October First

 October first. So we meet again. And start that long, hard march to November 2nd. Where we inevitability arrive tired,  worn down and emotionally exhausted. But where we also say “I’m good!” when anybody asks. “I’m good” becomes our battle cry, as if saying enough can erase the nightmares, the flashbacks, the memories of the time before, when we were all whole and didn’t realize what was coming next. It’s the month of always feeling one step away from tears. My stomach constantly in a knots, anticipating what’s coming. No rest, no patience, no peace.

It’s weird, this month of October. It was always my favorite month of the year. Sweaters and cute boots, trips to the pumpkin patch and Halloween. But it’s so incredibly hard at the same time. I can stand in the doorway of Teddy’s room and still see all of Hannah’s things. I can almost smell her. I used to be able to smell her. But like so many things, that’s gone now. She be turning seven this year. All those years and memories we never got to make. All the hugs and smiles we missed. 

Sigh…October, here we go. Let’s do this…

Just Keep Moving Forward

This weekend we had a yard sale. I’ve never done that before. And I’ll never do it again for many reasons. But among them was all the people innocently asking “What, no girls clothes?”  What do I even say to that?

The easy answer is “No.”

The uncomfortable answer is “My daughter died, so no.”

The honest answer is “Yes, there is one box in the basement. Newborn to 12 months. Everything you need for the first year in one big box. Dresses, pants, tops, jammies, swimsuits, sandals…Never worn before and never will be. I guard them fiercely. I guard them with my whole heart. Now get off my driveway please.”

I stuffed those feelings down and down and down. Until I broke today. Just shattered out of nowhere. My heart hurts today. It hurts a little more than usual. So I’ll tread lightly, hug my beautiful boys and keep moving forward.

Just keep moving forward. 

You Don't Qualify

 I'm going to tell you a secret. It's not really a secret. It's actually a policy. It's in writing somewhere. It's a rule. A standard. Something all employees have to follow. Something the JP Morgan HR Gods have decreed. But for 6 years I've treated it like a secret because it's so triggering. It hurts my soul to think about. When I do let myself think about it, the reaction is physical. My stomach hurts. I feel that spinning, vertigo, fall-off-the-earth anxiety feeling. But I have to talk about it.

Why now? Why deal with it now? Because this issue has been in the news lately A teacher in D.C. faced the same thing. New Zealand took steps to remedy the situation. Is my secret out now? Does any of this sound familiar. If you've lost a child through miscarriage or stillbirth I'll bet you know. For the rest - you lucky folks - let me tell you a story.

The day I got home from the hospital after losing Hannah was the worst day of my life. I had to leave her. I had to head home and try not to think about her laying alone in the morgue. I had to plan a funeral. I had to figure out how to explain this to my 4 year old who wanted nothing more than a sister. In the middle of that mess, I called HR. "I was on bedrest." I explained "I had the baby. But she died. I don't know what that means."

"Well" HR Lady took a pause "well, since there is no baby, you don't qualify for maternity leave."

I just sat there. Stunned. I didn't know what to say. I just sat there, my wrecked body in post-partem diaper-like mesh underwear, a dozen staples holding my stomach muscles together, my body cruely making milk for a child that would never need it. I sat there and didn't say anything, the words "No baby" reverberating through my mind. I wanted to scream or cry or disappear. I had a baby. I loved her. I missed her. I had a baby. She died, but I had a baby. Why was she saying there was no baby. Her name is Hannah. Was Hannah? I was so confused.

Finally HR Lady asked "Did you have a csection or a natural birth." What? Wait? So she knows I had a baby. She's asking about her birth. Maybe she didn't understand the first time. "A csection" I answered.

"OK" she powered on. "Since you had surgery I could probably approve 8 weeks of recovery time. But you'll need to have your doctor fill out the paperwork. We'll get it in the mail to you." She then detailed the day it needed to be returned by in order to have my leave approved. All business.

