Thankful and Grateful and Surrounded by Love

Brent and I have spent the last year dealing with the fallout of an event that we never expected to experience. We never saw it coming, but it came and we were left with the silent aftermath. Here is the thing about grief so intense it brings you to your knees, eventually you raise your head and you look up and what do you see? You see your people, your tribe.

They are the ones that pick you up off the ground (sometimes quite literally) and help you get back on your feet.

They are the ones that remember Hannah, speak her name and let us know that her brief life touched theirs.

They are the ones that understand how hard holidays are and ask how we are doing and if we are ok.

They are the ones that stood by our side despite the fact that we forget their birthdays or other important dates.

They are the ones that don't mind us cancelling plans because we  just can get up the courage to leave the house that day.

They don't judge us for the pony tail, no make-up, wrinkled clothes look.

They are the ones that stand in an empty nursery and cry with me because life is just so cruelly unfair sometimes.

They are the ones that try to distract me from the pain. Even if it means shopping cart races though Target - Christina, Brooke, Sam and Katie I am totally looking at you here.

They are the people that stand by my side, and listen to my heartbreak without judgment, without unrealistic timeframes for healing.

I am grateful for my people. I don't know what the last year would have looked like without all of you, but I know it would have been so incredibly lonely without you.

A Thank You

I can't believe a whole year has passed since we last held Hannah. It's been wildly fast and tortuously slow at the same time. On one hand, passing the one year mark is a relief. Now we can officially say those awful "first" milestones are done! No more first Christmas, first Easter, or the worst, first Mother's Day. We got through it all and we are still standing. True, some days we stumble, but we still stand.

Then again, passing the one year mark makes Hannah feel so very far away. Slipping further from our daily lives with each passing day.

The day before the anniversary of her death, we had a carefully chosen group of local friends over for a balloon release to pay tribute to Hannah and to the people who have been amazingly supportive during this crazy year. (Again, I stress local. There are so many friends who live far away that have shown their support time and time again and I would NEVER want to leave you guys out of this tribute! Patti, Becca, Ami, Jenny, Martha, Pam just to name a few. And I know I am leaving more out than I am mentioning but Baby Elvin #3 is sucking all the brain power from me right now. Plus it's dinner time and I have a hangry preschooler yelling about hotdogs. As soon as I hit publish I will remember your names and messages and love and feel awful. So let me apologize in advance!)

So we had this group over and we hired a photographer to capture the moment and I can't wait to see the pictures. Because while I know I was sad and grieving, what I remember most about that day was the love. Being surrounded by you all (in spirit and in person). You showed up in droves, with flowers and hugs and sweet butterfly mementos and you remembered Hannah. You used her name, you showed that she is not forgotten and that she matters. And that made all the difference. You got me over this milestone, over many milestones. I feel humbled and grateful and loved and amazed. I don't know what I did to deserve you all (actually I am pretty sure I don't deserve you all) and I am so incredibly thankful for you all. You are truly amazing and I thank you from the very bottom of my heart.

I Should Be Grateful

I had my first appointment with the Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist today. I saw him with Charlie and I saw him with Hannah and his peaceful manner and soft spoken voice keep me calm and make appointments soothing - it's all going to be ok. My OB has told me he is overly cautious, so when he says "Everything is good" I know that statement doesn't come lightly.

Running late as usual, Brent dropped me off at the hospital door while he went to park. I charged through the doors, thinking only that I need to hear a heartbeat and not thinking that it was my first time back at the hospital since Hannah. The last time I walked in there, I was laughing at myself for overacting about what I thought was a lazy baby. And the last time I left there it was with empty arms and a shattered soul.

So maybe it's good that I didn't think about it ahead of time. But running through that door, the smell, the sounds, sights. It all hit me like a ton of bricks. I had to stop short because all my breath was suddenly gone. I stumbled down the long hallway, trying not to panic, trying not to cry. But that was the longest, shortest walk of my entire life. Suddenly I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to face where I've been and where I'm going. I wanted to turn around and run home and bury myself under my duvet and stay there. It was all too shocking and too real.

I should be grateful that my doctor knew exactly what I needed to hear before I knew I needed to hear it. I should be grateful that this little baby got a clean bill of health. I should be grateful that this busy, busy doctor said to come every week after 30 weeks, that he would make time because he knows how we feel. I should be so, so grateful.

But instead I feel numb. Because again we have to face the reality of what happened. Now, coming up on the first anniversary of  her loss, we were forced to face the cold medical details of our family's loss.

Innocence Gone

Tomorrow will be 15 weeks.  15 weeks since our little family started to expand. And I still can't wrap my head around it.

It's a wonderful thing, this chance to grow our little brood. But it's terrifying too. No longer can I take a deep breath after the first trimester and tell myself we are safe now, that everything will be ok. I know that there are no guarantees. I know that the worst can and often does happen. And I know sometimes that lightening does strike in the same place twice. Our innocence is gone. It was shattered months ago by the cruelest fate.

I know what it's like to hear those awful words, that rattle in your bone even now months later. I know what it's like to hold my child for the first time and they are just so still, so quiet. I know what it's like to pray over her and beg God to please, oh please just let her open her eyes. To pray with every cell in your body for a miracle. Or to wake up from this awful dream.

I know what it's like to hand my child to a nurse, who carries her away with tears in her eyes. I know what it's like to hand my child to a nurse, who takes her to the morgue.

I know what it's like to never see or hold my child again. And to lose my faith,

So how do we get through these coming weeks and months? How do we get through the minutes, without going crazy. Where do we find the faith to hold on and hope that this time we get to bring our baby home.

It's Been Awhile

Its been awhile since I've written last. It's not that I haven't had anything to say, it's just that I don't know what to say. I'm feeling too much right now and I don't really know what to do with it all. At the same time, I feel like I'm stuck in the grieving process. I'm past the initial shock and have been for a few months. But now I am floating back and forth between grief and anger.

