We're in the midst of another holiday season without our daughter. For some reason I thought it'd be easier, but I'm finding some days it is and some days it isn't.
Last year the holidays were unbearable. I wanted to skip Thanksgiving and the entire month of December and go straight to January. And January's my least favorite month of the year! Normally, I decorate the house on December 1st; but last year, I didn't decorate at all. We decided late in the season to get a tree but agreed it had to be an ugly one. We half-heartedly decorated it.
The only reason I wanted a tree was so that we could get ornaments for Lily. But even that was hard. I couldn't go shopping for them because all I could see was "Baby's First Christmas" everywhere. You have no idea how many ways people commemorate "Baby's First Christmas" until you lose a baby. Those items were all I could see when I went to the mall or department stores. So I couldn't buy an ornament, because I couldn't shop for one without crying my eyes out.
I admired all of my friends in our local support group who could find the positive and honor their babies in different, uplifting ways during December. I just couldn't do it. I was exhausted from grief and really just plain sad. I didn't really want to do anything but hide away until it was all over.
This year, we have Lily's little brother, Dexter. I really want to make his first Christmas special, even if he's too young to remember and completely unaware of the season. I thought with a new baby - to buy all those "Baby's First Christmas" memorabilia for - the holiday season would be better. Easier. To a certain extent that's true, but every now and then it hits me. Lily would be 19 months old tomorrow, December 9. This Christmas, she could open her presents from Santa. She could get some candy in her stocking. This Christmas was supposed to be awesome. It would have been even more special because we would be spending it with her new little brother. I'd have two little ones to prop up on Santa's lap.
So this year, I decided to do more for Lily. Because we didn't "get in the spirit" last year, I didn't get a stocking for Lily. Not a real one anyway. I just got a cheap 99 cent one from Walgreen's that is barely bigger than my hand. This year, I decided to go early and find stockings for our whole family. I was happy to find them and a box in which to store Lily's ornaments from this year and last. I checked out ornaments for her and for Dexter. While I was shopping, I felt happy and sad all at once. Happy I was finally getting her a real stocking and solidifying her place in our family; but at the same time sad because she wasn't with me picking out her stocking, picking out an ornament and looking at the toys in the adjacent aisles. After checking out and answering all the cashier's questions about Dexter ("is this your first?" of course...), I went to my car and broke down.
I didn't realize it would be this hard again.
Our local support group has an annual Holiday Remembrance Service to remember all of our babies. Last year's service was a blur. I only remember sitting in a pew crying and crying and then getting a cookie afterwards before leaving quickly. This year I thought it'd be better. It was... until a song, "The Water Lily" was played. It's a song about a young mother dreaming about her dead child. I started crying so hard I was nervous I'd start blubbering. And while last year I brought tissues, and people handed me more, this year I didn't bring any. I guess I didn't think I would need them. My favorite part of the service this year was the gift the group's facilitators gave us. It's a keepsake ornament that says "Always remembered. Always in our hearts." It's a perfect addition to Lily's ornament collection.
Today, Dexter and I had a "Lily Day." My husband and I decided to participate in the "Adopt an Angel" program that the Salvation Army runs in conjunction with JC Penney. I "adopted" an 18 month old little girl. I had a blast shopping for her. She needed clothes and a coat, but also wanted toys. I got her everything on her list. Anytime the thought "this is too expensive" came into my mind, I countered it with "If Lily were here, would you buy it?" The answer was always yes. So I bought it all. Today, Dexter and I dropped the items off at the Salvation Army. It felt really good. I left wishing I could see that little girl open up the gifts and see her new toys.
Once we got back into the car and started driving away, I turned on the radio and "Butterfly Kisses" was playing. Not even kidding. I started crying so hard I had to pull over. It just felt like Lily was saying thank you. Again, happy and sad at the same time.
Then Dexter and I headed over to the hospital where both Lily and Dexter were born. The hospital has a "Love Lights" tradition whereby friends of the hospital can purchase a light or string of lights for the hospital's holiday trees in memory of a loved one. My husband and I purchased one for Lily and today was the big lighting ceremony. The proceeds from the lights benefited the hospital's new birthing center and NICU
So, this weekend, we'll start getting the house ready for the holidays. We're picking out our tree. I'll decorate. Maybe we'll bake some cookies. And I'll try to figure out how to handle all the crazy Christmas celebrations with various family members who are anxious to celebrate Dexter's first Christmas. And I hope some remember that while we're happy to show Dexter everything about this season, someone is still missing. And it still hurts.
Happy Holidays baby girl. We miss you more than ever.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sophie's Choice
After Lily died, I got an e-mail from a friend from high school. She was sorry to hear what happened and wanted me to know she experienced pregnancy loss too. She told me she miscarried her first pregnancy - in the first trimester - and then got pregnant shortly thereafter. That subsequent pregnancy was successful and she told me that she wouldn't have that daughter now, if she hadn't lost the first. She just couldn't imagine her life without her daughter, so in the end, it worked out for the best. That would happen for me too, she said.
After I got pregnant again this year, I heard more stories similar to that and many comments were made about how I "wouldn't be pregnant now if Lily had lived."
Those comments and stories bother me. They hurt me. I know people aren't trying to make me feel bad by sharing those stories or saying those things. Nevertheless, I'd rather they not say that. I wish they would understand this: I don't want to feel grateful I lost Lily because now I have this new baby. I don't see Lily's death as an "everything happens for a reason" situation. I don't want it to be an "if X, then not Y" situation. I don't want to make that morbid sort of "Sophie's choice" between my children. I want them both.
My husband and I were very thoughtful and careful about our decision to conceive again after losing Lily. Aside from the medical reasons for waiting (I needed surgery to remove the septum in my uterus), we wanted to be sure we were ready emotionally for another pregnancy. We didn't want the second baby to be seen or thought of as a "replacement" baby.
When people tell me that I wouldn't be pregnant now if Lily had lived, I tell them that's not true! If Lily had survived last May, we could still be expecting this fall. Even if she was born at term in September 2010, we still could have conceived again in January 2011. It's possible I would have two living children this fall. More importantly, it's the way I would have wanted it!
My husband and I always wanted a lot of kids. To him that means "a baker's dozen." To me, it means three... maybe four. Given my age, we always knew our kids would be close in age. I've long since prepared myself that we may at some point have several kids under the age of five. And we're both okay with that. And want that.
I don't want to think Lily had to die for this new baby to be in our lives. Our plans had this new baby here anyway - with or without his/her big sister on earth. I don't want it to have to be one or the other.
It could have been - and should have been - both.
After I got pregnant again this year, I heard more stories similar to that and many comments were made about how I "wouldn't be pregnant now if Lily had lived."
Those comments and stories bother me. They hurt me. I know people aren't trying to make me feel bad by sharing those stories or saying those things. Nevertheless, I'd rather they not say that. I wish they would understand this: I don't want to feel grateful I lost Lily because now I have this new baby. I don't see Lily's death as an "everything happens for a reason" situation. I don't want it to be an "if X, then not Y" situation. I don't want to make that morbid sort of "Sophie's choice" between my children. I want them both.
My husband and I were very thoughtful and careful about our decision to conceive again after losing Lily. Aside from the medical reasons for waiting (I needed surgery to remove the septum in my uterus), we wanted to be sure we were ready emotionally for another pregnancy. We didn't want the second baby to be seen or thought of as a "replacement" baby.
When people tell me that I wouldn't be pregnant now if Lily had lived, I tell them that's not true! If Lily had survived last May, we could still be expecting this fall. Even if she was born at term in September 2010, we still could have conceived again in January 2011. It's possible I would have two living children this fall. More importantly, it's the way I would have wanted it!
My husband and I always wanted a lot of kids. To him that means "a baker's dozen." To me, it means three... maybe four. Given my age, we always knew our kids would be close in age. I've long since prepared myself that we may at some point have several kids under the age of five. And we're both okay with that. And want that.
I don't want to think Lily had to die for this new baby to be in our lives. Our plans had this new baby here anyway - with or without his/her big sister on earth. I don't want it to have to be one or the other.
It could have been - and should have been - both.
Monday, September 12, 2011
X Weeks and Craving....
