Not to be.

After you have lost a child, it is so hard to be pregnant again.

We celebrated my daughter's seventh birthday last month and I was reminded of that. I was looking through some old pictures and I remembered it all...

I had lost Andrew in my first pregnancy and while the pregnancy itself was very uneventful, clearly the delivery was something that I would never have imagined. I desperately wanted to be pregnant again after Andrew~ Perhaps it was because that was the last time I was 'whole' and happy. I still look at that last picture that was taken of me pregnant and think, "She has NO idea how her life is going to change in just an hour..."

While I wanted desperately to feel a baby inside of me again, I was also terrified by the thought. I learned I was pregnant again on the day we buried my sweet Great Aunt, whom I was very close with. Even then~ every moment~ pregnancy was on my mind, but I would not let myself celebrate like I had when I saw that first pregnancy test~ would not let myself dream.

The disconnect continued. I remember thinking that this was wrong... I shouldn't be pregnant so soon... I should have Andrew. Joey should have Andrew. We should have Andrew~ not this other person.

It wasn't until I was in the garden writing Andrew that (that I wanted him back), that I felt a kick and knew. This was a new life that would teach me just like he had (and he would). I made the decision to love and to sing to this child just as I had Andrew and maybe even dream... albeit just a little.

I wouldn't buy a single thing when I was pregnant. When I spoke of the new baby I would say "IF" the baby comes home, you can get diapers and bring up clothes to be washed. Nothing was to be bought because nothing would be returned... I couldn't do that again.

So on the morning of the delivery (which would be three weeks early via c-section because of my growing anxiety of cord accidents and general fear), I didn't know what to expect. I got into the car and started sobbing. I wasn't quite sure then why I was crying and I am still not quite sure now. I could feel the baby kicking inside of me just as I had that first pregnancy though this time I knew it was from the one and only baby growing inside of me.

Once in the delivery room I was fine. It was brighter than I remember (though I am sure the room was just as light for that first emergency c-section). There was talk and laughter (something certainly absent from that first delivery). And there was hope. I knew that first delivery that the hope I was trying to hold on to was slowly falling through my fingers. This time there was hope and for the first time, lying on that delivery table, I knew... this was going to happen. I was finally going to be able to say that I had 'babies' at home.

After you lose a child it is so hard to be pregnant again, but it is more hard not to be.

Anytime I saw a pregnant person, I wanted to be her. In the back of my head there were always the thoughts, "Does she know how lucky she is?" "Does she know how fragile she is?" "Does she know how things can change in just a moment?" While I wanted to tell her, I also wanted to run from her. I hated being around pregnant people (unless I was one of them~ or it was someone from the Secret Society).

After delivering my daughter and experiencing what a delivery COULD be (pure happiness, the baby you came to deliver coming home with you), I wanted to do it again and again and again. I wanted to be those girls talking about pregnancy and pumps, complaining about aches and frequent potty breaks. I wanted to be "her" the pregnant girl. And it didn't matter if it was a few days after I delivered... I wanted to be "her" again. But even though I "was" her again (pregnant) I still wasn't. I was different. Changed.

What others didn't understand about me is that I somehow wanted them to know that I was a mom. I had done this. I had had twins. I think that somehow I felt Andrew's death was my fault. I had failed him. I had gone in too late, but I wouldn't do it again. I wanted to be pregnant again. I wanted to prove I could do it. For him. For me. For a baby that I would love more than anything.

I am someone though, who didn't have a hard time becoming pregnant, but I think that I had a similar desperation as those who did. I think that I had the same uneasy feeling around pregnant people. The same feeling that I wanted to run from the room when they came around. The same eyes that scanned the room and could find them. They were everywhere. And THAT was hard.

At the time for me baby showers were so very hard, because I knew what it felt like to have to return things~ things you had thought would be for your baby. Showers are still hard for me as I just find myself praying ~ please let these gifts not need to ever be returned... Like Andrew these things are always in the back of my mind. No one thinks they will lose a baby, until they do.

It is so hard to be pregnant, but it is more hard not to be.

Wishing you peace.

Dear Anonymous,

Dear Anonymous,

Fetus.

I hate the word.

Something about hearing it or seeing it makes my skin crawl. And like most things from that night back in September 2003, I completely understand why I feel that way and why I feel that way still...

When I was in that hospital (39 weeks pregnant) waiting to get my labor induced and they couldn't find heart tones on my babies, I thought nothing of it. I could feel kicks and by then I knew how cramped it probably was in there for my babies. I had had an ultrasound a few days earlier and all was well. Still, heart tones couldn't be found so that 'on-call doctor' (who changed my life in more ways than he'll ever know) brought in an ultra-sound machine.

