Releasing it All

I've had these photos for awhile. I'm not sure why I haven't posted them yet. Maybe because looking at them makes me feel sad even though I wanted just the opposite.

On Emma's one year anniversary I wanted to do something special for her. We were going to have a balloon release, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it then. I was still pregnant with Maya and did not realize how being pregnant with another child at the time my daughter had died would bring about so much fear.


To me, it was important that I do something special for Emma without worrying about another child too. It was her time. So we waited.

We decided to release four balloons - one from each of us - from our own backyard. That was where my belly shots were taken so I often feel like it is her place. My husband and I shared some special memories from the pregnancy and all of the hopes we had for her life. Amidst our tears, we talked to Emma and told her how much we loved and missed her.


I guess in some ways it made me happy because I was celebrating my daughter's life, but mostly I just feel sad that she is not with me. I still cannot get over the fact that I will never know who she is, what she would have liked and how she would have been different from her siblings.

Maybe I was also hoping that having a balloon release would release some of my pain, my anger, my frustration that lingers even though I now have another beautiful little girl to hold in my arms.


The trouble is that I don't think I will ever be rid of it all. Having a child die changes a person forever. It has changed me. I can never go back to the person I was a little over a year ago. I really, really wish that I could. Honestly, I don't like the new me. I don't like who I am and how I feel most of the time. There are times when I wish I could just stay in bed and hide away from everyone. Really, I think that I am not only mourning my child, but that old me as well, along with the life that I should be living.


Watching those balloons soar into the heavens made everything so much more real. There were four balloons instead of five. Always four people instead of five. I found it interesting that they all four stayed together until one balloon broke free as if to lead the way. I know it sounds silly, but a part of me believes that Maya is especially connected to Emma because she wouldn't be here otherwise. I guess I have to believe that to keep myself going, to keep living and loving my family.

Just Wondering...

When I was pregnant with Emma, people often joked that my second child was going to be a handful because our first was so easy. Our son is calm and likes quiet activities. He had his fussy times in the evening as many infants do, but he slept a lot and didn't cry much as long as he was being held most of the time or in motion (swing, car, stroller). He still isn't a fan of loud noises or crowds, and people often say that he isn't the typical "boy," whatever that means.

At the time I thought about how our second child would be different because they were so different in utero. Brandon had been calm even while in my belly. Of course he kicked and moved around, but not a ton and it was pretty predictable. Emma was different. She moved constantly. I know I've mentioned before that I called her my little gymnast because she was doing some sort of acrobatics in there. I felt her moving around 15 weeks and she was in constant motion until she passed away at 20 weeks. When my OB did the ultrasound that confirmed her death, she said that it had happened recently. I had noticed the lack of movement pretty quickly.

So now I have Maya, my third child. In utero she was very much like Brandon, pretty calm. Even though I was happy she didn't move as much as Emma because I was worried she would become tangled in the cord as well, it scared me when I didn't feel her moving too. I would pull out the doppler just to make sure she was ok. Now that she is here, she sleeps a lot, loves to be held and is an easy baby like her brother. Obviously I don't know if her behavior will change over time, and I'm sure she will have some differences, but they are very similar so far.

That makes me wonder. I wonder if Emma would have been different. I wonder if she would have been awake more often or if she would have been a "handful" as everyone had predicted. I wonder how she would have been at 2 or 3. Would she have stolen other kids' toys instead of simply crying when other kids took hers? Would she have joyfully gone up to everyone with an emphatic "Hi!" and a bright smile instead of shyly saying nothing at all when greeted? There are so many things I wonder about, and I know that I will always wonder.

At times I am bothered by that a lot, but right now I'm trying to find a peace with it. I'm trying to leave the anger behind because I have noticed, especially lately, that I have a lot of it. Too much, actually. There are times when it consumes me and I have to force myself to get out of bed in the morning. Sometimes it takes over and I am nowhere near the type of mother I was a little over a year ago. That scares me. It has to go. I can't let it take away from the good I have in my life now. I can't.

