MD2/17

Norah,

Today is my second Mothers' Day without you, Norah.  Today you would also have been 17 months old.  The 12th of each month has been difficult, as it marks the passage of time and I constantly think of how old you would be, what you would be doing, how you would look and be changing.  All things I will never know.  Our therapist said she would like for us not to anticipate the 12th of each month as much as we have been - that we should try to start to view it as just a date on the calendar.  She said when her dad died that the date of his death was not a monthly reminder of how long he was gone, which I can understand.  When my dad died, I wasn't fixated on the 15th of each month, at least not after the first six months or so.  But, for us, the 12th of each month is significant.  For most parents, the day of the month on which their baby was born is significant.   Whenever people ask parents how old their baby is, they refer to the baby's age in months.  "She's 15 months," or "She's almost 18 months old."  Given this, I do not think it is surprising that the 12th of each month has been difficult for me.  I wish I could say, "Norah IS 17 months today," rather than that you would be...  Because, sweet girl, you existed.  You were never a "would be" for us.  You were our sweet girl, our joy, our excitement, our hope for the future.  And that's all gone now.  Will it ever return?  I sincerely doubt it.  How can such sorrowful despair ever turn to pure joy?  We will always miss you.   We will never forget.  So, for at least this year, I will most likely struggle with the 12th.  Usually the record of "age in months" stops around two years.  No one goes around saying things like, "My baby is 26 months old."  I think after that two-year mark the 12th won't be so ominous for me, but I really don't know.  Maybe if we get pregnant again a lot of these things on which I fixate will fade and sting less.  I won't know until we get there...

17 months.  My sister and I are exactly 17 months apart.  I was born June 3, 1981 and she was born November 3rd of the following year.  My mother would have become pregnant with her when I was seven months old.  Kevin and I started trying for another baby seven months after you were born, in July of 2012.  If I was as lucky as my mother, I would be giving birth to our second baby today, exactly 17th months after the birth of our first.  With the lead up to this Mother's Day I, understandably, have been thinking about my own mother.  She was nothing like what I hope to be as a mother to our children.  She was distant, critical, strict, and just plain mean.  She was selfish and cold.  As an adult, I find myself hesitant to do things or to be honest about certain things I mess up because harsh punishments and put-downs were commonplace when I was a child.  If I tell Kevin I forgot to do something or that I messed up something, I dread the response because I never knew any response other than chastisement.  When he is gracious and understanding with me I am taken aback.  I almost feel like I deserve to be ridiculed, or to hear about how irresponsible I am - it is ingrained in me to expect the worst.  My mom never held us - not that I can remember, anyway.  I don't remember getting warm hugs and "I love yous" from her.  I don't remember walking hand-in hand, unless it was to cross the street because it would have been an inconvenience for her if we ran into traffic and got hit by a car.  I don't remember her ever telling us we did a good job with something we had worked hard on.  I really don't have many, if any, really good memories of my mother.  She is a narcissist and could never really get far enough outside of herself to love anyone else, let alone her children.  My dad suffered because of this, so much so that it claimed his life. 

So, as I reflect on the type of mother I had, and the fact that she was blessed with TWO living baby girls in a mere 17 months, whereas our baby girl was ripped from us and we are still struggling 17 months later, I am filled with bitterness.  It just is not fair!  Why would she be given such blessings and not even treat us well?  Why would a woman who God knew would not shower her children with love and affection be allowed to have them, while Kevin and I weren't allowed to keep Norah?  This isn't to say that I wish I had never been born.  I just wish it had been different.  Sometimes I think that maybe my mom got her joy early, and that in her later years she'll reap the consequences of what she sewed.  That also is not to say that I would ever do anything to deliberately hurt my mother.  She is who she is, and I have grown to accept that I cannot change her.  Even though it may sound like I harbor resentment, I really do not....well, maybe a twinge, but nothing like what I felt for her years ago after my dad took his life.  She is just not what I need in a mother.  She is not the type of person I would choose to befriend or associate with if I had the choice, so I choose not to allow her to hurt me anymore.  Honoring your father and mother does not mean giving them free reign to continue to hurt you.  Sometimes it means accepting them for who they are and letting go if that relationship isn't healthy for you.  My mother is not healthy for me.  She has inflicted damage, some of which I sometimes think might be irreparable.  But I am grown now, and I will not be her final judge.  All I can do is make the best life for me and my husband and know that God will bring justice in the end.