He put it on my stomach and we all saw the picture.

I knew immediately what was wrong. That flicker from the heartbeat was gone. While I don't know if the magnitude of that picture set in at that precise moment, I do know that it registered with me... My baby is dead and has no heartbeat. He went to the other side of my stomach and same picture. Perhaps in a bit of a fog, or shock, or denial or perhaps all three~ What he said next is something I will NEVER forget. But it wasn't the message he was trying to communicate that struck me as much as his word choice.

"I am sorry, but it appears your fetuses are dead."

I did not hear his condolence or even the word "dead"~what I think screamed at me most was the word 'fetus,' and to this day I will never forget that feeling or that look on his face (or the faces of those I loved that were in that room).

I understand that as a doctor there are different stages in a child's development... embryo... fetus... but while I (as an educator and an early childhood educator at that) have had many classes about childhood development and those different stages, NOT ONCE in my pregnancy did I ever think I was having an embryo... or a fetus... Every time I looked at my stomach (even before the outside world could see) I knew that I was having a BABY!

There has been a lot of talk with the Duggars' recent announcement of her "miscarriage" (another word I hate) specifically regarding the pictures that were taken and the memorial (My thoughts on all that will probably come in another post soon). In one article that I read, an anonymous commenter was against the pictures and while she (or he) had other things that certainly shocked me, when I read 'fetus'... again my head went back to that night and that moment...

That damn word again...

That word that still manages to steal my breath.

That word that somehow means 'less than'.

"Less than" human.

"Less than" a child.

Had my son at six pounds 11 oz (the largest child I ever delivered) taken one little breath, he would have gone from being a fetus to a child and that makes me sick. To me he was more than that... more than some tissues and bone which to me is what I think of when I hear that dreaded word and even when my children were just little sparks inside of me, I knew then that they were bigger than that. They had purpose and they were "more than" anything I could ever imagine (and continue to be that... more than just a child even... to me... the mother...).

My "fetus" has taught me so much in this lifetime.

Perhaps he can teach you something too, "anonymous".

(Ah... exhale... I feel better now... Thanks for allowing me to pause for a moment~ and allowing me a little rant of sorts.)

Peace,

L

December Hurts.

"I just can't help but think that you look up at your mantle and think, 'There should be one more stocking up there...'"

That is what she said to me.

It was my first week back to work after delivering the boys. I had decided to come back to teach one week before the holidays to 'ease' my way back to the 'normalcy' of life... My life teaching children... The truth was I no longer knew normalcy~ the normalcy I had known had changed~ shifted~ disappeared.

The comment was rude. It caught me off guard and it was said as I was surrounded by second graders getting ready to start a school day. To say that it made it impossible to focus on my job would have been an understatement and yet somehow I managed. I went through the motions. I survived. Somehow we all survive.

"Laura, you are so strong."

How many times I have heard that... but the truth is~ what choice did I have? In the end I woke up each day, I breathed out and I breathed in and that world that I had thought had stopped kept spinning while my life as I had known it had stopped.

But it was the 'holidays'

And there was one less stocking upon my mantle.

What she said hurt and at the same time it validated me too. She knew that I was hurting and the acknowledgement (albeit strange) was also a comfort. I did look at my mantle and think it looked amiss. I had dreamed for 39 weeks that Christmas would contain four stockings and yet there were three~ I had dreamed of seeing little babes dressed in matching jammies... but when I opened my eyes, I didn't. And that hurt.

It doesn't matter if you lost your baby on January 1st, or December 26th, that first Christmas without your baby cuts and it feels as if it was yesterday~ as if yesterday you held him in your arms, closed your eyes and kissed him goodbye~ or perhaps only kissed that dream~ that dream of that 'first Christmas'~ goodbye.

It doesn't matter if your baby lived years, months in your womb or was just a spark. It hurts. Christmas is a child's holiday... it doesn't matter it's roots or the 'reason for the season', it is the time where children's eyes are wide, and the whole world seems to slow and have a magical glow about it... and when it doesn't... it hurts.

December hurts.

The truth was he had no stocking, but to me he was all I could think about. The elephant in the room that nobody talked about. I needed something. But what? I didn't know. My husband and I were out shopping, determined to get up, breathe, live. We found an angel. It sparkled and was beautiful and reminded me of my sweet one who was amongst the real angels.

