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.

Softness

I love to read. I would much rather read a book than watch a movie. After losing Maddie, reading was a difficult task. I lacked concentration and wasn't able to focus on anything except how devastated I felt.

Slowly, focus returned.

Last year after the focus returned, I had a strong need to read about other parents who survived the loss of their child. I read many books that told sad, familiar stories of stillbirth, pre-term birth and SIDS. After a month or so, I picked up another book at the library and started to read more stories. I found myself not being able to absorb any more sadness. I returned the book to the library unread. I was full.

I discovered the land of BLM blogs. That was more easily absorbed...short little snippets...much like exchanging an email with a friend.

A few months later, I returned to my beloved books. Fiction was tolerable again.  I found a different kind of BLM book. Ones that were not loaded with so much harsh grief--ones that had perspective after some time.

My grief over the stillbirth of our daughter is evolving. Slowly but surely, I am finding it a little easier to take a deep breath and live...plan for the future. There are still moments that catch me off guard and punch me in the chin. I suppose it will always be that way.

Lately I have read a few books not strictly focused on losing a child, but spoke of how to deal with loss in general. One discussed the topic of closure. It speaks to how Americans fight so hard to come to the point of closure after a loss; a death, divorce, job loss, etc.

I don't know how to frame closure in my mind. I don't think I will ever have closure over the loss of Maddie; but I don't think that is a bad thing. My grief will continue to evolve. It will continue to become softer, tolerable.

Another book I am reading offered this:

Going beyond fear begins when we examine our fear: our anxiety, nervousness, concern and restlessness. If we look into our fear, if we look beneath the veneer, the first thing we find is sadness, beneath the nervousness. Nervousness is cranking up, vibrating all the time. When we slow down, when we relax with our fear, we find sadness, which is calm and gentle. Sadness hits you in the heart and produces a tear. Before you cry, there is a feeling in your chest, and then after that you produce tears in your eyes. You are about to produce rain or a waterfall in your eyes and you feel sad and lonely and perhaps romantic at the time. That is the first tip of fearlessness, and the first sign of warriorship. You might think that when you experience fearlessness, you will hear the opening to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony or see a great explosion in the sky, but it doesn't happen that way. Discovering fearlessness comes from working with the softness of the human heart. Chögyam Trungpa

There is something very beautiful about this passage that I can't even put into words.

Merry Christmas, baby girl. I love you so very much and I know you are happy, peaceful and loved. Til we meet again. ♥

happy birthday, Madalyn.

Baby girl...today is your day. It's been one whole year since we met you and said goodbye. We have survived. Sometimes I'm not quite sure how...but...we did.

I will never ever forget how your dad and I talked about who would be godparents and who would take care of you if something ever happened to both of us on the way to our 27 week appointment. We were excited to see you again--never guessing that this would be the last time we saw you.

I will never forget the view of you on the screen when the ultrasound tech started our scan. There was no heart beat strip at the bottom of the screen. The tech immediately stopped and said she had to compare pictures outside with the doctor. I started to cry immediately. I knew in my heart you were gone. Your dad tried to reassure me that it was ok, but he knew, too.

I will never forget the sad look on the doctor's face when he looked at you on the screen. "I am very sorry, but your baby is not alive." Thinking about that moment makes my heart want to stop.

I will never forget the anguish that your dad and I felt after hearing those words. I wanted to not be in that moment so badly. I remember asking your dad, "What do we do now?" over and over while sobbing uncontrollably.

I remember the wheelchair ride over to the birthing center. After walking that hall today, I realize that it really wasn't that far...but that day it felt like miles.

I remember the wonderful nurse we had that day when we got there. She was so very kind and caring and knew exactly what we needed. I so wish she could have been there the whole time. Our families slowly trickled in. Every time a new person came in we told your short story again and sobbed and hugged. I remember feeling almost delirious later in the day after so much crying and I know I was probably just in shock but the doctor came back and we chatted. We asked questions he couldn't answer and offered to do an ultrasound at the bedside if we were ok with that. He did so and took measurements and sadly found out you had probably been gone for a couple weeks.

In some ways that was a good thing to know before you were actually born. But in another way I was so afraid of how you would look and if you would even be in one piece that I didn't hold you right away. I regret that....I also regret not taking you in...not taking in all of you.

Labor was painful, but the most awful pain was the pain of knowing it would all be over in such a short amount of time. I was very scared to push you out because then we would have to start saying goodbye.

I remember your dad saying to me in a drug induced fog that he had this terrible dream and I asked him what about and he sadly said, "we are living it."

I remember the photos Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep took and treasure them...even if it was only 5 photos. I remember how perfect your memorial service was in that birthing suite. How the chaplain and Pastor Doug said such calming words. I wish I could have burned those into my brain. All I remember is, "This is not god's will." Those words comforted me when your cousin died, and in a lot of ways, they still comfort me.

I remember the kindness of the funeral home director. He and his wife had had a baby die themselves, so he understood the awful heartache. I remember all of the kind, sad words texted, called, mailed, facebooked, emailed and said. Even the ones that hurt a little. They still helped. They acknowledged that you existed. You are our first born child, our daughter. Although you are not on earth I think of you constantly and wonder what you would be like today.

Know that I love you so very much and would give anything to have you here. One day we will be reunited, baby girl. One day. In the meantime, please meet me in my dreams and watch over us.

Love you to the moon and back and miss you every moment.

love,
mom and dad