I need to look at Emma's brief life with a smile and know that she is ok. She did not get to breathe air, smile up at me, giggle or take those first steps so I will always, always wonder what it all would have been like. I think that's ok. Parents naturally compare their children. I know that Maya is not Emma, the same as Emma wouldn't have been Brandon. I am not living in the past or holding onto a dream that can never be realized.

I'm just wondering. That's all.

Where to begin...

So much has happened in this past month.  It has been a whirlwind. 

First, Emma's one year anniversary came and hit me pretty hard.  I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I basically cried the entire day.  I made myself leave the house because I knew it would be even harder if I stayed home.  On my way to exercise class I was hoping that one of my friends would be there so I would have someone to talk to, someone who understands what it is like to have lost a child.  I was so thankful when her car pulled up right behind mine.  Isn't it funny how life sometimes works out that way?

As we walked our usual circuit with our strollers, I talked to her about Emma and the day we delivered her.  Everything was so vivid in my mind again, as if it had happened yesterday.  I remembered the nurses and how one of them had called her Princess and spoke of me and my husband as Mommy and Daddy.  That meant a lot to us, especially because neither of our families really acknowledges Emma's existence much.  Talking to my friend was exactly what I needed to help me through the day.  Her wounds are fresher since she lost her child only three months ago but that day the rawness of the past year filled my heart as well.

When we conceived again four months after Emma had died in utero it did not occur to me how difficult it would be to be pregnant again on her one year anniversary.  I had this inordinate amount of fear that we would relive the same horrors with our new little one.  Even though it was totally irrational, I found myself using my doppler much more frequently to make sure my baby girl was safe in my womb. 

I was so fortunate to receive phone calls from two of my other friends who have lost children as well.  There really is a wonderful community of mommies out there to help support each other.  We let one another cry and talk for as long as we need.  It is awful to be in this club, but so important to connect with others experiencing the same pain.  Somewhere Emma, Quinn, Lil Chick, Vivian and Annemarie are holding each other's hands and lifting each other's spirits too, just as their mommies do.

After making it past the one-year mark I became more and more anxious about the arrival of our second baby girl.  My blood pressure rose and I couldn't sleep at night if I didn't feel her moving around.  She stopped passing the non-stress tests on the first go round and I became very afraid each time I went to the doctor's office.  At our July 28th appointment my husband and I decided to induce at 39 weeks, just 3 days later.  The baby had turned posterior which meant the pregnancy might last even longer.  I knew that rationally the odds were against anything happening to her, but after being on the horribly wrong side of the statistics, I simply couldn't take that risk.

When we arrived at labor and delivery we were greeted by one of the most welcome faces, the same nurse who had assisted in the birth of Emma.  She remembered us and was glad to be helping us through this time.  I cannot express what it meant to have Mariah there to help deliver both of my daughters, my princesses. 

Since bringing Maya home, there have been many moments in which I have longed to hold her sister again as well.  Last Sunday I had just finished feeding her and gazed down at her little body.  It struck me because her arm was draped over her belly in the same manner in which Emma's was in one of our photos of her.  I sat there and cried.  They were both so still and peaceful, one daughter fully content and breathing softly, and the other daughter a mere memory now.  I looked at Maya's hands and noticed that they are not my hands, not the hands of Emma and Brandon.  I could not stop the tears from falling as I realized yet again that there is a child I will never know.  I have a little girl who would have been strong and beautiful if not for a tragic accident, but I don't get to watch her grow up as I do her sister and brother. 

Maya would not even be here in my arms had her sister not died.  That is so difficult to reconcile.  Obviously I wish that I had both of my girls, all three of my children, to hug and kiss and cuddle.  I am so grateful that we were able to bring Maya home with us from the hospital to join our family.  So grateful.  But, as I've said in the past, children are not interchangeable.  One cannot replace another.  My heart will always yearn for Emma, even as I delight in the beauty of her siblings.

Last Year

At this point last year I could not even imagine where my life would be a year later. On July 15th, I had spent the day busy as usual, taking my son to an indoor playground in the morning and then heading to a BBQ that night. I was happy to be spending the day with friends and I still remember the cute maternity outfit I was wearing when I picked up pies at a popular chain. I always loved the attention I got when I was pregnant. People can't seem to resist a swelling belly.