Some days I'm really just very sad. Lay in bed all day, avoiding the world sad. I don't want to talk, I don't want to socialize, I don't want to do anything but wallow because quite frankly that is all I have the energy for.

Other days I can't stop thinking about things that make me so mad. The family that let us down, the people who have already forgotten that Hannah was born and loved and loved still. I'm mad at a God who lets this happen to us, who lets this happen to the wonderful women and families that I have met along the way. Why? Seriously, why? Our babies were so loved, so wanted. Why take them? Its not fair, it just so wildly unfair! I'm mad (yes, quite unfairly) at people who get to bring their daughters home from the hospital. Why them? Why not me? Why can't this be their grief? Why is this mine?

The back to grief. And then back to anger. Then grief...well, you get the picture.

I guess what I've learned over the last 10 months is that grief is messy and ugly and does not flow cleanly thru the "stages." So I'm not going to rush it or push it or even try to move past it (Ha! There is ZERO moving past it!) Instead I am going to stay where I am, feel all the feelings and just be.

The Old and the New

What is that saying that the Girl Scouts always sing about? "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and other's gold." This is so true with child loss. Well, at least it is in my case, but I think I've been extremely lucky with my support circle.

I love my old friends. And I need them now more than ever. Not only were they there when we were first blindsided with loss, and they held me up (sometimes literally) as we went through the process of planning a funeral and saying goodbye. They were my rock, my sanity and my last link to who I was before my world fell apart. It's in them that I can see small glimpses of who I was, who I thought I would always be.

Then there are my new friends. My baby loss friends. It's amazing how quickly we can bond over this shared tragedy. They are the ones that have helped me see through the aftermath. They are the first ones I go to on a bad day. Not because my old friends wouldn't love and support me, but my new friends have had the same bad days. They were also the first ones I went to when we got a positive pregnancy test last week. And the first ones I reached out to when we lost that baby too.

Old friends, new friends. I am truly grateful for each and everyone one of you. I know I've been isolating myself. I know I've been quiet and appear withdrawn. I've been introspective and emotional and basically avoiding human contact when possible. Bear with me, I am still trying to figure out who I am in this new world of mine. But one thing I know to be true, I have learned who my friend (old and new) truly are and I love you all right back. Even if I'm not so good at showing it right now.

Kindness and Community

We did it! We survived our first Kindness Walk to support the MISS Foundation. I first heard about the MISS Foundation when we first lost Hannah. I won't got into all that they do, but it's good and there are a lot of people that depend on them. They are amazing.

My first thought was "What a fun way to support a good cause!" My second thought was "It's too soon. I can't face it yet." So I was all set to avoid it. Then last week I changed my mind. I realized that I would never  "feel" like facing this and it was time to step out from the comfort zone of my house (and my computer) and do something that actually makes a difference.  We fell just shy of our fundraising goal, but considering  we only had a week to plan, I'm proud and grateful for every penny that we did raise.

For me, the two best parts were the memory table where parents and friends and family could share pictures or mementos of the children they lost. My other favorite part was at the end of the walk. There were signs with a foot print and the name of all the children. It was beautifully heartbreaking. All those children, all the heartbreak, all the love. So many families just here in our local community.

It was heartwarming to see the way we all came together, united by grief and loss. It was terribly sad but terribly comforting to see the compassion and support in action. We are not alone. Our children are not forgotten. They were here for however brief a moment in time, and they will always matter.

It's not to late to donate if you are so inclined. Here is the link to the Team Hannah page.

http://www.firstgiving.com/team/297083

Well Meaning Face Slaps

I have several things running through my brain today and I started to message a friend about them but then I realized that I do not have the patience to type it all out on my phone so I am going to write it out here and hopefully she'll read it and know that she is not alone.

First off, the other day a well meaning someone told me that she admires me for the way I have "bounced back" from all this. Ok, I get that she was trying to be supportive, but let me assure you, I have not and will not ever "bounce back from this. This is not bounce back-able. You don't just get over your child dying. You don't become whole again, life is not ever complete again, I will never be the same person again. Yes, I still get up and move thru the days (some days get more movement than others) but do not mistake this for "bouncing back." It's like that song I posted on Facebook the other day. "I Will Never Let You Know" from Nashville. (Shut up. I love that show) "I burned to ashes, split down the middle, if anyone asks it hurts just a little, I died inside the day I let you go. I will never let you know."

Just because I (and my other grief warrior friends) don't walk around wailing or silent or give up and stay in bed, does not mean we bounced back. It means we found the strength to put one foot in front of the other. You would not believe how hard that can be some days. Damn near impossible. But we have not bounced back. We push forward, some days counting the minutes until we can crawl into bed. We do yoga, we take anti-depressants, we journal and we go to therapy. But we have not bounced back. Saying we have "bounced back" is insulting and it's like saying our children and our children's deaths did not matter. I wanted to scream "Shut your face!" but I was at work and also didn't want to get fired. So I said "Not the case, read my blog."

I also have a sweet friend struggling with fertility issues right now. And she's doing the right thing by trying to reach out for support. It's hard for her because people don't get it. They are trying to make her see the "bright side." But when you want to have children and when you deserve to have a family full of children, there is not bright side to knowing that may not happen the way she dreamed of it happening. It very well could happen, but it won't be the journey she dreamed of and wished for. That's a whole grieving process and in and of it's self. People don't get that.

I guess what I am getting at after all this rambling, is be careful with your words. What was meant to be well intentioned can wound. Words have power. They can wound and sting and burn just like a physical blow. And they cannot be taken back once they are out there. If you have a friend who is struggling, give them a hug, tell them it sucks and it's not fair and that you love them. Don't make it about you, don't push the bright side and dear God do NOT put a timeline on their pain. Until you've walked that proverbial mile in their shoes, you can't get it but you do have the power to make it much, much worse.

The Silent Ones

I've been hesitant to write this post. This has been weighing on my mind for a long time, but I hesitated because there is a strongly likelihood that this is going to cause drama. So far I have been baring it all and documenting the authentic, if sometimes ugly, parts of this journey, so to leave this part out just feels wrong. It has had a huge impact on me and on Brent so I  need to just write it out and let the chips fall where they may.