There's been a lot of chatter in the BLM community about the newest Facebook breast cancer awareness game. For those who don't know, this is a game in which women change their status to "X weeks and craving X." To be honest, I wasn't all that upset by the game. I didn't necessarily find it insensitive... just juvenile like the "games" from previous years indicating where you like to put your purse or the color of your bra. None of these games truly raises awareness for breast cancer. They just seem pointless.
After Lily died, the cravings stopped almost immediately. I remember eating an orange the day after her birth/death while still in the hospital, and it didn't taste good.
This year's game just confused me. I first encountered the update from my younger cousin, who has a toddler and has been constantly talking about "missing having a little baby." Hers read, "I'm 18 weeks and craving Hershey's Kisses!!!" I just assumed she was again bringing up her desire to be pregnant again with the status update. But then her mother, my aunt, who is past menopause posted something similar, "I'm 13 weeks and craving gummy worms." My sister-in-law, a fellow BLM, was also confused and asked her what was going on. Then we all got an email about the game. No one receiving the email played the game.
Again, I wasn't really outraged about it. I didn't feel that they were being insensitive to me or to my sister-in-law who lost our baby girls in the second trimester. That said, it did provoke a lot of thought. I spent days afterwards thinking about Lily and thinking about my current pregnancy (not about breast cancer!).
When I lost Lily, I was 20 weeks and craving oranges, strawberries and Yoplait yogurt. Normally, I'm a Dannon yogurt girl, but for some reason, while pregnant with Lily, I only ever wanted to eat Yoplait. Perhaps Lily had the same tastes as her daddy who prefers Yoplait. I loved oranges. Every afternoon around 3 or 4, I would get this strong craving for an orange. And they tasted delicious. I swear they were the best oranges I've ever eaten. Again, that was a result of Lily because the oranges were certainly not in season. Every night, I would have strawberries and whipped cream. We ate a lot of fruit, but strawberries and oranges were the biggest hits.
After Lily died, the cravings stopped almost immediately. I remember eating an orange the day after her birth/death while still in the hospital, and it didn't taste good.
I was 20 weeks when we lost Lily so I just started feeling Lily move. Her flips and kicks were still too weak for her daddy to feel from the outside, so we were anxiously awaiting the day he could feel her. It was so exciting to feel her and I wanted so badly to share that excitement and joy with my husband. Especially because he would poke my belly and tell the baby to wake up in the morning, and she would poke back. But he never got to feel that.
Currently, I'm 35 weeks pregnant with Lily's little brother or sister. And this entire pregnancy I haven't craved anything... in terms of food that is. The first trimester I could barely eat because I felt sick all the time. Even though my appetite returned during the second trimester, I still didn't crave anything really. And now, during the third trimester, I'm on a modified diet because of gestational diabetes so even if I had cravings, I can't really give into them. I think sometimes my lack of an appetite and cravings is due to anxiety. Most of the time I just can't figure out what I want to eat, even if I'm really hungry.
My only real cravings this pregnancy are the following:
Currently, I'm 35 weeks pregnant with Lily's little brother or sister. And this entire pregnancy I haven't craved anything... in terms of food that is. The first trimester I could barely eat because I felt sick all the time. Even though my appetite returned during the second trimester, I still didn't crave anything really. And now, during the third trimester, I'm on a modified diet because of gestational diabetes so even if I had cravings, I can't really give into them. I think sometimes my lack of an appetite and cravings is due to anxiety. Most of the time I just can't figure out what I want to eat, even if I'm really hungry.
My only real cravings this pregnancy are the following:
To just make it another week further in this pregnancy. This craving and the next have been the only constants this entire pregnancy.
To hear a heart beat every week at our doctor's appointment.
Now that the baby is moving, to feel him/her squirm every day. And some days it's the only thing I want, especially if the baby isn't particularly active that day. I've come up with all sorts of ways to get the baby to move to make mommy feel better.
To make it to the scheduled procedure to remove the cerclage, so I no longer have to worry about going into labor and possibly tearing my cervix.
To hear my baby cry. I swear that'll be music to my ears.
To hear the doctor say "It's a boy" or "It's a girl" after delivery rather than "the baby has no heartbeat" and the silence that follows those words.
To snuggle a warm, live baby.
To bring my baby home and to watch him/her grow up!
These are my cravings right now. No cravings for candy, just cravings for another life to come into and stay in mine.
I guess after re-reading this entire post, the "breast cancer awareness" game did affect me... just not in the way the people who designed the game wanted me to be affected.
Monday, August 15, 2011
What could have been...
I haven't been able to write a post lately. I started a few drafts, but haven't been able to finish them.
It's not that I've been too busy. Quite the contrary, I'm currently on bed rest for my subsequent pregnancy. I'm 31 weeks today thanks to a cerclage placed at 12 weeks and bed rest since 24 weeks. I thought I'd be able to catch up with blogging because of my situation, but I have been having a hard time thinking about Lily.
I should correct that. It's not so much thinking about her as it is thinking about the circumstances of her death. At 24 weeks in this pregnancy, my cervix started to shorten and there was funneling. Since then we continue to see the same changes that were present in the weeks leading up to Lily's birth/death. Only this time, we've been able to keep our baby safe. We may actually bring this one home.
And as exciting as that is, it breaks my heart at the same time. It seems like this was a simple fix. Tie that baby in there and lay down for a while. Is that all we needed to do?
The worst part though is the guilt I still feel for Lily's premature delivery. I'm so careful now. I pay attention to every pain or stretch I feel. I haven't exercised since I found out about this little one. We haven't taken any trips or vacations. I've missed family birthday parties, showers, reunions, and my grandma's 90th birthday celebration. I take every precaution I can.
I didn't do that with Lily. Three days before she was born I walked all over the capitol square going to different events for work and the bar association. The pains I felt the day before she was born, I attributed to constipation and gas pains, even when they came regularly. When I finally thought about Braxton Hicks contractions, and looked them up to see if that's what was happening, it didn't seem to fit. It just didn't seem possible that I would go into labor at that stage. I ignored it and went to a movie with my mom and sister.
Now whenever my uterus tightens at all, I'm ready to call the doctor and be seen. Outside of my weekly appointments, I go into the doctor's office for a lot of "it's nothing" situations. Luckily, my doctor has been very supportive and willingly checks into any anxiety driven calls by giving me extra appointments.
I'm so proactive in my pregnancy care now. My doctor jokes that being a ob/gyn is my hobby now.
But I wasn't like that with Lily. I wonder what it would be like if I had been. I wish I would have been. What'd if I had pushed for a cerclage at 18 weeks? What if I'd called the doctor the moment I started feeling uncomfortable? Would they have been able to stop the labor? Would we have been able to hang onto her to the point of viability? Even longer? Would she be here in the fall to welcome home her sibling?
I just feel like I was so stupid while pregnant with Lily. I sometimes feel like I didn't take it seriously enough. And she suffered for it.
I wish I would have known.
It's not that I've been too busy. Quite the contrary, I'm currently on bed rest for my subsequent pregnancy. I'm 31 weeks today thanks to a cerclage placed at 12 weeks and bed rest since 24 weeks. I thought I'd be able to catch up with blogging because of my situation, but I have been having a hard time thinking about Lily.
I should correct that. It's not so much thinking about her as it is thinking about the circumstances of her death. At 24 weeks in this pregnancy, my cervix started to shorten and there was funneling. Since then we continue to see the same changes that were present in the weeks leading up to Lily's birth/death. Only this time, we've been able to keep our baby safe. We may actually bring this one home.
And as exciting as that is, it breaks my heart at the same time. It seems like this was a simple fix. Tie that baby in there and lay down for a while. Is that all we needed to do?
The worst part though is the guilt I still feel for Lily's premature delivery. I'm so careful now. I pay attention to every pain or stretch I feel. I haven't exercised since I found out about this little one. We haven't taken any trips or vacations. I've missed family birthday parties, showers, reunions, and my grandma's 90th birthday celebration. I take every precaution I can.
I didn't do that with Lily. Three days before she was born I walked all over the capitol square going to different events for work and the bar association. The pains I felt the day before she was born, I attributed to constipation and gas pains, even when they came regularly. When I finally thought about Braxton Hicks contractions, and looked them up to see if that's what was happening, it didn't seem to fit. It just didn't seem possible that I would go into labor at that stage. I ignored it and went to a movie with my mom and sister.
