A Journey of Love

I never really expected life to be easy. I never expected it to go my way all the time. I've never been incredibly lucky or lived in the type of world where things have just been handed to me. Growing up, I knew that being successful would take hard work and dedication and time and perseverance. When I was in college, I worked hard to get good grades and graduate on time. I wanted to have a successful career, to make loads of money, to be the CEO of my own company one day. I dreamed of a life of working my way to the top. When I got out in the real world, I realized that it wasn't enough to dream. There were a lot of young college graduates who were just as smart as me, just as ambitious, and just as eager as me to start climbing the ladder to the top. I knew it would be a challenge. I knew I would have to work everyday to reach my goals.

Just as I knew that I would have to work for many things. Jobs. Promotions. Money. Success. Friendships. Marriage. I never believed that anything would just be handed to me. I knew I would have to work hard to have a good life. To be the person who I wanted to be.

But never once did I think that becoming a mother would one day be the most difficult challenge of my life. I assumed that when I was ready, when I decided that I wanted to have children, that it would just happen. I thought that having children was supposed to be easy. That raising them was the hard part.

But as I look back over the past three years all I see is a bumpy windy road of failures where I've attempted motherhood again and again. A three year journey to motherhood that is both endless and nonexistent. I've worked and I've tried and I've persevered and I've given it my all, but I'm still here waiting for the day when all of this will pay off. I used to believe that not giving up was the key to success. But now, I realize that when it comes to babies, a huge part of it is just plain luck.

Some people are so lucky. So blessed. Some people have lots of babies without any issues. Without ever having to say good-bye to one of them. Some people never struggle with infertility. Some people go their whole lives without ever knowing that babyloss exists.

And others work and work and try and try and invest all their money and all their time and all their hope and still don't have what everyone else seems to have so easily.

Some people struggle for years to experience the joy that others get in just 9 months. It doesn't seem fair. It doesn't seem right.

But I'll tell you one thing that I've learned over the past 3 years. That the things we feel like we have to work the hardest for... successful careers, money, cars, popularity, fame... are in fact the things that matter the least in the world. If there's one thing that is truly worth working for, sacrificing everything for, enduring despair and loss for, it's your children. I wouldn't walk this journey for anyone else. If one day I'm able to reach the end of this road, I'll know that it was not luck, nor hope, nor perseverance, nor hard work that got me there.

But love.

Love which not only makes the journey possible, but makes every minute of it a lesson that teaches me everyday that children are the most precious gift... that they alone give meaning to life's greatest sufferings and pave the way for life's most beautiful moments.

Starting Over

It's hard to admit this to myself, but there are days when I really wish I could start over. I wish I could rewind my life and go back to January 2012. That's when the first domino toppled over: Gabriel's conception. That's when all of this was first put into motion. That's when everything changed far beyond my control, when my life slowly started to fall apart.

I wish I could get a re-do on the last two years of my life. I wish I could have one chance to take back one choice. Because I am constantly wondering what my life would be like now if I had done one thing differently. Could one choice made differently have had the power to change my fate?

This time, two years ago, I remember wanting a baby so badly. I was so anxious to get pregnant. I was naively planning to have three children and I wanted to get started before I turned 30.

Now, I wonder what could have been if I had been more patient. If we had conceived one month later, would that have made all the difference in the world? Would that baby be a happy, healthy 15 month old squirming in my arms while I blog about cloth diapers instead of stillbirth?

I think I will always question what could have been if I had been patient and waited a couple months... if those two months could have spared me the suffering I've endured over the past two years.

It's heartbreaking and frustrating to know that I am exactly where I was then. Two years ago I was sitting here wishing for a baby, scouring the internet for fertility tips, trying with all my being to make my greatest wish come true. It's been two years and no progress has been made on the baby front. Nothing has been given in exchange for 24 agonizing months of loss and disappointment and failures and hopelessness and tears. I have nothing to show for years of trying relentlessly to have a family.