So, this is not a Happy Mother's Day.  Very few Mothers' Days have been happy for me, before and certainly after having you, Norah.  While I definitely have contemplated the unfairness of everything, I have also thought about what being your mom means.  You have given me a lot, sweetheart.  You showed me things about myself and your daddy that I never would have known, had you been permitted to stay.  You brought me to God and introduced me to Jesus, and now I am one of His children, and I know I will see you again in Heaven at the end of my journey here.  I was so far from God before you were born.  I don't know what it would have taken for me to run to him had you been permitted to stay.  Maybe I never would have approached him... But it doesn't matter, because He is mine now, because of you!  You've given me compassion and understanding for others who are grieving.  You've given me the confidence to know that with God I can survive anything.  You've given me strength, love, joy, sorrow, courage, and the tenacity to hold on for a better day.  You've given me a reason to be, even in your absence.  I want to make you proud.  Even from so far away, I want you to be able to turn to God and say, "That's my mommy.  She is the best!"  I want you to be proud of me.  In everything I do, I want to remember that I am your mother, and that I need to act in such a way that would make you proud.  I try, baby girl. I do.  Sometimes I fall short, but I do try.  Most of all, sweetheart, you have made me a mom!  I am a mother.  I carried you your whole life.  I felt you twist and hiccup inside me.  Your blood coursed through my heart and pumped through my veins.  I will forever be a part of you and you will forever be a part of me.  I am so proud to be yours.  I hope you are proud to be mine too.  I will love you forever and ever, sweet girl - to Heaven and back!

All my love,

Mommy

My Aversion to the word "Angelversary"

Hi, sweet girl.  I'm trying harder to write for you more often, even if it's just a little something.  I tend to be long-winded when I write - not so much when I speak - and to think that whatever I write for you here should be lengthy and deep.  I guess I want to do these posts BIG and MEANINGFUL because writing here is one of the few things I can do for you.  That just leads to me going weeks or months without writing and really connecting with you, so I'm going to try harder from now on  just to write "in the moment."  I miss you, sweetheart...I always do.  In five days you will have been sixteen months old.  I can't believe it's been so long since we held you.  I can't believe we are still struggling to give you a brother or sister.  I've resigned to put it in God's hands.  He will bless us when He sees fit, but I sure do hate the wait, sweetheart, and I sometimes end up kicking and screaming (both figuratively AND literally) in frustration at how long this is taking.  Please talk to God for us, baby girl.  Please tell him to throw us a bone already!  I tell him, but maybe you could put in a good word for your mommy and daddy.  Love you to Heaven and back!

I follow a lot of stillbirth and infant loss groups on Facebook.  Some people would think that's morbid, but given our situation, it's completely normal and comforting.  Honestly, seeing all the posts from bereaved parents in my news feed is a huge comfort.  It confirms that we are not alone in this.  We are not the only ones struggling.

One group posted this question today:  "Since our children died before they were born they don't really have a "birthday" but I refer to February 1st as his birthday because I don't know what else to call it. Do you guys do the same?"

Many people (most of them) said they refer to the day that they gave birth to their babies as their babies' birthdays.  That is only fitting, in my opinion.  Some people said they call this their baby's "angelversary."  I have always hated that word.  I wrote this in response to the question and to address the term "angelversary":

"Norah was born on December 12, 2011. That is her birthday because it is the day I gave birth to her. We know that she died sometime within the 24 hours prior to her birth because I felt her move the night before after eating dessert; she would always move after I ate something sweet. I am almost positive she died while I was asleep. I went into labor the next day around 2:45 PM.  I was 38 weeks, 5 days.  Full term.   I really do not like the term "angelversary." To me, it is a euphemism that serves to gloss over what actually happened; she died. People have such a hard time with baby death that they've even come up with this flowery term for it. I refuse to use it. Norah died. My baby is dead. I will not gloss over the heaviness and reality of her death, yet I don't speak about the day she was born as the day she died. December 12th is her birthday. It is the day I gave birth to her, the one and only day we held her in our arms, kissed her perfect face, fingers, and toes, gave her a bath, dressed her, took pictures of her, and spent sixteen unforgettable hours with her. I gave birth to death, but even though her body was dead, I know Norah was there with us in spirit, and the spirit is the most important part of us all. Her spirit still lives in the arms of our loving Creator and one day I will be with her again."

