E (?)

With every step I felt it... E. E. E. E. E.

I was out, enjoying my walk- the air was crisp- the sky was blue and all I could think about was E. And it was March. It is March.

September I laid on that bed, ready for surgery- a DNC- an abortion. Sure my baby was gone. I knew that. Not only was that heartbeat gone, so was my baby- but still I had hope that somehow this would help us know. Help me know. Why? Who?

There was A (Andrew), B (Jonasen), C (Ali Jane), D (Zach) and E (?). And we had seen that heartbeat. We saw it again... and again... and again... and still I knew something was wrong- but they say that when you see that heartbeat you're 'safe'.

I should have known better.

The heartbeat does not make you 'safe'. Twelve weeks does not make you 'safe'. Full term does not make you 'safe'. But still I held out hope.

And when that heartbeat was gone. That baby was gone. There was one thing I wanted and that was to know why? And because I know that such things rarely have an answer (and when they do ~cord~ it hardly made me feel better), what I really wanted to know was 'who'.

We were driving home after seeing that dark screen that once showed us E's heartbeat and my husband had to pull over. He couldn't drive. It was too much. It was all too much. It had happened again and he looked at me and he said, "We can't even give our baby a name. I don't know why it matters. But it does."

And days later as I lay on that bed- waiting for surgery, I prayed that my baby would have left enough that we would know the answer to our question... boy? girl? We would have our answer and we could give our baby a name.

I cried. I cried for it all. I cried that I wanted this answer so much~ that it meant so much to me. I needed a name. I needed a picture. For he was five about to turn six and I found it a comfort that they were together. They were together and though I had carried that baby -E- for only a few months, I could close my eyes and see their hands together. And that gave me peace. I could see those hands but I couldn't see whose hand he was holding.

I waited on that bed and was soon joined by familiar faces. Faces that have been with me on this journey since he put me on it. Nurses. They came. They cried. They held me. And they listened. They listened as I asked them to pray that somehow I would have the answers that I felt I needed.

And she said, "Laura. You know. You already know who that baby was- who that baby is. It's in there ~it's in you~ and if you don't see it now, you will. But you know. You do know."

There was so much blood. And after my surgery I could tell by the look on my doctor's face that she couldn't give me my answer. And she didn't. E. I would call the baby E. And that is who you were to me. ~E~ How I wish you had left me something...

But then it was March- the month you were to be born and I sat there with my arms on my stomach wishing it was swollen with your life- wishing that I could see that heartbeat once more. I had cried so much that first March. You were gone and so was she. I was getting ready for her funeral- cancer had taken her at such a young age. And I thought of you both two young lives gone- And all I wanted was some hope. Some life. I took a test, folded my hands on my stomach and thanked God that in that moment it could happen- That test showed it could happen- it could grow again. And it did. F (Sean Asher).

E~ you were sent for a reason- for a purpose- and I still wish that somehow I knew~ had the answers I sought- the answers that I seek still. But Sue was right. And I think I know.

I still can sometimes close my eyes and see your hands together, but I zoom out and see you walking (always walking away)- hand in hand with your brother. Your blond pigtails swaying in the golden sun.

Our Sparks, Our Children.

Sometimes someone will walk through your door and change your life. You don't realize it when it is happening, but they do. I still remember one of those moments.

I remember the way she looked that night. Her face. I remember listening as she spoke - not of a baby that she held in her arms- nor a child who had breathed but was gone- but a spark- sparks. Children. Children who lived inside of her- hearts that beat inside of her- but gone far before anyone else would even know they existed.

She was my first real window into what it must be like to have lost a child so early. I remember after losing Andrew, one of my husband's friends said, "Everyone has a miscarriage." It bothered me. Not just the words he spoke, but their implication... Everyone has one... No big deal... and then comparing my full term son to a miscarriage bothered me...

But as I listened to her, tears streaming down her face, tears streaming down mine (which was rare because having gone to so many meetings my tears seemed to have run out), I finally got it. I learned something that I should have already known. For it is in that moment when you look at a positive test that your love starts to grow. Your mind starts to dream. Your heart starts to soar.

And like the babe I held in my arms that September night... the babe who left too soon- who shattered my dreams- who broke my heart- Well, sparks can do the same.

When I was pregnant with E, and praying and pleading with God to spare my child, to spare my spark, I called my dear friend. We cried together and she carried me. She spoke every word I needed to hear that night. And she spoke them again. For I needed her to carry to me- and she did. She has taught me so much in this world, but in the days that followed, I understood. I understood the pain of losing someone you only dreamed about... someone who is just a shadow... someone you would have given anything to meet.

