A decade--And your Golden Birthday

3,653 days. It's been 3,653 days since I last saw your face in person, Luke. 

It's weird--When I was looking up that calculation, I thought it might be more. It feels like more. When I really sit and think about everything that has happened in our lives since that day, it feels like a LOT. Your funeral. The hours and days and weeks and months that dragged on after you died--when we didn't have a clue what the future would hold for us. Helena died not long after you. Then we were pregnant again. Lena arrived. We sold the condo. Moved to another. Bought our house, Lainey came along. First days of school happened. A pandemic. So many more people have come and gone. 

Time seemed to pass so slowly at first--the grief, always waiting there, foaming to the top of everything. 

At first, I had no idea how I would get through my life without you. How this gaping hole in my heart and soul would ever change or feel different. In those first years of birthdays, I put so much pressure on myself--To make sure you were celebrated--That we had a special cake or balloons or went somewhere special. 

I think now, the grief is settled. I know I don't need to do anything specifically to prove that I still love you, or that you were real. Not a single day goes by that I don't think of you or speak of you. You're never far from my consciousness, and while there are definitely times where I see a sign of you, I think the thing that I've come to accept the most, ten years out, is that you're everywhere with me. I literally carry you in my heart. And I hope somehow you feel that.

I guess that's how we carry the losses that mean the most to us over time. I remember someone I spoke with in the first months after you died...told me that his mom and dad had a baby before him--Just like you. And how he grew up his entire life, knowing he had a brother--before him, who he never met. His mom spoke of him, and my friend always felt him there, somehow. I think about that so much more often now, with the girls. Lena is much more in touch with her thoughts about your existence than Lainey is. I can tell that she feels a connection--maybe it's her wish for a brother. But she always includes you. You're her other sibling who she never knew, but wishes so much that she did. 

This year, I don't think I'm as sad. I mean, I'm always sad about you and about how we lost you. The sadness is just...maybe not as acute. It used to feel that I had to take your birthday and just...get through. Do something alone--and then find the thing I needed to do to celebrate you. But for the first time, I don't think the debilitating sadness has set in. Tomorrow, we'll go to the baby jacaranda tree we had planted at our local park, have some cake, and the kids will inevitably be crazy. 

And I'll think about how at this time, ten years ago, hardly any of this existed. Life has moved forward, so far in time, without you. And yet your mark is on everything. So much of my Now is imprinted with everything that happened because of you, and for that, I'm forever grateful. You made me a mom. Your face is forever etched into my mind. And even though I don't have nearly as many words to say about you as I did ten years ago, I still feel that longing for you. Who you would have turned out to be. I wish we had a chance to make memories together, on the outside. 

For now, I'll take the relief that I feel being ten years away from the Hardest Thing--leaving you there in the hospital, seeing your face for the last time. 

I hope I get a sign from you, tomorrow, sweet boy. I'll be looking for it.

Firsts

These girls.

This week we hads two big first days in our house. Lena’s first day at her elementary school in preppy-k, and Lainey’s first day at preschool.

I’m not one of those parents you’ll see crying as I push my kids into their classroom, bemoaning their loss of little-ness. There is nothing I want to see more than for them to grow. Grow up, girls. Become who you were meant to be. See the world for yourself and learn and laugh and love.

I will always be here. Waiting to hear about it. Watching you misstep and succeed and everything in-between. I’m your biggest supporter and I hope you always know that.

And I hope that you always know that as much as I miss your brother and all the life he never got to live, I will never expect you to fill that hole in our lives. You are who you are. Your futures are yours and yours alone. You were never meant to fill his shoes, and your lives are yours.

I will never feel sad watching you grow up. Not for one minute. I’m sure I’ll miss your baby-mess sometimes. I already miss Lena calling strawberries “strawbabies.” I know I’ll miss Lainey telling Lena “You know better, Weena!” whenever Lena does something mean to her. But every minute spent here on this earth with both of you is a minute that I didn't get to spend with Luke. As life keeps going, and we keep getting further and further away from our last day spent together, I realize that the time I have with you both is precious. This life is ours to live and love, together.

