I've been reading books and surfing websites about grief for a couple different reasons. One is to know that we aren't the first ones to travel this path. Sad, but oddly helpful. Another is to find out what to expect down the road as we move through the stages of grief. One of the most common themes I've been reading about is loneliness. It seems that experiencing the loss of a child causes many people to feel alone and I'll admit that I felt that way in January when I had my miscarriage. But I never felt that way when H passed.
I felt lonely in that I felt H's absence acutely. But I never felt alone. Instead, we had friends coming out of the woodwork to do whatever they could. Everything we could have ever wanted was offered - most importantly many, many shoulders to cry on. The offers to visit and comfort started before we even left the hospital. It was amazing and awful all at once. But I never had to feel alone.
Through the last 6 weeks as we began learn to deal with our new version of normal, we have been constantly reminded of what an amazing group of friends we have. Not a day goes by where someone doesn't reach out to check on us, cry with us or just let us know they are thinking about us. I know that I personally have been terrible about responding to everything, but every text message, every email, card, every meal delivered to our door has been heard and appreciated beyond words. I want to reach out to everyone and say "Thank you" but those words don't seem to cover it. How exactly do I thank people for pulling us through the worst thing we ever experienced? What words exist to properly convey the weight of my message?
There are no words. They just don't exist. So I will show my gratitude by offering a simple but heartfelt "Thank you" and then pulling myself out of bed when I want to the least. By putting a smile on my face and engaging in life even when all I want to do is hide. I will move forward and work hard to find my peace. Because I know the only way I can do this is through the strength my friends have given me. And I will not let that gift be go to waste.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Thursday, December 18, 2014
The Day Of...
Okay, I'm just going to do it. I'm going to write about the day it all went down. Why? Partially because some people have asked, partially because otherwise want to know and are afraid to ask. But mostly because maybe, hopefully talking about it will help take away some of the weight of the grief for me.
See, here is the thing about losing a child. Apart from the fact that is goes against nature for a parent to ever have to lose a child, it is a grief so deep that it's tangible. And it's capable of taking different forms. At it's worst it's a boulder, sitting on my shoulders, my chest. Weighing me down. Other times, it's like a mist; it wraps itself around me, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. Sometimes, it manifests itself in the people around me, making it's presence known in a whispered voice or overly sympathetic gaze.
Anything I can do to lighten that grief, I will do. I am searching for answers and this is where my journey started; Ironically enough with the day my world felt like it was falling apart.
H wasn't moving. It was noon and I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I felt her kick. Honestly, I wasn't overly concerned because mornings were usually her quiet time, but I was still worried. I did what I usually did if I wanted to get her moving. I ate candy and then laid down on my left side to start counting the kicks. But they never came. So I tried ice cold water. That always worked. Still nothing. Now I was starting to freak out. B offered to drive me to the immediate care but I couldn't handle the thought of that. The last ultrasound I had done there was the beginning of a weeks long miscarriage, just 11 short months before. I was not setting foot in that place if I could avoid it. Instead, B ran to Babies R Us and bought a home doppler. I tore into the packaging fully expecting a loud and strong heartbeat. But it never came. I had the OB on-call paged and she immediately told me to head to the hospital.
B got C up from his nap and we were on our way. Thankfully the drive was only a few minutes because I was fighting a rising panic that I knew would only subside with the sound of H's heartbeat. The wonderful nurse got me all hooked up and tried and tried to find a heartbeat. When she couldn't, another nurse came in with another doppler. No luck. I could feel the energy in the room change. They went into high alert and I started to shut down. The OB on call at the hospital was paged and he came in with an ultrasound machine. Two nurses, the doctor, B and C and I were all crammed in this tiny little room, just waiting to hear that I was overacting. But we didn't.
After what felt like the world's longest ultrasound, I finally couldn't take it anymore. "Can you find a heartbeat?" I asked. The doctor looked at me, slowly set down the ultrasound wand and said the words that I never wanted to hear. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Short, tiny words. But their meaning, their impact, left me forever changed.
From there it was a blur. Another ultrasound, another doctor. Four blown veins to get an IV in. Having to decide between the vbac I wanted or move ahead with a C-section for our tiny breech baby. My father in-law arrived to pick up C; this whole nightmare bringing back a nightmare of his own 39 years before. The most painful, drawn out spinal ever, that sent ribbons of pain cascading thru my legs and up into my shoulders. Throwing up mid surgery. And finally the doctor saying "Oh. The cord. It's around her neck twice and it's really tight."
"It's around her neck twice and it's really tight." My baby strangled inside me. My only job was to care for and protect her. I failed and she paid the ultimate price.
See, here is the thing about losing a child. Apart from the fact that is goes against nature for a parent to ever have to lose a child, it is a grief so deep that it's tangible. And it's capable of taking different forms. At it's worst it's a boulder, sitting on my shoulders, my chest. Weighing me down. Other times, it's like a mist; it wraps itself around me, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. Sometimes, it manifests itself in the people around me, making it's presence known in a whispered voice or overly sympathetic gaze.
Anything I can do to lighten that grief, I will do. I am searching for answers and this is where my journey started; Ironically enough with the day my world felt like it was falling apart.
H wasn't moving. It was noon and I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I felt her kick. Honestly, I wasn't overly concerned because mornings were usually her quiet time, but I was still worried. I did what I usually did if I wanted to get her moving. I ate candy and then laid down on my left side to start counting the kicks. But they never came. So I tried ice cold water. That always worked. Still nothing. Now I was starting to freak out. B offered to drive me to the immediate care but I couldn't handle the thought of that. The last ultrasound I had done there was the beginning of a weeks long miscarriage, just 11 short months before. I was not setting foot in that place if I could avoid it. Instead, B ran to Babies R Us and bought a home doppler. I tore into the packaging fully expecting a loud and strong heartbeat. But it never came. I had the OB on-call paged and she immediately told me to head to the hospital.