It's been 9 Christmases.

And still I look at that mantle and wonder....

And that angel and sigh...

Andrew has more ornaments than our living children and they came from you. My friends. People who saw an ornament with his name, and angel, a letter (A), a star. Friends who had no words but wanted to do something. And as my living children placed them upon the tree I remembered where I was when I opened those ornaments, what it meant to me as I saw them and how each one seemed to heal my broken heart~ pick up one piece and try to glue its jagged pieces back together.

This year as my children hung them on the tree they said, "This one is for Andrew... And this one is for my sister..." and I sat and thought how lovely that they remember... how sad that they have to know.

And so I pause and think and remember how hard that first Christmas was~ how I never dreamt I would ever survive it... and here I am 9 Christmases later. The world has kept spinning and still his angel is there, watching over it all... and somehow I did. We did it.

Survived it.

Survived it without him.

Andrew.

Without her.

E.

Thank you Andrew.

Thank you E.

Thank you to all who remembered and remember still...

Thinking of your angels this holiday season and thinking of YOU.

I know others are too~ I just pray they let you know

Somehow.

In their own way.

And though it will never heal your broken heart, I hope you can see it for what it is, a medicine. A caring. A community. An attempt.

To show you love.

December hurts.

But you're not alone.

You never have been...

You never will be...

Those Shoes

I've written about this before... but I'm writing about it again...

Sometimes people make you think differently.

Sometimes circumstances make you see differently.

I wonder if these words may make you act differently.

Before I say what is on my heart at the moment, I need to say that clearly I believe that life begins at the moment of conception. My 10 week E (being a child I still think about and wonder about and love), I think makes that obvious.

BUT~

I have learned to sit. Sit and listen.

And I hope you will too... to this.

Last night we had a monthly support group meeting at the hospital. I was over an hour late because of work, but having been in contact with a few new families, I wanted to be there for them. I came in during the middle of a new member's story (that I hadn't heard from) and while I didn't get all the details, I was able to put together pieces. The baby would die- there was no misdiagnosis- no hope. Health care in this country is horrible and expensive and it would become more expensive still. Her baby would die. She ended the pregnancy. From what I could gather this did not happen in a hospital but in a clinic and clearly things had gone wrong... very wrong... and her experience made an already horrible situation, worse. A woman who had wanted nothing more than that child she had prayed for, had lost that child. I know that feeling. And I pray that you don't.

As I drove home later that night, I began to think about that... Abortion. That dreaded "A" word that I see on bumper stickers and fliers. That word that is thrown around by politicians and written on signs held by Christians (and yes I am a Christian). A word that is black and white. But to me... it's not.

I had an abortion.

If you look at my medical records, that is what they say. I chose to have "an abortion" after we lost E. Yes. E was gone and there was absolutely no heartbeat- but I needed it done. I needed to close that piece and move forward (albeit not forgetting). Because I have insurance, I was able to have this done at my hospital, surrounded by a caring doctor and nurses I know and love. This horrible thing, losing a child (and for me 'finishing' it with my D & C aka abortion) was something that in that moment I needed. I was fragile, I was breaking, I had that choice before me, and I made it. And now 3 years later, I still know it was the right one for me.

No one said anything to me about it, but I've seen my records and that is what they say: four live births. 1 still birth. 1 abortion.

Now you may say that my 'abortion' was different. My baby was dead. That is black and white.

And perhaps you are right...

But then I think of her. And while I have met others who have made this decision based on the information they are given, I still think of her and I have written about her here before. A woman I met a few years back now. She had wanted nothing more than to have a baby at home. After years of fertility treatments, she carried a baby she knew would have a syndrome, but a baby she wanted more than the world. She had read up, prepared and was thrilled to soon be bringing home a baby that she so wanted. She carried him past his due date, had a horrible delivery and he was born still. Horrible. Sad. Devastating.

After more years of trying she finally became pregnant again- finally to have a child at home. But as she went to that 20 week ultrasound, she learned the worst. Her baby had more than a syndrome. There was no brain. Her baby would die shortly after birth. Like the absence of that heartbeat this is something on an ultrasound that you cannot mistake. Having done this once, buried one child, she didn't feel she could do it again- go that long- labor- knowing your baby would be dead. And so she made that choice and ended her pregnancy.

What would I have done?

I don't know.

And I'm thankful that I never had to walk in those shoes or face that decision.

