And just like that, you were gone.

On this day one year ago, we heard the horrific news that you were gone. That it was already too late.

Even though I'd woken up with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, I waited to go to L&D until a bit before noon. I think part of me knew something was terribly wrong, but I did feel reassured when I got the chance to talk to my doc, who was on call that day, and she told me everything was probably fine, but to just come in anyway to get checked out.

"Who knows?" she said, "Maybe he's ready to come today!"

We dropped off PJ at my parents', thinking we'd maybe just meet Luke that night, and why not? My Dad said goodbye, patted my tummy and told Luke he'd see him soon.

There was the line at check in--that we skipped, and just headed up to L&D anyway. We got there and there was Katye. She was so sweet and amazingly comforting. She told us not to worry--everything would probably be fine. This happens all the time.

But after that was when everything came crashing down.

There was the nurse--first with the doppler. Nothing. Then she left...and came back with another nurse. Still nothing. And I think that's about when things started hitting us--what we were really being told. Then came my doctor. She looked at the ultrasound machine...and I could sense her panic.

That's when the shaking started.

The shivers that come...when you understand the horrific news you're being told, but haven't been told yet. I never want to feel them again.

You were gone. Somehow, they told us. They weren't sure how or why. But we had to find out.

That's the part that I think most people don't comprehend when they hear you've had a stillborn baby. You still have to deliver the baby. You still have to go through everything every Mom who has a living baby goes through. With no reward at the end. Just silence. Then the tears.

I was terrified. I was already terrified to give birth to a baby. How was I going to do this?

I still don't know how I made it through this night, knowing you were already gone. I couldn't have done it without Jeff. Or my family. If anything...they made me feel less alone. But in the end, the terror of it being all on ME to get done...It was cruel.

Thinking about these very hours on this day last year hurts. I never want to feel those feelings again. This was the most painful, torturing day of my life. We waited out the night...waiting for the inevitable.

I was supposed to be excited to meet you--to see what you looked like--FINALLY--after 9 months of carrying you with me.

But now I'd have to also say goodbye to you too. In the same breath, I'd meet you and you'd already be gone.

It all seems surreal, still, how the day unfolded. Unimaginable, really. There are scenarios you play out in your head over and over--happy endings. And then there's the scenarios you would never imagine that suddenly become your reality. That's where we were. A nightmare come true.

We didn't sleep. I dozed to try and gain strength. Thank God for epidurals--it made the pain just a tiny bit less cruel.

It felt like the night would last forever. It really did. Like it would never end.

Or maybe I just didn't want it to end. Because it would mean we were moving farther away from being together. There was no stopping the inevitable, though. The panic set in, and somehow, I survived, without you.

It didn't seem right, but there was nothing anybody could do to change it. You were really gone. I thought maybe by some miracle you might not be--but everything we were told was right.

I will never understand this day. How we could go in thinking we'd have you, and how we could leave without you. In one day. We were discharged from the hospital almost exactly 24 hours after checking in. Everything that happened in those 24 hours was somehow real.

And now here we are at September 9, 2013--Today was nothing like I expected it to be one year and one day ago.

On this day one year ago, a lifelong adjustment of expectations began.

Your heartbeat was still there, then

It's been a year now since we last heard your heartbeat, Luke.

September 7, 2012 was the last appointment we had with our OB. It was perfect, too. Daddy and I were so excited. I was 1cm dilated and 25% effaced. The doc said that you could show up any day. And there were NO worries. I'd tested negative for strep. Your heartbeat on the doppler was right there and perfect. That night after dinner at Chipotle, you were doing flips and I was positive I was going to explode at any minute. I'd finally developed cankles--at 38 weeks, 4 days. I was so thankful I wouldn't have to put up with those for much longer...

There was nothing to alert us that something would be so wrong in less than 48 hours.

That's the part that hurts the most to think about. How blind we were. I was shocked at how simple my pregnancy was up to that point. I called myself lucky.

And then we found out in less than 48 hours that you were gone. With no warning. No potential to save you. It was already too late. I was the unluckiest.

We were supposed to bring you home in your going home outfit--in the carseat we'd just gotten checked--to the bassinet that was passed down through my family for generations. You were supposed to just BE here.

And then you weren't. In an instant.

Thinking about the whiplash of this weekend last year is hard. It will never make sense. How everything could be so perfect, and then so wrong, so quickly...