I also hesitated to write this because I know some people are going to take this as whining. And I do not mean it as whining. It's an unpleasant part of the process, but overall I am glad for it. Let me explain...

I've spent a good deal of time writing about all the people I am grateful for. The people who's support has been like a life boat in this storm. People who came over, who sent meals, who still to this day call or text or message just to check in  and check on us. People who say they are thinking of Hannah. People who acknowledge that she existed, that we loved her and that while her life was way too brief, acknowledge that she mattered and had a profound impact us. I know who you are and I am forever grateful. You are all amazing.

But there is a flip side to this coin.  The people who refuse to acknowledge her. They let holidays and other milestones go by without acknowledging her. They have never used her name or sincerely offered condolences. These people rolled in and out of her service, making it clear in both demeanor and lack of emotion that they didn't want to be there, didn't understand the fuss and certainly were not sorry about the loss. They let the holiday season go by without even a simple "I know this has to be tough." They didn't recognize her due date, or Mother's Day. These people, who are supposed to be family - FAMILY - made it clear with their silence that her loss didn't touch them in even the smallest way. They go about their business like she never happened, completely absorbed in themselves and shutting us out. The refuse to use her name.

It's hurtful because these are people that we have always supported. When they faced their own type of loss we were there offering support and distractions. I expected the same in return. and I was let down. I expected to be treated as if we mattered and as if Hannah mattered and that didn't happen. It's disappointing and hurtful and it makes me irate. It's unfair and unjust and awful and really I shouldn't be surprised because that's how it's always been with that crowd. But as I move through the initial shock of grief I find myself focusing on my anger at this particular crowd and that's not healthy for me. What I need to focus on is all the good that we are surrounded by, because the people that love us far, far outnumber the people that couldn't care less. And that is the silver lining of this cloud.

But every now and again, I will let myself remember who made the hurt worse and who's careless attitude spoke louder than their words ever could. They are showing their authentic selves and that is something that it's best to not forget.

Surviving Mother's Day

It's almost over. I've almost survived my first Mother's Day without Hannah. And it wasn't easy.

I woke up to Charlie giggling and climbing in bed with us, all tickles and cartoons. The trouble started when he wanted breakfast. As usual, Brent didn't want to get with him right away and was trying to delay the process. Then when he finally agreed to bring him downstairs, Charlie said he wanted to bring me breakfast in bed. Letting out a huge sigh and making it clear this was the last thing he wanted to do (I'm sure he was planning on setting Charlie up with food and falling back asleep on the couch) Brent asked what I wanted him to pick up for breakfast. He could not have been less enthusiastic. Thanks big guy, don't worry about all the meals I cook for you. Don't bother scrambling an egg for me. Wouldn't want ya to break a sweat. So I told him I wasn't hungry and just waited form them to go downstairs so I could be alone.

And that's when I could feel myself shutting down. I just shut down. I felt like a zombie. I couldn't figure out what I wanted to do with myself, but I knew I had to get out of the house. So I threw on some clothes and went to Target by myself. I wandered the aisles for over an hour, in a daze. Not really seeing anything or needing much other than cat food. But I just couldn't deal with being at home. Finally I headed out and went home. Brent was tired and crabby, Charlie was sassy and crabby and everything just felt out of sync. I grabbed a book and went to read for a while, but Charlie just followed up and continued to be sassy pants. Finally Brent took Charlie and went out to get the grocery shopping done.

Finally I had the peace and quiet I was craving but now the silence felt too loud, to oppressive. So I got a bunch of work done in the garden. Brent was still crabby, Charlie was still sassy. Nothing was as it should be. Nothing. I need this stupid day to be over already.

I did get lots of sweet messages from friends, hoping we were mudding through alright. To those sweet friends, thank you. You were the only thing going right today. Once again, I am grateful because you kept my head above water and kept me moving.

The Mother of All Days

It's Friday. Under normal circumstances this would make me happy. Brent and I ordered Chinese, we'll watch some Madam Secretary and maybe Good Wife if I can stay awake long enough. I'm already in my pajama pants with my feet up. By all accounts I should be happy.

But I'm not. Instead I am sitting here dreading the next two days. Terrified of them. You see, it's already begun. It started at work today. "Have a great Mother's Day! Do you have any fun plans?" And it's only going to get worse tomorrow and the day after.

Under normal circumstances I would be excited. Mother's Day means presents! Sleeping In! Controlling the remote! And a fun outing like the zoo or Lake Geneva! But this year, it's just another milestone to push though. Another painful reminder of what we lost. Another day without my daughter.

What I want to do is stay in bed all day and cry. Maybe read a book or watch a Lifetime Movie. What I want is to spend the day wallowing and crying and feeling sorry for myself. Because I've earned that right dammit! I carry the scars and the pain every day. So just one day, this particular day, I've earned the right to lose it just a little. Not for a week and not forever. Just one day to let go and stop being strong and feel all the feelings.

But what does that say about my son. What does that say about the kind of mother I am to him. How would it make him feel if I gave in to my grief and didn't leave my bed. Would the message to him be that he doesn't matter? Because nothing could be further from the truth. He is absolutely the reason I keep moving right now. When I think I've lost the strength to put one foot in front of the other, it's his face I picture and I forge ahead. He deserves a mom who is whole and present. And even if I don't feel that way anymore, I refuse to let him see that. He matters.

So I'll get out of bed, put one foot in front of the other and push through the day.

But what does that say about my daughter? That she doesn't matter? That she stopped breathing and therefore stopped counting? That she is out of sight and out of mind? That she's not missed or loved. That Charlie means more than Hannah to us because he is here, he didn't leave. That I don't mother her simply because she died?

How does one spend Mother's Day when one child is gone and one is here? How do we honor one and celebrate another? How do we make this day whole and not painful. It's not like there is a middle ground here. There is no easy answer. Much like everything else in this process, I struggle for answers and find simply more questions and an aching heart.