I want to scream at the universe. What else do I have to do?! Why can't this just be easier?! Over the past two years, I have had to watch every single person I know have healthy babies while I am STILL waiting for mine!! This is not fair!! This is not right!!

I look back over the last 24 months and I see so many tears, so many lost moments, so many empty days. I see my heart breaking over and over again, my faith dwindling, my hope fading, my dreams melting as my ovaries just continue to age and age.

It's becoming harder and harder to imagine what could have been. It's almost impossible to imagine my life turning out how I thought it would. I feel like over the past two years I've drifted further and further away from that life. I can barely remember what it felt like to dream of a future, to make plans, to have the luxury of choosing to have children. I often wonder if the universe actually laughed at my 3-children-before-35-plan.

Sometimes, I wish I could go back to that time when my dreams had no boundaries just to remember for a moment what it felt like to have endless possibilities in front of me. That blissful time before I knew the risks of embarking on a new journey. Before I knew just what the road to motherhood had in store for me.

I think of everything I've been through on this journey, and I can't help but wish it had been different. I wish it had been easier... a lot easier. I wish I had been given a different baby, a healthy one that I could have kept.

But then my heart sinks knowing what I would have to sacrifice. And I realize that even if I could start over, I could never choose another path. I could never knock down a different domino. As hard as this life is, I could never give up the two babies I carried, the two babies who I love with all my heart, the two babies who aren't here but who I think about every single moment of every single day. Because even though I wish things were different, I don't wish for a life without them.

Even with the enormous pile of hardships that weighs heavily on my soul, this is the only life I have with them in it. This road is the only one that could have led me to both of my precious children. Whatever choice I made two years ago that has landed me here, I know in my heart that I could never choose differently.

Because they're my babies. And I'm their mother.

And that's the one thing that I would never want to change.

I Will Always Wonder

Was it my fault?

Was it something I ate?

Something I did?

Something I failed to do?

Is it because I didn't take my vitamins everyday?

Or because I waited too long to start taking baby aspirin?

Should I have demanded more blood work and prenatal testing?

Should I have gone to a different doctor?

If I had, would it have even mattered?

Was it that I complained about having morning sickness?

Or that I breathed a tiny sigh of relief after the first ultrasound?

Could I have done something, anything, to have prevented this loss?

If I had made a different choice at some point, would it have made all the difference?

Could her death have been prevented?

Could I have prevented it?

Did my body fail to keep her safe?

Or was she just too fragile to survive?

What happened?

Why her?

Why me?

Why us?

Why?

Dear 2014

I'll be honest... I'm not at all excited about you. It's not your fault. In 2013, I lost Poppy. In 2012, I lost Gabriel. And so it's not surprising that I've been conditioned to associate a new year with a new loss.

I'm sorry to say that I don't feel hopeful that you'll be a better year. I don't have much faith in the future. I don't believe you will be my year. I don't know how to wish for the best anymore, because clearly all the hoping and praying in the world hasn't been working.

Mostly, I'm worried that you will be yet another year plagued with loss and defined by grief. Though I know that inevitably there will be many moments of joy and love and growth and goodness scattered throughout you, I fear that ultimately you will be another year of disappointment and that loss will once again overshadow all the good times.

Your predecessor, 2013, let me down in so many ways. (Again, not your fault.) That entire year was a struggle that drained me of my last remaining drops of faith and hope. I honestly don't know if I have what it takes to make it through another year of failure, spirit-crushing disappointment, and babyloss.

I'm not expecting (or even asking) for anything extraordinarily amazing out of you. I don't need you to be the year I win the Powerball jackpot, or the year I meet Oprah, or the year I run a marathon.

I just need you to be the year that restores some of the hope I have lost. I want to be able to dream again, to imagine a future that isn't scary or empty or completely uncertain. I want to be able to enjoy our time together, not live in fear of what you may bring.

So, please don't be like last year and the year before that.

And, please don't be another year of sub-fertility/pregnancy loss/death/childlessness/bad news, etc...

Because more than anything, I really need for you to be the year that I don't lose any of my children.