I don't even like calling her "our angel."  She is our daughter, our baby, our pride and joy, our greatest love and and our greatest sorrow.  Some people have said, "You have a beautiful angel watching over you always," in what I can only guess is an attempt to comfort us.  That sentiment just frustrates me.  We didn't want an angel.  We wanted a baby!  We wanted our daughter.  We wanted Norah.  I have plenty of angels watching over me, my grandparents, my dad, my uncle...I didn't need another, least of all our daughter.  

PLEASE ask me about my child.

Last night I posted a link to an article written by a bereaved mother who also lost a baby to stillbirth.  I could have written that article.  Don't get me wrong, she did a beautiful job, but that article could just as easily have my name on the byline.  Everything she described is exactly what I have felt and experienced and what I CONTINUE to feel and experience, with one exception.  She has another living child, and we don't.  We continue to try for this.  I was so hopeful that this month would be the month.  So hopeful, in fact, that after work I went directly to the Dollar Store yesterday for pregnancy tests (hey, you can't beat a dollar for a test!) and I braved the hoards of low-income families with gaggles of children.  Was it easy?  No.  What got me through it?  The real hope that this was THE month!  So, I got home and went directly to the potty to test.  I sat on the toilet and watched the test...   Nothing.  So, I wiped, only to find the wad of tissue covered in blood.  HOW?  WHY?  I am only supposed to start my cycle on Tuesday, that was still four days away!  There I was sitting on the toilet...the same toilet where my water broke and this whole nightmare started.  There I was, sitting and hopefully testing, only to have my body laughing maniacally back at me and leaking red through it all.  I was so angry.  So angry that I didn't even know I had started my period.  So angry that I didn't even know Norah had died inside me fifteen months ago.  So angry that I took that test and was so excited that I didn't even bother to WIPE first, but if I HAD bothered to wipe first I would have realized just as quickly that I'm not pregnant, AGAIN, and I wouldn't have wasted a DOLLAR in the process.  It is torture, all of it.  Every last bit of this is torture and I keep trying to believe that God has everything worked out and that this is all leading to something amazing, but I am really starting to think that my "something amazing" isn't going to come during any part of this life.

So, yes, the article I posted.  Here is that link:

http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/02/10/breaking-the-silence-of-stillbirth/

One of my friends shared this article to her wall and it got a few responses... mostly less than favorable responses.  I am so tired of everyones' excuses.  I am so tired of people thinking stillbirth is uncommon. IT IS NOT!  I refuse to sit idly by and let that misconception work its way into anyone else's brain.  I refuse to be silent about this.  I will find SOME WAY to make an impact for Norah and for all the other babies who have never known this world and for all the families who live this nightmare day in and day out.  I read the responses to my friend's shared post and I flew downstairs to my laptop to craft a response.  This is what I came up with:

This was the first comment under the article my friend shared (I've changed the names of the respondents): 

Mark:  yeeeaaaaahhhhh.....the problem is that it's not easy to make conversation about dead children.

Wonderful Friend of Mine:  That's what this is all about. Making it easier.

Mark:  Many years ago, we had a friend, google her name by all means, it's (name removed). She was our local bar maid that served us lunch every day. One Monday we went in, the landlady came out and sat with us to say that (the girl) had gone missing and her mother would be off work.

A few years later, I met the girl's mother in the high street. She had lost her daughter, her husband and her had parted, she had had to move houses - what the heck do you say? The weather is always a good conversation.

Wonderful Friend of Mine: I like this part of the post: "Can we find a way to talk about stillbirth – to educate – without being fear mongers? I actually like to talk about Genevieve, about my pregnancy with her and how our family memorializes her, and most of the parents I’ve met in my situation want to talk about their babies. But we don’t want to scare everyone away. So maybe the next time you meet one of us, you could ask whether we want to talk about our children. If we do, you might ask how we chose a name, whether we had a memorial service, and how we honor our children in our daily lives. If those conversations inspire even a little more research and awareness, then maybe people will see that our lost babies aren’t just a horror story. They’re part of a love story, too."

Mark:  it's a difficult conversation to have with anyone though. i'm the master of tact (not), I can ask the guy with no arms what it's like, I can ask the guy with no legs where he lost them, but even I can't broach the subject of a dead child!

the other side of this is privacy. I am aware that I am at least one uncle/aunt short for instance, but it would be incredibly tactless to ask my grandmother about it. in fact, it's such a taboo subject, not even my father would ask, and it was 60 years ago.

it really is a very uneasy conversation to have with someone.

