I love this woman's blog, "Born Still but Still Born."  Today I found the video she and her husband made which chronicles their pregnancy and the loss of their first born, Curtis.  As I watched this video, I could not believe how similar our stories are.  Nearly everything she describes is what happened to us.  Aside from the manner in which we delivered our babies, the similarities between our stories is uncannily similar.  Everything they experienced and felt was felt by us as well.  I hope that some day we too can create something like this for our future children so they know their older sister, Norah.  If you'd like a glimpse into what we experienced, watch the video Chantel and Craig created for their children in memory of Curtis.  It is beautiful and candid.


In Memory of Curtis

A note on thanks and giving...

Hi, baby girl.  It's been a long time since I've written you here.  I often want to sit down and write, but it feels so overwhelming.  Sometimes it's just easier to sit with my sadness, rather than put energy toward something.  Today, though, I have the energy to write, so I will.  

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  This holiday season seems as though it will play out as I expected it would back on December 12, 2011 when we learned we lost you.  Last Christmas we suffered through the motions with disastrous results.  Daddy wanted to be present for the festivities, but festive they were not.  I was in a haze, opening presents I loathed.  Everything seemed like such junk, so meaningless, when the only thing I wanted, I could not have...you.  

We discussed this holiday season and came to the agreement that we would not participate.  While I'll be cooking a turkey tomorrow and your aunt and uncle will come for dinner, we will not be going anywhere.  We will not be celebrating with daddy's family because, truth be told, it infuriates me to be around the kids that will be there.  Why were they all allowed to thrive when you were snatched so cruelly from us?  For me, it is best to remain in the safety of our home.  This has proven to be the case in so many instances this year, sweetie.  Sometimes it is just so traumatic for me to leave the house and be bombarded by the endless babies and little kids that seem to swarm wherever we go.  

I think of you incessantly.  From the moment I wake up, to the moment I fall asleep, you fill my thoughts.  I remember the first few months after you were born, how I'd wake up and realize what my life had become.  Such a cloak of darkness and sadness would envelop me that I'd have difficulty even getting out of bed.  When I finally did get up, I'd neglect to brush my teeth, comb my hair, or even change out of my wrinkled, stinking pajamas.  I'd begrudgingly let out the dogs then I'd eat a little of whatever leftovers were in the fridge from the many, many gracious people who brought us meals.  I'd climb the stairs to lie in bed the rest of the day, searching the Internet for some answers, some support, some glimmer of hope as to when we'd be able to try for another baby, but it would always lead to bitter tears of hear-wrentching sadness that this is what my life had become.  I would forever be a mother whose baby is dead.  How does a person get past that?  How does a person find light and hope and happiness after losing their darling child in such a way?  I still don't know.  Maybe I never will. 

As the weather turns colder and we near your one-year birthday, I have flashbacks of those first days, weeks, and months after losing you.  I sit on the toilet and am instantly transported to the moment my water broke in that same spot, in that same position.  I walk down the hall toward our bedroom and remember grasping the banister, my incision aching, my heart breaking.  I walk outside and the crisp chill in the air reminds me of the day of your funeral.  The first flurries this year sent me to tears, as I was transported back to the parking lot after your funeral.  Your daddy escorted me to the car, my incision throbbing, my breasts hard and sore (the day of your funeral was the first day my milk let down), as the first flurries of the season fell sadly from the sky.  A few weeks ago, one particularly difficult evening, your daddy was so worried as I sobbed and sobbed, having flashbacks from the hospital, where I begged him not to look at the ultrasound screen, "Don't look at it...don't look at it!" convincing myself that if we just didn't look, it wouldn't be true.  Being hooked to the IV, having the epidural administered, violent shaking from the anesthesia, seeing you, so beautiful and still, for the very first time.  Bathing you, dressing you, combing your hair, the sadness in everyone's faces, the complete helplessness of my sister, my friends, our family...  Finally telling the nurses to take you...knowing the next time we'd see you would be at your funeral, and after that never, ever again. 