What I Wish I Could Tell All Non-Babyloss Parents

This is not a tough day.

This is not a bad week.

This is not a terrible year.

This is one ridiculously, insanely, completely and utterly difficult life. 

The life of a grieving parent is one that you cannot possible fathom. You cannot imagine the kind of strength it takes just to get up each day and continue breathing.

I wish this was an exaggeration. 

The life of a grieving parent is hard. It is always hard. It is always a struggle. 

And worst of all, this life is constantly being misunderstood. 

We are being misunderstood. So I'd like to try to explain what it's like.

We are walking a road that we have ended up on unexpectedly and against our will. We were forced into this journey of babyloss. This was not our choice. This was never ever what we wanted. We did not ask for this. 

This journey has no end. This journey has no breaks. There are no resting spots. There is no relief, no point at which the heartache subsides, no point at which we can forget the pain or leave it behind. Babyloss is our baggage and it is an unbearably heavy thing to carry around for a lifetime. 

Imagine waking up every single morning with the profound understanding that your life is permanently incomplete. Imagine falling asleep every single night with the feeling that life will never be the same as it was before, that life will never be as it should be. 

We are desperately missing our children. Our beautiful, precious, irreplaceable, beloved children. They are gone forever. We will never have a chance to hug them, kiss them, rock them, play with them, or watch them grow up. Imagine if you could never hold your children again. Imagine what kind of hole that would leave in your heart. 

You may believe that it's possible, even easy, to get over the loss of a baby. You may think that you can't miss a person who you never really knew. You may not understand why losing a baby is devastating and traumatic. But imagine going to a routine ultrasound and being told your baby has a fatal condition. Imagine going into labor, arriving at the hospital and being told your baby has no heartbeat. Imagine experiencing a perfect pregnancy and losing your baby to an umbilical cord accident the day before his due date. Imagine giving birth, holding your baby and watching her die in your arms. Imagine trying to conceive for years, finally getting pregnant and then losing that baby. Imagine being told that you will never carry a baby to term. Imagine wanting a child more than anything else in the world but never being able to raise one here on earth. Can you even begin to imagine the sorrow and pain?

Losing a baby feels unnatural. It is unnatural. It is unfair and cruel and there is no explanation as to why some babies live and others die far too soon. Being told that babyloss is anything but devastating and awful just contributes to our grief and makes our lives so much harder. 

If you've never lost a baby, then you have no idea what it feels like. You can try to imagine. You can try to understand. You can show compassion. But you need to know that your ignorance and insensitive comments are hurtful. We don't need you to tell us how to grieve or tell us why we should be okay. You may be trying to help or unsure of what else to say, but honestly, you're just making it worse. We really are doing the best we can to cope and to move forward. But it's so much harder than you think it is.

The day our son was born was the only day we had with him. He died during labor and so all we ever had were a few hours to hold his lifeless body. We tried our best to create memories, something to treasure in the years to come.

We took pictures of him on the day he was stillborn. Those photos are literally all we have left of him. You probably have tons of photos of your children. You probably have lots of tiny outfits, dirty walls, colorful toys, sticky-paged books and preschool projects to show the world that you are a parent.

All I have are a handful of pictures. On the one day we got with our little boy, we took about 50 pictures. By the time he was born, he was already dead. He is dead in the photo of his daddy kissing his toes. He is dead in the photo of me cradling him close to my heart. He is dead in the photo of us holding his hands. You might think these photos are unpleasant or even offensive to look at. But they are all I have to show the world that my child existed. That I gave birth to him. That I am his mother. That he is a real person. That he is more than just a tragic loss.

Nobody wishes we had photos of him alive more than I do. Nobody. But I had no choice. These were the only photos I was ever allowed to take, the only memories we were ever able to make. I am so thankful that we have those photos. They are a comfort to look at and help keep him alive in my heart.

