At this time tomorrow...

Everything will be different.  Again.

At this time tomorrow, your sister will be here with us, Luke.  I can't describe the relief I can already anticipate feeling once we're there.  I've been waiting for that for 9 months now.  I can't believe it's finally time.

This morning I went back through our pictures--of meeting you.  I'm not sure I should have done that, but I wanted to feel connected to you before we jump on this next rollercoaster.  I wanted to see your face again...to refresh my memory so we can see if your sister looks like you.

But looking back at the pictures of you and me and your Daddy...the hurt and sadness and fear and anguish are so visible.  It still hurts to see us like that. 

I never want to feel that way again.  I see those pictures, and I feel those feelings so hard.  But I know that in no way are the feelings as raw right now as they were that very day.  Thank god. 

I still can't believe what happened to you.  To us.  I still can't believe we have pictures of our son in a tiny coffin.

Today it doesn't really feel real.  Today I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that everything will change tomorrow.  That I will finally understand what it means to make it through pregnancy and have your baby alive in your arms.  Something that seems to be a given for everybody else...I'll finally get to understand it. 

Today I wish I ever got to see your smile.  Or your eyes. 

I'm scared, but I know that at this point, there's nothing else to be scared of, because the worst has happened. 

I still miss you, today, and forever.  That will never change.

7 days

If I don't fall apart
Will my memory stay clear?
So you had to go
And I had to remain here
But the strangest thing to date
So far away and yet you feel so close
I'm not going to question it any other way
It must be an open door for you
To come back...

Here we are.  38 weeks.  I don't really know how it all came around so quickly, but I feel like the days are just hurtling me toward next Thursday.  Toward the day we meet your sister, Luke.

I will say that the first part of this pregnancy was long...and hard.  And confusing.  The middle was muddled by a lot of back pain and physical problems that I didn't have with you.  Sometimes I was thankful for that--for something being SO different about these two pregnancies.  It gave me hope that the ending would be different at the time.

But this last trimester has absolutely flown by.  It's been a blur of happenings and emotions.  In a way, I'm thankful for that. 

Over the weekend before Thanksgiving, Daddy and I went to two Pearl Jam concerts.  When we bought these tickets back in July, I was hesitant how I would feel about being 36 weeks pregnant and going to a rock concert.  But going to shows is what we do...so we went.

In some ways, I feel like you were there with us.  First, there was the show Thursday night, that I didn't go to because it was a work night, and all the way down in San Diego.  But your crazy Daddy went to that one too.  And he called me during the show.  Unfortunately, I couldn't make out what was happening or playing, but when he got home, he told me that they played your song.  Light Years.  The song we had printed in your funeral service card...Because it meant everything that we felt about what happened to you.  And you have to understand...they never play this song.  They've played it one time this tour--the show your Daddy was at.  It's not pulled out very often...and then there it was that night he was there. 

And then there was Saturday night at the first show I went to.  There are really three songs in their gigantic catalog of music that I think of whenever I think of you.  Light Years is one.  The other is a b-side called Other Side.  And the last is a song called Come Back.  I've written about it here on this blog before--How it kills me to listen to now because it only makes me think of losing you. 

And they played it that night too.  A song that's hardly ever pulled out as well.  Oddly, this is the same exact song that was playing the night your Daddy proposed to me at that PJ concert in San Diego in 2006.

Everything's connected.  It was like you were there, telling us you were there.

This week is already filled with anxiety, but relief.  Relief that this stage of grief will be ending somehow.  But it's filled with anxiety about everything. 

The 39th week. 

Ironically, I will be exactly 39 weeks--to the day, when we deliver your sister via c-section Thursday morning.  The same exact day of my pregnancy that we met you after it was too late.  I will give birth to each of you on the same exact day of my pregnancy, and yet I will have exact opposite experiences.  The same, yet different.

Every day this week, we'll get closer to the day we meet your sister...and closer to the same exact day in your pregnancy that we said goodbye to you. 

To say I'll be relieved next Friday is an understatement.

I won't miss having to compare the two of your pregnancies.  I won't miss having to tell complete strangers that no, this is not my first child.  I won't miss telling them that you're no longer with us when they ask me how old you are.  Now people will just see your sister and assume.  Which I'm OK with, because it doesn't require me to drag down their day with a horrifying reminder that full-term stillbirth still happens in modern-day first-world societies.  And I'm living proof.

But what I will miss is you being the only child.  From here on out, there are two of you.  And I know grief will probably get more complicated when we get to experience the joy that she will bring into our lives.  As we get farther away from that day with you.  