But what I do know is that she lost friends. She lost her church. She lost her baby. ~A baby that (despite having a heartbeat) she lost that day when she saw that ultrasound and learned that diagnosis. She lost her baby in that room. She lost that baby in that clinic. And she loses that baby every time she sees a baby- Every time that date comes around on the calendar- And every time she hears you say that she shouldn't have had that choice to make because it was wrong...

I sometimes think that we are so quick to judge. That one word becomes all or nothing, yes or no, black or white. We don't pause to think that there is a story there. A mother there. Someone who was faced with a decision that they didn't make lightly... or easily... but that they made.

And so for this reason, though I believe that life begins at conception, you will never see me hold up a sign, or place a bumper sticker on my car saying that because those words (though true) hurt people without meaning to. They certainly don't help them. The same way you would never know by looking at my family that I have two angels in heaven that I think of every- single- day... You don't know who walks around with the weight of a choice that was hard to make. A choice that didn't feel like a choice at all but something that they needed to do~ to survive. And while sometimes seeing twins may rip that scab right off my broken heart~ I imagine your words can have that same affect on someone and you may have no idea.

I remember that moment in the room hours after delivery. Holding Andrew. He was no longer that pink little sleeping babe I had delivered and I knew I needed him gone. He had to leave. Now. In order for me to survive. I called the nurse. Said it was time. Peeled back the hat on his sweet little head and kissed him for the last time. I turned my head as she took him from the room. I couldn't watch him leave- Though it was I who had made the call to have him taken from me.

I wasn't strong enough to keep my son a moment more.

Don't blame me for that.

Don't blame them for that.

You haven't walked those shoes.

And neither have I.

Who I am becoming.

Right now I am thinking about that place I once lived... somewhere in the middle of despair and sadness, anger and exhaustion. I remember being stuck. Not knowing where to go. What to say. How to feel. At the time I felt like I was the only one who lived there- it wasn't until I left that I realized how many people were actually there (and unable to leave).

It was a hard place to leave because despite its name, it was a comfort to me. Feeling pain meant feeling him. Hurting meant remembering. Crying meant loving. I stayed in that place for months until one day I left. I didn't cry that day~ and that made me cry.

Eventually I moved away and began traveling. I didn't stay in one place too long- sometimes happy- sometimes sad- but eventually I found joy again and it felt good so I decided to stay longer. Still sometimes I'd go visit my old stomping ground, I needed to. It felt like 'home'. I know that my friends and family worry when I go back, but I want them to know that it is OK. I will not be staying long. I no longer find it to be a good 'home' for me.

I think sometimes going back there- to those raw feelings can be good. Remembering~ feeling those things can make you feel closer... closer to the ones who left~ but I do think that there is a danger in staying there too long. Living amongst all those feelings you can start to lose yourself. Start to forget. Lose sight of that person you were before tragedy knocked on your doorstep and stole you away. Lose sight of that person they would want you to become.

When you stay there too long you forget what sunshine feels like and nothing seems to matter~ and those people who complain can send you deeper into despair so for today I ask you to... try.

Be thankful.

I am thankful for my mortgage bill.

I have a house to live in.

I am thankful for the laundry that never gets done.

I have clothes to keep me warm.

I am thankful for my tired feet.

I have a healthy body that can walk miles.

I am thankful for the dishes in my sink.

I have food on my table.

I am thankful for taxes.

I have police and firefighters to protect me.

I am thankful for my dented car.

I have a way to get from here to there.

I am thankful for my headache.

I have 23 first graders who teach me something everyday.

I am thankful for my leaves that need to be raked.

I have a yard full of beautiful trees.

I am thankful for my loud children.

I have loud children.

I am thankful for my angels.

They have reminded me once again to pause, remember where I've been, where I am and where I'm going. Without them, I wouldn't be me... and I like who I am. Who I am becoming.

And I think that they look down

And like me too.

In a good place... Sometimes...

Today I was sitting at my daughter's dance class listening to the mom's talk (as I often do). I had written about it here once before... the mom who was pregnant and she and the other moms were sharing their pregnancy stories as I, quietly smiled and eaves dropped...

I feel like I need to do a follow-up to that post. That woman went on to have her babies... yes babies... twins! They have been at the studio since the fall dance classes began and she has had them with her always. Clearly they were quite premature (they are very tiny still). I have overheard many conversations... on how hard it was... The boy was sick... But mostly I hear about how amazing it is- how there was 'something in the water' and how busy life is with these new twins and her now family of four. Her friends ooh and aaah over the babies (as is normal) and still I hate it.