Carol:  I agree. I think many of us who are old enough, have family members who are still from the time that it was very common to loose young children. Both my moms and dads side, they lost a baby sibling. Both families never spoke about it. My maternal grandmother never wanted to talk about it. My dad didnt even find out about his sister that died as an infant until after his mother passed away at the age of 98..i think the problem isn't that people don't want to talk to people who have lost a baby. I think its more to do with the fear of possibly intruding into an area of great grief and sorrow..

Amy Elizabeth Mark, I agree, it is not easy to start a conversation about a dead child. Conversely, it is not "easy" for parents to go on living after their child dies. But by simply avoiding the issue because it isn't easy to speak of, you are protecting no one but yourself. Parents who lose a child, living or in utero, experience similar grief. What they need most is to talk about their child and the loss. That is why people go to therapy. Therapy is not a magical fix, it is a way to manage grief. Talking about the loss is the ONLY way to heal. We deny bereaved parents the opportunity to heal by denying them the opportunity to speak about their child. My husband and I lost our only child. Norah was stillborn at 38 weeks, 5 days on December 12, 2011. We were three days away from a scheduled delivery by c section. No one was ever able to find a reason for her death. There was no reason. She was seemingly healthy, and perfect in every way from her high cheekbones, to her delicate lips, to her perfect fingers and toes, to the soft brown hair on her head, to her beautiful eyes that we saw only by lifting her lids, which were angelically shut to this world. We had a baby shower for her in October. We had everything we needed for her: dressers full of clothes, a closet full of bedding, dozens of diapers, baby monitors, baby laundry detergent, a baby swing, a pack and play, books to read to her, toys, a stroller, a car seat, a snow suit, blankets, burp cloths, pacifiers, a humidifier, a rocking chair, a crib. We had EVERYTHING we would need for her when we brought her home. Except, she never came home in living form. Her cremated remains are with us and we have the many keepsakes provided by the hospital, friends, and family. To deny her existence by not speaking of her is worse than pretending she never existed. She was beautiful and perfect. She weighed 7 pounds, 12 ounces, and was 21 inches long. We had a viewing and funeral service for her, which hundreds of family and friends attended. We have started a book drive in her honor. She has left an indelible mark on our hearts and on the hearts of so many others, many who never even saw her or know us.

Amy Elizabeth Carol, you said, "I think many of us who are old enough, have family members who are still *from the time that it was very common to loose young children.*" WE ARE STILL LIVING IN A TIME WHEN IT IS COMMON TO LOSE YOUNG CHILDREN AND BABIES. 26,000 babies are stillborn each year, in the United States alone! Three million babies are stillborn worldwide each year! Stillbirth is all TOO common. One in every 160 births is a stillbirth! Do you know 160 women? If you do, then you know someone who has suffered a stillbirth! This is a silent epidemic. Because there is a huge stigma attached to infant death, no one talks about it. That is why so many people think it doesn't happen. I didn't realize stillbirth still existed. When the doctors told us Norah's heart had stopped beating and they first used the word "stillbirth" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I assumed stillbirth happened only in colonial times and that it did not occur today. That is simply a misconception that is perpetuated by the silence bereaved families are thrown into when they lose a baby. You are exactly correct when you say, "i think the problem isn't that people don't want to talk to people who have lost a baby. I think its more to do with the fear of possibly intruding into an area of great grief and sorrow." It IS an area of great grief and sorrow, but grief and sorrow are as much a part of life as joy and happiness!  Why do we deny the perfectly human emotions of sorrow and grief? WE MUST ACKNOWLEDGE loss and allow the bereaved to talk about their loss. What bereaved parents want MORE THAN ANYTHING is to talk about their children. You are not intruding when you ask about their child. You are validating that child's existence and importance in this world. You are validating that parent's grief and showing compassion to a person who so desperately needs to be heard.