Just know that you'll always be number one.  Wherever you are. 

And the days they linger on, yeah
Every night I'm waiting for
The real possibility that I may meet you in my dreams
Sometimes you're there and you're talking back to me
Come the morning I could swear you're next to me
And it's OK

It's OK.  It's OK.

Creeping fear

At 37 weeks and 3 days pregnant now, things are getting real again.

I've been here before, and the feelings are the same. 

That's what sucks. 

Every first time mom has the same fears. There's the fears about actually delivering the baby. Drugs or no drugs?  Will I be able to breast feed? Will we get everything we want done before baby gets here? Will I have any clue what I'm doing when baby gets here?

Will I be a good mom?

I think most would say that that question is more easily answered the second time around. But for me...I'm still asking that question. And I feel like I've been asking it for the past 2 years. Because I have been. 

This time, I feel like the fear is heightened. I've already been through the delivery part. Labor. Seeing my child for the first time. But I don't know what comes next. I've dreamed about it for the 39 weeks I was pregnant with Luke, and now another 9 months with Bowie. I've had over 76 weeks to plan and dream about what my child would become.  Who they would turn into.

And I still don't have the answers about what comes next.  Because I'm still not parenting either one of them.

Right now, I almost still don't feel like this is real. Like there is no end to being pregnant--or at least an end with a crying baby. That's the part of full-term stillbirth that screws with you the most. You have everything...and then nothing, just like before you were pregnant. 

One part of me feels like there's no more to come after this. But the other part of me yearns for all that I don't know. 

We're so close. I wish I didn't have to carry around the burden of these feelings--Of knowing what it's like to leave the hospital with an empty car seat.  I wish I was just a normal mom who gave birth and went home and became a Mom.

I feel like there's so much more riding on this, this time.

Because I can't possibly fathom going through all of that all over again. 

December 12, 2013 has to be different than September 10, 2012.  It just has to be.

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.   

How do you reconcile joy and grief?

It's November now.  And we're about a MONTH from meeting Luke's little sister...a baby who I'm not sure we'd be having had it not been for Luke's death. 

One year ago, I was in the depths of despair.  The freshness of losing Luke was so raw and new and I didn't understand it or know how to deal with it.

There are still some times when I feel like what happened to us wasn't real.  Like it was something I watched happen in a movie or a terrible TV show or to someone else.  In so many ways, it still feels unreal, to this day.

I wish it were true.

I wish what happened to us never had to happen to us.  I would be happy to have my 14-month-old son right now.  I'd be happy to not have had to travel this road of grief for the past year.  I'd be happy to not have to continue traveling it for the rest of my life.

I told myself that we'd always do what made us happy--when Luke died--to honor him.  I remember sitting in our bedroom with my sister a few days after his funeral, and making a promise to myself that I would do everything in my power to sell and move out of our condo within the next year.  BEING there made me unhappy.  It almost always had, but after losing him, it was the final straw.  And I'm proud to say that we did it--We sold that place. We're in a much happier place right now.  A place where I have hope, AND where our neighbors aren't terrible people.

And we said the same thing about trying for another baby...that we'd like to get pregnant again as soon as we could, since there was no medical reason stopping us.  And by some grace of God, we did that too.

There's so much to be happy about.  And it gets in the way of grief.  That's where grief is tricky.  No matter what you have that makes you happy--that brings you joy--that you've wanted and yearned for for a long time--There's always something lurking in the background.  The sadness.  The grief.  The heaviness of everything you lost.

I have four weeks to go until we meet Luke's little sister.  I'm already scheduled for a c-section because, like her big brother, she's supposedly going to be be a big one.  I'm happy that this date is set in stone.  That I know the day that we get to meet her and start our lives together.  But it all circles back to thinking about Luke a lot of times.  About the day that we got to meet, but didn't get to live the rest of our lives together.  It makes me nervous.  And scared.  Deep down I know that everything will be fine this time.  And I know that there will be nothing else in the world that will feel the same as the second we hear this little girl cry for the first time.  I can't wait to finally get to experience that happiness.

But I grieve that I had to miss that happiness with Luke.

These past 8 months have been a ride.  I feel like I've been pregnant forever.  I sort of have been.  I hate how unfair it is that I'll have to have been pregnant 18 out of the past 24 months only to have one child here with me.  I hate coming to grips with that.  It will never be right and I'll never be OK with it. 

