Tag: stillbirth

Trying Again

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I’m not meaning to be rude, but I don’t think it’s anyone’s place to ask if Bill and I are “trying again” yet. It’s a deeply personal question that now comes with so many emotions tied so tightly to it. On the one hand, if we are not ready, then you’ve probably upset us by asking. On the other, if we are ready for another baby, the question “are you trying again?” doesn’t fit the situation. Of course this is just my take, but I think it’s an angle most people don’t see.

I was reading a few articles and blog posts recently about “trying again” after stillbirth.* When I read those words, it always hits me deep down – it’s not really “trying again.” Every month for 18 months, we tried again and again. And again. Again. And finally conceived last April. Then it all came to a very abrupt end only a week later in miscarriage. Given the all clear by the doctors to “try again” during my next cycle, we did. And then again the next. And the next. And there I was, pregnant, again. This was truly “trying again”, because our first glory baby didn’t “take” or “stick” or whatever you want to call it.

But Joanna did.

She “took” and she “stuck” and she grew.

Joanna, my miracle. Nearly two years of trying again, month after month. One miscarriage. And there, two pink lines. I was so excited. I wrapped up the Disney baby clothes we’d purchased a year before in NYC (an act of hope, that good things were coming our way). I stuffed the pregnancy test in the bottom. I set the bag on the table and waited for Bill to get home from work. As I sat, I doubted. This baby could be gone in a week as well. This baby could make it 8 or 9 weeks and then be gone. What if this baby is not mine to keep?

Back track. I took the items out of the bag I’d so carefully wrapped them in. Put it all away. Sat on the couch, positive test in hand, begging God for this baby to stay with me. Anxious. Scared. A wreck. Those words don’t quite cut it.

When Bill finally got home from work, there was no gift bag. There wasn’t even a cheer. A smile. Not until I could see his face react. I handed him the test. He looked at me, a little unsure. I said, “We are having a baby,” which came out more like a question than an exclamation. He smiled, calmly, laughed a little, and hugged me.

His smile said, “It’s OK!” And it said, “Be brave, my love.” This baby is going to make it.

And she did. For a while.

About 26 weeks. The best 6.5 months of my life.

But here is the simple truth of stillbirth: when your baby dies, you don’t “try again.”

You knew this baby. You saw this baby’s face. Saw her heart beating. Saw her arms and legs flailing around inside you.

You felt her moving. Kicking. Punching. Rolling. She grew, and you grew with her.

You held her on her birthday. You counted fingers and toes. You stroked her little nose and you cuddled and kissed and rocked her. You sang her special lullaby.

“Trying again” is something you do when you haven’t met your child. When you haven’t held her in your arms. When you haven’t had to decide to cremate your daughter. To have or not have a service or memorial. When you haven’t made a memory box full of sympathy cards.

“Trying again” is for when you haven’t spent the last five months cuddling a stuffed elephant because you need something of hers to fill your aching, empty arms. Not for those who labor and deliver in the same physical pain as any other pregnancy, but in terrible emotional anguish as well. Not for those who enter the hospital full and leave empty. Who go home to empty nurseries. Empty cribs.

“Trying again” is not for those who have to prevent milk from coming in with compression, rather than praying there would be enough to fulfill tiny infant needs.

To me, “try again” is for those who don’t know – the innocent. You’re a mother from conception, but you don’t know what it feels like [what it is, how you’ll miss] holding your baby in your arms.

Joanna is our firstborn and not replaceable by “trying again.” Any other children are siblings; they won’t bring Joana back. They won’t fill the hole that is a permanent part of my heart.

Finally, to me, “trying again” feels like an implication of failure. It’s taken me a long time to work beyond the feelings that I was the failure, so I don’t need this type of language to take me back to where I don’t want to be.

I did not fail. Joanna was perfect. I love her. There is no failure in that.

So, when we do discuss more children, we ask “should we have another baby?” or “are we ready to have baby brother/sister?” – but never “are we ready to try again?”

*Please note: I am not meaning to offend or upset anyone. These are my personal feelings based on my motherhood journey through infertility, miscarriage and stillbirth. Every situation is different. Every pregnancy is different. Each person will feel differently.

The Pep Talk[s]

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Friday will mark five months since we lost Joanna. Five months is a long time. But daily I am surprised by my constant anxiety levels. I am anxious about running into someone who knew I was pregnant but does not know that Joanna died.

