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.

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.