I hate that I'm only going to experience that feeling of extreme joy with just ONE of my children.  And I don't want the sorrow I feel for Luke to taint my experiences with Bowie.  But I know that's impossible.

Everytime I see Bowie smile.  Hear her laugh. See her roll over for the first time.  Crawl.  Walk.  Go off to Kingergarten.  High school.  College.  Get married.  I'll be forced to think about missing all of those things with Luke.  I'll be forced to wonder about him.  About what never was or can ever be.  And that will always hurt my heart. I know it will get easier with time (at least I hope it will), but the reality will always be there.

At the end of the day, I can't stay in the depths of my grief forever.  I choose not to.  I don't want to.  But that doesn't mean that I won't miss Luke every single day for the rest of my life.  Joy will have to learn to live with grief...and that's ok.

Missed out

And with my last entry, not even 24 hours later, I was welcoming my brother and his wife's baby into the world.  Within 48 hours, 2 little lives came into my life--into our family.

I will say that being at the hospital with my brother was a breath of fresh air.  The last time I was there, it was all bad--from start to finish.  It started with fear that something was wrong with Luke.  And ended with me being wheeled out the back door without my baby. 

This time was different.  There were no fears.  Just happiness.  Excitement.  Crying babies, and happy parents.

The flip side is so much better than the side I experienced the first time.  I have hope that this can be our side in December.

But this past week has just been hard.  Everything has changed for the two people in my family I'm closest to.  My siblings are entering parenthood.  Nearly simultaneously.  And watching it unfold is hard on me.

Because it's all that I've missed out on this past 10.5 months.  Everything that was supposed to happen with us and Luke, but didn't.

I don't hold it against them. They're doing what any new parent does.  Exactly what I would have done in September if things had turned out differently.

They're sort of absent from the world--adjusting.  Getting used to feedings and new sleep schedules.  Cries in the middle of the night and wanting to take a shower.

Continued congratulations and pictures and comments from friends who can so identify with you as a new mom.

I never got that.  No one I knew identified with me.  No one should have to.

If they weren't my siblings and the people I'm closest to in this world, I would have hidden them on social media--like I've done to others these past 10 months.  But I can't do that to them.  Because this is my niece and nephew they're talking about.  I have a stake in their lives.  I want to see what's happening with these two-they mean a lot to me--a lot more than other people who have had kids since Luke.

This was the part that I feared the most--the aftermath of their pregnancies.  The part where our experiences no longer crossed paths.  And it sucks.  I could keep up with their pregnancies--I made it all the way to the end, just like they did.  But now, they're experiencing a whole new set of events and emotions that I never got to experience.

I don't know how much worse this would be, if I weren't actually pregnant right now myself.  I feel that it might have been torture.  I don't know, but I'm relieved that it's not.  I actually have something--for us--to look forward to.  Thank God.  I know that I'm not far behind.

But I should have been ahead of them.  And I'm just sad.  Mostly just sad for myself.  Not mad at them.  Just sad that this happened to me and Jeff and Luke.  

The good thing...is that the sight of those two babies brings me happiness.  I wasn't sure how that would go, but that's another relief--that I don't feel bitterness toward them for being born.

My brother and his wife named their son Ethan.  Ethan Luke.  When my brother told us on Sunday that it was a boy, I threw a party inside, because I knew that was what they were going to name him if he turned out to be a boy...and a really big part of me wanted to know for sure that Luke's name would have life.  And now it does. 

And with all of this swirling around so quickly--I think it IS doing something to me that makes me more confident about this baby.  That Bowie WILL be born and be fine.

Which is more than I could ask for right now.

We find out if Bowie's a boy or a girl on Wednesday.  We're in the middle of packing up our house to move the last week of this month.  So much is changing.  But right now, I'm looking forward to all of it.

The things I wish I didn't know firsthand

I wish I didn't know that you can go through 9 months of pregnancy...with ZERO problems...and STILL lose your baby.

What it felt like to wake up panicked because I "just had a feeling" that something was wrong.

What it felt like to be induced for labor.  Or have an epidural.  Knowing that there would be no crying baby to greet me at the end.

The shivers that come when you're told that your baby has no heartbeat.

I wish I didn't know that they post a picture of a falling leaf on your door at the hospital when your baby has died.

How to come to terms with the fact that all the hopes and dreams and plans for the future would just...need to be erased.  

What it felt like to get wheeled out the back door of the maternity floor so as not to see "happy people."

What it was like LEAVING that hospital without my baby.

The ins and outs of mortuaries and arranging funeral services.

