Sixth Birthday Bereavement

My son is supposed to be 6 tomorrow. Just yesterday he was born. Just yesterday he died. But still, somehow, 6 years have passed.

That is hard for me to say, that is hard for me to write, and my grief has been wedged into a spot that makes it hard for me to express to those who have not also lost a child. But I’ve been oddly reminded by strangers in these last two days that sometimes after expression of great suffering comes a little relief. And these past 6 years have been a time of great suffering. 

There is no beauty that results from losing a child. There is no “at least,” silver lining, good, better, reason, comfort, solace, healing, getting over, moving on, resolve, glad, hope, or looking toward any type of future that comes after holding your own child’s dead body. 

Different aspects of surviving Henry’s death and having an invisible motherhood get hard for different reasons as time goes by. Some things shift and get easier to bear. But time, my friends, does not heal over a grief or loss of this magnitude. So long as I love my son, the grief I have and the loss of him will never stop existing. 

Though ever present, grief has provided some grace in the last two years, allowing some stretches of time when it feels a little more normal to breathe. Sometimes I look inside and can see glimpses of myself again, and I see I am still funny and kinda badass. The quiet of the first year of the pandemic felt good on my heart, so much that I often and intensely crave again that sense of universal halting of all unnecessary things in the world outside. But I find it again when I work with my bees. 

At times I am able to step back and recognize the wide and vast capacity of love, and just how powerful it really is. I marvel at how one feeling can bring fullness, expansion, and elevation while simultaneously causing such profound emptiness, deficit, and pain.  I ponder how being exposed to its full spectrum influences this constructed human concept of choice and how I continue to live. 

Because of love, we grieve. For as long as I deeply love my son as a living mother, I will profoundly grieve his human absence. Like a force I can’t define, I often feel l my son, his guidance, and the love he gifted me. I am struck and washed by his magnificence and power. While his body and his life is what I want, fundamentally long for, miss, and look for, his soul, guidance, and love are what I have and look to. I do everything I can to keep my son close and to live through him and because of him. But oh how badly I want him closer. To be able to have him the way a living mother is supposed to have her living son. 

But healing? Good? Conclusion? Because of? But? At least? There is none of that here, and none of that I will ever seek. And that, as an offering to you, is ok: Grief cannot be solved, fixed, or made better. For now, on his 6th birthday, I just need proclamation of suffering to bring this bereaved mother’s heart a little relief.

Your Room

This is your room, Henry.  This is where you will rest, we will bond, and you will be able to grow into your own world. It is the nicest and best insulated room in the house, and the only one with matching furniture.  We add to it as your spirit grows, but it is still set up the same way as the day we were supposed to bring you home.  I've spend a lot of time in here since; spending time with you and my grief.  

This crib was given to you by your aunt and uncle.  We found a crib in this house when we bought it, but we had to search around for all of the components; an attached dresser unit had become the structure our goats liked to use as a jungle gym in the small barn.  Some of the pieces that also looked like they would be a part of it were in storage in the big barn, and other odds and ends were collecting dust in the attic. Your dad and I put so much time into cleaning the crib, repairing it, and putting it all together.  I really liked the final product, but the minute your aunt saw it she called my brother, "you need to buy them a new crib. Don't tell them you are getting it for them.  Just buy it and set it up for them in their house.  We can't let them actually use this piece of shit."

The crib they got was the dream one we put on our registry, figuring no one would actually buy it.  It was designed to grow with your needs, and would be the place where we put you down for the evening and greeted you with warm songs and wishes for a good morning.  It is the place where you would lay, ponder, wonder, and rest. Bounce, cry, gurgle, alarm, and wait.  I knew you were going to be big, and I wondered if it would make me stronger lifting such a heavy baby out every day, or if it would be what finally did my bad back in for good.

Now your crib is where we keep the art people make for your memory and our sadness, a cast of your footprints, a purchased blanket set still wrapped like new in its gift box.  I wonder if I will ever use it for something, give it away, or just keep it, waiting for a time when I'll finally be able to use it with you someday, somehow. 