Having been on this road for eight years, I can usually push back feelings of jealousy- but who am I kidding?? Feelings are feelings and as much as I'd love to say that I am this wonderful person with an amazing outlook- above such childish emotions as jealousy- the fact of the matter is that I am extremely jealous! And while it was mentioned that I too have four kids at home (I wanted some recognition)- she had "something in the water" to have those twins...

Well, I once had a sip of that water too... but I didn't dare say it. I mentioned something about having a twin pregnancy but no one said anything to me- asking me about it- and I quickly stopped myself from adding any more and realized that I was going into territory that made my palms sweaty and my heart race. And so I did what I always have when I start to feel jealous, angry or just sad... I breathe in and out... and in and out... until I can turn the page.

A friend who has no living children mentioned that her friend was pregnant... how she is happy for her friend, but more sad for herself and wondered if it ever got any easier. I would like to say that Yes. It does. But... Sometimes it can rip you up inside still. I have no reason to feel this jealousy. After all, I am in that good place... I really am...

But still today I thought- I could have done that too. I could have taken care of two babies- I could have done without the sleep and taken them out to places. That could have been me...

But it wasn't.

So today I felt a little sorry for myself. And with four healthy children living in my house I am more than ashamed to be admitting it.

But today I felt a little sorry for myself. And with two in heaven, I think that I will allow myself that and not be ashamed for admitting it.

I don't think I'm alone.

After all... I am in a good place.

Sometimes.

Remember Us.

I have been thinking~

And when I've been thinking, I usually need to come here.

October 15th has been set aside as a national day of remembrance- To remember people like me and our babies who we lost either through miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss. If you are driving near a hospital and see balloons of pinks, blues and whites flying into the air, chances are that you are witnessing a balloon release. And those balloons you see... they represent the life of someone who was wanted so very, very much. Each balloon was held by someone with hopes and dreams for a child, who- like the balloon- they couldn't hold on to.

The words I write here of course are of my opinion and I do not claim to represent nor speak for everyone in this secret society. The truth is that we are all very different- as unique as our losses. Some long for you to remember and some may want you to forget (or at least act that way).

I have recently seen many posts on facebook about October 15th, and how important it is to remember people (like me) who have had a loss. I like seeing them. One struck me recently though. She wrote that when she asked people to remember October 15th- to remember her child- the only people who mentioned her baby or commented on her posts were people of this (loss) community. That made me pause and wonder and ask myself... why?

I wondered- because that hasn't been my experience. When I woke up on September 15th, and checked my email, my facebook, my phone messages, my mailbox... I had loads of messages from friends remembering my son. And while they wrote such kind things that had me in (happy) tears, what I really treasured was that they wrote (or said) the one thing that mattered to me ~his name~. There is something about hearing the name of someone you thought everyone else forgot that can lift you. Make you pause. Bring (happy) tears to your eyes because they remembered!

Of course many of the people I heard from were friends I know from this community- but there were a large number who have never had a loss- or had a child- or even wanted one. I wondered why it would be that my friends would (and do) acknowledge my Andrew and E, while other people's friends do not. And while I may say that it is because I have the best friends out there... (I think I do), I know that that is not the case. Everyone in this life has someone out there who loves them, cares for them, and remembers. So why don't they wake up with the same sweet messages in their inboxes on the anniversaries? On October 15ths? I am no more special than anyone else- Why haven't my friends 'forgotten' like others have?

And then I got to thinking, I don't think that their friends forgot. I think that perhaps the difference is, I have a big mouth. I have said Andrew's name so much (especially in those early days, months, years) that people who know me and know my living children are able to recall his name just as easily as the children who they see each day. They remember though not just because I speak his name, but because I have given them permission. I have told them what I want from them. What I need from them. I need them to say his name. I need them to remember, for when they do~ it matters. It matters more than I could ever express.

I have only been married for a decade but I learned early on that though I'd like to think my husband can read my mind and know what I am thinking, the truth is... he can't. If something matters to me- if I need something- I need to say it. Tell him. Similarly, I think that we in this community- if we truly want our friends to remember- need to guide them, tell them what we need. They want to help us, sometimes they just can't read our minds- and we need to forgive them for that...

All of this has reminded me of that beautiful quote I have referenced before:

"If you know someone who has lost a child or lost anyone that is important to them, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died~ They didn't forget that they died. You're not reminding them. What you're reminding them of is that you remember that they lived and that is a great, great gift."

Elizabeth Edwards

Share with your friends. Tell them what you need. Tell them what you want.

I just did.

Remember.

And say their name(s).