If I look back to a few months ago, I can see that the issue used to be worse than it is now. I will admit. I would sit in the car at Wegmans and cry. I would will myself to go inside. My heart would pound. My palms were sweaty. Once I could collect myself, I would run into the store and back out without saying a word to anyone. Mostly, though, I would just have Bill get anything I needed so I didn’t have to put myself through that torture.

Now, I sit in the car and give myself a pep talk – the “you can do this, Carol; you’re brave and you’re strong and you’re capable of telling people what happened if you do run into someone who doesn’t know.” So I go inside, even though I feel like most of what I said to myself is a lie.

If you’re brave, why are you panicking? If you’re strong, why are you shaking?

Once I arrive inside, I beeline it to the items I need. I avoid eye contact with anyone I know who I am worried may not know Joanna’s story, so as to not start a conversation. Once I grab what I need, I stealthily make my way through the aisles, attempting to run into exactly zero familiar faces, just in case. Once I finally arrive back to the front of the store, I find a line with a cashier I do not know. I smile and politely say “hello” all the while wishing the cashier could move faster so that I can leave before someone sees me.

I thought by now this would no longer be an issue. But every day I wake up and have to give myself the same pep talk: OK, Carol. You can do today.

Then, once I’ve talked myself into leaving the house, there’s the car pep talk. Moment-to-moment I have to tell myself that I can; tell myself not to turn around and go home.

The third pep talk is for once I have arrived at my destination: You won’t run into anyone at this point who doesn’t know. It’s fine. You need to make it through. Carol, you can do this. It’s just [the grocery store, church, so-and-so’s house]. Even if you have to be brave and tell someone Joanna has died, you’ll be OK. Everyone has to find out eventually. OK. Here we go.

But sometimes the pep talk isn’t enough, and I do run into someone who doesn’t know. Yesterday, this happened. My first reaction was to run away. My brain got jumbled and all the things I thought I wanted to say in the situation were gone. I was embarrassed. I was awkward. I didn’t know what to do. I quickly said something that I didn’t want to say, that was not my rehearsed, eloquent answer, turned around and left. Back in the car, I fought the tears. My heart was pounding. My palms were sweaty. I just wanted to go home and go to bed. But instead, another pep talk.

You survived. It wasn’t what you planned. You were embarrassed but you got out and didn’t have to linger. You’re OK and you’re going to complete your plans for this day. You will not go home and hide.

And so I didn’t. Good talk. [Repeat tomorrow.]

I’ve been trying to pinpoint why I am so anxious. Today I was talking to Bill about it and I think it comes down to the “embarrassed” part. It always comes back to this — it was not my fault. I did nothing wrong. I know, I know. But here’s the truth: even so, somehow, I am ashamed. I am embarrassed, sad, brokenhearted to have to tell people that my body failed my baby.

That I could not save her.

No pep talk can make me feel better about that.

Someone Said Her Name

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Bill and I talk about Joanna and we use her name often. She is the most spectacular thing that has happened to us in our lives so far and we daily acknowledge her as our first born, as our baby girl.

We also love it when others talk about her or ask us questions and call her by her name. To know that others recognize her as our baby, not just “the child who died” is so special and appreciated.

Such a sweet name, Joanna Rose.

Yesterday I went to see a movie with a friend. As we walked up to the concessions counter, a woman and her young daughter came in who were meeting up with a small group of their friends. The group was to our left and from behind us I heard the mom say, “I see Joanna!”

Instant trigger. I felt the tears immediately jump to my eyes. My stomach dropped. I looked at my friend and said, “That has never happened before.” I begged the tears not to spill over and did not look to my left to try to determine who this “other” Joanna was…

I have never met or bumped into anyone named Joanna before. This was the first time since our Joanna died that I have heard the name used for anyone else. It caught me off guard.

I’m not sure what was worse. To hear someone say her name but not to or about her, or to know there was a little girl next to me named Joanna who is going to get to do all the things our Joanna won’t.

It’s truly amazing how grief can just open wide in an instant. The night before Mother’s Day was the first time I had cried myself to sleep in a while. This is because I’m slowly getting to the point where I know for a fact that this is not just a nightmare. I will not wake up and have my baby back. I’ve begun to accept it, to live with the knowledge and try to live a life my daughter would be proud of. I’ve been trying my best to sleep without the help of a sleep aid. I no longer take Elephant with me everywhere I go. I am finally feeling some healing. Then boom — right back into the thick of it.