I remember sitting on the floor at the indoor playground and thinking that I hadn't been feeling the baby too much, sort of prodding my tummy, but not really putting much into it. I was only 20 weeks and the movements weren't consistent yet. Then the day was just busy because we were running late (as usual) and I didn't really even think to monitor the movements. Nothing could be wrong, right? I mean, I was 20 weeks along - way past the first trimester when all the bad things happen. That is honestly what I thought. I feel so naive looking back on it.

On the way home from the BBQ I told my husband that I hadn't been feeling much movement and I decided to use our rental doppler when we got home. I moved the doppler everywhere on my belly. I hadn't used it in awhile because we only got it for recreational purposes. We have our son's heartbeat recorded and wanted to do the same for our second child. We never got the chance. I started freaking out a bit because I couldn't tell if I was detecting the sound of my heartbeat or hers. My husband came into the room and convinced me that I was so exhausted from the past few weeks on the go that maybe I should just try checking in the morning. Since it had been awhile since I had used the doppler and I was so tired, I decided to follow his advice and get some rest.

The next day I tried all of the usual tricks: drinking juice, lying on my left side, poking the belly. I e-mailed my husband and told him I wasn't really feeling the baby move. When I think back I must have been in denial that something was really wrong. I just always felt like everything had to be ok. It had to be. Why wouldn't it be? I tried using the doppler again a few times throughout the day and still didn't find the heartbeat. Finally I called the doctor and she sent me to labor and delivery at a nearby hospital.

It's funny how we remember all of the moments leading up to such sadness. As my husband and I walked in I remember saying, "It's going to be ok, right? Everything's ok." He later told me that on the car drive he was thinking that we already knew someone who had lost her baby later in the pregnancy so statistically we had good odds. He's such a scientist.

I will never forget the ultrasound image I saw appear on the screen. Never. I could tell immediately that the baby was not moving and that there was no longer a heartbeat. I remember staring in disbelief and repeating the words, "Oh, God" as my doctor draped her arm over my legs. Tears well up when I recall the image of my beautiful baby slumped over inside of me. Part of the reason I readily accepted that she had died from a cord accident was because of what I saw on that image.

My OB told us how sorry she was and how she had thought before the ultrasound that the baby had probably just been in a position that made movements harder to detect. Then she gave us our options, D&E or induction, and told me to call her in the next few days. There was no rush because it looked like our baby had passed away recently. I already knew the path I would take before my husband and I talked about it. My baby was going to be delivered. I would see her and hold her. The thought of it all left me petrified but I knew it was something I had to do.

The next few days were spent crying, writing, making preparations, escaping to Sea Wor.ld for a day simply because we already had the tickets, and trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I was going to be delivering my baby, my baby who had already died inside of me. At one point, I even looked up pictures of stillborn babies online to prepare myself for what I would see. I really had no idea what to expect and I was scared. I remember getting in the shower after viewing some of the photos and reading their stories, and just sobbing the most gut-wrenching sobs I have ever cried in my life.

Looking back I'm glad we had the time to prepare for Emma's arrival. We found out by ultrasound on Wednesday, July 16th that she had passed away and I went in to be induced that Sunday, the 20th. She was born on July 22nd. I needed that time to think, to write her a few letters. I felt so guilty for letting her down and not being there for her when she needed me most. I know that I probably could not have saved her anyway, but the thoughts will always be there...all of the what ifs that creep into my mind and make me feel like a horrible mother.

A year has passed since my world was completely rocked. I have come to a place where I can think about my little girl and smile at the happy times we shared and the hopes I had for her. I can talk about her without my eyes welling up with tears each time. I am still sad that I didn't get to take her home and watch her grow like her brother. I will always wonder who she was and how she would have changed our family dynamic.

I will never again be the person I was before July 16th and that is ok. I know a lot of people don't understand that, and some even think that continuing to grieve makes it impossible to move forward, but that isn't true. Losing a child is very different from any other loss. A part of me died that day and it will never come back. It doesn't mean I'm less of a person. I'm just a different person.

