2 Years

My sweet girl, I can't believe it's been 2 years since we said hello and goodbye. Two years since we held you and had to give you back. Two years since the tearful nurse took you silently from the room and our lives.

So much has happened since then it's hard to recognize life now. You have a new brother, but you already know that. I know you got him here safely and watch over him. Your room is now his room. Gone are the ballet sheets and butterfly mobile; replaced with yellow giraffes.

But the biggest change is how people have moved on. How some people expect me to have moved on. I haven't - I won't. But others have to. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. The harsh reality is that the world keeps moving. That's the thing about grief. It's so intense that it's hard to fathom the fact that everyone's world wasn't completely rocked on that day. My life was so completely upended that I can't  understand that it was only my life and not everyone's. But that's how it works, right? And we carry on. We find our people that remember and love and support us. And we put one foot in front of the other and we carry on.

But I promise you this my sweet girl. I will never forget. I will always honor you and remember you and speak about you every chance that I get. You will live on with me, a part of me always.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- ee cummings

An Open Letter to My Critic

Ok, I realize that working out my frustrations here instead of face to face with you could be considered cowardly or childish. I agree in part. But the same could be said about you when you chose to say what you said to everyone but me. More importantly, I cannot be in the same room as you right now. If I was, I would say things I can't take back. The fire would override my common sense and I would turn into a crazy, table flipping, Real Housewife type. I don't want to be that person. And I certainly don't want to give you the satisfaction of turning me into that person. However, I still need to work through your betrayal. So here were are.

First and foremost I want to say to you that the idea that any parent ever "moves on" from the death of their child is ridiculous. It just never happens. We pull ourselves up, we get out of bed, we parent our other children and we move forward. But we never, NEVER move on. I carry Hannah with me everywhere I go in the only way I can; in my heart. That is the only comment I will address specifically here. You know what you said, and it makes me sick to repeat it.

Every day, every milestone, every moment my other children experience Hannah is there. But then again she isn't, is she? Do you remember the first time you looked into your daughter's eyes? I don't. I didn't get that moment. How about your daughter's first laugh, first steps. How about dance recitals and sporting events. What about graduations? I don't get those moments. They were stolen from me. When the day comes and Pachelbel starts playing and you turn anxiously to see your daughter floating down the aisle, dressed in white and holding your husband's arm, think of me and think of your words about Hannah. How will you feel? Embarrassed? Ashamed? Regretful? Good.

And I want to take a minute to let you know that despite what you think, I am proud of myself. I have been to Hell and back and I am still standing. Yes, it took therapy and medication and meditation, but here I am, facing my demons and fighting on. I'm cutting out toxic people and surrounding myself with those that shine a more positive light. My journey over the last year and a half has made me a better person. Broken, sure. But more grounded overall. While your words cut, they will not knock me down. I was surviving before you said what you said and I will survive long afterwards.

There is no excuse for your selfish behavior. It was ignorant and hurtful and the fact that you argued when people tried to set you straight is maddening. You are a smart girl, you should know better. We have been friends for so long we were like family. But you shit all over that didn't you? That speaks volumes.

As I mentioned earlier, I have zero interest in hashing this out with you right now. I need to let my emotions cool down. But I will say this. Don't even think about apologizing to me. I am not interested hearing you. Not yet anyway. Instead, do something good with your life. You are surrounded by family and friends so dedicated and loving that you don't deserve them. Change that. Like I tell my 5 year old all the time "Change your behavior." Get over yourself and go out and do some good in the world. Start being a person that deserves what she has instead of a person who constantly thinks she never has enough. Get over labels and paychecks and who has what and your judgements of others. Learn to be a peace with yourself and the world around you. Say you are sorry by being a better person. Let your actions speak for you. They certainly did before.

Dear Charlie

Dear Charlie,

Today was a rough one, wasn't it? Fits were thrown, toys were tossed, punishments were doled out. I saw the regret on your face at bedtime. I heard it in your voice when you told me your Sad for the day was getting in trouble. I know you think you disappointed me. I know you think that and it breaks my heart. Because the truth is, as frustrated as I was with you today, I get it. And I am not disappointed.

