the unthinkable happened

July 6 we had our repeat ultrasound.

My heart stopped a second time. Why is this happening?

Ava's heart was no longer beating. We have two angel babies and zero living babies. Ava Theresa was born silently at 0936 p.m. July 7, 2012. She was 8.3 oz and 8.5" long. She was tiny and perfect. Ryan says she looks just like me--with my eyes and she definitely had my long fingers and toes.

We had a small service in our hospital room the next day before I was discharged from the hospital. It was perfect. My already fragile heart is broken once again. I was terribly scared that this would happen again, but I was optimistic that things would be ok. Lightening couldn't possibly strike twice.

I don't even know what to say, think or do. My heart hurts...so much.

This is not what I had planned...

Yesterday we had our 20 week ultrasound. It's a baby girl! She's small, though, which is a worry for us due to my clotting issues with Maddie. Less blood flow to the placenta and cord==bad outcome for baby. The blood flow looks really good so far, but baby is on the small size--9 oz--which could be a sign of problems (mostly only due to my history). Her fluid is a little on the low side of normal, too, so for those two reasons I am on "couch potato rest" for two weeks.

Since my job requires me to be on my feet almost constantly, the doctor is hoping that only being on my feet for 20 minutes at a time will help increase blood flow and give baby a little growth burst. Of course, she may just be a smaller baby, too. We won't really know for two weeks when we have a repeat ultrasound.

So...this is my summer "vacation." I would rather be at work, but I definitely want a healthy, alive baby.

Why is it so hard for some people to become parents the old fashioned way? I am feeling very frustrated and helpless right now. I have done EVERYTHING the doctors have asked of me to ensure the safe passage of this baby into our world but it still is going rocky.

I have started saying little prayers to Maddie to ask her to help her little sister make it to our world safely. I just hope she's listening.

Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers, too.

Mother's Day

The moment I saw the positive pregnancy test with Maddie, I became a mother. From that moment on, my soul mission was to bring home that little baby that we had hoped and prayed for. Sadly, we brought her home in a way neither one of us expected.

Last year Mother's Day brought me dread, anxiety and mostly fear. I feared who would acknowledge that I am a mom--even though I am without a child. Acknowledgment came from who I needed it most--my partner for life gave me the validation I so desperately needed in the form of a card that said I was a great mom to Maddie and did everything right and that he loved me so much. The rest of the world didn't get it so much. If your child isn't visible--how can you call yourself a mom? I hate that thought so much.

This year the world is more comfortable acknowledging me as a mom since I am pregnant. My worst fear was confirmed by a family member who I am sure meant no harm, but yet tore my heart a little bit.

I was simultaneously wished happy mother's day and in the next breath hear these words: "next year it will be for real." WHAT?

My immediate reaction was to look away like I had been slapped in the face. I desperately wanted to say no, that isn't true. It's for real now and was for real last year and the year before when I was just pregnant with Maddie. My heart aches for my daughter more now especially since I am trying so hard to ensure the safe passage of this baby into the world. My husband and I had to make the hardest parenting decision no parent should ever make for her child--how to bury her. Even though our time for parenting was cut short, that does not take away her existence from the world.

Ultimately what others think doesn't matter. Words are often said flippantly and not meant to hurt but often do. I am Madalyn's mom. I am this baby's mom. Although you can't see my children, I love, pray and hope for the best for them with every fiber in my soul.

On this Mother's Day, I want to acknowledge every woman who has the desire to be a mother, wanted to be a mother but was unable, had miscarriages without successful live births, decided to remain childless, lost a baby, had all healthy babies, adopted and every other single form of motherhood that may exist. Happy mother's day to you. You are loved.

what it means to be a dbm

I was asked the other day what it means to me to be a dead baby mama. (This is legit, and no, it didn't cause me extreme grief. Safe person.)

Initially all I could come up with was all of the lost hopes and dreams for this little bundle of cells that fights against all odds to survive. About how I'm so very aware of the milestones I am missing...the holidays, gatherings; just how much I am missing.

The more I think about the question, the more I have to say about it. Being a DBM means I will never have the same thoughts about a pregnancy for anyone. It is not possible to be naive. I will always think in the back of my mind about the support I would offer someone if their baby died.

I will always have to find a way to keep my daughter's memory alive, even though she isn't. Any siblings Maddie may have will know about her. But will Maddie know about them? Will she love them or will she wonder why they were lucky and she wasn't?

I will always think about my lost baby. No matter how old I am, she will forever have a piece of my heart. I will be that old lady on her deathbed who isn't afraid...she knows her baby is waiting to be held.

Life is incomplete and often sad. It always will be. Being a DBM means I do have a guardian angel, and there is comfort in remembering that in tough times.


Oh, how I wish it didn't have to be that way for anyone. 

This says it all.

http://smallbirdstudios.com/2012/02/05/when-you-lose-a-baby/

Thank you, Fran, for saying everything about losing a baby so beautifully.

