Happy Beginnings

I really truly believed with all my being that this pregnancy would have a happy ending. I know it sounds crazy, but I felt very little fear and apprehension during this last pregnancy with Baby #2. It's hard to explain. I felt certain in my heart that this baby was the one. The one who would survive. The one who would be born pink and screaming. The one who I could hold in my arms and never let go. I just couldn't help feeling like she was meant to be.

After waiting so long just to get pregnant, I was so happy and excited (and a little bit shocked) that I don't think worry had space to settle in. Part of me was concerned early on, but once I saw the baby's beautiful strong heartbeat, joy completely replaced all fear. I really wanted to enjoy this pregnancy and embrace it as a celebration of new life. This baby didn't deserve to be part of my grief. I didn't want her to live in the shadow of loss. I wanted to look forward to her birth, not fear that I might lose her too.

But just a couple of weeks after first seeing my tiny seedling, an ultrasound revealed she was gone. Another ultrasound confirmed it and a week later, my body finally let her go.

No matter what happens, this baby will always be a memory of joy in my heart. I will forever associate her with happiness, hope and pure love. She was a miracle from the beginning and even though I'll never understand why she died, I am so very grateful for the time we had together here on earth. And I'm glad that I let myself feel joy instead of fear and love instead of grief. We may have only had ten weeks together. But they were the most amazing ten weeks. And they were special.

So, no happy ending after all.

But the happiest of all beginnings.

A Bad Dream

I'm sitting in a dark room alone and I'm waiting for... something. I'm not exactly sure what it is. I've just been given the dreadful news and have been instructed to sit here and wait. I am confused and sad, disappointed and tired. It's been a long day and I just want to go home. I just want to get back to my life. But all I can do is wait here. I'm stuck in this place. I realize this is part of the process and sometimes these things just take time. I realize that sometimes joyous plans are interrupted and put on hold and all we can do is be as patient and hopeful as possible. I realize as unfair as this may seem, there is nothing anyone can do to change any of this, so feeling like a failure or hating the world are probably just going to make this worse for me. I keep telling myself it will be okay in the end. After all, the hardest part is over. Now I just have to wait for the darkness to relent so that I can wake up from this bad dream. But really, I'm just waiting for the end of what has sadly already ended.

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

Finding Grief in the Shadows of Healing

Feeling happy... even though life is always bittersweet.

Feeling strong... even though my heart is still broken.

Feeling hopeful... even though the future is terrifyingly uncertain.

Feeling grateful... even though I have lost so much.

Feeling brave... even though my soul is filled with fear.

Feeling optimistic... even though remaining positive can be exhausting at times.

Feeling at peace... even though worrisome thoughts swirl around in my mind.

Feeling blessed... even though I am constantly fighting jealousy and bitterness.

Feeling restored... even though part of me is more fragile than ever.

Feeling triumphant... even though I still have a long way to go.

Feeling mended... even though the journey to healing is long and bumpy.

Making progress... even though this grief is never-ever-ending.

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 One Year Anniversary of His Due Date

Today is one of those days that I'm not sure how I should be feeling. It's not his birthday. It's not a day that I expect anyone to remember. It's not a day in which anything significant occurred. In actuality, it's just an estimate of when he would have been born had he gestated for exactly 40 weeks.

But still it's one of those days that will always mean something to me. It will always represent what could have been if things had gone the way I wanted them to. More than that, it will always be the anniversary of the day I looked forward to for several months. The day that promised me a child and the beginning of a beautiful new life.

Part of me feels sad because that day never came. Because everything was perfect and then something changed and that day was erased from my life. But part of me feels like I should take joy from what that day represented. Because it had the potential to be the best day of my life.

Irregardless of the meaning of today, whatever that may end up being, for now it is simply a date that I associate with Gabriel. For many weeks I counted down to October 3, 2012 as I anxiously awaited the birth of our baby. I remember when it felt so far away, so unattainable. I remember thinking that time was moving at an unbearably slow pace. How strange that now it feels like an entire lifetime ago.

I suppose that's partially why acknowledging these anniversaries feels necessary. Anniversaries place little bookmarks on the important moments in our lives so that when we flip through the pages of our past, we know exactly where to turn first. They highlight the significant moments, the days we want to remember over and over again. Some days are marked for the events that took place during them. And others, for what never did.