Now whenever my uterus tightens at all, I'm ready to call the doctor and be seen. Outside of my weekly appointments, I go into the doctor's office for a lot of "it's nothing" situations. Luckily, my doctor has been very supportive and willingly checks into any anxiety driven calls by giving me extra appointments.
I'm so proactive in my pregnancy care now. My doctor jokes that being a ob/gyn is my hobby now.
But I wasn't like that with Lily. I wonder what it would be like if I had been. I wish I would have been. What'd if I had pushed for a cerclage at 18 weeks? What if I'd called the doctor the moment I started feeling uncomfortable? Would they have been able to stop the labor? Would we have been able to hang onto her to the point of viability? Even longer? Would she be here in the fall to welcome home her sibling?
I just feel like I was so stupid while pregnant with Lily. I sometimes feel like I didn't take it seriously enough. And she suffered for it.
I wish I would have known.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Father's Day
When my husband and I started dating one of the things that attracted me to him the most was the way he was with children. He spent a lot of family events playing with his younger cousins or my nieces and nephews. I always thought he'd be a terrific father.
One of my greatest struggles through the loss of Lily is dealing with the guilt. I have a draft post on guilt but it's heartwrenching to write so it's taking a while. A big part of the guilt I feel revolves around my husband. I feel like I robbed him of the chance of being a dad.
He brought up having kids about two days after our wedding. It was so incredibly cute to hear him talk about having babies right away, but we just got married. I told him maybe we should get used to that first! We agreed to wait a while. Lily had other plans though. Two and a half months after our wedding, we found ourselves expecting our first child.
My husband was so incredibly excited. After our first ultrasound at about 9 weeks, he immediately framed the picture of the baby, which of course looked like a blob. We didn't even have our wedding pictures framed! But he took a heart frame we received as a gift and put the ultrasound pictures in it. Every night he'd ask when the baby could play t-ball. When would we sign him/her up for Little League? Anytime I complained about my uterus stretching or pulling or just generally feeling huge one day, he'd just smile, rub my stomach and say "it's his house."
The day Lily was born, and we knew she wouldn't survive, my husband didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He wouldn't leave the room. I'd never seen him so nervous and upset. With every contraction I had or push I would need to do, he'd wince and put his head down and try to hold back his tears. I found myself comforting him that day.
Seeing him in pain that day and the days that followed was unbearable. While at times it seemed like he was adjusting to life without our daughter and that he was healing faster than I was, I could always tell when he was having a hard time. Lily's baby blanket would move. Lily's picture - still in the heart frame he'd picked out for her - would be at the edge of our nightstand instead of in the middle. Sometimes when he was drifting off to sleep at night or just barely awake in the morning, he'd mumble Lily's name. It broke my heart. It still does.
I tend to think his heartbreak is my fault. I know deep down it's not, but I can't stop thinking this way sometimes. I feel like he married a defective woman. Maybe he should have gotten all the facts before committing to me. That whole "check under the hood before you buy" thing. I should have been able to fully disclose the situation. I should have known my uterus was abnormal. I should have been able to warn him. I should have figured out this incompetent cervix thing before we got pregnant and taken all steps necessary to keep his child safe.
My body didn't just fail me that day. It failed him.
I feel like if he'd married someone else he would have been spared all this. He could have a child by now. He could be a father already - maybe to even more than one. He could have celebrated Father's Day the way "real" dads do. He wouldn't have had to endure the awful pain of losing a baby. He wouldn't have to worry we may lose another. He wouldn't have to wonder if he will ever have a baby at home. All of this wouldn't be an issue - if only he hadn't married me - the defective wife.
I've apologized to him on numerous occasions over the last year. I've told him how I feel guilty and responsible for his heartache. I've told him "if you'd married someone else..." His usual response? "But then I wouldn't have Lily."
That response makes me smile. It proves to me how wonderful he truly is. It reminds me why I love him and just how much I do.
My husband is a great father. I just hope one day we can bring a baby home.
One of my greatest struggles through the loss of Lily is dealing with the guilt. I have a draft post on guilt but it's heartwrenching to write so it's taking a while. A big part of the guilt I feel revolves around my husband. I feel like I robbed him of the chance of being a dad.
He brought up having kids about two days after our wedding. It was so incredibly cute to hear him talk about having babies right away, but we just got married. I told him maybe we should get used to that first! We agreed to wait a while. Lily had other plans though. Two and a half months after our wedding, we found ourselves expecting our first child.
My husband was so incredibly excited. After our first ultrasound at about 9 weeks, he immediately framed the picture of the baby, which of course looked like a blob. We didn't even have our wedding pictures framed! But he took a heart frame we received as a gift and put the ultrasound pictures in it. Every night he'd ask when the baby could play t-ball. When would we sign him/her up for Little League? Anytime I complained about my uterus stretching or pulling or just generally feeling huge one day, he'd just smile, rub my stomach and say "it's his house."
The day Lily was born, and we knew she wouldn't survive, my husband didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He wouldn't leave the room. I'd never seen him so nervous and upset. With every contraction I had or push I would need to do, he'd wince and put his head down and try to hold back his tears. I found myself comforting him that day.
Seeing him in pain that day and the days that followed was unbearable. While at times it seemed like he was adjusting to life without our daughter and that he was healing faster than I was, I could always tell when he was having a hard time. Lily's baby blanket would move. Lily's picture - still in the heart frame he'd picked out for her - would be at the edge of our nightstand instead of in the middle. Sometimes when he was drifting off to sleep at night or just barely awake in the morning, he'd mumble Lily's name. It broke my heart. It still does.
I tend to think his heartbreak is my fault. I know deep down it's not, but I can't stop thinking this way sometimes. I feel like he married a defective woman. Maybe he should have gotten all the facts before committing to me. That whole "check under the hood before you buy" thing. I should have been able to fully disclose the situation. I should have known my uterus was abnormal. I should have been able to warn him. I should have figured out this incompetent cervix thing before we got pregnant and taken all steps necessary to keep his child safe.
My body didn't just fail me that day. It failed him.
I feel like if he'd married someone else he would have been spared all this. He could have a child by now. He could be a father already - maybe to even more than one. He could have celebrated Father's Day the way "real" dads do. He wouldn't have had to endure the awful pain of losing a baby. He wouldn't have to worry we may lose another. He wouldn't have to wonder if he will ever have a baby at home. All of this wouldn't be an issue - if only he hadn't married me - the defective wife.
I've apologized to him on numerous occasions over the last year. I've told him how I feel guilty and responsible for his heartache. I've told him "if you'd married someone else..." His usual response? "But then I wouldn't have Lily."
That response makes me smile. It proves to me how wonderful he truly is. It reminds me why I love him and just how much I do.
My husband is a great father. I just hope one day we can bring a baby home.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Lily's Urn
After Lily's death, my husband and I decided to have her cremated. We'd never really thought about death before. We were not sure what we wanted done with our bodies after our deaths! We didn't have plots in a cemetery and I wasn't certain I wanted to pick something out for Lily especially if we were to move at some point. Mainly though, I didn't want her to be alone.
So we had her cremated. People told us we could spread her ashes somewhere special. Perhaps the park where we got married? But really, I didn't want to do that. I wasn't ready for her to be anywhere but with me. I'm still not.
Her urn has occupied a spot on our nightstand ever since. She's cradled by a bear the hospital gave us and her baby blanket is nearby (that is when the blanket's not cuddled up with us while we're sleeping).
Her cremains were originally in this horrible plastic box the funeral home supplied. The funeral home told us that they would give us a temporary plastic urn. What we actually received was an awful plastic box with a sticker on it with her name. It resembled a box used for holding evidence in a crime rather than an urn for a sweet baby gone too soon. Eventually, after months of trying to find the "perfect" urn for Lily, my dad and stepmom gave us one we could use "temporarily" until we found something we liked. It is a small box that is adorned with a cross and the quote "Those we have held in our arms awhile, we'll hold in our hearts forever." We decided we would use it permanently.
When we leave our house - even for a night - I always feel the need to either bring her urn with us or keep it in the fireproof safe. It seems strange locking her in a safe, but I would feel worse if the house burned down and we lost her again. This also goes for tornadoes. Whenever there's severe weather I tell my husband "we have to make sure to grab Lily before heading to the basement."
