Good-Bye 2013

Once again we've reached the eve of a new year... another year is coming to a close and leaving us with nothing but memories.

I wish I could look back on this year and see nothing but joy and feel perfectly at peace with its end.

Instead, 2013 will always be a year that ended with despair and emptiness. I wish I didn't feel this way, but I can't help but feel saddened and disappointed. I wanted so badly for this year to be one of redemption.

I remember at the start of this year that there was so much I wanted to do. So many goals were set that weren't reached. So many dreams were dreamed that weren't realized. So many wishes were made that weren't granted.

I guess ultimately I feel both relieved and reluctant to leave 2013 behind. Part of me is ready to move on, to leave this year in the past and cross my fingers that things are better in 2014. But part of me is desperate for more 2013, a little more time to try to recover what was lost. I feel cheated out of time with Poppy and the chance to have a rainbow baby.

Now time is up for 2013. And I'll never have another year with Poppy. And I'll never have the opportunity to have a baby in 2013. And I'll never again be able to end this year with a gain instead of a loss.

Nevertheless, it's time to say good-bye to 2013. I may not be completely ready for it to end, but at least this is one ending that is immediately followed by a new beginning.

~Last sunset of 2013~

Celebrating Today

Last Christmas, I think I honestly believed that I would have a baby in my arms today. At some point this year, I realized that having a baby in time for Christmas would be impossible and I held out hope that I would at least be pregnant. Eventually I gave up even that hope and I figured I would just experience another childless Christmas. And then the greatest thing happened. I got pregnant in October. I counted the weeks until Christmas and it seemed like the perfect day to tell everyone about Baby #2. I never thought that I would lose the baby before Christmas and end up doubly childless. I really didn't think it was possible to have an even emptier Christmas than the one following Gabriel's death last year.

So today I'm sad because I miss Gabriel and Poppy. And I'm sad because this isn't the Christmas I wanted. And I'm sad because I feel so extremely cheated out of everything that this day could have (should have) been.

But I also realize that today is not about me or what I want or the plans I made or the dreams I once had or all that I've lost. It's about celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ by showing kindness and love to others. It's about generosity and spreading joy and holiday traditions. It's about celebrating with family around a tree of lights. It's about embracing your life exactly as it is and being hopeful that the future will bring many more blessings.

So even though there is so much I wish I could change about today, I feel truly grateful for everything that I would never change. I am grateful to have had my children at all and I'm grateful for dear friends who will remember them with me today. I am grateful that I can help others who are also missing their children today. I am grateful for my loving family and to have somewhere I belong on Christmas Day. I am grateful for the Christmas dinner I'll share with them tonight. I'm grateful that I'm able to give presents to those who I love. And I'm grateful that despite all the sorrow in my heart, there is still so much joy and beauty in my life... and that is a gift worth celebrating today.

Poppy's Special Place

Yesterday, we decided that we would find a nice quiet place and bury Poppy. I honestly didn't know what else to do. Turning her over for medical testing seemed pointless and potentially disappointing and throwing her in the trash or down the drain just didn't feel right. She might be the tiniest person I've ever known, but I still think she deserves a special place. Also, I think it will be nice to have somewhere to go to feel close to her.

So, we wrapped her in a small blanket, buried her beneath the roots of a shady tree, placed a rock as a place-marker, said our good-byes, then scattered a handful of poppy flower seeds nearby. I'm not sure that any flowers will actually be able to grow but I thought it might be nice to try. Maybe one or two will somehow make it and then every spring, Poppy's place will be beautiful decorated with flowers.

Afterwards, we went to the beach and were blessed with a gorgeous sunset under which to write Poppy's name. Even though I wish more than anything else that I could still be pregnant, I feel truly lucky to have had any time at all with her. 

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