The pain of having to tell everyone I knew that we lost him. What it feels like to not get to announce something that everyone seemingly sees as a given when they find out you're pregnant and make it to the end. 

What it feels like to carry a full-term baby...that had already died.

I wish I didn't know what death felt like inside of me.  Or to be haunted by the memories of putting our hopes and dreams for you aside.



I wish I was new.  Unscathed.  Naive.  I wish my innocence wasn't shattered last September. 

I wish my first experience of motherhood was like seemingly everyone else's:  Filled with balloons and crying babies and sleepless nights and pictures and happy posts on Facebook and growing up and a lifetime of memories.

I was robbed of all of that.

And now I'm going to go through this again.  With a different perspective.  One that's deeply rooted in fear, but also deeply rooted in optimism that this time HAS to be different.  Because lightning can't strike you twice.  Because what happened to Luke was against almost all odds.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote this about a month ago.  And everything I wrote just stung my heart even more today.

Today, your first cousin was born, Luke.  Madeline Ainsleigh.  She is perfect.  Beautiful.  And best of all, alive.

When Ali texted me late Thursday night to tell me she was going into labor, I felt the entire gamut of emotions.  Fear.  Happiness.  Pity for myself. Tears.

Yesterday I made it through the day with a rock in my stomach.  Waiting.  Waiting for my sister to get the ending that everyone should get for their pregnancy.  Deep down I knew everything would be fine.  They rarely aren't fine, right?  But then I felt that extreme loneliness that you feel when you join this shitty club.

Luke was still gone.  And Ali would get to have her first baby. And she did.  And all was well with the world.  Thank God.

I wish that the rest of my life wouldn't be tainted by this sadness that I have for what happened to me.  Today when I heard the news that Madeline was born and she was fine and healthy, I can't explain the relief that ran through my veins.  Happiness for another niece to spoil. Relief that she was alive and born without problems.  Relief that Ali was fine.  Relief that it was over for now.  Relief that...Ali didn't have to go through what I went through.

I'm going to go through this all over again sometime this coming week when my brother and Lauren have their baby.

And then again, when I have Bowie in December.  Except then, I'll be in the driver's seat again.  

The loneliness...struck again today.  I hadn't felt it in awhile, but there it was.  I thought back to the day we came home from the hospital after leaving Luke.  Led through the back halls of the hospital.  Emptyhanded.  Empty-carseated.  I remember that feeling of extreme isolation.  That no one I knew--Not a single person--Understood what it felt like to deliver their full-term baby after they already knew he was gone.

I know I'm in a different place now.  I've found my people.  You're all here.  You live all over the place.  My therapist is even one of them.  And I can't describe what a relief THAT is.  This isolation is one that you don't want to be in...and you don't want OTHERS to be in.    But you want nothing else but to NOT be the only one that knows these feelings.  These feelings are so thick, they can choke you on a daily basis.  There's no control over them, because they're maternal and wild, and so ingrained in human beings.

And in some ways, I don't think anyone can understand just how thick these feelings are until they are the ones giving birth.  Mothers.

We take life for granted.  One of my sister's friends who was at the hospital in Portland with them last night, texted with me, and she told me that while she was sitting there in the waiting room, a group of teenage boys walked into the waiting room.  And one was a baby's daddy who was being delivered as well.  He wasn't in the delivery room with his baby.  She told me she heard him saying that his life was over.  Everything was over for him.

And it made both of us so angry.  Life isn't fair.  There was a boy--A literal boy--Who probably got to see his baby and hear that baby cry last night.  He wasn't ready to be a father.  He clearly doesn't even understand what he's just been given.

It's not fair that he got to meet his baby and we didn't.

But I hope he one day understands just how lucky he is.  And I hope he never has to understand the pain of losing that child--no matter how much he thinks his life may be over because of it.

Remember...
 Life's a beautiful thing
And it's a gift
And life's a beautiful thing

Oh don't waste it, doll

Thank you Ali and Madeline...for showing me, again, that babies can be born fine and healthy.  I needed that affirmation more than you knew.  

10 Months? How?

The other day in therapy, it really hit me how close to the 1-year mark we are, Luke. 

Almost one entire year without you.  Almost one entire year that your existence has been missed.  Greatly.

10 months feels like an eternity.  And at the same time, these past ten months were crystal clear in my memory.  It's like my brain is working overtime trying to magnify and remember the short, fleeting moments we got to spend together. Because the farther away we get from September 10, 2012, the less discernible those moments will become.  And so I feel like I have to do all I can to remember.  To keep those memories for the rest of my lifetime.