Well, last night we had severe weather (today the weather service confirmed it was a tornado). Suddenly it started raining and the wind was incredibly strong. We looked out the window to see the trees bending in ways they shouldn't and rain coming down in circles. My husband, who normally goes outside in severe weather to "check it out," even agreed we should go to the basement. Within a few seconds the tornado sirens went off. Without words we both ran upstairs first - I grabbed Lily and her bear and my husband grabbed her baby blanket. On our way down to the basement I also picked up her memory box.
Settling into the basement, I went to set her things down and my hands were very full. Lily's urn slipped and fell onto the cement floor. The edges of her box chipped off. The chipped corners cannot be fixed. The pieces shattered so not even glue will help.
I felt awful.
I always feel I "can't keep anything nice." New clothes get stained or torn; shoes get scuffed too quickly; straps of purses always break on me; books get dirty; my cell phone gets scratched; iPod gets dropped; you name it, I seem to ruin it quickly. But I've always been so careful with anything associated with Lily. I want all of it to be perfect. Despite that, I still managed to ruin something of hers. And not just anything... her urn. Her final resting place.
I'm so mad at myself.
My husband had gone back upstairs for the radio so I had to tell him I dropped the urn when he came back. I started crying and he told me it was okay and wasn't that bad. The bear covers the badly chipped corners when he cradles the urn. I guess you can't really tell. But I know they're there. Of course, the couple of chipped corners it has now are better than it being completely smashed in a tornado.
But still, I'm sad it's ruined. I'm angry with myself for not taking better care of her! There's so little we have of her. I wanted it all to stay perfect.
So we had her cremated. People told us we could spread her ashes somewhere special. Perhaps the park where we got married? But really, I didn't want to do that. I wasn't ready for her to be anywhere but with me. I'm still not.
Her urn has occupied a spot on our nightstand ever since. She's cradled by a bear the hospital gave us and her baby blanket is nearby (that is when the blanket's not cuddled up with us while we're sleeping).
Her cremains were originally in this horrible plastic box the funeral home supplied. The funeral home told us that they would give us a temporary plastic urn. What we actually received was an awful plastic box with a sticker on it with her name. It resembled a box used for holding evidence in a crime rather than an urn for a sweet baby gone too soon. Eventually, after months of trying to find the "perfect" urn for Lily, my dad and stepmom gave us one we could use "temporarily" until we found something we liked. It is a small box that is adorned with a cross and the quote "Those we have held in our arms awhile, we'll hold in our hearts forever." We decided we would use it permanently.
When we leave our house - even for a night - I always feel the need to either bring her urn with us or keep it in the fireproof safe. It seems strange locking her in a safe, but I would feel worse if the house burned down and we lost her again. This also goes for tornadoes. Whenever there's severe weather I tell my husband "we have to make sure to grab Lily before heading to the basement."
Well, last night we had severe weather (today the weather service confirmed it was a tornado). Suddenly it started raining and the wind was incredibly strong. We looked out the window to see the trees bending in ways they shouldn't and rain coming down in circles. My husband, who normally goes outside in severe weather to "check it out," even agreed we should go to the basement. Within a few seconds the tornado sirens went off. Without words we both ran upstairs first - I grabbed Lily and her bear and my husband grabbed her baby blanket. On our way down to the basement I also picked up her memory box.
Settling into the basement, I went to set her things down and my hands were very full. Lily's urn slipped and fell onto the cement floor. The edges of her box chipped off. The chipped corners cannot be fixed. The pieces shattered so not even glue will help.
I felt awful.
I always feel I "can't keep anything nice." New clothes get stained or torn; shoes get scuffed too quickly; straps of purses always break on me; books get dirty; my cell phone gets scratched; iPod gets dropped; you name it, I seem to ruin it quickly. But I've always been so careful with anything associated with Lily. I want all of it to be perfect. Despite that, I still managed to ruin something of hers. And not just anything... her urn. Her final resting place.
I'm so mad at myself.
My husband had gone back upstairs for the radio so I had to tell him I dropped the urn when he came back. I started crying and he told me it was okay and wasn't that bad. The bear covers the badly chipped corners when he cradles the urn. I guess you can't really tell. But I know they're there. Of course, the couple of chipped corners it has now are better than it being completely smashed in a tornado.
But still, I'm sad it's ruined. I'm angry with myself for not taking better care of her! There's so little we have of her. I wanted it all to stay perfect.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Memorial Day
Today we attended a memorial bench dedication at Vilas Park in Madison. Lily's name was added to one of the memorial benches by the playground. I've had this romantic idea that one day we'll be able to take our kids to Vilas and sit on her bench while our kids play. It'll be a nice family outing with everyone present in some way.
During the bench dedication ceremony, one of the speakers mentioned that after you make it through that first tough year without your child, the realization sets in that you have to get through another year without your child. That's where we're at now. It's been a year since Lily died. We've made it through all the "firsts." First holidays, her first birthday. It should be getting easier right? Some days it is. But other days it's not and honestly I'm exhausted from this grief. The thought of going through another year of this is too much. I just want the sadness to be over.
And I would not have guessed that Memorial Day would be a hard day for me. We already got through our first Memorial Day without Lily and it didn't seem that bad. Granted I don't remember that weekend last year so much. I remember playing with my nephew at Brat Fest but the rest of the weekend is a blank. In reality all of May last year I was just in a fog ... as I was most of the summer.
Today was hard. The memorial bench dedication ceremony was nice and it was great to be with people who truly "get it." Yet at the same time, we were surrounded by families at the park. Children playing everywhere. We've sheltered ourselves from seeing parents with their children at holidays. We've basically spent the last year hiding from the world on holidays. It's still not easy seeing families picnic and children playing. I just wanted to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head and stay there. All of this still even after a year's gone by.
It's also a difficult day because my niece was born today. My mom texted just before the ceremony started to tell me that my sister-in-law was in full labor and it wouldn't be long now. And it wasn't. By the end of the ceremony, a new little girl was born into the world.
It makes me sound awful I'm sure, but I'm so sad, bitter and angry. I don't want to go to the hospital. I don't feel like meeting her this week. I don't want to have to talk to my brother and sister-in-law at all. I don't even want to see her pictures posted on Facebook. I feel like the worst aunt ever. And it's so hard because I've always loved being an aunt. I probably take more pictures of my nieces and nephews than their parents do. When my brother's first son was born two years ago, I was at the hospital right away. I cried when I met him.
Today I'm crying but not tears of joy. I just keep wondering why did Lily die? Why didn't she make it? Why do some parents get to see their kids grow up when I never got to know mine? Why are the only things I get to do for her are memorial services or walks in her memory or other things in her honor? Why doesn't she get big announcements of her birth, birthday parties, and pictures plastered all over the place with everyone commenting on how beautiful she is? Why did she have to die?
I know I'm never going to have the answers to these questions. Not that I'd be satisfied with Lily's death if there were answers. But I wish I could stop asking these questions. I wish my whole life wasn't going to be spent trying to resolve this.
During the bench dedication ceremony, one of the speakers mentioned that after you make it through that first tough year without your child, the realization sets in that you have to get through another year without your child. That's where we're at now. It's been a year since Lily died. We've made it through all the "firsts." First holidays, her first birthday. It should be getting easier right? Some days it is. But other days it's not and honestly I'm exhausted from this grief. The thought of going through another year of this is too much. I just want the sadness to be over.
And I would not have guessed that Memorial Day would be a hard day for me. We already got through our first Memorial Day without Lily and it didn't seem that bad. Granted I don't remember that weekend last year so much. I remember playing with my nephew at Brat Fest but the rest of the weekend is a blank. In reality all of May last year I was just in a fog ... as I was most of the summer.
Today was hard. The memorial bench dedication ceremony was nice and it was great to be with people who truly "get it." Yet at the same time, we were surrounded by families at the park. Children playing everywhere. We've sheltered ourselves from seeing parents with their children at holidays. We've basically spent the last year hiding from the world on holidays. It's still not easy seeing families picnic and children playing. I just wanted to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head and stay there. All of this still even after a year's gone by.
It's also a difficult day because my niece was born today. My mom texted just before the ceremony started to tell me that my sister-in-law was in full labor and it wouldn't be long now. And it wasn't. By the end of the ceremony, a new little girl was born into the world.