It haunts me still. My baby died and JP Morgan's responses was "You don't qualify." JP Morgan, the same company that constantly hypes up their Working Mother Magazine awards and accolades. They did not consider my daughter a life. They did not consider me her mother because she didn't live. The didn't care about my wounds, body or soul. It meant more to them to have a body in a seat in the office. They took my trauma and completely disregarded it. I was nothing to them and neither was my loss.

I've rarely spoken about this. It was so dehumanizing. So cruel. But a teacher in DC had the courage to come forward. So I started bit by bit letting this story out of the locked compartment of my heart and into my consciousness. I've been thinking about it. I spoke to my current manager about it (spoiler alert - I no longer work for JP Morgan). I mentioned it on Facebook when a friend posted about New Zealand's progress in recognizing the trauma of miscarriage and stillbirth. 

I'm trying to talk about it because I want our country to do better. I don't want other women to be similarly traumatized. We have to do better. We have to recognize that losing a child - at any point in pregnancy - is life altering. Women need time to heal both their bodies and their souls. We need to help. We cannot keep telling women that their pain does not matter.

Three years after Hannah's death I had a miscarriage on a Friday. Monday morning I was back at my desk. My manager at the time called me first thing that morning. "What are you doing here? Go home. Take care of yourself. I'll call HR and work something out." I declined her offer. I already knew I didn't qualify.

6 Years Later

 Six years ago I went to bed, exhausted and excited. I was whole and happy. At peace. We were 6 weeks away from meeting our girl. I didn't know what was to come. I didn't even sense the sweeping wind of grief that was about to knock us over, shatter the world as we knew it and change us forever. 

What would I have done differently if I had known? If I had some sense of foreboding or some premonition? Would I have acted on it? Would I have written it off as anxiety or trusted my instincts? Who would I have called? What would I have demanded from them? Would I have been able to change anything?

But I didn't have any premonition. There were no clues, no cloud of despair wafting through the room. Hannah was dancing around in my belly like normal. I went to bed fully expecting the next day to be a normal day. I didn't know everything was changing. I had no idea. Not even when the doctor said she was gone. I didn't believe him. I didn't want to believe him. I didn't know how to believe him. So I didn't. I just asked for a c-section to get her out right away. "I'll show them" I thought "She fine. Babies don't just die."

But the thing is, babies do just die. Every day. In rich countries and poor countries. Babies of every religion and color. Babies who were loved and wanted. Babies who were prayed for. Babies with loving families to come home to. 

Babies do die and it's the most unfair thing imaginable. I learned this 6 years ago. A lifetime ago.

Dear Kindergarten Teacher

Dear Kindergarten Teacher,

You probably don’t know this, you probably aren’t even aware, but your class is one short this year. There should be a little girl named Hannah in your class. She would have curly brown hair, a twinkle in her eye and and infectious laugh. She’d keep you on your toes. Like her big brother, she’d be incredibly smart and kind and social. Like her little brother, she’d be incredibly funny and inquisitive and the kind of kid you just always want to be around. She’d love to read like her mom. She’d love superheros like her dad. She’d love school. And you’d love having her in class. Secretly, she’d be your favorite.

At least that’s how I imagine it would all go. We’ll never really know. Your class will be one short this year, that much is certain. Hold space for her please, in your heart. It’s the closest we can come to kindergarten.

Love,

Hannah’s Mom

Turning Five

She should be turning 5 today. She should be fighting bedtime, stealing toys from her brothers and driving her preschool teacher nuts with her spunky ways. That’s how I imagine her, my spunky, brave girl. Never one to back down from a challenge.

I also imagine her being sweet to the dogs. They would curl up next to my big old pregnant belly and lull Hannah to sleep. The cats on the other hand...oh how she hated those cats! The would try to   stretch out on me and she’d start kicking like crazy until they shot me an indignant look and moved on to the next human in the room.

I imagine her playing dress up and loving ballet. Playing piano and Tball too. Maybe soccer.

I imagine her curly brown hair and big blue eyes. Because a psychic once told me she’d have dark curly brown hair and big blue eyes.

I imagine all these things and a million more because that’s all I can do. Imagine.