Today would have been Luke's first day of Kindergarten. Another milestone that he never reached that still hurts my heart. These milestones with the girls...they mean so much to me. When you know what it means to have these taken away, those visions of how life was supposed to be, there's something about finally reaching them. Their big-ness takes on...more big-ness. More depth and more meaning.

I think sometimes I try to harden myself to these types of things...but the depth of missing Luke is something that comes with any potential milestone. It won’t ever be different because babies are supposed to hit milestones for their parents. Baby milestones. Toddler milestones. School milestones and adult milestones.

Now?  Always. Missing. No more milestones.

I’m not sure most people realize the gravity of that sort of finality that exists when parents lose a child.

So the sweetness of these milestones? They might be sweeter for me. I fought so hard to still get to have them. They’re bittersweet sometimes, but sweet for sure.

Hard Pills to Swallow

Almost five years have passed. FIVE. Half a decade.

It's been half a decade since I last held you, Luke. Since we last saw your face.

I've been thinking a lot about things that I've gotten the hang of over the past five years. Grief is a constant adjustment. It's always changing and life gets both more complicated and yet more simplified. I know the ropes. I know how it feels to see someone join this community of parents who've lost a baby. I know what to offer them. I have rote responses now for the questions that get asked to every parent everywhere.

"How many kids do you have?" they ask.
"Three," I say.
"Oh, how old are they?"
"My youngest is 18 months, my oldest is almost four, but I also had a son, who was stillborn."

And that usually kills a conversation. Sometimes it doesn't and I make a fast friend. I know I can say the words without crying (at least most of the time) and it makes me proud to be able to mention all of my kids in one statement. I've gotten past the point of caring how it makes the other person feel to talk about death, because my reality will always contain my dead firstborn. It's not something that I get to walk away from, or ever be OK with. He will always be gone. I will never have more memories of him to share with people. You were born, and you were not alive, but you still count as my child.

So I've learned how to swallow most of those pills. Over the past 5 years, I've figured out how to present myself and my circumstances to people. I also know that I can't put you away, Luke. You matter too much to me to tuck away into our past. I need people to know that you existed. That you were wanted and that living without you will always hurt. That a piece of my heart will always be missing. Sharing you, while hard, is my job as your mama. I don't have pictures or stories or baby books filled with your milestones, Luke, but I say your name. That pill is less hard to swallow now, five years out.

But some things still hurt. 

Babies are still named Luke. There will always be some that are the age he should be and I'll meet them over my lifetime. 

Babies are still being born on Luke's birthday.

Snooki has her friggin kid, and he's still alive.

Those are still hard pills to swallow. If there's one thing I understand now, 5 years out, it's that I might be bitter about some things forever. I didn't just lose you as a baby. I lost you being a 5 year old on your first day of school. I lost a little boy who might've played little league or loved karate. I lost a teenager who thinks his mom is the most annoying person in the world. And I lost a grown man who I'd hopefully get to see grow up and be a wonderful person.

I never got to see you grow, Luke. I never even got to see your chest rise and fall with air in your lungs. It was all just taken away.

All of that, but on the flip side, you were the first of the grandchildren born to my family. And now, there are 7 more. That's how much has happened in 5 years. And right now, it's hard to think about how empty our lives were when we lost you. But it's still hard to think about the fact that if you weren't gone, Lena and Lainey wouldn't be here. Our lives have diverged down so many different paths because of what happened to you. And it's brutal and beautiful at the same time.

The sun is lower in the sky--Literally as of this week. For me, it signals your birthday. Five years, sweet boy. At this time 5 years ago, I was in labor and we just wanted to meet you...even if you were already gone.

A death date before a birth date. That's still the hardest pill to swallow. 

The season is changing.

They were changing three years ago on this day too.