Just a stranger who said her name.

Oh, how my heart is hurting today.

For Mother’s Day

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In all honesty, I didn’t want to blog about Mother’s Day. I thought about putting something on Facebook, but that didn’t seem quite the right thing for me. I’m not having a bad Mother’s Day, but certainly not the Mother’s Day I was expecting. I was going to blog tomorrow, a reflection on the day, but felt that I couldn’t let the day slip away without doing for myself what I have wanted others to do for me today: acknowledge myself as a mom.

I am a mom. And though I may not get to parent Joanna, I get to love her, forever. She is mine and I will always be her mom. She gave that gift to me and I am so thankful. Though I can’t walk down the hall and scoop her out of her crib and cuddle her, though I will never see her take her first steps, go off to kindergarten, graduate high school, dance at her wedding, I will always have some precious moments with her.

The first time I got morning sickness.

The first time I craved avocado.

The first time I felt her move, and the second and the third, and even the last, because that was special too.

The times we heard her heartbeat and saw her little face.

Those 12 hours of labor, and though she arrived silently, she was mine. She was ours.

She made me a mom. I am proud of that. I am proud of me.

And I am proud of all the other mamas out there.

I am proud of the mamas who have their babies to hold tight. Don’t let go.

I am proud of the mamas-to-be. Be vigilant and cherish your pregnancy.

I am proud of the mamas in waiting. The ones who know deep in their hearts they will have children some day. The ones who have just started trying to have a family, and those who have been waiting, hoping, aching and praying for years. Don’t give up.

I am proud of the mamas of babies who’ve grown and moved away. Especially proud of mine – without her, I could not have been the mom I needed to be for Joanna.

And I am proud of the baby-loss mamas. Whether you’ve lost your baby to miscarriage, stillbirth, or sometime after they were born, you’ll always be a mom. Your arms may be empty, but your heart can still be full in remembering your baby(ies). It may take a while. I’m not there myself. But I know it can happen and I know it will happen.

So, mamas of all types, I hope you were good to yourselves today. I hope your families were good to you, too. No matter where you are in your motherhood journey, you are a mom, you deserve to know it and you deserve to celebrate it.

Happy Mother’s Day!
XOXO,
Carol

P.S. I wasn’t sure I would ever share this picture publicly. It’s a moment of both great joy and great sorrow (and messy hair, but who cares, right?). Because it’s Mother’s Day, and one of the few pictures of my little family, today is the day. Joanna, I am so proud to be your mama, today and every day.

joanna

Dear Joanna (4.27.15)

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Dear Joanna,

I am flying to California as I write this. Actually, I’m probably already over California right now.

The last time I came here I had you! You were a tiny little bean, just six weeks along. During the trip all I wanted to eat was guacamole. Plus, I started to get morning sickness, but only in the evenings.

Maybe the best part of my trip was that by the end of it, I was the “most pregnant” I had ever been. Coming home from California and being almost seven weeks was a relief. It was a milestone for us, since before you, we lost a baby right around the six-week mark. You were still with us. You were still growing.

Sometimes I wonder, when there is another baby…will we feel relief when we make it to 26 weeks? 25 weeks and 5 days was when we found out you had gone to heaven already. I think there won’t be any relief until your brother or sister is in our arms, crying, full of life!

If you had not left us, I would not be going to California today. But somehow this trip feels like the start of a new journey. One that will be scary but one that your dad and I are willing to make.  I’m glad you’ll be with us every step, in our hearts and minds.

Love you, baby girl!

Mom

Dear Joanna (4.21.15)

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Dear Joanna,

I wanted to pop in and say that I miss you.

I was driving to work from the dentist today and burst into tears. I know…it’s still happening. And I’m not ashamed. My tears for you will always come, and they will always feel right, even though not having you feels so wrong.

Why did I cry, you ask? Because as I was listening to the radio, a song came on called What Hurts the Most. I am sure you heard it before, from inside my belly. It’s about a break up, a great heart ache. About a man who so wishes he had said what he was feeling and acted upon his love for his girlfriend. But he didn’t and she left. He lost her forever. Though you didn’t leave by choice and though I never neglected to tell you how much I love you, I can relate.