Please know that I am not sharing photos of my son to hurt you in any way. But if you are bothered by photos of my baby, imagine what it feels like for me to constantly see photos of your healthy, living children. Imagine how heartbreaking it is to see your children growing up here on earth, dressing up for Halloween, snuggling up in your arms. My photos may make you feel a little uncomfortable. But your photos remind me regularly of everything I am missing out on. Your photos hurt my aching, grieving heart.

When you complain about your children or your pregnancy symptoms or how hard it is to potty train a toddler, try to keep in mind that there are many many many people who would be willing to give up everything they have to trade places with you for one day. You get to take parenthood for granted. You get to take your children for granted. But please don't. Please cherish every moment you have with your children. Please tell them every day that you love them. And please don't tell me how hard it is to be a parent... because you have the type of life I can only dream about. You have something that all babyloss parents would die for. A chance to hold all of your children in your arms. We will never be able to do that.

This is not a tough day.

This is not a bad week.

This is not a terrible year.

This is one ridiculously insanely completely and utterly difficult life. 

It is tears in the middle of the day.

It is feeling helpless and alone all the time.

It is losing friends and family who don't know how to be supportive.

It is being told that our grief doesn't matter... that our children don't matter.

It is questioning all that you thought you knew.

It is missing someone more than you can ever imagine.

It is our children being forgotten by others as if they never even existed.

It is spending our entire lives in mourning while also trying to heal and move forward.

It is struggling to break the silence about a topic that no one wants to discuss.

If you have never lost one of your children, please be grateful for all that you have. Consider yourself beyond blessed and please show sensitivity and compassion to those who have lost a child. Please don't pretend like you know what it's like and that you know how we should feel or act. Please don't minimize our losses. Please try to remember that we have lost so much. That life is unbearable some days. That we so very truly envy you.

And please teach your children how precious and meaningful all life is, no matter how brief or small it may be... so that perhaps one day, grieving parents won't have to feel alone and misunderstood, but rather free to share and speak about their precious babies.

<3

My Stance on the Ribbon Petition

I haven't found an official story online, but it appears that the breast cancer community is considering changing their ribbon color from pink to pink and blue to include men. There is a petition circulating around Facebook to ban the use of pink and blue awareness ribbons by the Breast Cancer community. Supporters of the petition feel that Breast Cancer Awareness overshadows P.A.I.L. Awareness (both are officially recognized in October) and that sharing a ribbon color will only make it worse.

While I completely and wholeheartedly understand that many of us in the babyloss community feel like we do not get the attention that other communities get, I don't really see how colors of a ribbon will make any difference. In my opinion, the reason why it's so difficult to raise P.A.I.L. Awareness has nothing to do with the fact that our ribbon colors are pink and blue or that we share October with Breast Cancer Awareness.

The unfortunate reality is that the loss of a baby is a topic that most people feel uncomfortable talking about. On top of that, it's difficult for people to understand or sympathize if they have not experienced the loss of a baby. Many people don't feel like they are supposed to talk about babyloss, not because they are cruel or insensitive, but because they don't believe it's an appropriate topic of conversation. None of this is the fault of the breast cancer community.

I've never had cancer, but I know that I don't ever want it. I know that it destroys lives and I know that it kills way too many people every year. I also know that funding for cancer research has saved countless lives and that it may one day save my life or the life of someone I care about. I read recently that 50% of Americans will be diagnosed with cancer at some point during their lives. With research and treatment, many of those people will survive and one day in the future there may even be a cure for this terrible disease. Breast Cancer Awareness campaigns raise millions of dollars every year. The money is being used to find that cure.

I think it would be an incredible gesture of kindness and acceptance to change the Breast Cancer Awareness ribbon color to make men feel more included. I also think it would help save lives. There are many men out there who don't get screened for breast cancer or don't think much of a small lump in their chest because they don't know that they are also at risk of getting breast cancer. Over 2000 men are diagnosed with breast cancer every year in the United States. I know that doesn't compare to 26,000 stillbirths or 600,000 miscarriages but just like men are often overlooked in the babyloss community, I can see why they may feel left out in the breast cancer community.