You have been through so much in your five short years. Surgeries and leg braces. Helmets and physical therapy. Hospital stays and too many ER visits to count. And just when things finally started to settle down in your world, we announced that you are getting a little sister. You were so excited to meet her! It was the sweetest thing to see. You helped fold her clothes and pick out her toys and happily told anyone that would listen that you were getting a sister and her name is Hannah and you were going to finally be a Big Brother

Then you watched that dream get ripped away. Stolen by two parents who were struggling so much with their own grief that it took us a week to even tell you what happened. You were there when we found out, you just didn't know what was going on. All you knew is the room went quiet until I screamed for them to get you out of there. All I wanted to do was hold you close, but I couldn't let you see my heart breaking in two. I will never forget the look on your face or the sound of your voice when Papa arrived to take you home. You cried and reached for me as he physically pulled you from the room. You knew something was wrong, but you didn't know what. All you knew is I was sending you away. All I knew is everything was different and scary and uncertain all of the sudden and I just wanted to scoop you up and hold you close. Could you feel that? Or did  you just feel pushed away? I'll always wonder about the damage that day may have done to you and I will always wish I handled it differently.

You got a mom back after a few days, but you didn't get your mom back did you? You got a zombie. A mom who wandered through the days in a daze, crying constantly and clinging to you. A mom who slept 20 hours a day for the next couple of months. A mom who was sad and lost and standing on unstable ground.

But you never lost faith in me.

Just when we pulled ourselves together again, we told you that you were getting a baby brother. You were so excited! But as time wore on, as we got closer to Teddy's arrival, I could see your fear too. You asked if he was coming home with us or going to Heaven with Hannah. You asked over and over to reassure yourself. You cried every time I went to the hospital because you think only bad things happen there. To you, it is a place of loss and not a place where life begins. You began to worry, it was written on your little face and I could hear it in your bedtime prayers.

But you still never lost faith in me. You knew, no matter what, I would come home.

Now Teddy is here and I am constantly amazed at what a kind and loving kid you are. You gave him half of your books and half of your stuffed animals. You call him Blue Eyes and ask to hold him and feed him. You tell him about his sister Hannah who lives in Heaven and watches over us all. You read him books and make sure he always has his paci and his lovey. The depths of your heart amaze me. I am so incredibly proud of the little person you are becoming. Your sweet, sensitive soul, so easily wounded but always so ready to give. I am so proud to be your Mom.

The One in Which I Call God an Asshat

I've been doing a lot of reflecting lately on the "Before" and the "After" and I've realized how different life is now than it was on Nov 1, 2014. When the 2nd came, I became a whole other person. I mean, in a lot of ways I'm still me, but at the same time I'm so different.

For starters I am a much more patient parent. Screaming in Target? No biggie, we just leave. Jumping up and down on the couch (drives me insane)? Just remind him to stop. Preschooler gets sassy? Calmly send him to his room to think about his behavior. Baby is up all night? Hey, we have a baby and we get to be up all night!

That's a positive. There are way more negatives.

I get short tempered with people who don't understand grief. Example, there was a post in a mom's group today about whether or not a mom should ask a new acquaintance if they have children. Every "Sure, why not?" response made my blood boil. Seriously? Even after several moms mentioned fertility struggles or deaths most mom's didn't think it was a big deal. But here were grieving women saying exactly why it was a big deal. I wanted to scream. I want to scream now just thinking about it.

I also have no patience with the "get over people." Those people that look at me with pity then turn around and say "Shouldn't she be over it now?" and "I don't think she's handling it right." To those people I say this. Losing a child is a level of grief you can never understand until it happens to you and so I truly hope you never understand. I would also like to say that you are acting like a dick. Who talks shit about someone who lost their child? Seriously, what is wrong with you? I cannot comprehend that level of idiocy.

Ahem, moving on...

Lost faith. This one is tough. It's hard because while I've never been overtly religious I have always been spiritual and had a strong sense of faith. So when that was shattered I didn't know where to turn. I had no one to blame then but God and myself, and I still have no one to blame but God and myself. Being constantly mad at myself is exhausting. Don't get me wrong, I am still mad at myself. But I channel the bulk of my anger at God. Who lets a baby die? Who the fuck thought that was a good idea. Not me! Must be God. Asshat. There is a great song by Jetty Rae called Mad at You and the opening lyrics describe it perfectly.

Dear God I'm mad at you
and I know it's a shame
for me to feel this way
but I'm all blue
and I've got no one to blame
but me and you

I believed like a child
all the while
trying to make you smile
you're the only one
smiling now
I can't remember how

So that's where God and I stand right now. Its not good.

Now that I've offended a ton of people, lets move on.

Innocence lost. I know that all those things that happen to "other people can happen close to home. They can happen at home. Every time I hear someone is pregnant I panic and starting thinking "Please oh please let this baby get here safely." There is no safe zone. Making it through the first trimester doesn't mean shit. Bad things happen at any time. There is no point where you are home free. Disaster can find you anywhere.

Jealously.  Whenever someone announces a pregnancy besides hoping for a healthy baby, I hope for a boy. There is a part of me that feels like if I can't have my daughter I don't want anyone else to have one either. It's not fair. And it's petty of me, I know this. But that jealous comes up and kicks me in the gut every time.