I always think of my dear friend on New Year's Eve. You see, that was the day one of her sparks would have been born. I remember the story of her and her husband, toasting a New Year, when there didn't seem much to celebrate. I know that there are many in this world that did the same- 2011 was to be their year. But life has a way of taking turns down paths that we never thought we'd walk.

I think of those like my friends and I said a little prayer. That this year would be kind to you, and gentle to you. I prayed that there would be angels in your life, like those in mine, who have gotten me through so many storms and that the rainbows would find you- for I have seen that after those storms they are there- waiting to pick you up again.

Thank you Mary, for picking me up when I needed it and sharing yourself. The world is blessed because you are in it.

And to those missing their sparks, their children, their loved ones... hoping your storm passes quickly and you will be bathed in the glow of that rainbow that awaits. You will never forget, but you will see peace again. I hope it finds you.

Two Years. Today.

Two years ago today.
I was driving to school.
I had been bleeding, but I had seen that heartbeat. I had seen it three times.
As I drove I could think of nothing more than getting through the day. Coming home. Resting with my feet up.

It was in the afternoon that things began to change. I felt some cramping and an urgency to call my doctor. I took my students to my friend's classroom and got on the phone. It was the third time I had called, needed to know it was ok. I needed to be home and yet I put on my smile and pretended all was well. As the students wrote in their notebooks I picked up mine. I begged and pleaded in my own notebook- a note to God. Please, please don't take this baby...

As the bell rang, I walked to my car as fast as I could without putting strain on my body. I needed to be home. Five minutes into my drive, I knew I wouldn't make it. I drove to my childhood home, my parents' home, and climbed up the stairs to my old bedroom. I curled up in a fetal position and prayed. I rocked and prayed.

But there was so much blood.

I had never experienced such physical pain. I cried but refused to take anything to dull my pain. I could do this for my baby. My mom was worried. My dad was worried. I cried out loud as they watched. I begged out loud.

But there was so much blood.

I called my doctor and she calmed me. Said to lay and be still. She would pray, but for now all I could do was be. Be still. I could go to the hospital but the added trauma of an examination would not be good for my baby. I cried with her.

And there was so much blood.

The pain. I wanted to leave but I was a prisoner. I could not drag myself further than the bathroom. I climbed back into my bed. And then I called.

I called my friend. A friend who had lost so much. Sons. But she had a daughter. She had bled. There was so much blood and yet her daughter was safe. Lived despite going through such horror. I called her.

I cried and asked her to tell me her story. There was so much blood, but she lived. There was so much blood, but she was safe. There was so much blood but she is here.

I clung to that. Clung to her sweet words. Clung to that hope and prayed.

Four hours later, I felt I could go. My mom drove me. My children were in bed. My husband was so worried. But I felt better. I clung to hope.

But there was so much blood.

Two years ago tomorrow we went to the doctor. Looked at the screen. And hope was gone.

There was just so much blood.

My sweet baby E. I think of you now and I picture you. A child who could walk. A child who can smile. A whole child. A child who knew that I stayed in that room and cried and begged and pleaded for you to stay... and yet you didn't. But had love been enough, you would be here. Asleep in this house. Fast asleep... But for some reason you were sent to my life for just a moment. Such a brief moment... but you left something. Peace. Your brother is not alone. He has a hand to hold. You have a hand to hold. And I feel in my soul you heard my heartbeat, felt my rocking and heard my prayers. You knew my love. You know it still. Today I look back and I wonder... what might have been had you not left me.

Two years ago.
Today.

March

Last year I wrote you here.

You were a spark then. A dream. And I'd wondered if you would always be that to me. A baby we'd wanted so badly. A baby. A baby frozen in time.

For with your brother we had a name, and a face. We could picture ball fields and all things boy.
With you. We didn't know. We don't know. And so I wondered, if you would be that- our forever baby. Due in March.

I wondered if I would think of you mostly in September, when our hearts broke, when your heart stopped-
Or you'd come to mind in March, when our hearts should have grown-

A year later I know the answer.
Both.

This March I am not folding my arms over a belly that should be swollen with life- I've been holding a new one. Your brother. A miracle that never would have been, had you. And I like to think you knew that. Knew last March that while I folded those hands over a belly I thought was empty- you knew- you knew that I was wrong- for there was a heart beating in there- a heart that would grow ours yet again.

And I know that.
And I feel peace.
And yet I still wonder what you would have been.
Who you would have been.