These next few weeks are going to be an emotional rollercoaster for me.  Both of your cousins are due to be born soon.  I should be chasing a 10-month old who's probably crawling around, but instead, I will be waiting for their calls...packing up our condo to move...and wishing that you could be here to meet them and experience all of this change that's happening in our lives.  But it's going to be without you.  Your cousins will never get to meet you or know who you are.

But that's not going to stop us from celebrating you.  I want to make you a first birthday cake in September. Like I would have if you were here.  

Your first birthday is going to be here before I know it. I'm not making plans about how I'll feel, but if there's one thing I know, it's that this pain in my heart is never going to go away. It will dull, I'm sure.  It already has. But it will never be gone. And I don't want it to be. 

I miss you. Even knowing that we'll have another baby soon doesn't change that. I'll always miss you. You can count on that. 

All the things we'd hoped for, for you in life, Luke...

But were shattered by your death?

We get to pass them onto someone else.

You're going to be a big brother.  Sometime this December.

I know that some people might think that by having another baby, we'll be "fixed". That our hearts will be mended. Because we'll finally walk away with a living breathing baby. 

But this doesn't fix anything. The hole you left in our lives and hearts will always be in my heart. We'll always be missing a child at the dinner table. My "oldest" child in this world will not truly be my oldest child, and from an outsider's perspective, their point of view will always be incorrect.

The questions have already started this time around...

"Is this your first?!  No?  How old is your oldest?!" (This has already happened)

I've told myself that I will not lie.  I've already had to put on the anti-liar hat and say things to complete strangers that I'm sure were not the careless answers they expected to this question.  This child is our second, and you were our first, Luke.  And you always will be.  Nothing can change that order.  I think about just how much we're missing by not having you here with us.  I think about the fact that I'm the oldest sibling in my family. What would my family be like if I weren't still here?

It's things like that that are hard to grasp.  We'll never know what we're missing about you.

But this little baby...has already given me hope.  The worst has already happened with you.  It can't possibly happen again.

So we'll get to have a new version of our family.  I wish you could be here with us at Christmas when we welcome this little one...but I know you'll be watching to make sure everything goes right.

In a way, that's a comfort--I have you, up there...to watch over me--to make sure this goes right.

I wish we had years and years to grieve your death.  But our time here is short, and you've shown me that.  But you've also made me a Mom.  And I guess it makes me special that I'll have one angel watching over me, and I'll have one here with me on Earth.

Now all we have to do is get through the next 5ish months.

I've been writing a few entries before we wanted to let this out of the bag...So those will probably be up in the next few days...

Baby's nickname is Bowie.  As in...Rainbow Baby.  But also...it connects to Luke.  My sister and I nicknamed Luke Jemaine in the womb.  From Flight of the Conchords--mostly because we thought it was an awesome name to never use.  But Jemaine appears as David Bowie in a dream that Bret has....and, it all just seemed to fit...So until this one has a real name...It's sticking.

Cousins

It's taken me awhile to bring up the subject on here, Luke, but I think I can finally get the words out.

You're going to be a big cousin to two little babies soon. This July.

That's right, your Auntie Ali and Auntie Lauren are both pregnant. Yesterday, we found out that Auntie Ali and Uncle Andy will be having a baby girl. We won't be finding out what your Auntie Lauren and Uncle Pooter are having until that cousin actually arrives, since they're going old-school and waiting it out.

It's hard, obviously, looking forward to more nieces/nephews while I'm still missing you the most. It makes me so sad that these two little cousins will never grow up to know their oldest cousin, Luke.

I wasn't planning on bawling my way through the news that my sister and brother were both going to have kids--at nearly the same exact time, but that's what happened when I found this out last November. And I wasn't counting on the fact that I would be the oldest sibling...but also the one with a dead child. No one prepares themselves for that in life.

The first thing that crossed my mind when I found out they were both pregnant...How could this possibly get any worse? Honestly? BOTH of them...I was told they were both pregnant in the same WEEK. Due within 9 days of each other. I could barely stand the sight of a pregnant woman then...But now I was going to have to see my own sister (my best friend for LIFE) and sister-in-law BE those women? I was sitting there...grieving you, and somehow, I was supposed to find it within myself to be happy to be an Aunt again? It was absolutely NOT the way I'd always imagined being told I was going to be an Auntie by either of them. I felt like everything was ruined. Not only had we lost you...but we'd lost the ability to feel the way we SHOULD have felt when we were told the news. I felt like I'd ruined this for my Mom and Dad...that THEY had to be told this so soon after losing their first and only grandchild. It was bittersweet, to say the least.