6 Months and Counting

I can't believe it's been 6 months since we lost Hannah. Let me rephrase that. I can't believe it's only been 6 months since we lost Hannah. I feel like her loss is a weight that I've always carried. I can't remember what it was like to not feel her missing every day. Missing her has become such a profound part of our every day that I can't even remember what it was like not to feel that. Not to have that twinge of guilt with every laugh and just to enjoy a relaxed or happy moment freely. Her loss still colors our every movement. Will it always be that way? I don't know. It's certainly gotten easier to carry her loss. It's stopped being extra baggage and just become a part of who I am now. I don't get up every morning and put on my grief like I used to. I used to wake and lay there peacefully for a moment before the memory of her hit me and shredded that peace. Now I just wake up with her loss. It's nothing new. Its a part of who I am, much like my arm or my face or my sarcastic sense of humor. I can't take it off, I can't put it down. It's just there, a part of me.

Honestly, I am glad it's there. It's all I have left and I don't want to lose it. Here's the thing that they don't tell you when your baby dies. There is nothing to sooth you. I can't look back on happy memories or remember the good times, because weren't allowed to experience them. When a grandparent, parent, sibling or friend dies the grief slowly gives way to happy memories. While you will never, ever stop loving them and missing them terribly, eventually you reach a place where you can relieve a funny story or happy memory and smile. We didn't get that chance with Hannah. I can't walk into her room and pick up the blanket she was swaddled in at the hospital and remember the first time I looked into her eyes because that never happened. Instead I pick up that blanket and remember saying goodbye to my sweet girl.

I don't mean to infer that infant loss is worse than other loss. That's simply not true. No loss is easy and it's certainly not a competition. What I mean to say is that it's different than other types of loss. The journey through grief and healing is different. And when grief is all you have of someone it's hard, if not impossible to really let it go.

So I carry this weight with me always. And I'm ok with that. Missing Hannah is the only relationship I was given with her. Instead of cursing fate (which I've done) or God (which I've also done) I carry her loss with me. For better or for worse it's who I am now and I'm slowing coming to terms with that because it means that I carry Hannah with me and that is something that I cherish.

Communities of Loss

When we first lost Hannah I turned to my community of friends. I was blessed. They came from across the country in person, in emails, in text messages, across years of separation and surrounded me with love. They held me up and held my hand. They got me through those first awful, awful months of grief and sadness. I could not have survived without them. I wouldn't have known what to do. They kept me sane and listened to me cry. They kept me upright (most days anyway) and kept me from drowning in grief and depression.

Fast forward a few months and I still need their love and support. But I also need something that they can't give me. Something that I don't want them to give me. I need people now that understand how awful this reality is. And I don't want any of my friends to ever have that understanding because that would mean they also know my pain. I don't want that for them.

So I looked elsewhere to find understanding and the sad fact is that it didn't take long. I was able to quickly find many wonderful women, loving mothers, who have also been on this horrendous journey. And as I get to know them it pains me that we are in this club together. But at the same time I am so incredibly grateful for their support. It's a weird balance. But I couldn't continue this journey without them. My first community kept me upright and my new community keeps me moving. When the going gets tough, we don't give up on each other or ourselves. We share our stories and pictures and heartache, but we also share our hope for ourselves and our families. We know we will never be the people that we were before we experienced the worst, but together we can grow and learn and come out better, stronger and somehow undefeated.

To my communities, old and new, I thank you. I wouldn't be who I am today without you.

Getting it Wrong

The other day I had a conversation with someone who shared her story of loss with me. I had no idea that she had experience something like that and I was touched that she would share her story with me. Then she said something that I have been thinking about ever since. Talking about the grieving process she said "I probably did it wrong."

I immediately reassured her that there is no right or wrong way to grieve. Because there is no right or wrong way to grieve. We are all fighting the same battle. Getting up, putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward. We put ourselves back together the best we can, all the while knowing we will never be the same. How we manage to get up and pull ourselves back together is going to be different because we are all different and our stories are all different.

There is no right or wrong way.

But the more I thought about what she said and the more I thought about my response the more I felt hypocritical. Because lately I have been telling myself I have been getting it wrong too. I've been so lucky to be surrounded by so many supportive souls, both near and far. But what I have done wrong, is let the negative voices creep in. I've let the unsupportive voices get louder than the loving voices, until they are all I hear. You're too sad. You talk about it too much. Your blog is too much. It makes people uncomfortable. You're making people worry. You shouldn't talk about it. You should learn to deal with it. You'll be the same again, stop telling yourself that you won't be the same.

All these voices have risen up and taken over the space in my head and my heart where the love used to be. Leaving me feeling surprised and off kilter when a kind voice creeps in.

This is what I am doing wrong.

I can make all sort of excuses for why this happens. Those voices are stronger, those voices come from family, people that generally tell me that I am wrong, that I am less than, that I am not enough. But the fact of the matter is that these voices only have the power that I give them. If I turn them off, if I choose to ignore them, then they will cease to have any importance.

I can get mad and point fingers and cry and moan about how they don't understand and those would all be natural reactions. But quite frankly I am done giving life to their negative emotions. If they don't want to hear about Hannah's story, then they can choose not to listen. If my voice, my story, my writing, makes them uncomfortable, then they can walk away. I'm not writing for them. I'm not grieving for them. I writing for me and grieving for my daughter.

So if you find yourself  in my situation or a situation like it. If you are experiencing loss, let me assure you that it is your loss and it is your journey. No one has the right to make you feel like you are doing it wrong. There is no wrong in this situation.

Funeral Home Follow Up

Hey y'all, I finally did it! I finally wrote a letter to the funeral home detailing my experience and asking them for change. And it was polite and I didn't cuss. Not even once! What do you think? Read it here and let me know.

Dear Laird Employees,

This email is several months in the making. I have been wanting to email you and detail out my experience working with your team. I had to wait 5 months to calm down and write this out peacefully. Yes, it took me 5 months. You see, I want this email to come across as educational and not have you blow it off as the emotion ranting of a grieving mother. And that took 5 months.