This year my husband and I will celebrate Emma's life with a balloon release. In a way I am looking forward to it. I love Emma with all my heart and spending that time with her gives me a little bit of peace. Obviously I wish everything had gone very, very differently, but none of it changes how much I will always love my first daughter.

Flashback

I was so excited while walking around a popular baby chain store. My son and I were picking up some diapers and there was an awesome sale on crib bedding. I asked one of the workers about the store's return policy and he told me it was ninety days. So I popped open the cell and called my husband. I stood there looking at the brightly colored animal print and told him how cute it was. Our doctor had said she was about 95% sure we were having a girl at 13 weeks and it wouldn't be much longer before our 20 week ultrasound to confirm. Happily, I bought the bedding and put it up in the closet to wait for the final news.

We delivered Emma stillborn on the exact date of our 20 week ultrasound.

A few days ago I was in the same baby store. I turned the corner and there it was, the crib bedding we had selected for Emma. I remember looking at it afterwards, before my husband returned it to the store, and thinking that it no longer fit her. Somehow it wasn't meant for her anymore. I'm not sure why I felt that way. Looking at it the other day took me back to those happy days last spring. I had liked the bright colors because she was so active. I guess I thought she might be a feisty one, unlike her brother who has been calm since his days in the womb. I stood there a few moments, just staring at the bedding, wondering how I could have been bubbling over with such happiness a year ago, and now I haven't even bought this new baby's bedding yet.

I hate to say that it made me sad to see her bedding, but it did. I thought I was moving forward and trying to make some peace with losing my child. Honestly, it reminded me all over again how much I miss her - and miss not knowing her. I didn't get to see how her life would play out. Was she feisty? Would she have been so much different from her brother? Would she have added a little bit of spunk to our lives with her impish ways? How do I reconcile the fact that I will not know these things in my lifetime? I guess I still haven't fully accepted that.

It seems I always take two steps forward and three steps back. Right now I just want my six month old baby. I want a nursery decorated in bold reds, oranges and greens. I want to see her rolling over, eating solids, and laughing. I know she would have been so happy and full of giggles. Sometimes I think I would trade perspective for my daughter anyday. I would love to still be that person who was blissfully unaware of the many complications one can encounter during pregnancy. Yes, that is extremely selfish of me, but if I could go back in time and have Emma back, I would do it in a heartbeat.

That doesn't mean I am not profoundly grateful for the hope our new baby girl brings. It means I am doing exactly what I thought I would be doing when I became pregnant again - grieving and having hope at the same time. One doesn't erase the other, no matter how much we would like it to. I know that my tears over Emma do not mean that I love the life inside of me any less. I have three children who are all remarkably special to me and always will be. I'm just feeling a little bit lost because one of them is not with me right now.

Make that a whole lot lost.

Where I've Been

Thinking. A lot. I haven't been reading. I have been writing in my journal. But mainly I've been thinking. This has been an incredibly long year. I am amazed to be sitting here right now, able to laugh wholeheartedly again, to plan a little bit into my future, and to better empathize with others.

Recently I was feeling very angry and bitter. I was mad because this was not where I wanted to be right now. I was clinging to that idea that our children would be closer in age, that I should have a 6 month old right now, that my son would not be so used to his role as the only child at almost 3 1/2 if his sister had arrived safe and sound. That's simply the way things are though, and I have to move forward.

I don't like the term "moving on" because it seems like I will be forgetting something, or perhaps someone. I often say that we are moving forward. If I move forward it means I can still take Emma with me, even if she's only in my heart at this point.

This past year has been an incredible journey for me and my family. I can now talk about Emma without crying. When people ask me about my children, I include her at some point in our conversation. Some people are horrified, "You HAD to deliver?!" and others are speechless. It doesn't really matter. We made our decisions to deliver and spend time with our beautiful daughter and have never regretted it. I can look back at my belly shots with her and smile because I had the hope of new life inside of me. I was happy taking those pictures, and that matters. She made me happy.