It was like you were pulling some sort of strings from wherever you are...to tell me that the world wouldn't stop, and that I had to pick myself up and carry on, somehow, without you.

When I first found out the news back in November, everything was so fresh. I couldn't comprehend the idea that more children were going to be coming into our family so soon after you. I won't lie--I thought for sure this would drive me to the point of insanity. This would have been THEE most ideal situation, really, in any other family's reality. Cousins so close in age? A complete and total blessing--they could be best friends. But in our reality? How did it even make sense? Especially so soon after losing you? I thought the world was stopping. And it turns out it wasn't.

I went through the entire gamut of emotions in those two months after losing you, Luke. Anger. Confusion. Fear. Jealousy. Sadness. Happiness. Bitterness. Betrayal. I couldn't believe that I found myself feeling betrayed by my siblings. The two people I've spent the most time with in this world...were moving on without me. I'm the oldest. I was supposed to be the one that had a child first--who could show them the ropes of parenthood. They could have learned from us, Luke. The silly mistakes we would make, being first-time parents.

But that was not to be.

Just revisiting these feelings, today, is making me feel sad again. Sometimes I'm grateful that I went through all of that shock so quickly. Because I got it over with. It was done, the next babies were coming, and we'd all have to find it within ourselves to somehow keep going.

I hate the fact that there will come an end to all of the comparisons that I've been able to have with Ali and Lauren to this point. And the thing is...I ENJOY sharing with them. It makes me feel that your existence is validated, somehow. I can share with them all of my experiences about being pregnant. About what the first, second, and third trimesters felt like. I can give them all the information I researched about baby products and strollers and car seats. I can even share with them my experiences of labor, and actually giving birth to a child. But that's where it stops.

After the birth of their children, that's where our shared experiences will end. Because their children will come into the world crying and full of life, and you didn't, Luke. They will become parents to a child in this world...and we have still yet to have that. I will have nothing to share or compare. We're left with your urn inside your teddy bear and your empty room and they'll be sleep-deprived and overwhelmed by their living, breathing babies.

We wanted to have a family, Luke. And now everyone else is getting to have theirs, but we still aren't complete. I think that's what hurts the most. The jealousy. I don't want it. But for them to get to have this...and not us? When we were supposed to already have you? It's hard not to be jealous. It really really is.

I think the most apparent thing I felt when I heard this news back in November was that I felt left out. And in a way, I still do. Because they have all their hopes and dreams for their children to still look forward to. But for almost 6 months, we've been working on putting our hopes and dreams for you to rest.

If there's one thing I know, it's that we're not giving up on having a family someday. You'll always be a part of it, though, Luke. And as much as I wish you could be here, I know that I don't want to keep feeling this feeling of being left out and jealous for the rest of our lives. I want to know what it's like to be a parent to a living child. I know I'll be trying to figure out how to be a parent to you for the rest of my life, but I want the other side of that as well. Any sibling or cousin you ever have will know about you. You will never be someone whose memory we sweep under the rug to forget about. Even if you never breathed a breath on this Earth.

Maybe these two babies are going to be born into our family so that I can see for myself--that babies ARE meant to be born. To give me hope and maybe confidence that what happened to us ISN'T how this is supposed to go.

It's not fair that this is the way things have to be. So so so so not fair. But I feel like if I can't change it, I'm at least getting closer to figuring out how to live with this. Because the future is coming whether I want it to or not.

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.

Now you know how you really feel about it

I've watched my fair share of Friends reruns in the past 6 weeks.  It was always one of my favorite shows, and something about it makes me feel...comfortable.  Maybe it's comfort in my past?  I don't know.

For obvious reasons, I find myself turning the channel whenever the show I'm watching deals with someone having a baby.  Or tons of parents and babies (thanks a lot, Project Runway--for making an episode that dealt entirely with making BABY CLOTHES for the first time EVER this season).  It's painful for me to watch.  Knowing that was me--Not that long ago.  I identify with those feelings, but then I have a whole load of other feelings that came from everything that happened after losing Luke.  And now I'm different.

So on at least two occasions these past few weeks, I've seen The One After "I Do."   That episode--I can't not watch it.  It's the one where Rachel found out she's pregnant, but didn't tell anyone, as it was right before Chandler and Monica's wedding, and she wasn't sure what she was going to do.  The episode ends with Monica finding out about it, and Rachel takes another pregnancy test just to be sure.  Phoebe lies and tells her that the new test was negative.  And Rachel comes to realize that she's upset it's NOT positive this time..."How can I be upset over something I never had?"

