke's Skywalkers--OC Walk to Remember 2012

Yesterday was the OC Walk to Remember.  When I found out it was happening so soon after we lost you, I was kind of scared that we wouldn't be ready to participate in something like this.  But I'm so glad we did.  Your team was huge, Luke.  So many people walked for you, yesterday.  That picture doesn't even have everyone in it that was there for you.  They miss you too.  Sometimes I feel guilty for smiling, but I couldn't help it yesterday.  It was filled with tears AND smiles.  Hearing your name mentioned so often...that's all we ever wanted anyway.  You're still our son, even if you're not here.

I know my emotional healing has a long way to go.  But I felt your spirit there with us, yesterday, Luke.  Daddy and I still miss you so much.