I was excited. There was so much to look forward to. Fall was coming...Summer was still blazing, but the sky was different--Like it is when it's Fall. The sun was starting to set earlier, and the days got a tiny bit shorter...

And we were supposed to be parents in about a week. A WEEK.

I can feel that change in my bones every year now. It used to mean the holidays were coming--The only "seasons" that California really gets are when the days get shorter.

But now that change of season comes with a tinge of wistfulness. Remembering that my heart is still broken. Realizing that it will always be broken.

People always say that each of their children hold a place in their heart. A place that grows and evolves over time, if they're lucky. Luke's place never got moved into. Even though Lena occupies SO MUCH of her own little space, his space still feels hollow. Lena has evolved into her own tiny personhood. She shares who she IS. She has opinions. She challenges me and shows love back to me. I never even got to hear your cry, Luke.

The tears and outbursts are fewer and farther between now. But as I feel September and your birthday come on, it's hard not to feel weepy. Still. I still feel sorry for myself and for missing out on an entire life that was so close to being here but never made it.

Three years ago, my life changed forever. The happily-ever-after story that seemed so attainable for everyone else was suddenly no longer a thing for us.

Who would you be today, Luke? A toddler with so many opinions, most likely. Sometimes I look at Lena and try to add 15 months onto her and project what you'd look like now. Would you know as many words as her? Would you be into trucks or dolls? What would your favorite cartoon be?

I'm more at peace with what happened now, three years on. I can function like a normal mom. I have a child that people see with their own eyes, and they recognize me as a mother. But I still struggle when I feel like you're a secret to the world. A secret that only my inner circle knows and keeps in their thoughts. The invisible life that never got lived.

Now the tears are coming.

Grief never ends. That's the thing I've come to understand the most these past three years. Tragedy like ours cuts a hole in your heart that can be uncovered with a single thought or memory. Sometimes I feel like my wounds are scabbed and healed, but then I'll think of your face on this day, three years ago. And it's a fresh wound again. You can never heal from grief. It's always there. Some days it's easier to handle than others, and that's about all you can predict. I do have joy in my life again. I smile. I laugh. There's so much to be happy about. I don't wake up in the middle of the night with tears in my eyes anymore.

But there's been three years without you. How can you feel so far away, and yet so close?

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One month from today, we'll be walking in our 4th Walk to Remember. Forever Footprints is a wonderful organization that takes care of families like us by providing training to hospital staff, offering books, memory boxes, support groups, and so much more to those who are going through what we went through. If you're local and would like to join us, or if you're not and would like to register as a virtual walker, you can sign up below--Join our team Luke's Skwalkers.
OC Walk to Remember 2015 Registration

And if you'd just like to make a donation in Luke's name, we have a fundraising page here: Luke's Skywalkers

2 years

730 days.

That's how long it's been since we said goodbye. 

Actually, I guess maybe the last last time we said goodbye was at the funeral home two days after the hospital...there were a lot of goodbyes though. 

It's so weird to not know what to call today. I say it's your birthday. It's not. We can't even get a birth certificate for you. But it's not really the day you died, either. We knew you were gone the day before. That was the first goodbye. It's so odd to think that your death came before your birth. 

So yeah. I don't really know what to call today. Anniversary?  Death anniversary? I hate saying Angel-versary. I don't know. The second year wasn't as hard as the first. I can say that for certain. But I can still relive that 24 hours in the hospital like it was yesterday. From walking up to the check in desk...getting reassured that everything would be fine. To the silence of that final ultrasound. 

Deafening silence. 

The disbelief is still fresh. I'm still in disbelief. But the physical pain is so far gone now, it hardly seems real anymore. What we went through hardly seems real, and yet the reality is so very grave and terrible and life-altering.

I miss your face. I regret not exploring you more when I held you. I was so afraid to hold you...that you might break more than you were already broken. All I wanted to do was fix you. As a Mom, that's all you want for your children. No one can prepare themselves to hold death in their hands. I know I did all I could, but how do you squeeze in a lifetime's worth of hugs into just a few hours? I knew it was impossible.