Before signing the petition, please consider how hurtful it would be if something similar happened to us. What if the babyloss community decided to change our ribbon color in order to include those who feel left out and another community distributed a petition that made us seem like we were doing something wrong? Wouldn't that feel like they were being insensitive or naive? Wouldn't that make us hurt more than we already do? Wouldn't we feel like telling them to mind their own business? Wouldn't we think, what's the big deal? It's just a ribbon color.

I'm sorry if any of you feel upset by my opinion of this matter. I don't ever want to cause anyone additional grief. If you want to sign the petition because you feel strongly about P.A.I.L. Awareness ribbon colors and if you think it will make you feel better, then by all means I think you should. Truly, I do. Everyone grieves differently and I think everyone should do what feels healing to them.

But just keep in mind that you don't need a ribbon or a color or even a community to spread P.A.I.L. Awareness. You can do so every single day in little ways. You can share you baby's story with others. Speak her name. Include him in your daily life. Donate to charity in her name. Take the time to educate someone else on babyloss. Support films and organizations whose missions are to raise P.A.I.L. awareness. Participate in a Walk to Remember. Perform random acts of kindness in memory of your child. Do what you can to eliminate the taboo of babyloss. Focus your time and energy on keeping your child's memory alive in your heart and the hearts of others. And remember that just as you miss your baby, someone else misses their loved one lost to breast cancer.

The Change

I had an unexpected epiphany the other day. I don't know why I never realized it before, but somehow over the course of the past 13 months, I lost my BLM rookie status. I'm no longer the newly bereaved mama who lost her baby a couple months ago or the person who cries uncontrollably everyday, crippled by grief. I'm no longer the newcomer in an unfamiliar land, too frightened to move forward, too lost to find my way.

Lately, I've noticed a lot of new babyloss blogs and ministries have been created and it seems like the internet is full of heartbreaking stories of recent losses. Reading these stories makes my loss feel so distant, like it occurred ages ago. I've become so used to seeing 2011 and 2012 loss dates that I'm slightly taken aback whenever I see a 2013 loss date. I guess I just naturally associate babyloss with the year 2012 because that's the year when my loss occurred. Because of this, I never really gave much thought to the fact that 2013 would sadly be for many, what 2012 was for me.

This shift is a change I never thought much about. I know that sadly, not a day goes by where babies are not lost. I'm aware that pregnancy and infant loss is something that occurs every minute of everyday. I guess I just didn't realize how much time has an effect on where we reside in the babyloss community. I'm finding it difficult to describe what this change is like. It feels a little bit like returning to high school as a sophomore and watching the new freshmen class curiously wander the hallways where I've already roamed for an entire year. Seeing them makes me realize how far I've come in a year, but it also reminds me of what I was like when I first got here.

Honestly, there are days when it's just too painful to think about the past. To allow myself to reflect on the days following Gabriel's death when I cried so much that my face physically hurt. It's difficult to think about how depressed I once felt, how confused I once was, how weak and scared I used to be. But knowing that I survived and seeing how far I've come gives me hope for the future and wisdom to help others.

Even though I will always be grateful for the strength that I gained and the lessons that I learned when I was a timid newcomer in this strange new land, I feel so blessed to have come so far, to be able to leave part of the pain in the past, to lead where I once followed and to look back and see where once I was too fearful to take one step, I have now taken thousands. Where once I walked around aimlessly, I have now found a purpose in this journey and a reason to keep going.

Thoughts on Father's Day

Today, in honor of Father's Day, I'd like to recognize all bereaved fathers and also acknowledge everyone for whom this day causes pain and sorrow:

~If you're a bereaved father who has living children, today is probably bittersweet as you give thanks for the children you have here and grieve for the one who is missing. I'm sure it's crossed your mind more than once that today would be perfect if only you could hold all of your children in your arms.

~If you're a father who has no living children, today is likely to be extremely difficult. It's yet another reminder of what so many people get to celebrate, but for unknown reasons, you don't. Today is a day that most people don't believe belongs to you because your child has died. It's so painful to know that you and your child are not recognized as you should be. I hope that you know in your heart that you are an amazing father.