And Phoebe says "I'm just kidding, it's positive. Now you know how you really feel about it!"

I can't even say how hard that part hits me.

It took me a long time to understand that I wanted to have kids.  I'm 33.  Most people just fall into parenthood way sooner.  I'm...a control freak, and I went through most of my 20s knowing that I wasn't ready to become a parent.  It wasn't that I didn't trust my relationship with Jeff.  Or that I thought I couldn't do it.  It was more that I liked my life how it was, and I wanted  to continue on that path.  And also that  I wanted to be in the best  possible place to have a kid.  But we both knew that we wanted to have a family together...someday.  That was always in our plans.

I'll admit that even when we started trying to get pregnant last December, I'm not sure I completely knew how I felt about becoming a parent.  And it happened so fast.  But when I figured out that it was time to take a test, deep down inside, I knew we were ready for it.  If that test had come back as negative, I surely would have said the same exact thing--"How can I be upset over something I never had?"

I found myself saying the same thing when I found out that we were having a boy.  I'd always wanted a girl, and it was sort of a blow to me at first when we found out.  I got over that, though.  I really did.

It's horrible how this is all turned around on me now.

Now I know how I really feel about it.  I wanted to be Luke's Mom.  And now here I am, crushed about the life I'm never going to have with him.  I would do anything to change the way it is.  Anything.  But there's nothing that can change this.  

It's like a cruel joke that life is playing on me--"Now you know how you really feel about it."

I do.  And I hate that there's nothing I can do to change it.

5.5 Week Checkup

Today was my first checkup at my OB without you, Luke.

Not gonna lie.  It was rough walking into my doctor's building without you in your car seat.  My heart pounded in my chest as I walked down the hallway toward her office.  I'd been in that office so many times this year.  So many times--with no fear or question in my heart about how things were going.  Not once did I feel scared that anything could happen to us or you.

This time was so different. And all the damage was already done.

Thank goodness the waiting room wasn't terribly full when I got there.  Daddy met me there from work, and I was so happy when he showed up.  It was wrong with it still being just the two of us sitting in the office together, but I was proud of myself for not crying in the waiting room.

That changed once we got inside the exam room.  Seeing my doc again was hard.  I like her a lot, and I'd never not trusted her or her decisions about our care.  She told me that we'd changed her.  That she really rethought what she tells her patients about doing kick-counts.  That she's going to recommend it to all of her patients now, because while it's not something all doctors tell you how to do, it's important to TRY to know when something's going wrong.  She's not sure we could have changed anything, though.  It was such a short amount of time between that Friday--when you were seemingly fine at my doctor's appointment, and Sunday morning, when you were already gone.  She said she's never seen anything like it--that babies are born with nuchal cords and knots in their cord all the time--and they're fine.  But for some reason, you weren't.  Maybe it was because you were so big and healthy.  I wasn't measuring as big as you turned out to be, and she said that definitely caught her off guard.  She had no idea you'd be almost 10 pounds, considering you were a little less than 7 pounds at the ultrasound just three weeks before.  With me being so tall, it wasn't easily seen in my body just what a big guy you were.  She told us that it was really hard on them too...That this doesn't happen very often.  Sometimes they go a year or so without seeing this.  And then this happened.  And apparently this happened to another patient in their practice a week after us.  She said this hurt them too...

She went on to try to assure me that this was SUCH an uncommon accident.  She'd never seen it before.  And that next time around, she will do everything in her power to reassure me that your brother or sister will be ok.  We'll get a Perinatologist and NSTs at least twice a week.  More ultrasounds to check the cord more often.  She told me that she for sure would deliver at about 39 weeks, maybe sooner, and if the measurements are similar to yours, we'd do a c-section.  She told us that if you had been alive when she delivered you, she feared she would've broken your clavicle trying to get you out--they would have had to be much more aggressive because we couldn't have taken our time.  That's how big you were.  She told us that it would've been a scary delivery regardless, and she wished she would've been more prepared for that. 

They didn't find anything in any of the tests to tell us what happened, Luke.  We're both happy and sad about this.  Happy, because it means that there's really no reason this could happen to us again.  But we're sad--because it means we'll never understand why or how we lost you.  She ordered more blood tests for me today--to rule out everything possible.  I gave a total of 18 vials of blood today, Luke.  There were only supposed to be 9, but the lab worker said he used a needle that was too fat the first time, and he punctured my vein too much and messed up the samples.  Great.