Amy Elizabeth How do you begin a conversation about someone's dead baby? You do it with love and compassion. If you do not possess those attributes, then you do not. It is that simple. If you care enough to validate a bereaved parent's sorrow and honor their child's life, then you simply start a conversation by asking simple questions like these: "What was your baby's name?" Bereaved parents LOVE to say their baby's name and they LOVE to hear others say their baby's name. You ask the parents, "How did you pick "Norah's" name?" "Did you have a memorial service or funeral for Norah?" "If it is something you'd like to talk about, would you mind telling me about Norah's funeral?" "Did you have a baby shower for Norah?" "If it is something you'd like to talk about, would you mind telling me about Norah's baby shower?" "Are there songs that you sang to Norah?" "Are there songs that remind you of her?" "Are there things you do in Norah's memory?" "Would you mind talking about the things that you do to honor Norah?" Do you see a pattern here? Use the baby's name...use it A LOT! And, begin each question with "If it is something you'd like to talk about, would you mind telling me about...?" In this way you give the parent the option not to speak about something they are uncomfortable sharing, and you send a message that you are sensitive to their privacy and their stage of grief. Talking about a dead child is not difficult if you care enough to give someone the opportunity to do it. I hear all too often that people are afraid of upsetting bereaved parents by talking about their child. The simple fact is that you upset us more when you DON'T talk about our children. It is crazy to me that people really think that by bringing up Norah they will somehow be upsetting me or that if I'm having a "good day" they will somehow ruin that. The simple truth is, no day is ever really a "good day" after your child dies. We never forget that our child is dead, so bringing up our child is not going to make us think, "Oh man, I had forgotten that my child died and I was having such a good day and now I've got to talk about this again." That is simply NOT how it works. All bereaved parents EVER think about is their lost children. Being offered the opportunity to speak about what is already constantly running through our minds gives us a much needed break and brings solace to our souls. Please, if you know someone whose child has died, ASK them about their child. And, if it is difficult, then just TELL them it's difficult. Tell them, "I know you lost "Norah" and that you miss her terribly. I have struggled with wanting to talk to you, by not knowing how to do it. Would it be alright if I asked you about her and we talked about her for a little bit?" Again, broaching the subject in this way acknowledges that you think of that person's child, it shows sensitivity, and it still gives the parent the opportunity to decline the conversation, but, most importantly, it shows that YOU CARED ENOUGH TO ASK. I can bet that parent will take you up on the offer and that they will never, ever forget it.

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I wanted to save this conversation because I think I make some good points, and I would really like to start writing to advocate for stillbirth awareness and, ultimately, speak at seminars or other events.  Anyone who knows me knows that if I feel strongly about something or if I have a passion for something, I make it known.  I have never been so passionate or felt so strongly about a cause.  If I and the hundreds of thousands of bereaved parents out there have any say in it, STILLBIRTH WILL NOT KEEP HAPPENING.  WE WILL BREAK THE SILENCE.  

Always loving you, sweet girl.  We miss you so.  

Love, Mommy  

Time Marches On

Each new month is really hard.  Each new month adds more distance between the time I held you and the hell that has become my now.  It is no longer a surprise when I am more weepy than usual when each month comes to a close.  Before it would only dawn on me about midway through the day why I felt worse than usual.  Now, I just know.  Now, I just expect it.  The turn of this month has, however, been exponentially more difficult.  While most people are celebrating the "end" to winter and looking forward to warmer, more pleasant days, I am saddened that this will be the second summer spent without you.  I remember last year on the last day of school, I walked out the doors and just cried.  The tears welled in my eyes the closer I got to leaving.  I'm normally ecstatic on the last day of school, but I knew it would be the first summer spent without you.  All our plans for you - my expectation of getting to spend every day of the whole summer watching you grow, teaching you things, loving you up, and having so much fun with you was all gone.  As I walked through those doors, the tears flowed.  Will it ever get easier, baby girl?

So, March is here, and it has brought with it two new babies - both on the same day.  As if it isn't hard enough seeing many friends fall pregnant and have babies, March decided to hit us doubly hard.  I'm so done with Facebook.  Seriously, it should be called "Babybook" or "Gestationalbook" or "Hey-look-at-us-we're-pregnant-and-our-baby-didn't-die-like-yours-did-book."  It's torture.  If the Facebook page for Norah's Library wasn't attached to my Facebook, I'd just delete it.  I thought I had all the settings finagled just right so that I wouldn't see anything about all these new babies, but this morning Facebook was nice enough to let me know that a friend had posted something on another friend's wall, and that's when I saw it - the "Congratulations on the baby, and tell mom happy birthday too!" post.  Seriously, as if some peoples' lives aren't charmed enough, they also get to give birth to their living child on their BIRTHDAY?

Oh, and that's not all, folks.  No, the Universe decided that wasn't enough for us for one day.  So, it decided to bring our other friend's child into the world ON-THE-SAME-DAY.  Yes, we got a "two-for" deal this March.  It's just awful.  I'm already dealing with the requisite "new-month-blues" and now this.  Kevin is having a hard time too, I know.  He told me he had a bad dream last night in which he was really jealous about the one friend's new baby.  That's totally normal, but he feels really bad about it.  Honestly, this is just normal.  Anyone who wants to judge us for not being overjoyed for these people just doesn't understand.  This is hell.  That is all there is to it.  We are living in a nightmare.