~If you're a bereaved mother who loves and cares for her children's father, today is hard for you too. It feels so unfair that your family has been devastated by the loss of a child and that the man you love does not get to watch his child grow up. I know what it feels like to wish you could take away his suffering, not just today but every single day.

~If you're a bereaved mother and the father of your baby is no longer a part of your life, either because he walked away from you or because he has joined your baby in Heaven, days like today are sure to be a source of heartache. I can't imagine how difficult it is for you to see your friends who have loving husbands or partners to lean on for support and comfort. I am so sorry if you are feeling lonely or hurt today.

~If you're a bereaved parent who has lost their father, Father's Day is spent missing not just your child, but also a beloved parent. I wish you had both your child and your father here with you and I hope it brings you comfort to imagine that they are together in a beautiful place.

~If you're a father who has no children because you are struggling with infertility or failed adoption, today is such a devastating reminder that yet another childless year has gone by. Nobody deserves to be on the emotional roller coaster that you are on. I pray that one day, Father's Day will be a day to celebrate all that you have overcome on your journey to a child.

No matter who you are or what your circumstances may be, if you've lost a child, Father's Day is likely to be a source of grief. It's hard for all bereaved mothers and all bereaved fathers, but I feel like it's an especially painful day for those fathers who have no living children to hold.

Those fathers won't be receiving any gifts made out of finger paint or macaroni today. They won't be wished a "Happy Father's Day" by most people, even though they are fathers and deserve to be acknowledged as such. They don't know, but desperately want to know what it's like to spoil a little girl or teach a son how to throw a football.

These special fathers and all other bereaved fathers truly deserve to be honored and appreciated today. Even though we may not be able to see some of all of their children, we can clearly see the love they have for them.

This Father's Day, I'd like to send my love and gratitude to all fathers - those with their children here on earth, those who hold their children in their hearts, and those who are struggling to bring a child into their home. This day is not just for honoring the love you have for your children but also for celebrating the love your children and family have for you. I hope that no matter what you've been through or how difficult life gets, that you will always feel deeply loved.

And last but not least, I'd like to send a very special "Happy Father's Day" to the two best fathers I know...

...My own dad who has always been an irreplaceable source of unconditional love and support. I admire him so much for his strength, devotion, wisdom, honesty and passion for life. I am truly lucky to have the best father imaginable.

...And of course, Gabriel's daddy, who hasn't left my side since the day we met. I am so grateful to have the most amazing husband who makes me laugh and lets me cry, who often sets aside his own grief to help me with mine, and who supports me even when it would be so much easier not to. Even though I can't give Gabriel the life he deserves here on earth, it's such a tremendous blessing to know that he has the greatest gift of all... the most loving and caring daddy in the world.

Sleeploss After Babyloss

Last Friday I went to see my doctor to follow up on results for a home sleep study that I did. My doctor suspected that I might have sleep apnea, but it turns out that I am just a "very disturbed" sleeper. Even though I laid in bed for a little over 8 hours, I only slept for 4 1/2 hours, which means that I spend almost half of the night either awakening from sleep or not sleeping at all. Basically, I'm suffering from severe sleep deprivation.

It doesn't appear that I have any breathing problems that are causing me to wake up during the night. It's possible that I do have another medical issue such as Restless Leg Syndrome that's repeatedly waking me up. But my doctor believes that the reason is probably psychological. She thinks that I may have suppressed anxiety caused by constantly holding in my emotions, especially those related to losing Gabriel and trying to get pregnant again after a loss. She said that people who have a positive disposition (like I do) tend to (unknowingly) keep negative thoughts and feelings inside where they're basically left to wreak havoc on our subconscious. (Awesome, right?)

In order to cure my sleep disorder, she's recommended a moderate dose of melatonin and 15 minutes of yoga before bedtime in order to relax my body. She also recommended that I stop spending so much time online submersed in the babyloss and infertility world, as constant exposure could be repeatedly triggering unhealthy subconscious anxiety (even if it doesn't feel that way at the time).