That dresser is where I would change you. We bought the model that matches the crib because we thought it would make a nice set that didn't look too infantile.  We spent many days and discussions trying to pick the right furniture set for our anticipated needs and our larger house.  We wanted furniture that was very functional but looked timeless and nice so we could transition it into a tasteful guest room if you wanted something different once you were old enough to want to decorate your own room.  

During the Changing of the Diapers that would happen on top of this dresser, you would be kicking and wiggling as I wrestled with your diapers.  I try to distract you with loving voices and exaggerated facial expressions that are acknowledged and mirrored by you, but otherwise futile.  All of your clothes are still in their drawers, sorted by size and type. They were washed and folded the week before you were due.  I was trying to prepare as best I knew how to bring a you into a clean and ready world. 

It was too painful to leave an empty, flat surface set up for life go unused.  That dresser top has collected some scratches, momemtos, and the agates you help us find on the beach.  It is also usually coated with a light dusting of flour. In this room is where you breathe the life into the sourdough starter and loaves of bread we create together.  My job is to mix the starter, water, salt, and flour together in the kitchen, your job is to keep it thriving and make it rise here in your room.  It takes about 2 days to make a batch of 8 loaves, and it is how we spend many of our days off together.  We make such a great baking team. I love it so much when you help me.  I never pegged my son to be a baker, but he is such an excellent one.  It made me smile with pride when a friend told me she swears that she can't make a batch of cookies without burning them.  But one time she was thinking about Henry while making some, and it was the first time her cookies turned out absolutely perfect.  Henry loves to help, especially while baking.  

I baked bread before I had Henry, and it was always good, but never anything very spactaular.  But Henry's Bread has taken it all to a whole new level, and it is never just a plain loaf anymore.  The loaves are created for him and by him, and meant to be shared.  People I didn't know in ways other than to give them bread have tracked me down later to tell me that their loaf was the best they have ever tasted in their lives. I smile and thank them, sometimes telling them who the Henry is behind the bread, sometimes not, but always knowing that Henry is the one who deserves all of the credit.   

The bookshelf there holds a collection my favorite books, your dad's favorite books, and other books that were given to you as gifts.  Even though the books are still brand new, I can almost see them tattered, ripped, chewed on, and loved.  When you were older we were going to move the books to a lower shelf so you could pick them out all by yourself.  Below the books is the shelf of baby blankets that were made just for you. It means a lot to me that people put in so much time and energy hand-making detailed blankets. When I am cold I like to cover mysef in them, study their designs, and imagine the hours of love that went into creating them for you to use.   

We were so excited to dress you up in all of the costumes on the bottom shelf.  Your uncle and aunt, the same ones who got you the crib, gave all of those to you.  One of the costumes is a sweet puffy dragon your cousin won a big prize for when she wore it at a festival.  We found a little matching baby dragon hand puppet at a garage sale before you were born. Your dad and I put dragon costumes on our baby registry so we could be a matching dragon family for halloween someday, but mostly just for fun whenever we wanted.   The adult dragon costumes are actually the first things that were purchased and gifted to us on the baby registry.  The costumes are so soft and warm.  Now we wear them on cold nights when we are missing you terribly.  When either one of us puts on the dragon costume, it is a signal that that parent's heart is feeling especially heavy.  The other always follows suit, putting on their costume and tracking down the dragon puppet for the long evening that is soon to follow of cuddling, crying, and reminiscing about the memories we will never get to create with you. 

The recliner I spend the hours sitting in, taking this all in, is the most comfortable chair in the house.  I wanted something that rocked, reclined, and swiveled easily for the hours that I would spend cuddling you, studying your features, feeding you, and falling asleep in.  Now I sit in it and grieve, wonder, love, think, cry, read, and nap.  My cat who otherwise has never jumped on my lap in the 7 years that I've had her, sometimes jumps on my lap in this chair when I am alone and moaning the noises of a mother's heartache that can only come out when I know no one else can hear.  It makes me wonder if you are passing a message through her that you really are here, just not in the ways that I want or need. 