I will always try to think of something I could have done--to know that you were in trouble. But I can never come up with anything that would have told me a single thing. I've had a year now--to think of something, but nothing lines up.

I will always wish for things to have turned out differently--For the path that our lives should have taken that weekend, instead of the path that we were forced down.

I miss you, Luke. And I wish I had a time machine to go back to this day and then go to L&D and meet you when you were still alive. Before it was too late.

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.

Weird feelings

I think that maybe the hardest part about being pregnant again is dealing with all of the weird thoughts and feelings that any lucky, unscarred pregnant person would never have to deal with.

The other day, I was reading a pregnancy community online.  I used to get a lot of joy doing that when I was pregnant with Luke--Talking and reading about what other moms were feeling/going through made things easier for me to absorb and deal with (not that I even KNEW what was difficult, back then).  But this time around...I feel like an outsider.  I feel like I don't belong there anymore.

The discussion this particular time was talking about what everyone had REALISTICALLY packed in their hospital bag for when they headed to the hospital for delivery.  Everyone who had given birth before was putting in their two cents about what they really used and needed in that bag.

And I bet I was the only person reading that discussion whose heart broke thinking about packing a hospital bag.

I packed my bag for the hospital, obviously--I was 39 weeks when Luke was born.  That day when we went to L&D, I figured I'd take it, since who knew?!  Maybe we'd end up having him that day!

But everything fell apart so quickly.  And in all honesty, I did not use a single thing from my hospital bag.  Except for my soft fluffy slippers that I used because my blood pressure crashed and my feet were freezing.

My stay at the hospital was the complete opposite of almost every other soon-to-be-mom's.

I didn't get to use a going home outfit for Luke.  Or a nursing bra.  Or baby socks.  Or chapstick.  Or even a birthing ball. Or even my birthing plan.  I left that hospital with my hospital bag pretty much intact.  Except with some added paperwork about mortuaries and contact information for a social worker.

I legitimately had something to contribute to that question.  And yet I found myself holding back.  As if my experience didn't count because I didn't get to bring my son home.

Or maybe I held back because I felt like unless my answer included my story...I'd be a liar. And I didn't want to bring down such a happy discussion.  No one wants to hear a Debbie Downer. So I said nothing.

It hurts my heart that I feel like I can't even have input on these discussions.   I'm still a Mom.  I still had a baby.  I went through 13 hours of labor, was given Cytotec, Pitocin, an Epidural, and experienced giving birth to a baby with shoulder dystocia.  Everything about what happened to me was complicated.  And yet I feel like a complete outsider on these discussions because Luke didn't leave the hospital alive with me.

I hate feeling like an outsider.  I know I'm different now, and I would never give up having had Luke to be who I was before. But I feel weird.  Not normal.  There's a peace to being called normal that I never really understood before...but now I understand completely.      

I shy away from these discussions and message boards now. I see what other girls are worried about, and a lot of times I just sigh. That used to be me. 

And I wish it still was. I hope none of them have to understand true worry. Or what it feels like to be an inside outsider. 

The unlikeliest of places

I just hugged a TSA agent. 

I've spent the past week up in Portland--visiting my sister and Andy, and spending time with my new niece Madeline. 

It's been an amazing week...and of course, it's a reminder of you, Luke. Seeing my sister bond with Maddie allows me a glimpse into all the scenarios that should have been for us but weren't. 

Anyway, I'm t the airport right now, and I truly give myself a pat on the back for how well I took this entire trip. 

But maybe I'm hormonal. Or emotional from meeting Maddie for the first time. But it kind of just came out. 

I was sort of apprehensive about security up here because they use those body scanners, and I'm pretty against that being pregnant right now. So I was hoping to be sent straight to the metal detectors.

And amazingly, I was!

But I kept setting it off. And I had no idea why. I was empty of everything. And then the guy mentioned that it was probably the underwire in my bra. Dammit. 

So I got sent straight to the pat-down. 

The woman's name was Debra. I could tell right away she was very nice. She explained everything to me that she would do, and then asked about my necklace. 

I told her it was for my son. My son that I lost. And then the tears came. 

And she told me that she lost a son too. 

She asked what his name was and how old he was. And when I told her you were stillborn at 39 weeks, she said, no--you were 39 weeks old. 

Her son was 23 months old when she lost him. When she told me that I burst out in more tears for her. 

All of this while she was doing her job to make sure I was not a threat to airport security. 