When You Lose a Baby

February 5, 2012 By Franchesca 

You don’t know what to expect.
People surround you. For a couple of weeks. Making sure you are not going to kill yourself, refuse to get out of bed, or start rocking a baby doll like the crazy lady they heard about from a friend.
You get lots of sympathy cards, clearly written and designed to be sent to console a daughter losing her father. Not the other way around.
You get free baby formula in the mail. For months and months and months.
And free baby magazines. And free baby coupons.
You secretly envy every pregnant woman. But not without a tinge of guilt, because you know all too well that she might be one in four- expecting her rainbow child.
It seems like the whole world is expecting a baby.
You have baby stuff around your home. Because you never imagined you wouldn’t need it.
You feel jarred. In the grocery store. At a birthday party. At the dinner table. At Christmas. Driving.
The baby you never knew, but lost changes every part of your life. Every. single. part.
Forever.
You see baby clothes and it brings tears to your eyes.
You get sick and tired of crying. You never knew it was possible to cry this much.
You find yourself angry at God. Angry at yourself. Just angry.
You sware you can feel them kick but they’re gone. They call them phantom kicks. I call them painful, all kinds of painful. But sweet too.
You know, or you have a strong feeling of knowing what your child would have looked like, and been like. You see a child in the store, or on the street. Their hair color, dimples, smile, their personality and suddenly you are reminded of your child. You miss your child even more, if that’s even possible.
Your Babies R’ Us Registry is still active. There is no delete button on their site. The babies r’ us people don’t make a dime on people like us. Why bother right? You have to call them, plead with them to remove your freaking’ registry, because there will be no baby shower. There is an awkward silence. There is sadness. There will be no baby.
You get hospital bills about 3-4 months after you buried your child. You have to pay for the baby you delivered but didn’t bring home.
You find that moment of happiness in life for the first time, but the guilt swallows it up almost immediately.
You remember the size of the casket. The size of the plot. The face of the funeral director. The expression of those that attended the funeral. The feeling of raw pain, like your chest has literally been ripped open.
Somehow you convince yourself that you deserve happiness. Because you really do. But in the happiest, purest moment, there is still that hole that only they were meant to fill.
People compare your pain to their own pain. The loss of their grandmother, husband, their failed marriage, rebellious teenagers. Somehow this comparing leaves you stranded. If they can compare their pain of a situation to the loss of your BABY, they will likely never get it. Babies are not supposed to die. End of story.
You lost a dream. And it almost feels like you imagined their entire existence up. Their name becomes a distant memory on the lips of others.
There is awkwardness when you talk about your child in a crowd. No one knows whether to cry, walk away or pretend you never brought him or her up.
You lose friends. You find new ones.
You can’t believe that women have actually survived this and you never knew about it. Not really, anyway.
You would do anything for another minute with your child.
You cry when others bring up your child, not so much because it hurts but more so because it such a precious and rare gift.
You long for the rewind button, even after many many instances of acceptance.
You want to know what went wrong, and why…
You find a new appreciation for moments in life that make you laugh… you laugh harder and love stronger.
You know that you can die bitter, or die thankful. There is no in between.
You never ever, EVER get over your child. The one you hoped for, prayed for, carried and loved for the weeks and months they were with you.
You learn to live with the pain.
You are better for having known them at all.

being snot-nosed up...

It seems that pregnancy is catching...but not for us. Everywhere I turn, someone else is announcing a pregnancy or announcing the birth of a baby. I am having a hard time being overly excited for people...especially some people.

We are struggling with infertility. I am not ovulating. And we're taking measures to try to "fix" the problem. I am very frustrated, upset, pissed off, annoyed and just plain sad that this rainbow baby is so hard to come by.  My husband is optimistic--almost too much at times--and he knows we will get pregnant eventually.



The only saving grace about being completely focused on trying to conceive is the fact that I am not still in that devastated state of grief like I was. Instead, my complete focus (obsession) on conceiving is probably not helping my infertility.

So back to people being pregnant--one of my coworkers announced that she is having twins. Now if you have been following this blog--this is the same coworker who asked me about a baby shower for our mutual coworker and after the question I lost it at work and cried the messy, snot nosed sob crying that I usually reserve for moments of complete privacy.

I just about lost it at work when I heard about her twins.  We are supposed to be pregnant, too. The clomid might increase our chance of twins. WHY can't I have one baby who lives and why does she get two more? 

WHY. I can't go there. I need to start going to church or something. When I start asking why too much, I start to feel like a bad person inside. So I went home and cried. I cried to my husband who is sympathetic, but isn't a girl so doesn't see/feel things in the weird ways I do. I yelled, said quite a few swear words, got all snot nosed up and then recovered.

At work today, the scab over my emotions was fresh. As long as the person didn't ask me directly if I had heard about her twins, I felt like I could block off those emotions. But then I started thinking about what I would say if she said anything.

I should really go to church. Peace...I need peace.