small victories

Losing two baby girls to stillbirth and one to an early miscarriage has been a hard rock to swallow at times. The other night my mind was filled with memories of Ava's short time with us. I remember how scared I was waiting in the MFM waiting room with about 15 other couples--couples I really couldn't identify with for many reasons. We were at the two week follow up after a less than stellar 20 week u/s that showed severe growth restriction. At the time I misheard (or maybe heard right and had to protect my sanity) Ava's percentile rank at 15% when it was really 5%. Our doctor wasn't pessimistic or optimistic. We would just have to wait and see. The blood flow to the placenta was still ok and her heart rate was still good, too. I was sentenced to two weeks of couch potato rest and lots of tv watching.

I dreaded that ultrasound. This was July 5. Two days earlier I had a nightmare that I had started bleeding and the baby was gone. I woke up very shaken and scared. I tried to lose that feeling, but it never truly left me. I don't remember the sequence of the ultrasound as clearly as I remember Maddie's. I do remember asking why the hell this keeps happening. I was in shock--I had to have been. I remember going into an exam room and the doctor meeting with us and forming a plan. We knew what would happen. I would be induced. The day was about 100 degrees and we were worried about our dog if the a/c stopped working. We went home and packed...tried to take a nap and planned. We had been watching Mad Men on NetFlix and we tried to watch an episode, but mostly everything was a big blur.

We got back to the hospital at 8 p.m. My friend who has had a stillbirth came up to support us. They started the induction with the cervadil. Every 4 hours I was woke to check progress. Nothing happened the first night. The next morning was more of the same. Family started arriving. The day started to drag on. I felt more uncomfortable, but nothing was happening. Evening came. I was so tired but felt so bad since family and friends were still there to support us. Later it was just hubby and I...I started feeling nauseated and started throwing up. Then came the itching. I felt like my skin was going to crawl off me. My blood sugars dropped. I took off my insulin pump and let the nurses take over. The pain was excruciating. Finally after a few hours of miserable labor, Ava came to us quietly and peacefully.

All of this came to me while I was trying to sleep. I don't think I've allowed myself to feel it as much as I need to. I didn't try to push it away. I let the waves flow over me and eventually fell asleep.

I've been trying to work through the grief of three losses. My grandpa recently died and that was the catalyst that made me start working through the pain of all of my losses. I know I have a lot of work to do, but the good days are starting to outnumber the bad.

After returning to work, I begged off caring for any pediatric patients. The pain was just too much and it was too soon. My initial goal was to starting taking them again at the beginning of the year. I started slowly...I've only had a couple so far and they were 3 and 7. Yesterday an 8 month old was under my care. I was so nervous. Luckily the mom was awesome, involved, cooperative and asked smart questions. Many peds patients we have seem to have drawn the short straw when it comes to parents. Sometimes I feel like the doctors are admitting the kids to protect the kids from their stupid parents when they are sick. This mom and baby were the best under two crowd I could have possibly been dealt. Mom never questioned if I "had little ones at home" when we struggled to place an IV. She got it. I related to her. The baby was so sweet and so sick. I struggled at times to not cry when the baby cried.

While I was checking the babe's temp, the dad received a phone call. I don't know the whole story, but evidently someone is expecting a baby girl and her name will be Madalyn Jean. I felt my heart skip a beat after hearing this. I can't help but think that Maddie was telling me I was going to be ok.

Last night I was lying in bed telling hubby about my day. He was proud of me for helping the babies. I was pretty proud of myself, too. Not every day is great, but I'm counting this as a small victory.

It has been six months since we brought Ava into the world silently, and a little over 2 years since Maddie was stillborn. I also had an early miscarriage in September that very few people know about. I am having a very, very hard time with my grief. I feel compelled to keep it inside--even though I really don't want to--to keep up the pretense that I am doing ok. To me, ok means I go to work and function like a "normal" human--but I feel so sad, empty, pained. To even really think about how awful it really is to have two stillborn babies and a miscarriage in less than two years makes me nauseous.

I often question why this awful thing had to happen to us. I don't want god or any other deity brought into it--if there really is a god, why the hell did he/she decide to punish us so horribly? I am horribly angry, sad, envious, lonely over our losses. I haven't been to my blog in 6 months, and when I logged in I noticed that most of the baby loss blogs I had followed before are now writing primarily about their "rainbow" baby or babies. I really wish I was one of them. It pains me so much to not fall into that category.

Every pregnancy or birth announcement makes me want to cry. Pregnant people send me into a whirlwind--I want to warn them that not every pregnancy ends happily. I want to yell out, "My babies died and yours could, too." Then I want to ask them what it feels like to be utterly naive, happy and hopeful about the life inside them.

Not many people have asked what our plans are for the future, but inevitably the ones who do offer up the suggestion of adoption. Like there's any chance in hell that we hadn't thought of that already. **sarcasm** Thanks, I already know my body is deadly for babies so why don't we just give up having our own biological child. (there is NOTHING wrong with adoption, but I don't want people telling me that we should consider it instead of another pregnancy.)

I had gone to two different grief groups and I find that neither one fits well anymore. Most people go on to have a subsequent pregnancy that works and I don't fit into that mold. It was easier to go when I still thought that stillbirth couldn't possibly happen to a couple twice. I was very, very wrong.

I am not writing this to garner sympathy. I just simply need to release some of this grief I am holding on to...and this seems to be one outlet that works for me.

The only way out is through...so on I will go...hoping for peace about our lost babies. Hoping with every fiber of my being that we will get to be parents someday.

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.