I have never imagined that I would ever have to make funeral arrangements for my daughter. But in November of 2014 that is exactly where my husband and I found ourselves. We were blindsided by the loss of our little girl and still in shock when we arrived for our meeting with Corey. And even more shocked to be greeted with a cheery "Nice to meet you!" Yes, seriously, that is how we were greeted when we arrived to make plans for our daughter's funeral. That should have been the only shocking event, but sadly it was not. It got worse. So much worse.

In the course of our meeting we were given a callous "A coffin for a baby will run ya about 350 bucks." Yes, we understand completely that there are business aspects to be discussed. We understand that there will be a bill and you want us to be prepared for it. But seriously?

It was then explained that the use of the chapel is free for infant services. This is a policy that I completely endorse! Please understand that while this email is full of complaints and calls for improvement, this policy is the exception. It's thoughtful and gracious.

What is not thoughtful and gracious is using that policy to attempt to bully us into having the service at the date and time of your choosing.

After much haggling we finally got you to approve a Saturday service. But we wanted to push the date out a week since I was still recovering from surgery. We explained this several times, to which the response was "Ah, we have chairs you can sit in." Yes, that actually happened. That was actually directed at me when I explained that I wanted to be well enough to attend my daughter's visitation for the entire  hours. Your employee actually looked at me, the mother of a dead child, and laughed while bushing off my concerns.

To add insult to injury we were only given three options for an urn, none of which were suitable for a baby girl. I asked if we could see other options. We were told there were no other options. I kept pushing and magically a catalogue full of options appeared. Why wasn't that offered up front? Why make grieving parents push for full disclosure. We weren't talking about some insignificant detail here, we were talking about my daughter's final resting place.

The caviler attitude continued for the rest of the meeting. Including arguing with us about listing her birth and death dates on the service program. I stated several times that they were the same date and we just wanted it listed once. Corey repeatedly stated that people always list birth and death dates. We had just finished filling out the death certificate request, he knew she was a stillborn. Why argue? What did he possibly have to gain? Why make us explain what we wanted over and over. Why did I have to push and push to get the date printed the way we wanted. It was not his call to decide what is best for our daughter.

I'm writing this to you so you can do something about this. No parent or grieving family of any sort deserves to be treated like this. I understand that you may become desensitized to death being in the industry, but your clients are not. They are grieving and struggling and they should not be treated as if this major life event, this tragedy is no big deal. Because it is a big deal. And if you can't see that then please, please find another industry to work in.

I originally thought we were the only ones being treated this way because our daughter was an infant. I was originally upset because I thought you all just didn't take the death of a baby seriously. But I have since learned that you treat many other clients this way. People burying parents and grandparents and siblings. I've read your Yelp reviews and I know that we were not alone in our inhumane treatment. You treat many clients this way and I am telling you now, this is not ok. If you get nothing else from this email, know that what you are doing is not ok. People come to you needing guidance and support and options. Not to be treated like their grief just another day at the office.

I am begging you to please educate your employees and change your patterns of behavior. Do not let one more family go through what my family has been through. Hire people who understand compassion and empathy. People who are supportive and considerate. People who can reach out and relate to other people. People who care.

And now I will close this email with the same closing that we got the day we arrived to plan our daughter's farewell. A cheery "Have a great afternoon!"

Funeral Arrangments and Other Nightmares

It's just after midnight and the whole house is sleeping. But I am sitting in my family room, wide awake with my mind whirling. I have lots of things to worry about these days. Like why is Indiana still allowed to be a state after this week? And what if people actually vote for Scott Walker in a Presidental election? (I mean really, political associations aside, if he can't handle a simple 4 years of college how the hell does he think he can handle 4 years of a presidency?) But the biggest issue weighing on my mind is that of the Worst Funeral Home in the history of funeral homes.

When the hospital asked to choose a funeral home we were still in shock. Staring at each other over the silent body of our beautiful daughter, we had to start making decisions that no parent should ever have to make. Brent gave them the name of the first funeral home that came to mind, and I won't mention any names, but it was a terrible experience from beginning to end.

**cough* Laird Funeral Home in Elgin IL **cough**

At least I am assuming it will be horrible until we are done dealing with them. 5 months later we are still dealing with them and I still want to punch them all in their slimy, mouth breathing throats.

My mom was the one who actually made the first call to them for us. She set up our appointment with them the day after I was released from the hospital. She explained to them that we were still very much in shock and needed someone sensitive to handle Hannah's arrangements. They promptly assigned us to Douche. No, no that's not right. Let's call him Super Douche. Because he was Super Douchey.

We walked in and he greeting us with a giant smile and an enthusiastic "Nice to meet ya!" I started to wonder if he knew who we were. Should I explain to him that we were there to plan our daughter's funeral and not shovel snow? Was he confused?

Oh no, he wasn't. Asking us to follow him to his office, he started throwing out prices like "A coffin for a baby will run ya about $350 bucks." Say what? Did that really just come out of Super Douche's mouth?  Sure did, and it was about to get worse.

We filled out the death certificate information while he mouth breathed and snorted (what the hell?) and kept running into his boss' office to ask questions. By this point everything this guy did was annoying the ever-loving shit out of me and his douchiness was only getting started.

We started to discuss service dates. He announced to us that Hannah's service would be that Friday from 9-11am. We said no thanks. We explained that we have family coming in from out of town and we need a weekend and we would actually prefer the next weekend since I was recovering from surgery. He said he'd see if that would work. I just kept thinking "WTF? Make it work!" Finally, after yet another trip to the boss' office (also a douche) he said the Saturday of that week would work from 2-4. So we repeated AGAIN that we needed to wait another week since I was still recovering.

He waved his douchy little hand in air and laughed. "Ah, we have chairs you can sit in!"

Let's just pause for a moment to be thankful that I was unable to move at this point. Otherwise I would be in jail right now. Let's just leave it at that.