Holding you and then watching you get taken away at the hospital, that was the second goodbye.  I tried so hard not to think about where you were going and how and with who.  It was all surreal. I was just making plans for your birth, and there we were, all of a sudden, planning a funeral. 

I still don't understand how we made it through those first hours. Days. Weeks. But somehow, here we are, two years later. We survived.  It's so true that you have no idea how strong you can be until you're forced to be it.

So much has changed in two years.  Outwardly, you can't see our brokenness anymore.  We look like a normal family.  But we will always carry you.  You will always be there.  Your teddy bear will always sit on our shelf.  Here, and not.

We have so much to be happy for, but it's still so hard letting you go.

It seems so simple for everyone else to just move on.  But that will always be impossible for us.  

I miss you. Today and always. 

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.

One year.

Because of you, I've had to grow thicker skin and be stronger than I ever knew I could possibly be.

I've had to accept that terrible things happen. To good people, even. And there's nothing you can do to change it or fix it.

I've had to learn how to accept things I never wanted to accept.

I've had to learn to make myself laugh again. To want to live life again. To find joy again.

And I've been forced to learn that all we are given is now. Now is our only guarantee in life. Life will move forward--with or without you--and it's your choice whether or not to go with it and try to be happy with what you're given. But everything can change in a second--Taken from you when you least expect it for no reason at all.

I've realized that while we've been dealt the worst news a parent could hear, I'm still lucky. I haven't had to go through this alone. I'm blessed with family members and friends who have held us up for the past 365 days. They remember you and they aren't afraid to talk about you.

I've learned that the worst can happen...and I can survive. You've taught me that being scared doesn't accomplish anything. Fear won't get you anywhere.

I understand now that watching those who have what you want is easy to be jealous of...but it's far more constructive to do something for yourself than be envious of them.

I'm getting a better grip on becoming who you've made me without losing who I was before. It's a hard balancing act, though.

I wake up thinking about you and I go to sleep thinking about you. About everything that might've been. It's hard to give up on. A year out, and I'm still not sure I've given up on all that I wished for you in this life.

I think I've learned that that's what a parent does--Love their child or children forever--Unconditionally. Here, or in heaven.

This morning I was awake at 5:23am. The exact time you were born. I have no idea how--It must be something in my brain that just knows what my heart is feeling.

I can't believe it's been a year. The hole in my heart hasn't gotten any smaller. I'm not sure if I was expecting it to, but this morning when I woke up, it hurt just as much as those first few days at home without you.

It has gotten easier, but it will never be easy. I'll still miss you forever--every day of my life.

Happy first birthday in heaven, sweet boy. I miss you more than words can ever say ♥

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.

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. 

8 Months & Mother's Day Without You

Lately, I've felt a loss for words, Luke.

I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but there are a lot of things running through my mind.  Mostly, I'm just feeling spun around by life.

I'll be honest Luke.  It's so so simple to just...move farther away from you.  I don't have a choice--Life continues moving in a forward direction.  There is no going backward.  Your existence was so fleeting.  And I feel like now, at 8 months, it's getting completely intangible.  I look at your pictures more often lately--I think just to give your existence validation.

8 months is a long time apart.  But in the grand scheme of life, it's just a tiny dent in time.  And already, the distance seems so far.

Sometimes I'm not sure how ready I am to feel that far away from you.

I'm somehow still standing.  After all of this.  That which I thought would surely slowly kill me...has only made me stronger.  It's true that you don't know how strong you are until you're forced to be.  Facing down this neverending sadness--and trying to beat it with happiness in life is a hard game to continue playing.  And it's forever.  That part is daunting--still.  And I think it always will be.

But I'm lucky in that I have amazing, truly wonderful family and friends who won't let you be far away.  Your Auntie Lauren recently made the most amazing shadowbox for your new cousin's room with keepsakes to remind your cousin of you.  Just knowing that that little baby will grow up knowing about you fills my hole in my heart--if only just a little tiny bit.