Tired. I am so tired. Carrying grief around is so exhausting. Some days I don't have the energy to be a functioning person. This means cancelled plans or not making them to begin with. I've noticed the tiredness fades as time moves forward, but there are still days where life is exhausting.

I had a couple of other points but I forgot to write them down and my memory ain't what it used to be. I'm sure they will come to me as soon as I hit publish. Maybe I'll write them down and do a part II to this blog. But I'll probably forget.

Remember I never asked to change. I liked who I was. Sure there was definitely room for improvement, but I knew what to expect from myself. Now I feel constantly surprised at my own feelings. That's unnerving and annoying. I don't like surprises, I miss my old life. I liked believing that good things happen to good people and that life was on some level, more or less fair. That's gone now and I'm left being a stranger in my own body.

*If you want to hear the rest of Mad at You, you can download on iTune or listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4dAFBpaUCPw

Birth of a Rainbow (Baby)

I've been meaning to sit down and write about this day for about a month now. I know it's what helps me process all the shitty emotions that I hate talking about. After all, that's why I write to begin with. Anyway, I've been meaning to sit down and write through that day but I hesitated for a couple reasons. First is it was a really emotional day and not really in a pleasant way. Which brings me to my second point. I don't want to sound ungrateful. Teddy is here and he's healthy and that's amazing and I am so, so incredibly grateful. But it was hard. It was really, really hard and I had to face a lot of demons that I didn't realize I would have to face.

Maybe I was being naive. Okay, I was definitely being naive. But I really thought we'd get to the hospital, hear a good, strong heartbeat and the rest would be easy, happy, celebratory. It didn't work that way. Not even a little bit.

We got to the hospital bright and early and got checked into my room. The nurses started process with the long list of questions and starting iv's. And let me just pause here to say how amazing the nursing staff is at Sherman hospital. They are amazing. You will not find a better staff anywhere. Since my last trimester was a rough one, I had already spent a great deal of time at the birthing center and the nurses knew our background. Most remembered us from that awful day just a year and a half before. They took great care of us.

The surgery time rolled around and the hunt was on for my doctor. I was started to get anxious but hey, I was about to have surgery,  I WAS ABOUT TO HAVE  A BABY! Who wouldn't be nervous? He finally arrived (Star Wars surgical cap and all) and we walked down to the operating room. Stepping in I caught my breath, Was this the room I had Hannah in? OMG was I in the same room? I couldn't tell because all the OB ORs look EXACTLY the same. Whether or not it was the same room I will never know, but it felt the same. I started breathing hard.

The anesthesiologist came in. Oh God, she almost killed me when I was having Hannah. Okay, not literally, but it felt like it. Panic rose, remembering stab after stab in my spine and pain radiating from head to toe over and over again. "Breath Sarah, just breath" I told myself over and over. I sat down on the edge of the table and the OR nurse handed me a pillow to hold on to while I got my spinal. Sherry, my doctors assistant whom I'd been seeing at almost all my prenatal visits, took one look at me, took the pillow away and told me to just hang on to her.

Only one misfire on the spinal and then were were good to go. I laid back, the curtain went up and I lost my shit.

"I can't do this" I whispered.

"I can't do this" I said a little louder this time. "You've got this Sarah" Sherry reassured me. The room started started spinning, my stomach started churning, my chest tightened. "No, I really can't do this." I could feel the tears coming. Then the vomiting started. "Just breath" I whispered to myself, channeling every prenatal class I went to. I slowly started to calm down. Brent came in the room at some point and the surgery was underway, but I have no idea how much time had passed by now. I was still spinning.

Eventually the nurses started calling for a camera and someone ran to get Brent's phone. People were chattering away, the excitement in the room was rising but I was totally separate from it. I felt adrift and on my own in a room full of happy people. I felt lost.

"Here he is!" the doctor said and held a purple, wrinkly bundle up over the curtain. "Is that him? Why wasn't he crying. Oh good, there is a cry. He must be ok." These thoughts were rolling through my mind as I struggled to feel involved. Suddenly all I could hear was the doctors voice "Look at this knot. Look, the cord has a huge knot in it." Oh my God, what? A knot? That's bad, that's really bad. "It's huge, come look at this. Dad come here to cut the cord. Look at that knot. See how tight it is." I. Can't. Breath. "Look how tight this is. This is incredible. This is a true knot." Shut up, shut up, shut up. "Jeez, do you all see this?"

The next thing I know Teddy is being put on my chest for skin to skin, Realistically I know he's fine, But all I can hear is the word knot over and over and I kept (irrationally) thinking "It's happening again. Another baby, another cord accident. I can't do this, I can't do this." I was struggling to breath and my arms felt weak. "Take him! Take him off me, I'm going to drop him" I shrieked at the nurses and Brent.