After I got done bursting into tears he agreed on the date we wanted and the drama continued to unfold. He argued with us about the dates in the program. He wanted to list Hannah's birth and death dates while I explained to him more than once that they were the same date. What the fuckety fuck? We just filled out the death certificate paperwork. How does he not understand this? Then we had to haggle over urns. He gave us 3 options by pointing over our shoulders to a shelf in the back of the room with 3 of the ugliest urns I've ever seen. So I had to ask for more options. He said they didn't have any. I didn't believe him. Another trip to his boss' office and what do you know? An entire catalogue full of urn options magically appeared. Funny how that worked out. At this point I was in tears because THIS ASSHOLE IS HANDLING MY DAUGHTER'S FINAL ARRANGEMENTS OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE WE DONE!

Before I could scream, I asked him to show us the chapel where her service would be (he showed us the wrong one) and then we had to wait while he got his business card (did not even have his name on it) from his boss' office (what the hell?) and then had a conversation with his boss about some convention while we stood there awkwardly waiting for his stupid card and being ignored by both of them. Finally Super Douche gives us his card and closes the meeting with a hearty "Have a great afternoon!"

I thought about kicking him but I was afraid of busting a stitch.

The service itself went smoothly, but Super Douche had the night off and the nice man taking his place left me alone. Thank God. But we still aren't done dealing with them. We still haven't received Hannah's death certificate. So Tues morning, I sucked it up and called them. The gentleman (and I use the term loosely) that answered told me he couldn't look for it because they didn't open for another 15 minutes. I sat there in silence. He finally agree to give a look around their office and call me back. Guess what never happened.

That's right. So I called back again yesterday, was transferred a few times before Super Douche came on the line. He said the county never sent it (I'm guessing they never requested it) and he could get it by the next day. That day has passed and nothing. So Monday morning I will be making yet another phone call to Super Douche to try and straighten this all out.

And now that I worked out my anger here, I might be able to finally write a letter to them detailing why they are the worst. But I doubt they'll read it. They'll probably just throw it down on the desk next to countless other "missing" death certificates that they promise to search for just as soon as they open for the day.

Her Things

Today I gave Hannah's car seat away. It went to the family of someone that we love and someone that needs it. So it's in good hands. But I had no idea how hard it was going to be to let it go. I cried for the entire 30 drive there and the entire 30 minute drive home.

Confession, I haven't done anything in Hannah's nursery yet. It's still sitting there, all put together like it's still waiting for her to come home. So going in there this morning, taking the car seat out and giving it away really brought home the fact that she's not coming home. She's not going to wake up in her beautiful crib, or wear any of her cute little clothes. Her shoes, her blankets, her rocking chair will all go unused.

It's the movement of taking something that should have been hers and making it not hers that knocked me down today. Getting rid of her car seat was the first move I have made towards clearing out her things. It's the unavoidable beginning of not only saying good bye to her but saying good bye to what was hers. I love being surrounded by her things because it reminds me that while her life was brief, it was still a life, she was still loved. She was mine and she will always be mine. I may hate the fact that the only place I can carry her now is in my heart, but I will cling tightly to that at the same time. My sweet girl.

Balancing Act

Just when I think we are getting better, just when I think we are learning to deal with our new reality, there is another milestone missed, another memory not made, and we are right back where we started.

If all had gone according to plan, today would have been a very hard day. Today I would have been returning to work after maternity leave if the worst hadn't happed. But the worst did happen and instead of tearfully dropping Hannah off at daycare, I am spending the day lost in what could have been. I wonder what cute little outfit she would have worn, how she would have adjusted to our wonderful daycare teacher, Miss Beth. I wonder if I would have cut out of work 5 minutes early because those last 5 minutes seemed like an eternity before I could see them again. I wonder how Charlie would have done with Hannah in his space at Beth's. I wonder how I would have balanced two baths and two bedtime routines while making dinner and staying sane.

The worst part is that I'll never know. All of those memories were stolen from us back in November and there is nothing we can do about it. No matter how deep our sorrow runs or how furious our anger gets. No matter how many friends surround us with love and want to make it better, it won't be get any better. These memories and countless others will always be missing from our lives.

So now, instead of learning to balance career with two kids, I find myself learning to balance grief with all my other life roles. Grief can be extremely overwhelming and it can take over everything. So my initial reaction is to try to ignore it. But it can't be ignored, it has to be dealt with. My new challenge is how to take my grief and balance it with being a wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, employee etc etc. How do I take this and move forward without dropping all the roles I have to play? It's a really delicate balancing act and I know I don't have it down yet. Instead, I am dropping the ball right and left and letting everyone around me down. I can't wait until I can pull it together and succeed at this! It's so frustrating to feel like I'm failing at everything at once.

The March Towards Someday

It seems like every time I turn around we are faced with another milestone or event. Another reminder of what is lost, of what we'll never have. Today Hannah should have turned 4 months old. Had she been born on her due date, today would start my last week of maternity leave. It feels like there is always something to remind us of what is missing in our lives.

I know that someday it won't feel so raw. Someday the tears won't be right on the verge.

Someday I will walk into the office without the fear that someone won't ask me how she is.

Someday I won't have to avoid the baby aisle at Target. Or cry on my way to yoga because the studio and the prenatal classes were so important to me when I was pregnant with Hannah.

Someday I won't be worried about making her the perfect memorial garden, or finding the perfect way to celebrate what should have been her 1st birthday.

Maybe someday I'll even be able to remember what it was like to not carry this grief around with me wherever I go. Someday I will be able to be truly 100% happy for friends that are pregnant, instead half happy, half heartbroken.

Someday I will be less bitter, less angry.

I'm not there yet, but someday I will be.

Ranting

Today was a rough day emotionally and I just need to scream. There is a real list of things that make missing Hannah even worse for me. I've been tracking it in my head, but I need to vent it, just like I need to vent everything else.