There's so much happiness to be experienced in life.  And I don't want to miss out on any of it.  If your death meant anything...It's helped me to find the beauty in life.

Sunday is our first Mother's Day without you.  The first of a lifetime of Mother's Days that will have a tinge of sadness--every. single. year. Even someday, when we have another child (children?), we'll always be missing one.  That hurts.

You made me a Mom first.  And you'll always be that child for me.  There's no changing that. But this year, Mother's Day will be a harsh reminder of what I don't have.  We were so close--but we still lost you, and the fact that we never got to spend a Mother's Day together will always hurt.

So much is lost.

But you'll be at the front of my thoughts on Sunday, Luke.  And I'll be thinking of all other Moms who are spending their Mother's Days without their babies and children.  I'll also be thinking about all the other wonderful, amazing women out there who want nothing more but to become Moms...but can't, for whatever reason.

It's sad that a day that should only be happy and wonderful and thankful can feel like a knife in so many of our hearts.  I wish we could all be new--never having experienced the cruel moments that life can dole out.

But at least we know that we're not alone.

I miss you every day, Luke.  And I'll never stop loving you.

 

5 Months

I ain't afraid of hurt
I've had so much it feels
just like normal to me now...

Normal. It's different now. It's been different for 5 months now.

I miss being pregnant with you, Luke. I've been feeling a lot of phantom kicks lately, and it's weird. I miss being happy and looking forward to all the changes that you would bring to our lives. I miss the naive optimism I had about how things would turn out for us. I miss being a normal person that looked at pregnancy as a happy, exciting, fun time. I miss those times when my biggest fear was having to take the 3-hour blood test for gestational diabetes.

I miss looking forward to your future. I miss being able to read back through my past journal entries without feeling like I'm missing something. It's like I spent the past year preparing for nothing. I know I was doing what any Mom does...but to have done all of that...for nothing? Hurts.

I miss my life before this neverending sense of underlying sadness and heartbreak crept in. It's forever.

I feel so jaded. We've experienced the worst thing a parent can experience. But we have so much more life to live.

I just want something to look forward to. To be excited about. I wish I could be excited about you turning 5 months old today, but I can't. Today I'm wistful. For the life that we should have had. On the outside, I feel mostly normal. But I'm different. You're missing.

5 months seems like so long...and yet completely not. Missing you today, my sweet boy.

365 Days

January 13, 2012.

365 days ago, we learned of your existence, Luke.

I had a shopping list that went something like this: Cereal. Toothpaste. Toothbrush refills. Pregnancy tests. We'd just bought tickets to Coachella, and I was seriously freaking out about being pregnant and going to Coachella. The things I worried about then...

Oddly, it was Friday January 13. I'm not really one to be superstitious in any way, ever, but looking back on it now, that part sort of makes me wistful. What if I'd taken that test on January 14?

The rational part of me says that's absurd. I know it's absurd. It's just another what-if question that we'll never know the answer to, but probably wouldn't have made one bit of difference in how things played out.

We couldn't believe it happened so fast--getting pregnant. We knew we were ready, but didn't expect it to be that easy or quick. We called your grandparents and aunties and uncles and told them the good news. Everyone was so excited (and probably scared for us, let's be honest).

One year ago, we had all the hopes and dreams in the world that parents have for their children. You were so small then, and we were so naive and optimistic. Oblivious to the possibility of what could happen to you.

I'm so glad I got to spend all 9 months with you, though. I miss you so much, but I'm so glad I at least got that.

And now I'll probably spend the next 9 months referencing my other blog to find memories of our short time together...when I wish we could just be making new ones.

I miss you, Luke. I wish things didn't have to be this way.

We're trying to get through. And I feel like we're doing alright. But that doesn't change my yearning to have you here. That's never going to change.

Four Months

How has it already been four months since we lost you, Luke?