I wasn't going to drop him. I just couldn't hold him. After all the months of worry and hope,  I couldn't even hold him. It was all too much. I was too overwhelmed.

The rest is a blur. Teddy had to go to the NICU for some breathing issues, but was back in my room at some point that day but I have no idea when. I continued to throw up in the OR, in recovery, in my room. When I wasn't getting sick I was sleeping. When I wasn't sleeping I was in a fog. I shut down. People were coming in and out trying to talk to me. I could hear my phone chiming over and over with calls and messages but I never looked at it. I was basically non-functional. If anyone tried to talk to me, I just closed my eyes. I couldn't deal. It was all too much. It was too heavy on my heart. I was reliving all the grief and pain of a year and a half ago.

The next day I was functioning again. Returning calls and messages, thanking the nurses for fielding anxious phone calls from friends who were waiting to hear how we were doing. My doctor came by late at night to do Teddy's circumcision (complete with Jewish blessing) and he was the first to utter the words "post traumatic stress" and to my dismay, I can't say he was wrong. I wanted to handle this gracefully. I wanted to be in control and handle it well, with peace and calm. That didn't happen. It wasn't even close. But we go through it somehow and while ever milestone Teddy hits reminds me that Hannah won't, I am still so incredibly grateful that he's here and he's okay and someday we will be okay too.

The Operating Room

**The following was written on 2/26/16**

Tomorrow is the day. The day I have been thinking about and stressing about and wondering about since I found out that I was pregnant. Tomorrow our third child will join us and hopefully, with any luck this child will come home with us. Charlie had to stay in the NICU after I was discharged. And Hannah, well Hannah never got to come home at all. So I find myself begging the universe (still mad at God) to please, please, please, let me leave the hospital with my baby this time around. Is that really too much to ask?

This whole pregnancy I have had my heart set on a vbac without questioning why it was so important to. I just knew I HAD to do it. I don't want medication, I don't want surgery. I want to feel and experience every sensation of bringing this child safely into the world. Today I found out that won't be possible and for the baby's sake we will have another csection. Dammit, I switched doctors purposely to one who encourages vbacs and it STILL isn't happening. What the hell?

But it's beyond my control and as experienced as this doctor is, it's beyond his control also. It's terrifying that so much about this process is beyond anyone's control.

So, I was talking to the doctor about csections and I panicked. A switch flipped and I said "I can't do it. I just can't. Last time was too awful, too traumatic. I cannot go back into that operating room. I can't do it." I won't tell you exactly what my doctor said, because it's only going to come across as outrageously creepy when it was 100% meant to be reassuring. So I'll just leave it at he reassured me that I can in fact get through this.

I'm still not sure.

I know this isn't the hardest thing I'll ever do. I've already done that. But this sure feels like a close second.. It feel related. It feels all wrapped up in one. It feels like I'll be welcoming my son and saying good bye to my daughter all over again.

I can't go back in that operating room. I just can't.

**Update** So I did go back and I did face that same operating room. And while I'd like say that I faced it with grace and courage that would be a lie. Instead I faced it with a great deal of panic, tears and yes, even vomit.  Ph, the vomit. I won't go into details here - that's a story for another day.

The Time Came

The time finally came. I couldn't put it off any longer. I had been avoiding the process for the last year, but it had to be done. I had to clean out Hannah's room.

I started out like a hurricane. Tearing through drawers of sheets and blankets without looking or thinking or feeling. Just placing them in boxes quickly, numbly. But once I got to her clothes, her bedding, the mobile that I made for her, I couldn't pretend that I wasn't doing what I was doing anymore. The emotions became overwhelming and I am proud to say I paused and gave myself time to let the grief wash over me. I allowed myself to feel what I was feeling in the moment instead of shoving it down. I let myself be sad, be shocked, be angry as hell at her loss. I let myself rage because it is still just so hard and so sad and so ridiculously unfair that we lost her. These are her things! Bought with love and put together with plans for the future. For her future! And it still seems unbelievable that future will never come. How is that even possible? I still don't understand.

I wasn't ready to let go. Hannah's room is still the one place that I can sit in and feel her. It smells like she did, all sweet baby scent mixed with hospital. She never set foot in that room, but somehow it was her, like her very soul permeated the entire room. But I noticed a few weeks ago the scent was gone. I didn't want to think about it or face it. I know it was a sign for her that we need to prepare that space for her little brother. I know it was her way of telling me it was time. But I wasn't ready. The truth is though, I will never be ready. There is no such thing as being ready when it comes to packing your child's belongings away. It's not something any parent should ever, ever do. So I jumped in and just did it.