How does a person move on from this?  When does the blackness dissipate?  How do I stop yearning for what should have been and start to accept it?  Time marches on, and because I have no other choice, I am ushered forward with it, but I feel myself kicking and screaming the entire way.  This journey of life is not one to which I look forward.  It is such a long, long time before I will see you again, sweet girl.  I know you are in Heaven being loved and adored by the Heavenly Father.  I do not worry about your spirit, as I know you are in Heaven.  I have heard it said that this time we spend on earth is fleeting, a microsecond in the vastness of space and time.  I am in the throes of grief for you and fear I will always be, which causes the time I am forced to spend on this earth to be magnified so greatly.  I remember how excruciatingly long the days were when we first returned home from the hospital.  Daddy and I would sit on the couch all day long, barely talking, consumed by sadness, just holding each other...crying.  We'd check the time and be so upset that only an hour or so had passed when it felt like four or five.  It took so much energy to make it through a full day.  I always thought of the line from Shakespeare's "Macbeth" about time creeping by at a petty pace.  That was certainly how it felt for us in those first weeks without you.

We are trying to give you a brother or sister.  It's proven to be more difficult than we imagined.  In August we learned were pregnant and were excited for three short days, before I miscarried.  I know that baby is being loved by the Father and that you are all together in Heaven.  I can't wait to be with you all.  Those few days were the first days of hope and light for us.  It was the first time we didn't feel completely STUCK.  The feeling of floundering and imprisonment that surrounds us is exhausting.  We want so desperately to move forward, but each month that is something that is denied us.  So many of my friends are pregnant or have new babies.  It cuts so deeply each time I learn of each new pregnancy.  Why them?  Why not us?  Haven't we suffered enough?  What have we done to deserve this?  What are we not doing that we should be doing?  The seething jealousy I feel for all those people makes me hate myself.  I hate not being able to be a good friend...not being able to be happy for the ones I love.  I hate the thoughts that run through my mind each time I learn that another person has had a living baby.  "Oh, it didn't die, " I think, while feeling hugely let down.  What have I become?!  How can a person be upset about the survival of her own friends' babies?!  This is what this grief does to a person.  It is so lonely, so isolating, that while I don't want anyone else to suffer as we have, the part of me that longs for companionship and a person who really understands just wants someone to be in the same boat as me.  I am so sick of doing this alone.  I am so sick of being so isolated.  I just want someone with whom I can commiserate, with whom I can cry and bitch and moan... someone who understands it all and doesn't judge me for any of it...who doesn't long for the time when I feel better...who doesn't worry about me because they know everything I'm feeling and they know that it's all normal.  Will it ever stop? 

I can't even put into words how much we miss you, how much everyone does, but especially your daddy and me.  Losing you has put a hole in my soul, Norah.  It won't be filled until I'm with you again.  I'll never be the same, but I don't want to be.  I can't go back to the way I used to be because I am your mommy now.  Everyone who has children says that they are forever changed.  I am forever changed because of you.  People expect that I'll get back to my old self some day, and that's frustrating. I'll never be who I used to be, because I was never a mom before you.  It is just unfortunate that, for me, being a mom means heartache, not joy.  

So, tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  It seems as though your daddy and I have little for which to be thankful this year besides ourselves, your brother and sister, Shadow and Lady, and the few friends and family who have been understanding enough to struggle with us through this grief and to support us in whatever way we need.  For them I am thankful.  Most of all, though, I am thankful for you, Norah, because you have shown me what true love is.  You have made me realize that I can be something I never thought I could be or wanted to be...a mother.  You have shown me that my heart can love beyond measure...that I can care more about another little person than for myself.  You will forever be my first born, my first love, and my last hope.  Thank you, sweet girl, for showing me a side of myself I never knew could exist.  Thank you for the privilege of being Norah's mommy.  I hope I can make you proud and that you know how infinitely I will always love you.  

Missing you always, my dear baby girl.  

Love forever, 

Mommy