Sometimes I wonder how the 10th of each month will feel in a year. Or 10 years from now. I know the hole that you left will always be in my heart. But today, things feel easier. I don't know why. And I almost feel guilty that they feel that way.

Lately, I've felt a peace with you. I feel like you're embedded in everything I do, somehow. I think about you constantly, and it doesn't mean I miss you any less, or obsess about you, but there's just more peace now. I want to live life the way I'd want to for us. I will never be over you. You're engrained into my consciousness, and you'll be there forever.

My sweet boy--I wish this never had to happen to us--Being separated. But I can feel your spirit, and I know it's been carrying me and your Daddy every day since we lost you, and will for the rest of our lives.

For all the hours here that move too slow
There's all this letting go
that won't pass...

We'll always miss you, Luke.

This Christmas

It's our first Christmas without you, Luke. You're heavy in our thoughts now, and we wish so badly you were here with us.

You have the most amazing family ever, though. And friends that we call our family. Your Auntie Ali made you the most amazing Christmas stocking, ever, though. Opening it brought me to tears. She gave it to us last night, and I I wish so badly that I was filling it with toys for you tonight.

Don't worry. It will always hang for you at Christmas. I just wish Santa could bring you back to us.

I love you always and forever, my sweet boy.

Thanksgiving: If not thankful, grateful

This Thanksgiving...is going to be weird. What was supposed to be our first holiday with our son turned out to be our first without him.

Last Thanksgiving, we'd really just started talking seriously about when to have kids. We'd decided that 2012 would be it. It's crazy to look back at how different our lives are now. I never would have guessed that we'd get pregnant so fast. And I never would have guessed that we'd have a son...and then lose him, in the very same year.

So much has changed.

It's hard for me to talk about being thankful right now. I'm so bitter. I'm still hurt, and I don't know how to make this go away. In all honesty, it won't. Luke will never come back. But I have my better days. And I'm thankful that the really terrible days seem to be making fewer appearances.

There's Jeff. My rock. I'm not convinced I would have survived labor if Jeff wasn't there with me through every terrible step that we took that day we lost Luke. I literally told myself I had to make it through this...for him. If for no other reason than I couldn't possibly leave him alone. In some ways, I feel like losing Luke has brought us closer together, and I hate that that's what it took.

I say that a lot. There's so many things I've learned since losing Luke. I had no idea just how many people cared about us before this. I had a charmed life before. We have friends and family who we obviously know cared about us. But the depth?

There's our immediate family and closest friends--Who walked every terrible step of this journey side-by-side with us, and shared so much of our grief in those hours and days immediately after everything happened. Luke's death...hurt them as much as it did us. All those expectations of life in the future...were nearly as shattered for them as they were for us.

I know I still haven't answered many of those messages and emails and text messages that I've gotten from many of you in the past couple of months. Just know that they haven't gone unnoticed. Every single one came through. And I'm so grateful to all of you that have reached out to us. Who brought us dinner. Sent us cards.

I feel so lucky to be able to call Gallup my other family. And the same goes for Jeff and his coworkers. Things could have been so much more difficult for us had we not had such an amazing support system of friends where we work.

Then there's everyone who donated and walked for Luke's team for the OC Walk to Remember. I still can't comprehend how much support there was. For walking with us. And for all of your donations made in Luke's name. The day Ali set up that page for us, and we saw everything rolling in, even from some of YOUR friends that we didn't even know? It was a ray of light in our terrible journey. It restored my faith in humanity, honestly. The outpouring of love and support from so many people touched us so deeply.

Through this blog, I've read about so many other families that have gone through the same things we have. Every story is sort of different, but it breaks my heart that this happens to other people too. But I find strength in reading your stories. We're all in different places in our journeys through grief, but I'm so glad we have each other to relate to. No one should know this pain, but I'm so thankful that I'm not the only one carrying it and sharing it.

This is our first holiday without our son, and I'm still trying to figure out how to navigate my way through this phase of my life that I never saw coming--Never made plans for.