1. People telling me that "This is God's plan." First of all, don't presume to think you know God's plan. You don't. It's just that simple.
2. People asking me how I'm doing and then giving me The Look. The Aw Poor Little Puppy Are You Going to Cry Now Look.
3. Therapy. I have no idea what to say. I can't verbalize my feelings at all. But I still go because someday I'm sure it will all come flooding out.
4. Everyday life. It's too hard.
5. People calling Hannah an angel. She shouldn't be an angel, she should be a living, breathing baby. Stop acting like Angel Hannah is a good thing
6. God - I'm still really angry at Him.
7. People who act like her death was didn't matter. (giving my in-laws the side eye here)
8. Christmas (it used to be my favorite, now I can't stand it)
9. That the door to Hannah's nursery stays closed. I also hate it when it's open and I can see the beautiful room, put together with love and going unused.
10. Myself for letting this all happen. For not being able to stop it. For losing her when Brent, Charlie and I loved her so, so much.

The Truth is...

I try to smile my way through the day. I'm not feeling it, I'm never feeling it, but I make myself do it because maybe, eventually it will be true. It has to eventually be true, doesn't it? It can't always feel like this. It has to get better.

But the truth is it won't ever get better. I will always have a gaping tear in my soul where Hannah should be. It will always hurt. It will always be a sore spot. Like a pulled muscle, I'll be walking along just fine and then suddenly I'll turn a certain way and waves of pain will wash over me. That's when it comes rushing back. It hurts. It hurts now and it will hurt always. This isn't something that will ever heal.

It kills me that I still have to function in everyday life. The world wasn't affected the way I was affected. How can my tiny girl leave this world and life still goes on? Everyone can still smile and enjoy the world around them. I have lost that ability. Maybe over time I will regain some of it, but it will never truly be the same. I'll never be able to have a blind faith that good things are coming. That our struggles were enough and now we get the reward. That faith is gone, stripped away in a quiet hospital room, in a quiet delivery room, in the middle of a dark night, holding my sweet girl and crying because that was the only night I'd spending holding her. What wouldn't I give for sleepless nights with my Hannah right now.

When people ask, I always say, "I'm fine" or "Just taking it day by day." But the truth is I'm not. And I won't ever be. How could I when I am missing part of my soul. I wish people would just stop asking how I am. I want to ask back "How the hell do you think I am. How would you be?" And I feel like I am expected not just to say I'm fine, but to actually be fine. Because grief is tedious and ugly and well, it's sad and no one wants to deal with it if they don't have to. And they are tired of looking at the grieving mother, with the missing smile, the fine lines around the eyes that scream "Sadness lives here!"

So I say I'm fine and hold it together until I'm alone, until I'm somewhere where I can cry and remember. Because unless you've been through this you can never understand how it feels, you'll never grasp the truth of it. It's beyond any imagination.

The Quiet Moments

It was in a quiet room, surrounded by silence, that the doctor told us we lost H. So it only makes sense that it's in the quiet moments that it all comes rushing back and any sense of peace that I thought I had found is shattered.

It comes rushing in the dark, early morning hours, when I'm alone in my car and soft music is playing. Walking down a long hallway at the office, in the shower, when I'm falling asleep, when I'm watching C play. Especially when I am watching C play. It hits me all at once that there is one where there should be two. That there will be a hole in our family forever. That all the love and laughter in the world can keep us from falling into the pit, but they will never fill it up. We will always grieve. We will always  have that hole and we'll just learn to dance around it. Tentatively and slowly, but someday we will learn to dance around it.

Anger with a Side of Tears

I'm mad.

I'm mad that we are officially part of the Baby Loss Club. This is a club I want nothing to do with. I never asked for this. I never wanted this. Yet here I am, living with it every day. And I'm mad that there are so many other wonderful families that are a part of the same club. Why? Who the Hell decided this was fair. It's not fair, it's not right, there is no justice.

I'm mad that I now know that the worst can, and in fact will, happen when you least expect it. I'm so mad that I had to lose whatever bit of innocence was left in me. I know how cruel fate can be and it pisses me off.

I'm mad that I am not the person that I was before. I came out of this experience changed forever. And yes, maybe someday I'll be able to see some of my personal changes as good, but right now I am just pissed that they were forced on me.

I'm mad at people who act like she never happened. I don't know what I was expecting at Christmas but I sure wasn't expecting my in-laws to completely ignore H. Look, I get it, she died and it's sad and it's awful and no one wants to cry at Christmas. But what's even worse is acting like she never was. Would it be too much to get an ornament in memory of her? Or mention her name? Or even say, "How are you doing? I know it's been rough." But there was nothing. Just silence. Like she never happened. Like our day to day  reality wasn't just shredded into a million painful pieces a short seven weeks before. Like it didn't matter and time had already marched on.

I am mad at someone that I thought was a good friend. We've been friends for a long, long time. But where was she when H passed? No seriously, where was she? One text, one voicemail and that's it. No card, so flowers, no sign that this has registered with her at all. This is someone who has her own kids, who says we are close friends. This is someone who has ignored other major events in my life and I feel like this is the last straw for us. I don't know how to tell her I am upset and I certainly don't think she'd understand it anyway. She has a habit of apologizing at the time I say I am upset and then later acting like it was all nothing and I was overacting. I think our friendship has run its course. Sad, but also somewhat freeing.

I'm mad that B and I don't grieve the same way. There are things I need to do to comfort myself but they make him feel worse. And his way of dealing with this makes me feel worse. And right now it feels like he's not willing to meet in the middle and that makes me mad. It feels like he's telling me how to handle my grief and I hate that.

I am mad at myself. I had one job to do. Just one. Keep H safe until she was ready to come out and I couldn't even do it. I'm so pissed. I'm just so incredibly mad that this had to happen to my sweet little girl.

I am mad that I can't make sense of this. I don't know why this happened, or how to prevent it from happening again. I don't know what to do to make myself feel better. And I don't know what to tell my amazing and wonderful friends when they want to help me feel better. Because there is no feeling better right now. And that is incredibly frustrating.