I imagine her alive and smiling, blown out the candles in her cake as her dad and brothers and I sing to her.

Today she should be turning five.

Day Three Dear Abby - Can't You Hear Us?

Dear Abby,


I can't help but notice that you haven't retracted or apologized for your cruel and thoughtless column on June 7th. Stillborn is still born. We love our children. We will love them with our whole hearts until the day we die.


Here's the thing Dear Abby, you are not alone in your ignorance. And that's what makes your comments sting all the more. There are countless people as cruel as you who think still births don't count. Look at our current administration. They refuse to count still births amount the detained immigrants as actual deaths. But they are deaths. And they do count. My husband's own stepmother has decreed to the family that no one is allowed to mention my daughter. That it doesn't matter.


As loss parents we fight EVERY SINGLE DAY to break the silence. We want - no, we need -  to shatter the silence around stillbirths so that we may openly grieve. We are tired of crying in the shower or the car. All alone so no one can see us. So no one like you can judge us or try to instill a timeline on our grief. We try to shatter the silence, to remember our children, to carry their memories forward every day.


Congratulations, you just made that battle harder.


I hope you never know the soul crushing grief of losing a child. I hope you never know what it's like to move through the days, years, decades with a constant ache for your missing child. But if  you ever do, I hope your grief is met with more grace and love than you showed us in your column.




Sarah Elvin - Hannah's Mom

Dear Abby

Dear Abby,


I'm writing again because you still haven't acknowledged the hurt you caused the loss community with your heartless reply to "Crystal" on June 7, 2019.


You seem to think a still birth, the loss of a beloved child, is something that can be gotten over. Well, I am here to tell you how very wrong you are.


Imagine never knowing the color of your child's eyes. The sound of their voice. The color of their hair. Imagine, after carrying a much loved, much wanted child for 9 months only to give birth to a silent room. No new born cries. No congratulations. Just silence. And a soul crushing grief.


Now imagine carrying that grief day after day and instead of support you are told your lifestyle is morbid. That you should seek counseling. That you should be over it. Basically, being told your grief is misplaced and wrong.


Let me tell you what years of therapy after the loss of my daughter have taught me. My grief, the same grief that all loss parents carry day in and day out is normal. It's expected. It's ok. We aren't morbid as you suggested. We are parents that will love our children, living and dead until the day we die. There is no timeframe for our grief. It doesn't have to end because it makes you or other uncomfortable. We don't need you or anyone else to say "Time's Up, Grieiving Over."


What we need is support. And love and compassion. We need to know that YOU know our babies mattered. We need to hear their names on someone else's lips besides our own. To know the world has not forgotten them. We love them. We will always love them.


And you should be ashamed of your response.


Hannah's Mom

Fuck You Dear Abby

**This was written in a fit of rage at Dear Abby’s response to abletter in June 7th. I won’t be sharing her letter here, because it sucks and it doesn’t need anymore hit than it will already get.**

Dear Abby,

You should be ashamed of yourself. Your advice to Crystal could not be more off base. Instead of shaming the Aunt for grieving the loss of her much loved child, you should have shamed the family that failed to support her. That the Aunt still mourns her daughter after all this time is completely normal. To say this child never lived is cruel and completely wrong. For 9 months that baby girl lived, right under her mother’s heart. That mother felt her every kick and turn, knew the pattern of her days and nights and  knew what foods she liked and what food she didn’t. For nine months that mother dreamed and planned and loved her baby girl. And now that poor mother has to live everyday not knowing the sound of her daughter’s voice or the color of her hair. She’ll never watch her first steps, or graduations. Never see her make friends or get her first job; a whole lifetime was lost when her daughter was still born. I know because I am that mother. I am that mother and I am telling you that you owe this Aunt and all parents of stillborn children an apology. We walk this earth everyday carrying a weight grief that you cannot imagine. A shadow of sorrow behind every smile.

Hannah’s Mom

PS: Every Nov 2nd I make a birthday cake for my silent child. And we sing and remember her with love.