Weeks after losing you, I got the phone call that your cousin would be born, my Goddaughter would be born. And as happy as I was to hear those words- those wonderful words- that they were expecting- as happy as I was- I was more sad for us- and for you- for you would have grown up together- just a month apart.

And so like your brother, I have a living beautiful breathing reminder of what could have been.
But what wasn't meant to be.
You.
Not my forever baby.
My spark that would have been one.
One.
This month.
March.

Her?

Her.
She prayed for her tonight.
First she asked God if she could one day see her brother Andrew's eyes.
Then she said, "And God, I'd really like to see her eyes too. You know, my sister, Baby E."
(gulp)

Flashback-
September 2009. I was waiting to have the surgery. The one that would take whatever may have been left from our baby, of our baby. Our baby. I wept and I wished I could say more than just 'our baby.' I wish I could speak a name.
"Close your eyes Laura- you know it- you know it in your heart- feel it- you know if that baby was a boy or a girl."

So I tried. I closed my eyes- and I prayed but feelings weren't enough for me. What if I was wrong?

On Valentine's Day, we spoke of them. My husband and I went to dinner alone. It was so nice. And we talked mostly of our children. Our children- Andrew and Baby E. And he told me he had a dream, that when he went to heaven he met God, and he walked with Him and He introduced him to our son. Our son Andrew. And then He turned and spoke the most beautiful name. It was so beautiful- more beautiful than anything he had heard. God spoke the name of our baby. Our baby who lived there, with Andrew.

Flashback-
September 2009. My husband. Hurting so. It had happened again. Another one gone. "And we can't even give our baby a name. That may be what hurts most of all. I need a name, Laura."

So I tried. I closed my eyes- and I prayed but feelings weren't enough for me. What if I was wrong?

Her?
She prayed for her tonight. My five year old prayed for her sister. Her sister Baby E. She is convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that she has a sister. While her brother speaks of Andrew, she speaks of her sister. Her. That one day she'll be able to see her eyes. When we're all in heaven together.
Her eyes.
Her's.

So I try. I close my eyes- and I pray, but feelings aren't enough for me. What if I am wrong?

So tonight I will wonder, and dream of you still. Dream of you, our little spark, and wonder if your sister is right. But I won't know. Not really. Until that day when we're all together. When I can look into your eyes.

And learn your name.

Permission- The Littlest Angels

Like so many moms who have lost babies, I've tried to find the reason- the why...

In Andrew's life and loss I have learned so much over the years. I have met women at support group meetings and felt like for a moment perhaps I gave them hope- that there was a light at the end of the tunnel- I got it- I understood- I knew they would begin to breathe again- to laugh- to smile- I could relate to the moms who had stillbirths- who had to kiss their babies goodbye because our stories seemed to follow a similar path a similar story-line...

At the meetings I also met moms who had miscarried and while I felt so sad for them, it wasn't something that I truly understood because I hadn't been there- I hadn't stood in their shoes. I had been blessed not to struggle with fertility and in general it was later in my pregnancies that I started to worry- started to wonder- Would I be bringing this baby home? -Kissing her goodbye?

But that changed.
That changed on September 9th of last year when I did stand in their shoes. I wore them. The shoes of the mom who had an early loss- a loss that was nothing more than a 'miscarriage'- everyone has them- A blip on the ultrasound- A peanut-

Why did God take our Baby E from us? Why?

Perhaps to give me a new understanding- a voice of what it was like to share with 'later loss' mamas who while incredibly sympathetic couldn't quite understand to the fullest why an early loss mama would come to such meetings. Would cry like they do- Would ache so- They hadn't had to hand over their babies...
A miscarriage?
Everyone has them.

And so when I lost our Baby E- I grieved. So much like I did when I lost Andrew- but Andrew had a face, had a name, had a body I could hold and the sweetest face that when it was time I was able to kiss goodbye forever. I saw him. And others 'saw' him too as I grew.
With Andrew I grieved for the future- a lifetime of dreams never to be had...

And likewise with Baby E- I grieved- but in addition to the future- a lifetime of dreams never to be had...

I grieved a face I would never see, a name (boy? girl?), a body to hold, and a sweet face to kiss goodbye. I grieved that others did not get used to my attachment to the baby because of my expanding waistline, I grieved because others didn't and because I was expected to 'move on' so much sooner than with Andrew- Returning to my classroom just a few days after my surgery to remove what was left of my baby- my baby's insufficient home.
So many didn't even know- my students and their parents thinking perhaps I had had my appendix out...
Where with Andrew- the school knew- the community knew- They knew about him.