Lastly she's recommended that I become more emotionally open because bottling up or suppressing feelings of pain, suffering, grief or frustration can lead to anxiety which in turn leads to a myriad of other health problems such as sleep loss, hormonal imbalances, even infertility. And because that anxiety is not being let out in a healthy way during the day, it often presents itself at night through unconscious means like bad dreams or disturbed sleep.

Even though at first I was pretty surprised by the results of the sleep study and even more surprised by my doctor's recommendations, it's actually starting to make a lot of sense. Some days I do feel overwhelmed or I get a surge of anger or frustration or sorrow and I don't know where to channel it properly so I just keep it inside. It doesn't really appear to affect me but over the course of time I guess it has and in a pretty detrimental way.

I feel really lucky to have a doctor who doesn't automatically write a prescription to mask a symptom, but instead tries to figure out what is the underlying cause. She's actually the first doctor I've gone to whose even taken an interest in my sleep and cared enough to test me for sleep apnea. I'm really glad she suggested some natural remedies and that she carefully considered my medical background before making her recommendations.

With that said, I've been taking my nightly dose of melatonin and doing my 15 minute yoga routine for the past few nights. I'm also doing 5-10 minutes of meditation each night to induce calm and relaxation. And of course, I'm dwindling down the amount of time I spend doing research online and reading babyloss-related websites and blogs. The combination of everything seems to be helping. Even though I still find myself waking up in the middle of the night, I don't feel like I'm waking up as often as before. Also, I feel noticeably more rested when I wake up and slightly less fatigued in the late afternoon. Hopefully I'll continue to make progress over the next few weeks as I learn how to better manage my subconscious nightly anxiety.

If anybody has any suggestions for getting better sleep or reducing anxiety, I'd really love to hear them! 

Still Standing

Oftentimes, when I pause to think about where I am in my life, it all feels so surreal.

Did I really lose a baby last year? Was he real? Am I really that person? How did things take such a turn for the worse so quickly?

I'm not sure if it's been a really long or a really short amount of time, but I see that a change has occurred in me and in the world that most closely encompasses me. 

In certain ways, my life is harder. It's impossible some days. My heart is broken and my once dependable world has now become unbearably fragile. I miss my son. I would do anything to have him here with me. I want to be a mother to a living baby instead of an angel baby. I want things to be as they were supposed to be. I want a chance to start over and get it right. 

But then there's part of me that embraces this tragedy in a strange inexplicable way. Because of this experience, I am a stronger, more sensitive and more appreciative person. I feel more alive now than I ever have before, perhaps because something so raw and so real happened that it awakened some kind of dormant energy. And though I wish things were so very different for all of us, I can't help but cherish the friends I've made and the incredible kindness that's been shown to me. I'm not sure that if Gabriel has lived, there ever would have come a time in my life that I would have known the kind of support and love that I've experienced during the past nine months. 

And for that support, I am grateful. 

To everyone who reads this blog, emails me on the 19th of each month, follows me on Facebook, writes Gabriel's name, thinks of him ever, or prays for me, I am so very grateful. Words cannot express how blessed I feel to know you.

I lost a huge piece of my heart. I will never watch my sweet little boy grow up. Sadly, I am a bereaved mother.

But because I have loving support and because I have found healing, I am still standing.

I Wish I Was Her

She has all of her children with her here on earth.

She has no clue that millions of babies die each year.

She's never heard of anencephaly, T-18, hydrocephalus, skeletal dysplasia or any of the other thousands of complications that cause death in unborn babies every single day.

She's never left the hospital with a memory box instead of her baby.

She blogs about her living children instead of her dead ones.

She has the luxury and good fortune of being able to plan out how many children she wants.

She's never been on a TTC journey.

She doesn't wonder if she'll ever having a living baby.

She gets pregnant after barely trying for a month.

She carries her baby fearlessly for nine months.