I pumped gallons upon gallons of your milk while sitting on this chair.  Pumping kept my connection to you, prolonged my attachment to the time when you were still alive in my body, and helped me escape from everything else.  Feeding you was something I looked forward to most when I imagined motherhood.  Originally I wanted to donate your milk, but I gave away your golden colostrum to a woman I didn't know who couldn't produce her own, and she never said thank you.  She never said anything, actually.  I don't know if she didn't know what that milk meant to me, if she is a wretched person, or if she meant to but just never got around to it.  But no acknowledgment of any kind for receiving the first nourishment that was meant to be given to the son I will never be able to see again, but was given to her living twins instead, stabbed like a knife and still bleeds hot rage.  It was more anger than I could hold, and more than enough to not make me want to carelessly give away again what I saw as part of your life.  I felt more comfort pouring my baby's milk down the drain than giving it to someone who was ungrateful.   

But then I met one of your new friend's mom.  This mother found out she was pregnant soon after her beautiful daughter died in a tragic accident.  The first night we met she mentioned that she was unable to produce milk for her baby on the way.  She had spent thousands of dollars buying breast milk for her other two daughters when they were babies because that was important to her.  She didn't know I was pumping and I didn't say anything to her about my plan, but I stopped pouring your milk down the drain and started freezing it for her.  She knew you and understood how much it meant for me to part with it. It still didn't feel good to give away the milk you were meant to drink, but it felt better, it felt right, and it felt like it was how you wanted to share it.  I saved a gallon for myself.  It is still in the freezer taking up a significant amount of space, but I cannot bring myself to part with it.

My son's spirit is so generous and giving, but here I am unable to let go of anything I feel has a connection to him.  I can't bring myself to part with anything else in this room.  Not even the old second hand girly things that were given to us that we wouldn't have used anyway.  I tried giving away some of your things to some of your best friends' moms when they had living babies a couple months ago, but even that felt too painful.  I tested how it would feel by giving away the things that could be purchased from any Target store. But those things were meant for you, and we were going to use them for our next baby, Lovebug.  We were very surprised to find out we were pregnant with Lovebug on your first birthday, and she was supposed to be born via c-section this coming Friday.  But even the idea of using your things for her felt uncomfortable. Through an exercise in wanting to give and in trying to come to terms with the idea that I would never bear a living child, I tried to give some things away to the mothers I know fully understand, empathize, and honor what it feels like to go through every nook and cranny of this process.  But even though those are things that Henry wanted to share with his friends' new little siblings, it was an experience that was too painful for me to want to repeat again any time soon.

Sometimes your dad and I talk about something we could or might want to do with your room. But those conversations dissipate with sighs and grimaces, and always give me a knot in my stomach.  None of the ideas feel right to either of us, so we decide that your room is just fine the way it is.  It's hard enough living our life without you.  I just can't bring myself to part with all of these things that were meant to be yours, too.  

I break

Yesterday my husband and I were having a good morning. We woke up tired and worn, but we had plans and sincere motivation to fulfill them.

We started off easy with visits to cute shops with a mission to find special things to put in our son's memorial garden. We moseyed into a store selling board games and knick-knacks, aptly named Times Remembered. We picked up different games and reminisced about the memories they stirred up with the kind of excitement board games seem to bring out in people. 

Since the store was having a liquidation sale, there were a lot of random items on display, and no shortage of dusty, kitschy Christmas things for sale. The Christmas items pulled a sudden, unexpected, and very taught trigger inside of me. I couldn't bring myself to look directly at many of the items, but I also couldn't help but to sneak peeks. I was afraid of what seeing the things would do to me, even though I knew exactly what would happen.  But I just couldn't turn away.

Each sweet ornament and decoration I saw pulled me into dizzying flashbacks and flash-forwards at the same time. Last Christmas my husband and I were expecting our baby any minute, and talking daily about how this would be our last Christmas before our whole entire world would be changed.  We were expecting the change to be the birth of our baby, not of his death.