I can take a few tears now and then and just let ’em out.
I’m not afraid to cry every once in a while
even though going on with you gone still upsets me.
There are days every now and again I pretend I’m ok,
but that’s not what gets me.
What hurts the most was being so close,
and having so much to say…
And never knowing what could have been.

I also cried because the last time I was at the dentist there was so much joy! I was finally telling everyone that I was expecting you. I scheduled my 6-month cleaning and was already celebrating that you would be here, that I would have a little baby to bring along with me to the dentist, all cute and adorable in your little car seat.

But it was not to be, Joanna.

My arms felt so empty on Saturday morning that I held Elephant close and swayed in the sunlight for a while. I wish you were here, cuddling Elephant, and that I could cuddle you in the sunlight. Sweet girl, you’re one of my greatest loves, and losing you is my greatest hurt – what hurts the most.

Hugs and kisses, beautiful!

xoxo,

Mom

Canceled Appointments and Dashed Hopes

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On Monday I was supposed to have an appointment with my high-risk specialist. This is a doctor that was recommended to me by my OB and is supposed to monitor patients who are high-risk (a stillbirth automatically makes you high risk for any subsequent pregnancy) and hopefully make sure these pregnancies have positive outcomes.

My appointment was canceled. The office called me the day of the appointment and told me that the doctor was unable to see me and asked if we could reschedule.

Of course we can reschedule. Bill and I know that eventually we do want to have another baby. Joanna needs a baby brother or baby sister. At least one.

However, having my appointment canceled made me feel like I was not supposed to be having another baby. I’ve been waiting for this appointment for more than a month and it’s very hard to get in with this doctor. When they said it was canceled I thought they were going to also tell me that I couldn’t get in for at least another month.

That meant postponing making a plan for a healthy pregnancy. Not having a plan for healthy pregnancy makes me already anxious that the next one won’t go well. This canceled appointment turned my day upside down and immediately made me fear for the future.

Of course I was overreacting. Within the next five minutes we had found a time that works for both of us to reschedule the new appointment that was within a week of the original appointment. One week. No big deal.

I so badly want to hope that we will have at least one child living here on earth with us in the future. It’s crazy how quickly that hope can be pulled away. Pulled right out from underneath you.

But praise God for his grace that sweeps in and saves the day. He comes in to remind us that He is good, always. His grace wraps us in an embrace and says, “It’s going to be okay.” It says, “I got you a new appointment in only six days.” It reminds us that God’s timing is perfect.

Grace says no matter what your circumstances, no matter what you’ve been through, no matter what is in your future, God’s got you.

Be reminded today: God is [still] gracious. Always.

Pretty in Pink [A Celebration of Life]

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These past few days I have had a lot of trouble thinking about what to say, which is why I haven’t posted in a while. So here goes nothing…

Easter weekend was pretty hard for me. I was surrounded by so many of the people I love. It was a beautiful weekend of joy and celebration. But at the same time, it was devastating. Thinking that I probably shouldn’t even have been up in PA, considering that Joanna could have been born early. Or, better yet, that she was growing and healthy and happy right up until 40 weeks: Tuesday. Which would have meant I couldn’t have traveled so far away for Easter. Those are the things I think of when I’m alone, when I’m in bed trying to fall asleep, when I’m driving in my car… If only things were different.

Speaking of 40 weeks, Tuesday on my due date we had a celebration of Joanna’s life. We decided to plant a winterberry bush in our backyard. It will get bright red berries in December (her birthday) and will have bright green leaves most of the rest of the year (that come out in Spring, around her due date). Prior to the evening of our celebration, we invited friends and family from afar to write “Dear Joanna” letters on tags that I designed and printed on light pink card stock. Then, local friends (and my mom and Aunt Barb) came over for a potluck dinner Tuesday. April 7. We hung all the mailed-in tags and the friends who could attend the celebration filled out tags and hung them as well.