I feel cheated and sad and angry that Luke was stolen from us. But if there's anything I can ask of all of you who love us and Luke...it's to remember him. Remember his birthday each year. And all that could have been for him. I wish every day that this could all be different, but I know that none of us can ever change it. We'll forever have an empty seat at our Thanksgiving table without him. And that hurts my heart.

Back to the Grind

I went back to work Monday.

It's a strange feeling, going back to something that's completely the same and yet totally different at the same time. Another one of those situations I've often found myself in lately that's a complete mindfuck.

I'll admit that it was easier than I expected it to be. That's probably due to the fact that I work with an amazing group of people, many of whom I consider my best friends. In many ways, my work is my home, and I guess I'm lucky to have a place that I can call work AND home. Knowing that...made it easier.

Everyone was amazing. It was really great to see everybody in person, and thankfully, there wasn't much awkwardness.

The work part, though...That part was harder to get back into the swing of things. My brain definitely has a much harder time focusing on things now...Every once in awhile, I just stop. There's a part of me that feels like work is just...stupid. Caring about deadlines and graphs and data...Why? None of it seems as important as you were to us. It isn't.

It's like you've left a permanent imprint on my brain, Luke. You're there, at the forefront of my mind even when I'm not actively thinking about you. I hope that never goes away.

2 Months Without You

Today is your 2-month birthday, Luke.

I can't believe it's been 2-months since we lost you.

Things seem less debilitating today than they did a month ago. I miss you so much, though. I wish I could be posting a picture of you in a cute onesie with a big "2 Months" on it today. It would be big, too, cause you'd definitely be a big guy by now.

Today I'm finding that the tears come a little bit slower than they did just a month ago. But they don't hurt me inside any less. Trying to get used to the idea that I'm still your Mom, just without you? That's still the hardest part to comprehend. Sometimes I still feel like we're just waiting for you to make your appearance. That you'll show up soon. But then reality comes back around, and I go into your empty room and see everything that's still waiting for you. That's our reality. We'll always be waiting for you.

That hole in my heart will always be there for you.

But the one thing I'm thankful for most right now, is that somehow, I feel you're sending me strength to get through this. I've somehow avoided crumbling into pieces after losing you (at least so far). Part of me feels guilty that I'm not.

But then another part of me is proud that you gave that to me--You gave me that strength. And that makes you the best son in the world right now.

Today is your 1-month birthday, Luke

Today is your 1-month birthday, Luke.

I realized this last night before I went to bed and cried myself to sleep.  I thought of everything that you would be by now.  You'd probably be growing out of your 1-3 Month old clothing by now because you'd probably be the size of a 3-month old already.  We'd be hanging out with Chris and your cousin Amanda this week, and the family would be gathering to celebrate.  You'd have been a pro at nursing by now, and you'd be healthy as a peach.  I'd be tired, yes, but it would all be worth it, because you're so amazingly cute.  You'd probably have learned how to smile at us by now.  And I'd get to see your amazing blue eyes everyday.  We'd have gone to the new pediatrician I found.  You'd be wearing your Halloween onesie and we'd take pictures at a pumpkin patch soon.

I'd be a wreck because I'd be worrying if I was doing everything right.  But that wouldn't matter.  Because you'd be here with us.

But you're not.  I wish I knew why.
 
I heard your Daddy listening to this song the other day, and it never hit me as hard the million times I'd heard it before as it did then.

If I keep holding out
Will the light shine through?
Under this broken roof
It's only rain that I feel
I've been wishin' out the days
Oh oh oh
Come back

I have been planning out
All that I'd say to you
Since you slipped away
Know that I still remain true
I've been wishin' out the days
Please say that if you hadn't have gone now
I wouldn't have lost you another way
From wherever you are
Oh oh oh oh
Come back

And these days, they linger on, yeah, yeah
And in the night, I've been waiting for
A real possibility that I may meet you in my dreams
I go to sleep

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

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

I'll be here
Come back, come back
I'll be here
Come back, come back
I'll be here
Come back, come back