Honestly, I can't take it anymore.  I can't take it.  I'm jealous, I'm angry, I'm bitter, I'm sad, I miss Norah like crazy every minute of every day,  I hate that it seems like everyone is having babies and everyone else's babies live, but ours didn't and it is all just NOT FAIR and I just want to throw a tantrum about it and I'm sick of everyone telling me to try to be positive because, really, did your baby die inside you and did you have to give birth to your dead child then attend her funeral five days later on the day your milk came in and it hurt every time someone hugged you to say how sorry they were yet here I sit just over a year later and can count on ONE HAND the people who still ask about her or who let me vent during moments like this? I am tired, and I'm sorry that I can't get far enough outside of myself and my grief to feel joy for these people. I cannot.  And I'm talking about the people who ask about her and mention her in REAL LIFE.  Don't get me wrong, I appreciate all the kind words and everything on Facebook, but it just doesn't replace having an actual conversation with a living, breathing human being, who really cares - not necessarily understands - but who cares enough to just let me vent and not try to get me to see things from another perspective.  Because, honestly, that's all people have been telling me lately.  I have people telling me things like, "Try to be positive about new life and surround yourself by it" - It may help you to move forward (i.e. conceive, get pregnant...because apparently no one wants to say those words to me either). I just can't do it. Every person I talk to says, in some form or another, "Look at things differently, try to see things from another perspective." I can't do that when my perspective is so permanent and blinding. Society sucks at dealing with death and it sucks even more at dealing with infant death.  So many people are telling me "not to put so much thinking" into having another baby. It is almost daily. That's not good advice for ANYONE who really wants a baby, and it's HORRIBLE advice for someone who has lost a baby. I'm so tired of this.

People say the most awful things with the best of intentions because they have not experienced this so they just don't know. I'm just tired of making concessions for peoples' ignorance! The woman who runs our support group says we just need to understand that people mean well and don't know what to say. Honestly, I AM THE ONE HURTING, why should I be making allowances for THEM!? People don't know what to say because we just keep allowing them to say stupid things!!! I am about to start being the change I want to see and start telling people when they say or do something hurtful. No one's ever going to figure it out if we just keep lying like dogs and taking it.  I wish people would just understand that this is NEVER going to go away. I'm NEVER going to be "cured" of this. A new baby will certainly help, but we'll always miss Norah. We'll never be the same. SO many people ask, "Are you still seeing your therapist?" I HATE THAT QUESTION!! Some people have even suggested we try to find a new therapist - presumably because I'm not "better" yet?  We really like our therapist. She does a good job, and it's not her job to CURE me, because this isn't something that can be cured; she can't bring back Norah, and she can't take away the pain of losing her.  She listens, and she tries to give us ways to deal with it.  That's all she can do.  That's all anyone can do.  People just hate to be around suffering and pain.  It's so lonely and isolating.  Not only do I miss you, Norah, but I also feel lonely because there are so few people who actually take the time to sit down and ask me how I am - I mean really ask how I am and care to hear the truth, because it isn't pretty.

I have friends who are newly pregnant, and everyone is showering them with congratulations, and "when the baby gets here..." statements. It is all lost on me. I don't understand any of that. Our society acts as if pregnancy is a guarantee of a living baby, and quite often that simply is just not true - it's just that no one really talks about all the losses that occur because it's too uncomfortable to think about for people who haven't experienced it. Well, it's our daily life, and I think people shouldn't have the option of ignoring it; we certainly can't.  

I don't know how I'll want people to handle our next pregnancy.  Sometimes we think that we won't be telling people about it until we absolutely have to.  It will just make things less complicated.  No one knows what to say or how to act now, and I'm guessing that's not just going to magically go away when we get pregnant again.  On the other hand, sometimes I feel like maybe we should tell people.  Who cares if it makes other people uncomfortable.  We didn't want this life, but we have no choice but to live it, so why should we try to make it easier for other people?  We're not going to know how to handle it until it actually happens.  Either way, I wish it would just hurry up and happen already!  This month it will be nine months since we started trying again for another baby.  NINE MONTHS.  We did get pregnant in August, but I had a very early miscarriage.  That was hard, but it's nothing like losing a baby full term.  It just isn't.  I've had blood tests to check my thyroid, an ultra sound to check my uterus, monthly blood draws to check my progesterone levels, a hysterosalpingogram to make sure there are no blockages in my tubes, and everything is normal.  The next step is to get Kevin's count tested.  Stress can definitely lower a man's sperm count, and we are both definitely under stress.  It's all just the worst.   We miss our baby like crazy, we want to have another baby, but we can't because we're stressed because we miss her like crazy.  I am telling you, it is HELL.  