So we discussed the future.  My doc said that as soon as I get my next cycle, we could start trying again if we wanted to.  Obviously, we need to do what's best for us, but just thinking about this right now hurts me, Luke.  I'm so torn on everything.  I don't want to replace you.  I don't want to start trying again right away just to fill the hole that's been left in our lives.  But at the same time, I do.  This wasn't how it was supposed to be, and I wish this wasn't a decision that we have to make.  Daddy and I aren't exactly young.  We can't wait years to work on fixing ourselves after losing you...

But then there's the thought of going through being pregnant again, only with all of this on my mind.  The entire time.  I'm going to be a wreck.  Going through this again--Even if everything is FINE the entire time, I don't know if there's anything anyone will be able to do to reassure me that it will all turn out ok.  Nothing will be ok until we hold your brother or sister in our arms.  And I won't believe anything anyone tells me until that happens.    


I don't know what to do.

Everyone keeps saying to take our time and figure out what's best for us, but I feel like time isn't on our side.
I need to call back a therapist that Angela found for me.  This therapist has gone through a stillbirth herself, and I'm hoping she can give me some advice here, because I honestly don't know what to do.  I feel like right now, all I can do is miss you.  

All I know is...it still  hurts.  A lot.  I know I'm strong, but this is just hard.

Memories of the future

Something I need to figure out how to do--How do I give up on the future that Luke was supposed to be in?

The things that hit me the hardest, that I think about on a daily basis, are the tiny reminders of things that were said and done before all of this happened...when our future had Luke with us. The enormity of losing him...suffocates me sometimes.  Usually when someone dies, you remember all of the memories with them.  The things you did together.  Friendships.  Family time.  That's why this situation is the most backwards thing ever.  The only thoughts and experiences we ever got to have with our son were those we imagined and foresaw in our heads.

I feel like my entire life is going to be divided on a line--Pre-Luke, and Post-Luke.

In some ways, it's a blessing, because none of it was real.  But in other ways, it's the worst possible torture to think about all that might have been.  Yesterday I had a meltdown when I came home from shopping with Jeff at Target and Old Navy.  It was the same Old Navy that I'd shopped for maternity clothes at--and I couldn't wait till I could buy cute kids clothing for Luke there.  Then there was Target.  Mom, Jeff and I had actually JUST been at that Target the Friday before we found out we'd lost him.  We were shopping for some random things for him--Diapers, wipes, a few things that Mom still needed for her house when she'd take care of him.  Jeff insisted we get this really cute hooded towel with a shark on it.

Yesterday I saw so many Moms pushing their babies in strollers.  With their diaper bags and snacks in tow.  That was supposed to be me.  Us.  But everything that I'd built up to expect in my head...Is never going to be real with Luke.

Nearly everyday I go in Luke's room.  And the thing that hurts me to look at the most is all of his clothes hanging in the closet--washed and ready for him to wear.  They're organized by size--from Newborn to almost 24 months.  We got so many cute things.  And I'd imagined him wearing all of them.  I couldn't wait till he could fit into the shirt we bought him at Coachella.  Or the Angels onesie.

We were finally going to be using the family bassinet with him.  

Auntie Ali's special nickname for Luke was going to be Jemaine.  When we couldn't figure out what to name him, Ali had suggested names that start with J, since Jeff and I are both Js as well, and the funniest name we could come up with was Jemaine (since we are sort of obsessed with Flight of the Conchords and all).  It was never serious, but surely that would be his nickname. 

I think back to my last day in the office.  When I said goodbye to Joey, he said how he already felt like he knew Luke since, ya know, they were already Coachella-going-concert-buddies and all.

We were finally going to join the realm of people who have kids.  Something I've watched from afar for a long time, but would finally be able to understand what it's actually like.  

It's thoughts like that--that slay me.  When I get too deep in my head with those thoughts, the tears come.  And there's so many thoughts that trigger that.  Now, we're parents.  But with empty arms.  I don't even know what that means, really.  If your hopes and dreams for your child never have a chance to come to be, how exactly can you call yourself a parent?

Deep down, I know Luke will always be alive in my heart.  And physically, he'll always be a part of me.  But giving up on the future...but still having memories of thinking about what it would have been like?  It's the worst mindfuck I can think of.

Tonight is October 15--Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.  Tonight, we''ll light a candle for our little guy and hope that he can somehow share that moment with us....

I miss you, Luke.