I Lost My Job but Found My Son

4 months ago I lost my job. We were told our team was relocating to the Chicago office and our choice was to commute there or hit the bricks. Since commuting 4 hours per day is not something I was willing to do, I cashed the severance check and pulled Teddy out of daycare all but 2 days per week.

At first I was going nuts. I didn't have a schedule, a routine. I didn't know what to do with myself. I've been working since I was 15. 12 if you count babysitting. Teddy was off of his schedule too. It was rough. No one was happy. And added to that was the stress of there not being a lot movement in the job market just before Thanksgiving. It was stressful.

But then something happened. Teddy and I, we hit our stride. We got comfortable. We bonded a lot (I'm totally his favorite now - sorry not sorry!)

See here's the thing. When Hannah died I went crazy trying to "fix" us all. Trying to make us whole. I hopped from therapist to therapist trying to find the answers that I needed. The magic words that would make us "OK." Obviously, that didn't happen. So I did the next best thing. I got pregnant.

I was so certain I was going to have a girl and while she wouldn't be Hannah, she would help us mend and make us happy again. She would bring back the laughter and a music. We were going to be ok!

I cried when I found out Teddy was a boy. I am not proud of that now, but it felt like losing Hannah all over again. I sat on the couch, read the test results from my doctor and instead of celebrating the healthy little boy, I mourned my lost girl.

During the whole pregnancy I stayed detached. Worried, panicked and yet oddly detached. When delivery day came I was calm until I got into the operating room. Then I Lost. My. Shit. It was the same room where I delivered Hannah. Everything came flooding back in an instant and I begged to leave. I pleaded for them to stop. I said I couldn't do it. I cried and threw up and had a baby anyway. (Again, Dr Epstein and Nurse Sherry, my apologies and you two are amazing).

Then handed me my sweet bundle of baby boy. All 7lbs 4oz of sweet newborn and I pleaded with them to take him back. "I'm going to drop him" I claimed. But I wasn't going to drop him. I was terrified of him.

That terror lasted. "PTSD" my doctor said. Still I was afraid. The label didn't help. "It's not post partum, it's PTSD" said my therapist and suggested I up my antidepressants. Still no relief.

At home, Teddy thrived despite his bad luck in drawing me as his mother. And for some reason, he loved me. He was an easy baby, who just wanted to be held. I was a horrible mother who just wanted to set him down. I couldn't bond. I loved him, I knew it. But I was afraid to feel it, to experience it. I was waiting, I realized, for the rug to be pulled out from underneath ne again. I did not trust fate. I did not trust our luck. I believed the worst would happen. I guarded my heart.

Eventually I realized Teddy only wanted Brent. He was Daddy's boy. Quite the opposite of his big brother. But he knew I was a hot mess. He's always been a smarty. He grew into a toddler that by his first birthday did not want to cuddle or be held. I broke him.

I realized the mistakes I had made. I regretted them with all my heart. I regret them still. But slowly I reached out to Teddy. And I'll never forget the feeling of pure joy when I got my first unsolicited hug from my sweet boy.

And now? Now I've had a chance to redo the maternity leave that I barely remember. Losing my job has given me my boy back. Teddy and I can cuddle and watch Cars. Or play with cars. Or go the library and have conversations and run errands and just be together. I can hug on him all day long. And he actually likes it now. When he falls down, he wants his mommy. When he is dancing he wants me to dance with him. When he giggles, he wants me to giggle too. Losing my job has been stressful but so worth it. I lost my job, but I found my son.

To the Moon and Back

Tonight I started prepping to haul the family out of state for a wedding. And while we are all SO EXCITED that this wedding is finally happening, its another reminder that a piece of our small family is missing. A very important piece. Even happily anticipated events have this cloud. A reminder that we aren't all where we should be.

The boys will be ring bearers. The cutest ring bearers ever if you ask me. But the flower girl... There will be no flower girl. There will be no small white dress and crown of roses. A smiling 3 year old will be missing from all the pictures. There will be no high pitched girly giggles in the crash of the ocean waves. No daughter dancing on her daddy's toes.