It makes me sound awful I'm sure, but I'm so sad, bitter and angry. I don't want to go to the hospital. I don't feel like meeting her this week. I don't want to have to talk to my brother and sister-in-law at all. I don't even want to see her pictures posted on Facebook. I feel like the worst aunt ever. And it's so hard because I've always loved being an aunt. I probably take more pictures of my nieces and nephews than their parents do. When my brother's first son was born two years ago, I was at the hospital right away. I cried when I met him.
Today I'm crying but not tears of joy. I just keep wondering why did Lily die? Why didn't she make it? Why do some parents get to see their kids grow up when I never got to know mine? Why are the only things I get to do for her are memorial services or walks in her memory or other things in her honor? Why doesn't she get big announcements of her birth, birthday parties, and pictures plastered all over the place with everyone commenting on how beautiful she is? Why did she have to die?
I know I'm never going to have the answers to these questions. Not that I'd be satisfied with Lily's death if there were answers. But I wish I could stop asking these questions. I wish my whole life wasn't going to be spent trying to resolve this.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Love at First Sight
A year ago today, I began believing in "love at first sight." We loved Lily from the moment we found out we were pregnant with her. After her first ultrasound at 8 weeks, my husband put her pictures in a heart frame we got for our wedding. But it wasn't until she was put on my chest and I saw her perfect little face, that I really knew how deep my love for her was. It was overwhelming. She was exactly who we were waiting for. Exactly whom we wanted to meet.
She was born at 9:30pm. She weighed 12 ounces and was 10 inches long. She looked like her daddy. She had his nose and his mouth. And his head. I tease my husband now that it's a good thing he's losing his hair because we'll always know what Lily's head looked like. She also had big feet, most likely just like mine. She was the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen. Everything about her was perfect.
I woke up this morning and for a brief second I forgot how sad I've been the last week. Then I remembered, and burst into tears. Just like the days after she died, when I'd wake up and think it was all a dream. I wasn't sure how I'd make it through the day.
Then I started seeing signs from my little girl. I logged onto Facebook and saw that CarlyMarie, who does the Names in the Sand photographs, had posted a random picture she took last night. The beach she takes the images at was full of people and it was hard for her to get pictures without people. The photo she posted had Lily's name in it. It wasn't for our Lily of course, but I was happy to see it.
Later I got an e-mail from my little brother. He told me he didn't realize Lily and the author of Mr. Happy had the same birthday. Another sign! My little brother and I used to read the Mr Men and Little Miss books when we were kids and I read them to Lily when I was pregnant.
It was very comforting. She's here with us in some way.
Happy 1st Birthday lil' girl. We love you and miss you every day.
She was born at 9:30pm. She weighed 12 ounces and was 10 inches long. She looked like her daddy. She had his nose and his mouth. And his head. I tease my husband now that it's a good thing he's losing his hair because we'll always know what Lily's head looked like. She also had big feet, most likely just like mine. She was the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen. Everything about her was perfect.
I woke up this morning and for a brief second I forgot how sad I've been the last week. Then I remembered, and burst into tears. Just like the days after she died, when I'd wake up and think it was all a dream. I wasn't sure how I'd make it through the day.
Then I started seeing signs from my little girl. I logged onto Facebook and saw that CarlyMarie, who does the Names in the Sand photographs, had posted a random picture she took last night. The beach she takes the images at was full of people and it was hard for her to get pictures without people. The photo she posted had Lily's name in it. It wasn't for our Lily of course, but I was happy to see it.
Later I got an e-mail from my little brother. He told me he didn't realize Lily and the author of Mr. Happy had the same birthday. Another sign! My little brother and I used to read the Mr Men and Little Miss books when we were kids and I read them to Lily when I was pregnant.
It was very comforting. She's here with us in some way.
Happy 1st Birthday lil' girl. We love you and miss you every day.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mother's Day
Last year on Mother's Day, I was lying in a hospital bed begging my baby to hang on. I didn't want her to be born on Mother's Day... knowing she wouldn't be born alive. I didn't want her death associated with Mother's Day forever.
Today was rough. I expected it to be sad. I didn't expect crying for hours this morning. I was having panic attacks similar to ones I had immediately after Lily's death. I sobbed, could barely breathe, and couldn't stand. It physically hurt. These waves of overwhelming sadness continued the entire day. I didn't get out of my pajamas until after 7pm.
My husband has final exams this week, and, in fact, had an exam at 7:45am this morning. So I didn't expect that he would do anything special for today. It was still hard to not do anything. I felt disappointed. I made myself breakfast. I bought myself a nice dinner. I watched whatever I wanted to on television. I hid out from the rest of the world. It was a very lonely day.
Then again, I don't know if I'm worthy of any big celebration. I'm still having a hard time grasping the fact that I am a mother. I don't have any children at home. I gave birth to a child that didn't live outside of me. She was only with me for five months. But I did go through labor. I held my baby. I have pictures of her. She happened. I remember practically every moment of it. But do I deserve a day to celebrate my motherhood? I feel like I failed at the motherhood part...
Today was rough. I expected it to be sad. I didn't expect crying for hours this morning. I was having panic attacks similar to ones I had immediately after Lily's death. I sobbed, could barely breathe, and couldn't stand. It physically hurt. These waves of overwhelming sadness continued the entire day. I didn't get out of my pajamas until after 7pm.
My husband has final exams this week, and, in fact, had an exam at 7:45am this morning. So I didn't expect that he would do anything special for today. It was still hard to not do anything. I felt disappointed. I made myself breakfast. I bought myself a nice dinner. I watched whatever I wanted to on television. I hid out from the rest of the world. It was a very lonely day.
Then again, I don't know if I'm worthy of any big celebration. I'm still having a hard time grasping the fact that I am a mother. I don't have any children at home. I gave birth to a child that didn't live outside of me. She was only with me for five months. But I did go through labor. I held my baby. I have pictures of her. She happened. I remember practically every moment of it. But do I deserve a day to celebrate my motherhood? I feel like I failed at the motherhood part...
Friday, April 22, 2011
And then someone surprises you...
My last post outlined my fear about people forgetting ... and this week I had someone surprise me by remembering. My sister-in-law asked me last night for a picture of her niece. I can't tell you how great that made me feel. She wants a picture of Lily. It means so much to me. I cried - tears of joy!
Then this morning she posted on Facebook about feeling sad about the upcoming anniversaries of the deaths of her Grandma and the niece she never got to meet. Again, it gave me some sense of comfort. I'm not alone in my grief. Lily's death didn't just affect me and my husband. Others in our family are still grieving too. It makes me feel less alone. At the same time I feel happy because Lily's short life meant something. She had an impact on more than just her parents.
Today, it all feels real again. Lily existed. Her life happened. She had an effect on her family's lives. She's deeply missed. And knowing that is making me smile.
Then this morning she posted on Facebook about feeling sad about the upcoming anniversaries of the deaths of her Grandma and the niece she never got to meet. Again, it gave me some sense of comfort. I'm not alone in my grief. Lily's death didn't just affect me and my husband. Others in our family are still grieving too. It makes me feel less alone. At the same time I feel happy because Lily's short life meant something. She had an impact on more than just her parents.
Today, it all feels real again. Lily existed. Her life happened. She had an effect on her family's lives. She's deeply missed. And knowing that is making me smile.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Fearing the Day People Forget
It is getting closer and closer to May 9th, Lily's birth day and her death date. I find myself in tears as I write this (at a Subway during lunch)! I'm terrified that after her birthday - the first anniversary of her death - that she will cease to exist in the memory of others. I fear that's it for her. Lily will be in the history books.
She probably already has been forgotten by some. I guess that's to be expected. I know we will never forget her. She will always be a part of Mike and me. But what about the rest of my family? What about our friends?
We're walking in the March for Babies over Mother's Day weekend this year. This walk is also scheduled two days before Lily's birthday. I've been recruiting walkers and fundraising like crazy. I've lost any fear about asking people for money. I thought this event would be a good way to do something for her over her first birthday. Something positive rather than hiding under my covers in bed with a lot of chocolate.
Recently, though, someone very close to me told me they may not make it to the walk. It's Mother's Day weekend after all. I think this person just forgot what this weekend means. Lily was born on Mother's Day. That's why we're walking that weekend. I'm not hurt that they're not coming to the walk. I'm hurt that they apparently forgot the significance of the date.
And I fear that this is just the beginning. Eventually, after we have other children, I'm worried she'll mean nothing.