I know that the lessons to be learned from our Baby E are many- and I know that in time I will find purpose revealed to me as to 'why'- but being able to share Baby E's story- to write- to help others understand how I felt has been reason. Reason enough to change someone- for when they hear about miscarriage- perhaps they won't shrug it off with a "Everyone has them." but will reply with sympathy for lost dreams, a lost future, a lost baby...

Kerri T., I was so touched by your words and I thank you for commenting and having the courage too. I've been thinking of you non-stop since reading your comment- and searching for words to describe the pain of a loss so early in pregnancy- but we all know that your dreams begin before you even see those two lines...
But when you see 'positive' it gives you permission to dream, permission to love, permission to hope. Please give yourself permission to grieve, permission to remember, permission to smile again.

So today I'm thinking of all the moms with the littlest angels, like my Baby E, Kerri's babes and the Bucki Boys and so very many, many others and thanking God for you. Thank you for reading my words and commenting, allowing me to share my story and for sharing your stories with me- and with others-
And to quote a famous author- so very wise who perhaps said it best...
Remember my friends,

"A person's a person
-no matter how small." -Dr Seuss

Baby E.

It's March.
Six months ago I had your heartbeat keeping time with mine. Six months ago my heart broke again when that heartbeat stopped. I fold my hands upon my stomach and it hurts me that it isn't swollen with your life, that you aren't stretching and growing inside of me, that we're not picking names. It hurts me that I never saw you, that I never got to say goodbye.

I was naive to miscarriage. I felt I had done my time. Losing your oldest brother at 39 weeks was enough. Looking at him, holding him, kissing him goodbye. That should have been enough. But it wasn't.

I was naive then. My first pregnancy- two babies growing inside of me. They called them baby A and baby B. I remember wondering who they would be- dreaming of them- imagining our lives together- our lives as a family. But my dreams didn't come true. Baby A left us. Baby A left us, but Baby B stayed.

Fifteen months later Sweet C was born. And while I feared losing another baby, I didn't. And then Baby D came and my fears were a little less. And then there was you, Baby E.

Baby E.
Baby E who came the moment we tried. Baby E who would be the finale', the end. Four children at home. A spring babe- Due in March. How I loved you from that moment I knew you were coming.

But from the beginning it was different. I wasn't as sick with you as I was with the others. But I went in and saw your heartbeat- that beautiful lively spark that cemented in my mind that this was happening- this wasn't a dream and that everything was o.k.

But it was different. A week later, I started to spot with you and I hadn't with the others. But I went in and saw your heartbeat- that beautiful lively spark that cemented again in my mind that this was happening- this wasn't a dream and everything was o.k.

But it was different. Something was different. I still was spotting but once again I went in and saw your heartbeat- that beautiful spark that cemented again in my mind that this was happening- it wasn't a dream and everything was o.k.

But it was different. On that September day I began to hurt, I cramped and I did feel sick- and I hadn't with the others. Suddenly I was doubled over with pain and for hours I talked to you. I begged you to stay. I begged you to hold on. I begged you not to leave.

But there was so much blood. So much pain. So much worry. But I saw you. Saw your heartbeat. I closed my eyes and I saw you nestled so safe inside me. Safe from the trauma. I tried so hard to keep you safe!

The pain began to fade and I talked to you. I prayed that I would see you that next day. Again see your heartbeat- that beautiful spark that would cement again in my mind that this was happening- it wasn't a dream and everything was o.k.

Were you there?

And then we saw the screen . And that beautiful spark- was gone. You were gone. You left. Another baby. Gone.

And it hurt so much. It hurt when you left. It hurt me and it hurt daddy. It changed us again. Another baby. Another loss.

But you were different. We didn't see you. We didn't hold you. But we did love you.
We didn't kiss you and we didn't name you. But we did love you.
We did dream.

Others were different too. You were "just a miscarriage." Everyone has them. They are so common. After the surgery, I'd feel better.

But I didn't. And I wish they would have seen you through my eyes. That they would have seen you as a child that would come home. That would live with us. That we would hold you and love you.
I wish they would have seen that.
I wish they would have seen you.
I wish I would have seen you.

But they didn't. And I didn't.

And now it's March.
And you're still gone.
And I still wish you weren't.

I imagine you and our Baby A together. I think of him holding you and kissing you and telling you our story. Telling you about our love since you had such a short time to experience it. Such a short time.

I love you so much. You are part of us. Our baby E.

If you want to know more about the day we said goodbye, click here.