We will have fun. We will smile and genuinely enjoy ourselves and celebrate the newly married couple. But at the same time we will wonder what it would be like to be whole and we'll be looking for butterflies. A sure sign that Hannah is with us even when she isn't.

On repeat today: Winter Bear by Colby Grant. It captures my feelings perfectly.

I knew you before I knew your name
I loved you before I saw your face
I longed for you for all of that time
And I held your heart in mine
I kissed you you a hundred million times
I tasted the tears that I cried
I held you my beautiful child
And I'll keep your heart in mine
I love you to the moon and back
my little winter bear
I know you know how much that is
cause you're already there.
I never knew a love like this could ever possibly exist,
I love you to the moon and back
as long as I live.
I see you in all of the stars,
shine brightly right into our hearts
I look at the night sky above
and wonder can you feel my love.
I love you to the moon and back
my little winter bear
I know you know how much that is
cause you're already there.
I never knew a love like this could ever possibly
exist, I love you to the moon and back
as long as I live.
I love you to the moon and back
my little winter bear
I know you know how much that
cause you're already there.
I never knew a love like this
could ever possibly exist,
I love you to the moon and back
as long as I live.
I love you to the moon and back...
winter bear
I knew you before I knew your name
I loved you before I saw your face
I longed for you for all of that time
and I'll keep your heart in mine.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgLtD52jjBY

I Woke Up a Mother

Three years ago I woke up a mother. With a carefree four year old and a healthy daughter on the way. Three years ago I believed that the miscarriage we had suffered 11 months before was the worst thing that could happen to us. I believed good things were to come.

Three years ago the nursery was all set. The sheets were on the crib, the tiny clothes folded and in the drawers. The car seat installed.

I was excited about the future then. I believed that good things happen to good people (or people who try their best to be good anyway). I believed that our future was blessed. I believed in God and mercy and the power of positivity and prayer.

Three years ago, I woke up excited about the future. Then the rug was pulled out from underneath me.

My world was shattered and while we've managed to haphazardly glue the pieces back together the cracks still show. The tears seep through them now and again. The fissures and breaking points are always there, just underneath the surface. You can see them when you look closely enough, they are there in the extra wrinkles and gray hair. In the haunted eyes that don't quire smile the way they used to. They are there in laughter cut short out of guilt, in walls surrounding our fragile hearts. Like a phantom friend, always tagging along.

Three years ago I woke up as a mother. By nightfall I was a grieving mother.



** Side note** There is no word for a parent that lost a child. That's how against nature it is to bury your daughter or son. If you lose a spouse you are a widow/widower. If you lose your parents you are an orphan. If you lose a child you are without description.

When the Rainbow Fades

We should have looked at our two little boys and just felt grateful. We should have looked at them and just counted our blessings. We should have just been thankful to have these wonderful, smart, sweet, adorable boys in our lives.

But we got greedy.

"One more!" we said. "Look how great these boys are. Lets just try for one more!" "What if we have a girl this time! A daughter would be amazing!" "What if we have a third boy! We make the best boys!"

2 months later, 2 positive pregnancy tests confirmed the newest addition was on the way. Due in May! A spring baby. The best time to have a baby. Good weather, I'll be home with Charlie all summer. It will be perfect. Everything will be perfect. Of course, it never ends that way. It's never just that easy.

First came the blood. Then the pain. The frantic, middle of the night call to the Doctor. And then it's over. Just like that. After 9 weeks of hoping and praying and pleading with fate, we are left once again to pick up the pieces and figure out our next move.

It's never just that easy.

The Hardest Lesson

I've learned so much in the last few years. I've learned to lean on my village, I've learned that grief is messy and ugly and natural, I've learned that friends aren't always friends, I've learned that I am stronger than I ever imagined. I've experienced a desperate search for answers that don't exist and I've experienced arms so empty they ache. Most importantly, I've learned to deal with my own emotions.