So, am I happy for all these people bringing new life into the world?  Am I happy that they get to go home and do whatever it is new parents do with a new baby - because we don't know what that is, even though I gave birth to a full term, beautiful baby girl?  Am I happy that all my friends get to be part of the first-time parents club but we'll never be a part of it, because our first child died?  Am I happy that they get to snuggle with their baby, look into its eyes and feel the completion of that bond that was started in utero, that bond that was ripped from us when she died?  Am I happy that they get to go places to show off their baby, but we can't go any of those places because it throws me into horrible anxiety?  Am I happy that they get to stay up all night with their babies and have a good reason for being tired the next day, while I come to work tired from crying, tossing and turning, and having bad dreams?  I could go on, but I think I'm painting a clear picture...I won't say, "I could go on, but you get the picture," because unless this has happened to you, you don't get it.  You never will.  

So, here we are.  Another month, another breakdown.  It's become the natural cycle of my life, it seems.    Just something to be expected.  So often I wonder what it's like to live without grief.  I try to remember my life before it, but it was so long ago that I can't really get a good grasp on it.  This year will be ten years since my dad killed himself.  December 15, 2003.  I definitely haven't lived without grief since then.  My grandma died the summer between my junior and senior year of high school.  I loved her so much.  She was one of the only people who really listened to me when my parents were being unreasonable.  She never judged, she never told.  She just listened.  I loved her so much.  I struggled a lot when she died.  That was August of 1998.  So, there were about 17 years of my life where I didn't struggle with grief.  I often wonder, why me?  Why do I have to go through this when so many other people skim through life with what I would deem surface stressors.  I know no one's life is a walk in the park, but let's be real.  How many people do you know whose father shot his head clean off his body with a shotgun and whose full term baby died less than 24 hours before she was born?  Yes, that's graphic and probably hard for most to read.  Now imagine that it's your life.  It's your daily existence.  It is too much.  The Bible says "blessed are those who mourn...blessed are the broken in spirit."  I am so very blessed.  So very, very blessed.  

121212

Songs for my baby

These songs remind me of you, sweet girl.  I wish we could have had happier songs.

"Winter Song"
...this is one from your funeral.  
...

"This is my winter song

December never felt so long

Because you're not where you belong

Inside my arms."

"A Thousand Years"

I always imagine that this will be the song playing when I see you again in Heaven, baby girl. 

...

"I have died every day waiting for you,

Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you

For a thousand years."

*I'll add to this list as more songs come to mind.  

1

12/12/12 - Your first birthday has come and gone.  "Oh, how weird," everyone said of this repetitive date, the last of its kind until the next century.  Those comments are so trite to me.  The repetitive nature of your first birthday is nothing weird, in fact, it's strangely fitting.  It makes sense that the numbers repeat - my longing for you, for what might have been, has been the soundtrack of my mind, stuck on repeat all this long last year.  

We tried to make the most of your birthday, though we missed you terribly.  I held it together better than I suspected I would.  I'm attributing that to the fact that we stayed busy doing things to honor your memory throughout most of the day.  Your daddy had your memorial tattoo finished.  I could not bring myself to go with him.  I had planned to stay home and start to disassemble your nursery.  That room has become such a black spot on the house.  Despite my best efforts and intentions, I could not bring myself to do it.  It just didn't seem right to start to tear it down on your birthday.  I'm still trying to conjure the nerve to do it sometime over this holiday break.  We'll see if I can muster the courage to do it.  Something tells me that if I do get started, it will be a process, painful and slow, much like this past year has been without you.  

While your dad was getting his tattoo finished, I mulled about the house, feeling sorry for myself, as usual.  Maddy came over and I asked if she'd go with me to pick up a birthday cake for you and to get flowers to put on the stone at your tree. She did, and we were home within an hour.  After she left, I added the finishing touches to the grief boxes we assembled for the hospital for the parents who will inevitably lose babies in the coming year.  It felt good making those boxes, creating something in your memory.  