Another family member told us that in the future Mother's Day won't suck for us. We'll be happier when we have other children. It'll be happier when those children are cooking me breakfast and bringing me flowers for the day. While that may be true, I just feel the day will then just become bittersweet.
May 9, 2011, just feels like a deadline of some sort. The day an entire year has gone by. After that, there's no need to grieve anymore. No need to bring Lily up anymore. That chapter in our lives is over. At least this is what I feel and fear others will think.
Sure enough, May 9th won't change our broken hearts any. I know too that others take their cues from us. Some don't, though, and will expect you to "move on now." Some people will still surprise us with their memories, I'm sure.
I just know I'm not ready for Lily to be a chapter in our family history.
A side note: As I was writing this and eating my lunch, the song "I Say a Little Prayer" came on. This was a song that was running through my head the night we lost Lily. Particularly this verse:
She probably already has been forgotten by some. I guess that's to be expected. I know we will never forget her. She will always be a part of Mike and me. But what about the rest of my family? What about our friends?
We're walking in the March for Babies over Mother's Day weekend this year. This walk is also scheduled two days before Lily's birthday. I've been recruiting walkers and fundraising like crazy. I've lost any fear about asking people for money. I thought this event would be a good way to do something for her over her first birthday. Something positive rather than hiding under my covers in bed with a lot of chocolate.
Recently, though, someone very close to me told me they may not make it to the walk. It's Mother's Day weekend after all. I think this person just forgot what this weekend means. Lily was born on Mother's Day. That's why we're walking that weekend. I'm not hurt that they're not coming to the walk. I'm hurt that they apparently forgot the significance of the date.
And I fear that this is just the beginning. Eventually, after we have other children, I'm worried she'll mean nothing.
Another family member told us that in the future Mother's Day won't suck for us. We'll be happier when we have other children. It'll be happier when those children are cooking me breakfast and bringing me flowers for the day. While that may be true, I just feel the day will then just become bittersweet.
May 9, 2011, just feels like a deadline of some sort. The day an entire year has gone by. After that, there's no need to grieve anymore. No need to bring Lily up anymore. That chapter in our lives is over. At least this is what I feel and fear others will think.
Sure enough, May 9th won't change our broken hearts any. I know too that others take their cues from us. Some don't, though, and will expect you to "move on now." Some people will still surprise us with their memories, I'm sure.
I just know I'm not ready for Lily to be a chapter in our family history.
A side note: As I was writing this and eating my lunch, the song "I Say a Little Prayer" came on. This was a song that was running through my head the night we lost Lily. Particularly this verse:
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A day in March...
Written on March 17, 2011
Last year on March 19, 2010, the Badgers played the first round of the NCAA tournament, and I was scheduled for an ultrasound at 12 weeks. As I'm waiting for the Badgers to play tonight and for my husband to finish our big Irish dinner, I can't help but think back on that ultrasound a year ago.
It was an optional ultrasound - to measure the neck to assess risk for Down syndrome. The results wouldn't matter to us, we were eager to see our lil' one again, and given that our insurance covered it, we opted to take the screen.
Most of our ultrasounds took only 15 minutes at the most. Not this one. This one was 45 minutes. Our lil' girl was in the wrong position for the tech to measure her neck and she was in a deep sleep. We had to wake her up. The tech poked and prodded my stomach trying to wake Lily. Then I had to roll on my side and back. Then they asked me to walk around the office and jump. Lily would not wake up. She even had her little hand up by her forehead. She was completely zonked out. So then the tech asked me "Coke or Diet Coke?" I had been refraining from soda and caffeine so I was shocked she asked that. She said it would work so I took a Diet Coke. She told me to drink half of it and she'd be back in 15 minutes.
I started to worry we were going to miss the game! But at the same time we were having fun and enjoying the extended ultrasound time!
Once the tech came back, Lily was awake and moving around. It was also kind of funny because she was still not in the right position. A few more times of rolling back and forth and jumping up and down, and she finally was positioned correctly.
The 12 week ultrasound is one of our favorite memories from the pregnancy. The pictures are some of the best we have of her. It's a memory that always makes me smile.
Last year on March 19, 2010, the Badgers played the first round of the NCAA tournament, and I was scheduled for an ultrasound at 12 weeks. As I'm waiting for the Badgers to play tonight and for my husband to finish our big Irish dinner, I can't help but think back on that ultrasound a year ago.
It was an optional ultrasound - to measure the neck to assess risk for Down syndrome. The results wouldn't matter to us, we were eager to see our lil' one again, and given that our insurance covered it, we opted to take the screen.
Most of our ultrasounds took only 15 minutes at the most. Not this one. This one was 45 minutes. Our lil' girl was in the wrong position for the tech to measure her neck and she was in a deep sleep. We had to wake her up. The tech poked and prodded my stomach trying to wake Lily. Then I had to roll on my side and back. Then they asked me to walk around the office and jump. Lily would not wake up. She even had her little hand up by her forehead. She was completely zonked out. So then the tech asked me "Coke or Diet Coke?" I had been refraining from soda and caffeine so I was shocked she asked that. She said it would work so I took a Diet Coke. She told me to drink half of it and she'd be back in 15 minutes.
I started to worry we were going to miss the game! But at the same time we were having fun and enjoying the extended ultrasound time!
Once the tech came back, Lily was awake and moving around. It was also kind of funny because she was still not in the right position. A few more times of rolling back and forth and jumping up and down, and she finally was positioned correctly.
The 12 week ultrasound is one of our favorite memories from the pregnancy. The pictures are some of the best we have of her. It's a memory that always makes me smile.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Why?????
One of my best friends is a fellow BLM. She lost her first child at 16 weeks. A boy named Alexander. She miscarried after that. A blighted ovum. She gave birth prematurely to a beautiful little boy, Christopher, in December 2009. Unfortunately, he was born with a lot of problems. He died in February 2010.
Now, after months of trying, she found out she was pregnant this February. Given her history, she was seeing the doctors almost every week since and had multiple ultrasounds. Last week, they saw a heartbeat! She was elated. But the heartbeat wasn't as strong as it should have been so they wanted to see her again this week. Today, she got the worst news ever. There's no heartbeat. The baby's gone.
It makes me so mad. She's a beautiful person who'd be a fabulous mother. I just don't understand why this would keep happening. What makes her unworthy?
I'm so upset. I'm hoping Lily's giving big hugs to Christopher tonight.
Now, after months of trying, she found out she was pregnant this February. Given her history, she was seeing the doctors almost every week since and had multiple ultrasounds. Last week, they saw a heartbeat! She was elated. But the heartbeat wasn't as strong as it should have been so they wanted to see her again this week. Today, she got the worst news ever. There's no heartbeat. The baby's gone.
It makes me so mad. She's a beautiful person who'd be a fabulous mother. I just don't understand why this would keep happening. What makes her unworthy?
I'm so upset. I'm hoping Lily's giving big hugs to Christopher tonight.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
I want to hold my baby
After Lily's death I read a lot of books about pregnancy and infant loss. A common feeling described in those books was one of "aching arms." Moms ache to hold their baby. I never felt that way. I'm not sure why. I don't know if it's because Lily was so small that I couldn't really cradle her in my arms. She pretty much fit in the palm of my hand. I remember holding her there. I remember the weight of her body in my hand. If she wasn't in my hands, I had her wrapped in her blanket on my knees. Maybe that's why I never had this ache to hold her. I thought it was just something I would never feel.
Until today. This morning I woke up with a strong desire to hold Lily. To snuggle her into my chest. I wanted to cradle her in my arms and rock her to sleep.
It is just unfair. My only option is to hold her urn. I just want her back.
Until today. This morning I woke up with a strong desire to hold Lily. To snuggle her into my chest. I wanted to cradle her in my arms and rock her to sleep.
It is just unfair. My only option is to hold her urn. I just want her back.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Year of the Rabbit
This was written at the beginning of February...
On February 3rd, the Chinese rang in a new year - the Year of the Rabbit. I've never paid much attention to the Chinese new year or the Chinese zodiac, other than the passing news story or perusing the place mats at Chinese restaurants. But this year - the Year of the Rabbit - caught my eye for several reasons.