I've never been a person that is comfortable with "feelings." Especially the negative ones. Growing up my dad always acted like my highs were too high and my lows were too low so I learned to hold all emotion in and mask how I was feeling. I never had a bad day. I was fine. I was always fine. Then Hannah died and nothing was fine. I was falling apart and I couldn't deal with that. Not at all. So I began my quest for the answers that I was sure would bring closure.

And quite the quest it was. I blew through therapist after therapist. I spoke with ministers (PS: My God doesn't kill babies so telling me this was His plan was less than helpful). I looked to Buddhism (What do you mean nothing is permanent? Not helpful Mr. Monk). I even spoke with a Medium (actually pretty comforting). Ironically what was the most helpful came from the person I liked the least. A therapist that I had zero connection with. I couldn't stand my time with her. But something she said did stick with me. She told me sometimes people just aren't ready to heal. That we can't rush the process. We have to be in the right space emotionally. Your head and your heart have to be ready and she didn't think I was there yet.

Pfffft, I was ready. I was so ready. I walked out of her office needing to be ready. I needed to fix it, I needed to fix it now! I had to heal so I could get pregnant again so we could get past this. I needed to move on.

So much was wrong with this thought process. A) You don't move on from the death of your child. Moving on is not a thing in this situation. You learn to pull yourself together. You learn to move forward. But you never move on. B) You can't fix this type of situation. You slowly learn to live with it and carry it forward, but you never "fix" it.

So months after that fateful and uncomfortable session in the therapists office (and a year after saying goodbye to Hannah) it dawned on me that she was right. I wasn't ready to heal. I was ready to cry, I was ready to grieve. But I was not ready to heal. And so I changed my course of action and I learned to just sit with my emotion. I learned how to exist with my grief, without trying to change it or alter it or fix it. I learned to just be.

It was not something that I was comfortable with at all. It was almost an impossible lesson but it's a lesson I am grateful to have learned. Now when emotional issues pop up, I am able to process and react more calmly. But most importantly it's helped me hold Hannah close. She is not a part of my heart to avoid any longer. She is a part of my heart that I hold dear, that I love and cherish and grieve and celebrate. And this is how I learned to put one foot in front of the other and continue to live.

Critics and Critiques

It's been almost a year since I published "An Open Letter to My Critic" and so much has happened in that time. I'd like to say fences were mended and bridges weren't burned, but that's not the reality of the situation. The reality is that the situation got much uglier than I originally knew and certainly more than I thought possible. That's why I have been as quiet as possible.

It turns out that it wasn't one "friend" tired of my grief and ready for it to be over. Out of four women in that conversation that night, after many drinks and of course, after I had left, only one said this isn't right. Only one said the conversation needs to stop. The other three continued.

No one will tell me exactly what has said. Either too much time has passed to remember exactly or maybe they are ashamed. It's probably better if I don't know anyway. What I do know is it broke my heart all over again. And now friendships that I thought would last until we were old and gray are shaky now at best and it makes me sick to think of it.

I'm trying to forgive. I'm trying to move forward. But it's hard, its just so hard.

The cold truth of the situation now is that all have apologized - and almost all were sincere. But the blame now lies with me. They see it as my inability to automatically drop their betrayal and act like nothing ever happened as what is truly damaging the group. I see their inability to understand the level of hurt they caused as culprit. As you can see, this leaves a wide chasm that some how needs to be gapped. But can it?

That's what I don't know and I am trying to figure out. Meanwhile the silence, as they say, is deafening. They don't seem to be in a hurry for answers. Maybe they are over this too. Or maybe they are giving me a wide berth to figure all this out. I just don't know. I do know they are frustrated. They have asked once or twice, "How can I be your friend? I don't know how to be your friend anymore. Tell me how to be your friend." And the only answer I have "Just don't be an asshole" isn't giving enough direction. Maybe I should say, "Start by not putting the entire future of our friendship solely on my shoulders. It's a lot to carry alone." Because it is a lot to carry alone. Not only do I have to get myself and my husband and my two young children through this, now I have to get our friendship through this too? It's somehow my job and my job alone? That doesn't seem fair.

Then again, there was nothing fair about this situation from the very start.

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.