I'm mad that there will be a time that I won't be able to remember the feel of holding H in my arms.  There will be a time that I don't remember her smell and the feel of cheek on my cheek. Those memories will fade and it will be like losing her all over again.

Well, That Sucked

Today was my second day back at work since H passed. I thought last Friday, my first day back, would be the hardest. What I didn't account for was that it was the day after New Years and everyone would be on vacation.

Today, however, everyone was back. And it sucked.

I really did miss my co-workers because they are awesome. My team even left me a giant, life sized cardboard cut-out of George Clooney. Complete with a Burger King crown, a tie and of course, handcuffs. Pure Awesomeness. And everyone has been so supportive and kind and wonderful. Which is why I assumed everyone knew what happened.

Turns out that assumption was way off. Way. Off. I had no idea how many people had no idea that we lost H. For me, her loss has been so all consuming, taking up space in every minute of every day, no matter what else was going on. For me, it's a loss I feel so constantly and so deeply that I forget that not everyone around me can feel it too.

So there I was, wandering around saying hi to people when I got the first "You're back! Did you bring pictures?" Huh? Pictures of what? "Not today!" I responded, thinking it was odd that they were asking to see pictures of C. I mean, I know he's adorable, but it seemed a random request.

Then I wandered on and was talking to someone else, when I was approached again, by another well meaning soul. "You had your baby! How is she?" I stared and stammered and had no idea what to say until she figured it out for herself. This pattern continued over and over throughout the day. A well meaning question, me stammering like an idiot and finally the awkward and horrible realization of what I was really saying without saying anything at all.

It was so awful I found myself pondering how bad it would actually be to cut out early after being off for 2 months.

I didn't cut out early though. I stuck it out, and yes I cried in the bathroom when necessary, but I stuck it out. I got through it and it has to get easier right? It can only get easier as word of mouth spreads right? I thought I hated the sad eyes that I get when I walk into a room full of people who know. But having to explain it repeatedly all day, over and over was brutal. I wish I had the words to tell people when they don't know. I wish I didn't have to end up telling them "It's alright" when it's anything but alright. I wish I could stay in my little solitary bubble and not have to face the real world yet. Because today taught me that even though I feel like I've come a long way in the last two months, all it takes is one innocent question and I am firmly back at square one. I'm not ready for real life yet. It's just too much too soon.

Return to Zero

Have you seen the movie Return to Zero? Probably not because it's depressing as Hell  (even more so than this blog) but it's fantastic. It's about a couple dealing with a stillbirth and it blew my mind. First of all, I probably should not have watched it at this point in my grieving process and I am probably dehydrated from all the crying. But it touched me and now I am watching it over and over...and over and over. Obsessive? Yes, absolutely. But I'm also healing and this helps.

I don't want to ruin the movie for anyone that might be interested in seeing it, but there are a few parts that made me want to jump up and shout "Get out of my head Minnie Driver!" Yeah, this might be a good time to mention that Minnie Driver stars in the movie. She plays the wife/mother and I have no idea who plays the husband because I didn't recognize him and his character is so different from B that his role didn't stand out to me at all.

The first scene that really captured me was when Minnie's character Maggie wakes up at home after the birth. Her bra is soaked through. See, that's the part that no one thinks about when you lose a child at  birth. You not only have to deal with the heartache, but you have to deal with the physical ramifications of giving birth. Personally, I had recover from a C-section. But also, your hormones are going crazy and your milk comes in. I couldn't go home and lift C up and give him the biggest hug because I couldn't lift "anything heavier than a baby."

Then came the scene that made me want to stand up and cheer. Minnie went to her best friend's baby shower. Right after she walks in she sees some women that she knows and they ignore her. She mutters "That's right, walk away, I might be contagious." Her mother replies "It's hard for people, they don't know what to say." Minnie snaps back "I'm sure it's very hard for them" in her best sarcastic voice possible. A great scene. But the best was yet to come at that same party. A well meaning woman walks up to Minnie and starts talking to her about God's Perfect Plan and how loss of her baby was hard to understand but it was all part of God's plan. This is where Minnie loses her shit and says exactly what has been running thru my head for weeks now. "So God's perfect plan" she starts in "is to give me a grief so hard, so deep, that I would lose my faith in Him. That's God's perfect plan." Best line EVER in a movie. Seriously. And it's hard because you know, you just know that everyone that says something like "It's God's will" or "She's in a better place" or "It's all part of God's plan" is saying from their hearts. They are truly trying to be comforting and to ease the pain. But it really doesn't. It really, really only makes it worse. I've gone from being a spiritual believer to cursing God since the loss of H. And that loss of faith a whole other thing to grieve.

The scene that gave me chills and made me cry for at least an hour (yeah, it took me awhile to watch this movie) was the birth scene itself. Actually it was more of the aftermath. The looks on the faces of Minnie and her husband captured perfectly how I felt. The shock, the disbelief, the ohmygodthiscannotbehappening *sob* pleasetellmethisisnothappening *sob* ohmygodohmygodohmygod! It was so real to me, it took me back to the at hospital room instantly. To the shock. To holding my little girl and knowing that shortly I would have to put her down forever and I would never be able to hold her or kiss her again. To look at that tiny face and know I'd never be able to look into her eyes. To knowing that it wasn't really sinking in because the whole thing felt like a terrible, awful, horrible nightmare.

But before I make this movie sound like a highway to depression, there were also some uplifting scenes. Honestly I am not ready to feel that message yet so none of that really hit home. But there was one thing that I really loved. At the baby's funeral service everyone was offered the chance to say something about the baby. Minnie's best friend spoke up and said something that actually eased my heart a bit. She said that all that baby ever knew was love. That the baby was loved the whole time his mother was carrying him. And he never knew anger, and he never knew pain. All he knew was his parents love.

My H never knew anything but love. She never knew anger or hunger or disappointment. She never knew heartbreak or betrayal or pain. But she knew love. She was loved from the moment that pregnancy test said positive. She was loved by so many, many people and she still is. She may not have lived long enough to take her first breath, but I loved her so much it takes mine away.