While I was pregnant with Lily, I saw a little bunny outside my office practically every day. When I would leave work, the bunny would scurry off the porch. Our building is a converted 19th Century house. As I walked down the steps I would see the bunny scramble to safety under or near my car. He would dash out from my car just as I got closer and disappear behind the neighboring apartment building. The first time I saw him, he scared me just as much as I scared him. But soon after I would get excited to see him. In my "everything is perfect" pregnancy haze, the bunny was another thing to look forward to. A sign of a happy spring.
Our spring wasn't happy. We lost Lily on May 9th. After I returned to work after her death, I never saw the bunny again. It's possible my haze of grief shielded me from seeing him. But I really don't recall seeing him at all over the summer.
He resurfaced in the winter. One day in December, as I was leaving work, a much older, bigger rabbit hopped calmly away as I opened the door and stepped onto the porch. He hopped over to the snowbank piled high in front of my car. I fully expected him to scurry away when I opened and shut the car door, and certainly when I started the engine, but he didn't. He watched as I pulled out and when I looked back at him, he had propped himself up on his hind legs and watched me as I disappeared out of the driveway.
About three days later, being the wonderfully domestic wife I am, I ordered Chinese take-out for our dinner. It is typical for our favorite Chinese restaurant to include a new calendar with every order in December. Usually though we throw it out because it includes pictures of scantily clad Asian women. To our surprise the 2011 calendar was one designed for the Year of the Rabbit. Several animated bunnies comprise the artwork for this year's calendar.
Surely, these were good signs! First, the office bunny re-appears. Second, 2011 is the Year of the Rabbit. Rabbits are the sign of fertility. They symbolize spring and rebirth. They seem to be a sign of hope. If 2011 was dubbed Year of the Rabbit, then it must mean good things for me.
Here's hoping....
On February 3rd, the Chinese rang in a new year - the Year of the Rabbit. I've never paid much attention to the Chinese new year or the Chinese zodiac, other than the passing news story or perusing the place mats at Chinese restaurants. But this year - the Year of the Rabbit - caught my eye for several reasons.
While I was pregnant with Lily, I saw a little bunny outside my office practically every day. When I would leave work, the bunny would scurry off the porch. Our building is a converted 19th Century house. As I walked down the steps I would see the bunny scramble to safety under or near my car. He would dash out from my car just as I got closer and disappear behind the neighboring apartment building. The first time I saw him, he scared me just as much as I scared him. But soon after I would get excited to see him. In my "everything is perfect" pregnancy haze, the bunny was another thing to look forward to. A sign of a happy spring.
Our spring wasn't happy. We lost Lily on May 9th. After I returned to work after her death, I never saw the bunny again. It's possible my haze of grief shielded me from seeing him. But I really don't recall seeing him at all over the summer.
He resurfaced in the winter. One day in December, as I was leaving work, a much older, bigger rabbit hopped calmly away as I opened the door and stepped onto the porch. He hopped over to the snowbank piled high in front of my car. I fully expected him to scurry away when I opened and shut the car door, and certainly when I started the engine, but he didn't. He watched as I pulled out and when I looked back at him, he had propped himself up on his hind legs and watched me as I disappeared out of the driveway.
About three days later, being the wonderfully domestic wife I am, I ordered Chinese take-out for our dinner. It is typical for our favorite Chinese restaurant to include a new calendar with every order in December. Usually though we throw it out because it includes pictures of scantily clad Asian women. To our surprise the 2011 calendar was one designed for the Year of the Rabbit. Several animated bunnies comprise the artwork for this year's calendar.
Surely, these were good signs! First, the office bunny re-appears. Second, 2011 is the Year of the Rabbit. Rabbits are the sign of fertility. They symbolize spring and rebirth. They seem to be a sign of hope. If 2011 was dubbed Year of the Rabbit, then it must mean good things for me.
Here's hoping....
Monday, February 7, 2011
Focus on the Positive... UGH.
"Be more positive" is commonly told to me these days. In emails, calls, and face-to-face conversations, everyone is encouraging me to focus on the good things in my life. "You have a great husband." They remind me of my opportunity for a fresh start. "It's a new year, a new beginning, so focus on the positive."
Don't they realize I would if I could? I don't want to be this person I've become recently. I don't want to be bitter and angry. I don't want to wake up sad. I don't want to feel intensely jealous of pregnant women. I don't want my immediate reaction to someone telling me they're expecting to be tears. I don't want my heart to sink every time someone gushes about their child. I don't want to think "blah" when a parent expresses their joy about parenting.
I don't want to be a woman whose baby died.
I don't want to worry that Lily could have been my only chance at having a daughter. I don't want to fear she could be my only shot at having a child.
I don't want to feel this way. Not at all.
I'd much rather feel excitement for the future. I'd rather feel joy in seeing babies and small children. I'd rather laugh with them. I'd much rather be the girl who is having everything fall perfectly into place. More importantly, even if it was not, I'd like to be able to feel optimistic for the future. I'd like to have the ability to hope for the best.
But I can't. Not right now.
I have no control over my emotions these days. I can have a good day quashed by a simple memory of Lily's death. I can be walking happily along and stop dead in my tracks when I overhear a child say "Mommy." A joyful look through Lily's pictures can turn into a flood of tears in an instant when I suddenly remember I never looked at her back. Panic can set in when a fun discussion with other BLMs about our children reveals I didn't memorize every detail of her (even though I tried!) and can't remember every moment of my pregnancy with her.
I can't make myself focus on the positive. It's exhausting enough to get through the day. "It's only been 8 months!" I want to scream. In the aftermath of this trauma and loss, I think I've earned the right to feel a tad negative. Not forever. Just for now at least.
Don't they realize I would if I could? I don't want to be this person I've become recently. I don't want to be bitter and angry. I don't want to wake up sad. I don't want to feel intensely jealous of pregnant women. I don't want my immediate reaction to someone telling me they're expecting to be tears. I don't want my heart to sink every time someone gushes about their child. I don't want to think "blah" when a parent expresses their joy about parenting.
I don't want to be a woman whose baby died.
I don't want to worry that Lily could have been my only chance at having a daughter. I don't want to fear she could be my only shot at having a child.
I don't want to feel this way. Not at all.
I'd much rather feel excitement for the future. I'd rather feel joy in seeing babies and small children. I'd rather laugh with them. I'd much rather be the girl who is having everything fall perfectly into place. More importantly, even if it was not, I'd like to be able to feel optimistic for the future. I'd like to have the ability to hope for the best.
But I can't. Not right now.
I have no control over my emotions these days. I can have a good day quashed by a simple memory of Lily's death. I can be walking happily along and stop dead in my tracks when I overhear a child say "Mommy." A joyful look through Lily's pictures can turn into a flood of tears in an instant when I suddenly remember I never looked at her back. Panic can set in when a fun discussion with other BLMs about our children reveals I didn't memorize every detail of her (even though I tried!) and can't remember every moment of my pregnancy with her.
I can't make myself focus on the positive. It's exhausting enough to get through the day. "It's only been 8 months!" I want to scream. In the aftermath of this trauma and loss, I think I've earned the right to feel a tad negative. Not forever. Just for now at least.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Losing Commander
My husband and I used to dream about our family freely and openly. We never hesitated to discuss our future children - who they'd be; what they'd do; how they'd change our world, etc.
Years before we got married we even came up with names - nicknames of course - for our children. My husband was dead set on naming our first son "Commander." Commander Markert would be a fine name. If we had twin boys it would be Commander and Conquerer! We'd spend hours laughing and joking about Commander. In our fictional future Commander was perfect. He came into the world without any problems at all. Eventually "Commander" became a euphemism for any future child we would have - boy or girl.
Those were the carefree days - when we could plan for our future children without fear. Despite only giving one name to represent all of our little ones, we had no doubt we would conceive and bring many children into the world. It seemed so simple. Get pregnant and have a baby. How hard is that?
But, of course, that's not what happened. It's all different now. We no longer speak about "Commander." When we talk about our kids, we only talk about Lily. Strange enough, the content of the discussions about Lily are the same as our fictional children. Who would she have been? What would she do in this world? Who would she resemble? Would she like the color pink? Would she play t-ball with Daddy? Would she love the Packers? Would she be a Democrat or a Republican? (That discussion always ends with "she'd probably hate politics" especially because of our divided household.)
It seems that the days of "Commander" are over. The days of carefree dreaming about our kids have ended. It seems to hard to make those plans these days. We don't talk about "when" we have a baby. It's always "if." We don't discuss who that child will be; what that child will do; or how that child will change our world. We no longer assume there will be more than one. After the death of a baby - especially your first - it's no longer a forgone conclusion that you will have a child - much less the baker's dozen my husband always insisted on.