She's never heard her doctor utter the words, "incompatible with life" or "there's no heartbeat."

She's never read the book Empty Cradle, Broken Heart.

She's never been told that her child is in a better place.

She has never worn a piece of memorial jewelry with her child's name engraved on it.

She doesn't dread the simple question, how many children do you have?

She's never prayed for a rainbow baby.

She's never celebrated an angelversary.

She's never had to choose between burying or cremating her child.

She doesn't have a drawer full of baby clothes that will never be worn.

She doesn't cry on her child's birthday.

She doesn't melt down every time a Facebook friend announces that she's pregnant.

She can go to her friends' baby showers.

She can show off pictures of her baby without making others feel uncomfortable.

She gets to watch her children grow up.

She's never known what it feels like to lose a piece of herself.

She doesn't wonder every second of everyday how much better her life could have been if her child was still alive.

Walking With You - Intro and Where We Are Now

[I've decided to participate in Sufficient Grace's Walking With You series for mothers and families who have lost a child. I hope that this writing project helps me to express in words what it feels like to grieve the loss of a baby, a subject that has been difficult for me to write about. I find it unbelievably challenging to adequately describe the feelings that encompass losing a child. I can never seem to find the right words. It makes me realize how unnatural babyloss is -- our language doesn't even include sufficient vocabulary to describe it.]

Week 1: Introduction and Where We Are Now

Hello Everyone! I'm Catherine and my son's name is Gabriel. I live in Los Angeles with my husband. DH and I were married in February 2011 and for several months we were happy newlyweds, enjoying life as a two-some. Later that year we started discussing the possibility of expanding our family and in January 2012, we learned I was pregnant with our first baby.

DH and I were thrilled and we spent the next few months reaching levels of excitement and eagerness that only first-time-parents-to-be get to experience. Everything was going great... why wouldn't it be? We were young, healthy, average people.

What could ever go wrong?

So we thought. 

In May, a series of ultrasounds revealed that our baby would not survive after birth. I was 19 weeks pregnant and we had only two options and one very difficult choice. We could continue the pregnancy knowing that our baby would die before or shortly after birth, or we could end the pregnancy that week. Every waking moment of every day I prayed for secret option #3.

Despite our prayers, hopes, dreams and deepest wishes, on July 19th, 2012, we welcomed our precious son to the world just a few hours after his Father embraced him in Heaven. If interested, you can read more about Gabriel here.

It's now been 5 months, 2 weeks and 6 days since that beautiful and tragic day.

I've been grieving for many months now, but to be honest, I'm not exactly sure where I am in my grief journey. I often feel like I've been walking on this journey for ages; grief has become inexplicably familiar. And yet some days it feels so foreign and fresh, like I just realized all of a sudden, that this is all real.

In the beginning, I cried all the time, until my eyes were swollen and my heart literally felt broken. But now, I go days without crying and only occasionally find myself with my head in my hands, sobbing inconsolably. I know it sounds strange, but I actually wish I cried more often. I've come to welcome those moments where my grief consumes me because it's when I'm most grief-stricken that I feel closest to Gabriel.

I sometimes worry that healing will cause me to drift further and further away from him. I'm still trying to figure out how to move forward without continually feeling guilty that I'm abandoning my son in the past. I don't want to forget anything about him and I feel like relinquishing the pain means having to let go of a piece of him. I want to remember the tremendous joy and love, but I also want to hold on to the sorrow. I want to ache deeply for my son, but of course, part of me also wants to heal.

These past few weeks, I have been asking the Lord to help me find a balance, to teach me how to delicately tread in between grief and healing. I have immense faith that in time, He will show me the way. That He will hold my hand and not just walk beside me on this journey, but rather, that He will guide me.

I may never fully understand it, but I am learning to accept God's will for what it is... His plan, not mine. I trust that He is in control of my destiny and that I am walking this journey because Light and Eternal Love await me at the end of it.

I pray that with His guidance, my journey of grief will evolve into a bridge that connects my heart and soul not just to my beloved son... but also to my loving Father.