B got C up from his nap and we were on our way. Thankfully the drive was only a few minutes because I was fighting a rising panic that I knew would only subside with the sound of H's heartbeat. The wonderful nurse got me all hooked up and tried and tried to find a heartbeat. When she couldn't, another nurse came in with another doppler. No luck. I could feel the energy in the room change. They went into high alert and I started to shut down. The OB on call at the hospital was paged and he came in with an ultrasound machine. Two nurses, the doctor, B and C and I were all crammed in this tiny little room, just waiting to hear that I was overacting. But we didn't.
After what felt like the world's longest ultrasound, I finally couldn't take it anymore. "Can you find a heartbeat?" I asked. The doctor looked at me, slowly set down the ultrasound wand and said the words that I never wanted to hear. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Short, tiny words. But their meaning, their impact, left me forever changed.
From there it was a blur. Another ultrasound, another doctor. Four blown veins to get an IV in. Having to decide between the vbac I wanted or move ahead with a C-section for our tiny breech baby. My father in-law arrived to pick up C; this whole nightmare bringing back a nightmare of his own 39 years before. The most painful, drawn out spinal ever, that sent ribbons of pain cascading thru my legs and up into my shoulders. Throwing up mid surgery. And finally the doctor saying "Oh. The cord. It's around her neck twice and it's really tight."
"It's around her neck twice and it's really tight." My baby strangled inside me. My only job was to care for and protect her. I failed and she paid the ultimate price.
Saturday, December 13, 2014
A Letter to My Daughter
**This is the first entry in a series that I am planning on writing about coping with losing my daughter. It will be real and raw and I can't promise that it won't make you cry. Either because the story is heartbreaking or because my writing is terrible (I'm writing from the heart and I won't be over-editing. So if it sucks, so be it). Bear with me, this grief is new to me and I'm learning as I go.**
My Sweet Little H,
Today is the day that I was supposed to meet you for the first time. Today you were supposed to be delivered safely into this world. I was supposed to hold you for the first time, look into your beautiful eyes, hear your cry, hold you hand. Instead, you slipped silently into this world over a month ago, the victim of a tragic accident that left doctors baffled and your daddy and I heartbroken.
We love you so much, our beautiful, silent little girl. I still can't believe that those firsts and a hundred others were stolen from us before your story really took flight. I've moved thru this day slowly, determined not to wallow, not to cry, not to lose myself to the grief that sits on me like an overwhelming physical presence. I did ok, for the most part. But as night falls I find my strength waning and my heart aching more and more. All day I have been thinking about how this day should have been going. Right now I should have been leaving for the hospital, at this moment I would be getting induced etc etc. In fact, as I type this I am thinking that right now your Nannie and Boppie should be bringing C to the hospital to meet you for the first time. He would have been the best big brother! He was so excited to meet you! He still asks how you are doing in Heaven and asks if you are coming home.
Life is unfair. I've always know this, but nothing drove that lesson home more than the doctors telling us you were gone. I don't know exactly how to move forward after losing you because I'm afraid that when I lost you I also lost my faith in God and in the good that I used to see in the world. I'm not sure exactly how to keep putting one foot in front of the other because I am forever changed and I'm not sure how I fit into this new world of ours. A world where your urn sits silently in your room instead of your smiling face. That's why I am resurrecting this blog. I hope that writing helps me find some clarity and makes me feel closer to you. To your spirit. And maybe even, eventually help me find a little peace.
I love you, my sweet little girl. I hope wherever your spirit is, you can feel our love and that it surrounds you and keeps you safe and warm.
XOXO,
Your Mommy
My Sweet Little H,
Today is the day that I was supposed to meet you for the first time. Today you were supposed to be delivered safely into this world. I was supposed to hold you for the first time, look into your beautiful eyes, hear your cry, hold you hand. Instead, you slipped silently into this world over a month ago, the victim of a tragic accident that left doctors baffled and your daddy and I heartbroken.
We love you so much, our beautiful, silent little girl. I still can't believe that those firsts and a hundred others were stolen from us before your story really took flight. I've moved thru this day slowly, determined not to wallow, not to cry, not to lose myself to the grief that sits on me like an overwhelming physical presence. I did ok, for the most part. But as night falls I find my strength waning and my heart aching more and more. All day I have been thinking about how this day should have been going. Right now I should have been leaving for the hospital, at this moment I would be getting induced etc etc. In fact, as I type this I am thinking that right now your Nannie and Boppie should be bringing C to the hospital to meet you for the first time. He would have been the best big brother! He was so excited to meet you! He still asks how you are doing in Heaven and asks if you are coming home.
Life is unfair. I've always know this, but nothing drove that lesson home more than the doctors telling us you were gone. I don't know exactly how to move forward after losing you because I'm afraid that when I lost you I also lost my faith in God and in the good that I used to see in the world. I'm not sure exactly how to keep putting one foot in front of the other because I am forever changed and I'm not sure how I fit into this new world of ours. A world where your urn sits silently in your room instead of your smiling face. That's why I am resurrecting this blog. I hope that writing helps me find some clarity and makes me feel closer to you. To your spirit. And maybe even, eventually help me find a little peace.
I love you, my sweet little girl. I hope wherever your spirit is, you can feel our love and that it surrounds you and keeps you safe and warm.
XOXO,
Your Mommy
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