We had wanted to plant the winterberry and hang the tags outside, but the weather was not cooperating. I was pretty upset at first. Something came out of my mouth in the car on my way home from work that sounded like, “God, You get to have Joanna, can’t I at least have nice weather for our memorial?” And it came out in a loud, angry yell. It was certainly a low moment for me, though anger is a common emotion for me to feel when I think about losing Joanna. Regardless, I felt better after saying what I was truly feeling, and a bit of peace washed over me, like God was answering me, “You carry Joanna in your heart, you celebrate her life every day, the weather can’t change that, or how much you love her.” And so I went home, put the tree in the house like a Christmas tree and we celebrated. It was beautiful. The pink really popped, plus we had pink tulips and pink balloons.

Love Mom

I feel so blessed to have so many family members and friends who joined us in celebrating, near and far. I am so grateful for their thoughts and prayers and support during the past three months. There is no doubt in my mind how loved Joanna was and still is – and no doubt that Bill and I are loved, as well.

Proud Parents

A final thought…I feel like making it to my due date and surviving this time is a huge relief to me. Every week I thought about how far along I would be in my pregnancy and what that would mean for us. And now, I am not counting down to the day when my baby would NOT be born. It has passed. I am here. Breathing. Sure, I will think of all those milestones we are missing as the rest of the Spring babies are born. I will be happy and sad all at the same time to see new pictures of those babies on Facebook and even meet some of them once their parents bring them home and are settled. But now, we’ve made it. Now, we look back with love and sorrow all at once. But now we also look forward – and try to hold on to hope that someday there will be a baby brother or sister for Joanna. We look in our hearts and we find her there.

Dear Joanna (4.3.15)

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Dear Joanna,

I want to tell you something. Just know it is not your fault. It’s not mine either. Though it’s always hard to believe that. 

I am feeling left behind. 

Sometimes I feel bad feeling that way. I know I have friends who wish they were married and feel left behind. And I have friends who wish they could buy a house and feel left behind. Of course I have friends who don’t have children yet and probably feel left behind as well.

Still, I feel left behind because I don’t have you. All of your dad’s siblings have children. My brother has a son. Many of my friends who married after me, or are not married at all, are having children. Or even just friends who are younger than me. I thought it was my turn – our turn. Your dad and me.

We thought we were going to join the new parent club when you were born. While we did join a parent club, it’s not quite the same. Being part of the bereaved parent club…it’s one no one wants to join.

We thought you would be our Rainbow Baby, the baby who is born after a loss. But now, you’re another Glory Baby. Another precious life not living here with us, but in Heaven. 

But speaking of rainbows, your dad and I saw a rainbow today on our way home to Pennsylvania. We saw a few rainbows the summer we found out we were pregnant with you! This was the first I’ve seen since you left us and I want to believe it was sent our way to remind us you’re with Jesus on this weekend where we celebrate Him and His resurrection and our salvation.

Maybe, it’s even a sign to remind me, on the weekend before your due date, that there is hope of another baby – a sibling for you. Our Rainbow Baby. 

This weekend will soon be over. Your due date will soon pass. But I will still feel left behind… Behind you, already in Heaven. Someday, we will meet again. 

I love you, sweet girl!

Love,

Mom

  

Calendar Moments

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Today after work I let the dog out, as usual. I stood in the fading sun at the sliding glass door and watched him run around. I think, someday, he would have loved running around with Joanna.

When he ran around the corner out of sight, I moved over and looked at the calendar. I picked up my Sharpie pen and started adding. “Bill to Rochester” for a week. “Carol to SoCal” for a week. “Mom and Dad Overnight” one weekend in April. “Emily’s Bridal Shower,” “Amber in Town”.

As I added these things to the calendar I realized that the big trips I was writing down would not be happening if Joanna had been born [alive] when she was due, April 7. Bill couldn’t have left for Rochester a week after her birth. I would not be going to California for work, since I wouldn’t even be working.

The smaller visits would still have happened. My parents would still have come visit, and even Amber would still be coming! But they would have been coming to meet and visit with Joanna. I am happy they are still coming to see me, I’m sad that Joanna is not here to snuggle and shower with love and kisses.

While I am going to look forward to California for the next few weeks, and I am sure I will have a good time with my co-workers and hopefully see the Pacific again, I will be wishing for a different scenario. While Bill is in Rochester I will be wishing he were with me, with us – our little family of three (ok, four, counting Heinz).

The calendar reminds us that our lives do continue on, they must. We cannot stop time; change; things out of our control. We can only remember what has been, and try to look at the future with hope.

It’s still easier to just not look.