I feel like I have a different perspective now. I've always felt things very deeply, but now I do more to reach out to other people personally. It's important to me to listen when people are hurting, prepare a meal for them, or send an e-mail to let them know I'm thinking of them. I am not glad that I lost my daughter, but it makes me feel good to know that I can empathize and show compassion for others experiencing any kind of loss. When your whole world is rocked and completely turned upside down, you need to know you're not alone. I was lucky enough to have people around for me, and I want to be there for others.

So, I guess that's where I've been. Just thinking. Coming to some sort of peace with the way my life is heading. Here I am, pregnant again and hoping with everything I have that I will bring this baby home in about 6 weeks. I am beginning to plan a little more for her, let more people inside my world, and even enjoy the pregnancy a little. I guess it's time for me to actually talk about this pregnancy on our family blog. For some reason I haven't been able to do that just yet. I think it's time now. I can look back at my time with Emma and smile at my precious baby girl and the time we spent together. Maybe that means it's time that I begin looking at this little girl in the same way.

Hope

I am not a good blogger. I know this. I do not post nearly enough, nor do I put as many comments as I should on other people's posts, and I have never taken the time to add any sort of embellishments to my page. The majority of my thoughts stay in my mind and are replayed countless times until some of them reach a bursting point and have to be written out. Some of those musings go directly into my personal journal because they are just too scary to share, and then a few of them actually reach my blog. I have considered stopping this blog altogether, but sometimes I just need that emotional release.

So many things have been weighing on my mind lately. We went to my son's preschool performance on Friday and one of my friends was sitting in the row in front of me. Her one year old was gleefully playing on her lap. Before I knew it, there it was: What will it be like next year when my baby is playing while I watch my son perform?

In that one thought I had encountered what I had wanted to avoid so badly with this pregnancy...expectation, longing, hope. Some of my worst days following Emma's death were the ones when I had expected her to be with us, when I had fully pictured her there. I sent no Christmas cards last year. I broke down in a store parking lot a few days before my son's birthday party. Emma was supposed to be in her little carrier while I dutifully wrangled the kids and presented the cake. She wasn't.

I went for my 30 week ultrasound a few days ago and the sight was simply amazing. There was my baby, snuggled up inside of me with her arm brushing her face, a little yawn as she nestled down to sleep. It was a beautiful sight. More hope. More longing.

We finally told my son that Mommy has a baby in her tummy. One of the hardest things I've ever done was try to explain to him why Mommy didn't have a baby in her tummy anymore and that his sister wasn't coming home with us. He didn't fully understand but I agonized over his loss of a sibling. Now he pats my tummy, talks to his baby sister and even pours a little baby bottle through my belly button to feed her. I love sharing those moments with him. So much hope.

So why am I such a crying, anxiety-ridden mess? Why do I feel like my world is closing in on me? That every noise is one hundred times louder than it really is and that if I don't spend some time alone I am going to explode?

Because my baby died inside of me. INSIDE OF ME.

Sometimes I want to shout it from the rooftops so that people understand.

The fears I have right now are overwhelming. At 31 weeks, I should be like almost every other pregnant woman with adequate health care and feel that I have reached a monumental point in my pregnancy. My baby is viable. She has a good chance of making it even if she were born today.

But all I can do is count every single day until my baby is born alive because, in my mind, she could die at any time. My womb no longer feels like the safest place for her anymore. I have weekly non-stress tests which will soon be twice a week. I monitor her heart rate with my doppler in case it shows signs of distress. My doctor has me doing kick counts at least three times a day. When I wake up during the night, I have to feel her moving again before I can fall back asleep. These are all things that I never once thought of doing with my son. It is all overwhelming. I feel like this baby's life is in my hands even though I know that is simply not the case.

Every day my baby is inside of me is another day closer to realizing the dream of bringing another child into our family. Everyday I become more invested in this little person. Everyday I expect a little more, long for her a little more and have a little more hope for our future. Knowing that it could all be taken away in an instant is terrifying.

I say my prayers in bed each night, probably a hold over from when I said them with my mom when I was little. I pray for every pregnant woman I know in real life, which is eleven at this point, along with all of the pregnant mommies in blog land. I list each one by name. Please, God, let us all bring home our beautiful healthy babies. Please, God, hear our prayers. We all have so much hope.