Your daddy got home after dark, around 6 o'clock, and we loaded the boxes into the car, drove to the park where your tree stands, so tiny, so bare.  We walked down the path to your tree in the dark, which is against the posted rules as the park closes at dusk, but I didn't care.  I like that it was dark, and I would have answered anyone questioning our being there with a full explanation of what you mean to us and how this is all we can do for you.  In fact, I want to continue the tradition of visiting your tree at nighttime each year.  It was private and peaceful - just what we needed.  We lit a candle for you and placed two purple roses at your stone beneath the tree.  Your daddy said a beautiful prayer, we hugged, cried, and left to deliver the boxes to the hospital.  That was Wednesday.  The following Sunday we went back to the park for a walk and were happy to see the roses were still there.  In fact, someone had rearranged them at the top of your stone.  They looked lovely and my heart was happy to see someone had taken the time to rearrange them, and had the decency to leave them there for you.  

After we left your tree, your daddy delivered the grief boxes to the hospital.  I stayed in the car.  I could not go up there, knowing there were living newborn babies and happy families who likely will never know the nightmare we live.  Jealousy still consumes me, and while I know I should be happy that most families don't know this pain, it still makes me angry that we were the ones made to endure it.  Erin, one of the nurses who attended me when we had you, called my cell phone as your daddy was delivering the boxes.  She was thankful and gracious and it felt good to know our efforts were so well received.  When your daddy came back to the car he was shaken.  When he arrived on the maternity floor, there was a couple with a newborn baby who exited the opposite elevator at the same time he did.   It turned out he knew the father of this baby and that he and his wife had also had a loss.  It didn't make it easier for your dad to be there, but it softened the blow a bit.  He is braver and stronger than I.  I would have crumbled simply entering that elevator.  

After that we had birthday cake at your Aunt Lisa's house and spent a little time there then we came home and went to bed.  It was nice to honor you on your birthday, but it would have been nicer to have you here.  To see you with your first birthday cake, all clumsily feeding yourself with sugary elation.  So many things I'll never get with you, sweet girl.  Such eternal heartache.  

Today is Christmas Eve, only by technicality.  There will be no Christmas for us this year.  We have made absolutely no preparations and will be doing absolutely nothing special.  It will be just another day.  I had a silent hope that, even though we aren't celebrating Christmas this year, we might get a Christmas miracle.  I started using an ovulation predictor in the past month or so and detected an LH surge on December 10th, which meant I was fertile for a span of two days, which serendipitously fell on your first birthday.  How wonderful, I thought, for us to conceive on your first birthday.  I held onto hope that I might be pregnant come Christmas; my next cycle was set to start on Christmas Day.  What a story to tell our next child, of how he/she was conceived on the day of his/her sister's first birthday and how we happily found out on Christmas.  I held onto hope, but in the depth of my being some voice kept whispering, "You're not pregnant."  It was a chiding, know-it-all voice.  I tried to ignore it and remain positive, but it continued to nag.  

Today I woke up praying my period would not come.  I showered and felt the faintest ache in my stomach.  "It could be the embryo implanting," I tried to convince myself, as though I'd actually be able to feel something so infinitesimal occurring within me when I didn't even realize a year ago that you had died inside me.  More dull aches as I dried and dressed.  I went outside and had that familiar monthly feeling of needing to use the bathroom, then a moist sensation.  "It's just moisture from the shower," I told myself.  "You mustn't've dried off completely."  Before I had gone outside I had turned on Pandora on the iHome.  As I was rationalizing the cramps and moisture, while fully knowing what they meant, I heard a single note and knew exactly what song was playing - a song we played at your funeral, by one of my favorite artists, Imogen Heap, called "Wait it Out."  Haunting and beautiful and so fitting at the time we lost you, and still.  Then, that voice again: "I told you.  You're not pregnant.  You got your period and how appropriate that it came at just the moment this song started playing."  I walked inside and to the bathroom to the soundtrack of that song where I found what that voice had been telling me all along.

I am not pregnant, and how completely stupid of me to think we'd have the opportunity to have any type of cute, sweet story about a serendipitous December conception to tell our future children.    Those type of stories are reserved for other couples, not for us.  

So, we will continue to live in this hollow in-between until we make you a brother or sister.  I miss you terribly, Norah.  Every single moment of every day I think of you and I miss you.  Forever is too long, sweet girl.   I long for the day we can be together again.  

All my love, forever and ever, 

Mommy

"Wait it Out" - Imogen Heap