We chatted. She was wonderful and told me that she now has 3 grandkids, and while the grief doesn't go away...it hurts less, all these years later. But she told me to never feel bad for grieving. 

And then she hugged me. 

It's strange how our stories bring us together sometimes. Even in the unlikeliest of places. 

So now I sort of feel like a weird hormonal wreck, but I have a plane to catch....

11 months...or one month away from a year

How have we come to August 10 already?

How has it been almost an entire year since we both met and said goodbye, Luke?

I remember this month last year so well.  We were so busy getting ready for your arrival--we had your baby shower.  And we worked hard on getting all the things that you supposedly NEED for a newborn.  We ordered a rocker from Babies R Us.  And we hoped it'd get here in time for your arrival.

It got here the same day as the last time we heard your heartbeat.  Two days before we lost you.

I don't know where the past year has gone.  So much has changed.  In so many ways, you've caused a lot of that change.  We sold our house, and we just moved into a single story house.  It's awesome and perfect, and I wish you were there with us.

And then there's the fact that I'm 4.5 months pregnant.  We found out about 3 weeks ago that you're going to have yourself a little sister, Luke.  I was torn either way, about what sex this baby would be.  But I think I've come to the realization that I'm glad this one's a girl.  I won't ever ever feel like this baby is replacing you in any way.  You will always be you, and she'll always be herself.  I will have a son and daughter.

What sucks is that we could've had the perfect family--Everyone dreams of having both a boy and a girl and calling it a day.  I know I did.  Now...It is what it is.  We'll always be missing our boy, but we'll have our girl.  Strangers on the street won't know that...and that's what's going to feel the most hollow.

The first year...almost here.

During the next month, I'm going to make it a point to raise money in your name for The OC Walk to Remember.  I hate that we won't be able to spend your first birthday together--eating cake and opening presents.  So this is all that I have left--Raising money to help others who have been put into the same terrible situation as we were with you.

A couple of weeks ago, I received a letter from the Office of Vital Records in Sacramento.  I've been waiting for this letter for a long time.  Since last November, when I submitted the form for your certificate of stillbirth.  I'm sure no one really knows that when your baby is born without a heartbeat,  you don't get a birth certificate.  You walk away with just a death certificate. It's like you were never alive.  And that hurts.  so I submitted for the certificate of stillbirth--mostly because that's all we have left to ask for.  I sent in the form, and the $20 for a copy.

So when I opened that envelope, and saw the sentence "NO RECORD FOUND", obviously, my heart broke.

I was expecting the certificates enclosed.  And I was greeted with that.  No reason why.  Nothing.

I called up the office Thursday.  And I sort of lost it on them.  I asked them how it was possible for me to be receiving it.  We HAVE a death certificate.  How can there be NO RECORD?  No record of your existence that day in the hospital? I gave birth to you at 5:29am on September 10. 

I was given the standard bureaucratic answer.  And then more explanation that broke my heart even more.  There are so few stillbirths in each county, that they're gathered up and submitted by the county they occurred in in one batch every six months.  I must've submitted it on the end of the six month cutoff.  And so your birth/death probably didn't get submitted to Sacramento until the NEXT 6 months cutoff.

When I told him it's been almost a year since your death, he told me that it's possible that Orange County hadn't submitted them for either period, and maybe they'll just submit a year's worth of these records...THAT'S how few there are.

I started choking up when I explained to him that that was disappointing...that I'd hoped to have the certificate for your birthday.  I told him that it hurt to feel like your birth/death wasn't even submitted yet...like it was incredibly unimportant.  Like it never happened.

He said he totally understood and told me he was very sorry...

You were important to us.  So important to us.

It hurts that our situation is so rare, the county doesn't even care enough to submit them very often.  Especially considering how much more this means to me than just a normal parent that gets their alive-child a standard birth certificate.  I understand that they need it more than me.  But I think my heart my need this more then they do.

Anyway.

11 months.  I wish I hadn't learned so much about stillbirth in these past 11 months.  But if there's anything I can do, it's to help raise money for a cause that supported me when I needed it most that day in the hospital and after.

For Luke's first birthday, I'd love to be able to raise at least $1000 for the OC Walk to Remember.  I'm trying to liken this to getting him a first birthday present.  But instead, you'll be helping others in my area and beyond (now that they're associated with the STILL Project) who need this help.  You can find our donation page by clicking the picture below...


And thanks to all of you who have supported us this past year.  It's been a year of a lot of downs, but even some ups.  And we couldn't have done it alone. 

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.