To make it through another pregnancy, I think we both have to (and want to) be more guarded with our feelings. We can't let ourselves dream about this next child. What if that is all our future children are - just dreams? We can't build up "Commander" only to be let down again.
Years before we got married we even came up with names - nicknames of course - for our children. My husband was dead set on naming our first son "Commander." Commander Markert would be a fine name. If we had twin boys it would be Commander and Conquerer! We'd spend hours laughing and joking about Commander. In our fictional future Commander was perfect. He came into the world without any problems at all. Eventually "Commander" became a euphemism for any future child we would have - boy or girl.
Those were the carefree days - when we could plan for our future children without fear. Despite only giving one name to represent all of our little ones, we had no doubt we would conceive and bring many children into the world. It seemed so simple. Get pregnant and have a baby. How hard is that?
But, of course, that's not what happened. It's all different now. We no longer speak about "Commander." When we talk about our kids, we only talk about Lily. Strange enough, the content of the discussions about Lily are the same as our fictional children. Who would she have been? What would she do in this world? Who would she resemble? Would she like the color pink? Would she play t-ball with Daddy? Would she love the Packers? Would she be a Democrat or a Republican? (That discussion always ends with "she'd probably hate politics" especially because of our divided household.)
It seems that the days of "Commander" are over. The days of carefree dreaming about our kids have ended. It seems to hard to make those plans these days. We don't talk about "when" we have a baby. It's always "if." We don't discuss who that child will be; what that child will do; or how that child will change our world. We no longer assume there will be more than one. After the death of a baby - especially your first - it's no longer a forgone conclusion that you will have a child - much less the baker's dozen my husband always insisted on.
To make it through another pregnancy, I think we both have to (and want to) be more guarded with our feelings. We can't let ourselves dream about this next child. What if that is all our future children are - just dreams? We can't build up "Commander" only to be let down again.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
A Year Ago...
A year ago today I stood in disbelief staring at the home pregnancy test. It was positive. This one and the three others I took before deciding this probably meant I was pregnant. Still, how was it possible? Just two weeks prior, I'd been to the doctor and diagnosed with an ovarian cyst.
Then I became nervous. I didn't want to be pregnant. We just got married. We just decided to wait until the fall to start a family.
But then came excitement. I was going to have a baby! I have always wanted a bunch of kids. Being one of five children I couldn't imagine anything other than a large family. One of the many reasons I love my husband is his obvious adoration for his younger cousins. He wanted a bunch of kids too. A baker's dozen to be exact. We were going to start a family. How exciting! This would be perfect.
Or would it? My excitement turned into fear as I immediately thought we're not ready to have a child! My husband's still in school. I work for a small nonprofit. We live paycheck to paycheck. Besides all that - even at 33 years of age - I thought I'm not old enough to be a mom! Some days I can barely take care of myself! How can we have a baby?
Of course, all anxiety about this pregnancy was relieved the moment I told my husband the news. Any trepidation I had immediately subsided when he - in his signature dimply grin - asked "really?" and reached for the test to see for himself. I don't think I'll ever forget his face at that moment. This was going to be perfect. Our fairytale was continuing. Next stop: happily ever after... for the three of us.
I'm trying to focus on that time. That blissfully ignorant time in my life. The wonderful experience of a first pregnancy. The time in my child's life where the only tears shed for her were tears of joy. Back when it wasn't all painful.
Trying to remember that part is extremely difficult sometimes though. Especially this week. It's funny how dates creep up on you. In the back of my mind I knew January would bring back memories but I didn't think it would affect me this much. Certainly not as much as September when her due date was or May when she was born still. January wasn't affecting me ... or so I thought until this week.
This week it's taken all I have to get out of bed in the morning. Actually, on Monday I didn't. I couldn't make myself get up and go to work. My overwhelming sadness was aggravated by the fact that I got my period. A period that didn't come a year ago. I spent the day in tears. Crying about everything: my baby's death; my inability to get pregnant again despite a period that comes like clockwork; the apparent ease that everyone else seems to have in getting pregnant, staying pregnant, and bringing home healthy babies; and the feeling that while so much has changed over the last year, it seems like nothing has. It's quite a load to bear - all this self-pity. My husband, not knowing what else to do, crawled into bed too and just held me. And then later took me out for ice cream.
Thursday brought another flood of tears. A friend (a fellow BLM) sent an article about three NCAA Division I basketball coaches who lost children. Tears streamed down my face as I read these men's stories about losing their babies. But I had to shut the door when the tears turned to sobbing. That happened when I read the following: "We all move on. We learn how to live again and get up and dress ourselves again and be good parents to the kids who are still living. But in the end, a part of us died with our kids. That heartache will be a train we ride to the day we die.” I think a part of me did die when my daughter died. And the rest of me - the part that has to get up and dress myself and learn to live again - is still having a hard time getting out of bed.
But today - on an anniversary I'm not sure "normal" women would remember - I'll focus on the positive aspects of my pregnancy with Lily. I'll remember the excitement we felt when she became a part of our world. I'll remember that perfect moment in time when our family and future was falling perfectly into place. I'll remember the tremendous joy her little life gave us for 20 weeks and 1 day.
Then I became nervous. I didn't want to be pregnant. We just got married. We just decided to wait until the fall to start a family.
But then came excitement. I was going to have a baby! I have always wanted a bunch of kids. Being one of five children I couldn't imagine anything other than a large family. One of the many reasons I love my husband is his obvious adoration for his younger cousins. He wanted a bunch of kids too. A baker's dozen to be exact. We were going to start a family. How exciting! This would be perfect.
Or would it? My excitement turned into fear as I immediately thought we're not ready to have a child! My husband's still in school. I work for a small nonprofit. We live paycheck to paycheck. Besides all that - even at 33 years of age - I thought I'm not old enough to be a mom! Some days I can barely take care of myself! How can we have a baby?
Of course, all anxiety about this pregnancy was relieved the moment I told my husband the news. Any trepidation I had immediately subsided when he - in his signature dimply grin - asked "really?" and reached for the test to see for himself. I don't think I'll ever forget his face at that moment. This was going to be perfect. Our fairytale was continuing. Next stop: happily ever after... for the three of us.
I'm trying to focus on that time. That blissfully ignorant time in my life. The wonderful experience of a first pregnancy. The time in my child's life where the only tears shed for her were tears of joy. Back when it wasn't all painful.
Trying to remember that part is extremely difficult sometimes though. Especially this week. It's funny how dates creep up on you. In the back of my mind I knew January would bring back memories but I didn't think it would affect me this much. Certainly not as much as September when her due date was or May when she was born still. January wasn't affecting me ... or so I thought until this week.
This week it's taken all I have to get out of bed in the morning. Actually, on Monday I didn't. I couldn't make myself get up and go to work. My overwhelming sadness was aggravated by the fact that I got my period. A period that didn't come a year ago. I spent the day in tears. Crying about everything: my baby's death; my inability to get pregnant again despite a period that comes like clockwork; the apparent ease that everyone else seems to have in getting pregnant, staying pregnant, and bringing home healthy babies; and the feeling that while so much has changed over the last year, it seems like nothing has. It's quite a load to bear - all this self-pity. My husband, not knowing what else to do, crawled into bed too and just held me. And then later took me out for ice cream.
Thursday brought another flood of tears. A friend (a fellow BLM) sent an article about three NCAA Division I basketball coaches who lost children. Tears streamed down my face as I read these men's stories about losing their babies. But I had to shut the door when the tears turned to sobbing. That happened when I read the following: "We all move on. We learn how to live again and get up and dress ourselves again and be good parents to the kids who are still living. But in the end, a part of us died with our kids. That heartache will be a train we ride to the day we die.” I think a part of me did die when my daughter died. And the rest of me - the part that has to get up and dress myself and learn to live again - is still having a hard time getting out of bed.
But today - on an anniversary I'm not sure "normal" women would remember - I'll focus on the positive aspects of my pregnancy with Lily. I'll remember the excitement we felt when she became a part of our world. I'll remember that perfect moment in time when our family and future was falling perfectly into place. I'll remember the tremendous joy her little life gave us for 20 weeks and 1 day.
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