I saw a Baby's First Christmas ornament that I should have been buying this year, but won't be.  Palpable images flashed in my mind of how I would never be able to hold any of these ornaments in front of my son for him to explore with his curious eyes and slobbery mouth.  Last year I purchased clay with the specific intent to make tree ornaments out of our baby’s hand and footprints. We would make them after bringing him home from the hospital, and we would reflect on them year after year while trimming the tree as a family. We used that very clay to have the nurses make his footprints the day after he died.  Other than his ashes, they are now the only tangible form of his body I will ever have.

A figurine on one of the shelves has some lyrics to Silent Night printed on it. As I recall the lyrics the song takes on a whole new meaning to me.  My eyes well up in anticipation of the sobs that will heave through my body when I hear the song next Christmas. Will that happen while I am driving and the song comes on the radio? Will it happen when I am in our quiet home alone watching the Christmas lights twinkling on the tree? But the most vivid image of it happening is when I am in public, struggling to get away from everyone else’s Christmas cheer with the same success as a child blinded by panic in a terrifying and inescapable house of mirrors.

I try to escape the reality of the Christmas section by masterminding with calculated frenzy how I might be able to disappear this year for the holiday. Is it possible to get a free exit from living, even just for that month?  The dated, dusty Christmas things are hidden all over the store, startling me at every turn and making my heart beat as rapidly as it sinks. It reinforces my previous hunches that I won't be able to bear December. Last year that month was when the anticipation of our baby was building to its highest. Come January, it was all suddenly ripped away with a devastation I am still trying to wrap my head around.

I stop and stare at a fake Christmas tree.  It is right in front of my face but seems so far away at the same time.

I feel myself cracking.

I turn the corner, and there it is: a row of Batman onesies, all discounted 50% off. I feel another flashback of being an excited expecting mom who can't even bear the cuteness, let alone the discount. Ripe with pregnancy, I would buy it, vibrating with excitement from the anticipation of taking cute pictures of my baby in the cutest outfit.  My baby isn’t even out yet.  I don’t even know if it is a boy or a girl!  But I know it would be soooooo cute in this outfit! I can’t wait until it’s out! I just can’t stand the wait anymore! All these outfits are so adorable it makes me squeal!

Flash forward to an emptiness inside that is heavier than my body itself.  I will never see my big baby's fat legs kick in a onsie sized for a 12 month old. I only got to see his legs twice. Once when I held him for the first time, and once more when I saw him for the last time ever. 

I walk by more baby clothes. My heart isn't strong enough to look, but it longs enough to steal surreptitious glances.  Ballerina outfits.  A cowboy suit.  Everything is little, cute, and begging joy.

I start to split.

I don’t know why, but I walk behind it all to a shelf with baby shoes. I see it’s already too much for my husband and he leaves the area. I should have gone with him.  But like a person in a sick trance who doesn't want to burn the image of a brutal wreck in her mind, but feels a deeper possession to move in close to see the truth, I run my hand over each pair of shoes. They stop at a pair of yellow fuzzy duckie slippers. The orange toes look just like a duckling's webbed feet. Duckies were one of my son's themes while pregnant, and one of the images we use now to remember him. Earlier this month we got a new flock of ducks to add to our farm, a symbol of honoring his life among ours. We picked out a special duckling within it to honor him specifically, but it died very soon after we brought it home.  We imagined that duck was indeed a very special one and our son wanted her so badly that he took her soul to become his first pet heaven. We buried her body with some of our son's ashes under our son's memorial pear tree.  We wanted their bodies to be together forever and to continue to give new life, just like their souls.

I pick up the duckie slippers and imagine my son's feet in them. I have the perfect image of what they would look like, even though I will never, ever be able to see my son's feet again.

I stand in the corner of a musty store going out of business, holding onto a pair of small duckie slippers, yet barely hanging on.

I break.

These ashes are my baby

The first time I ever see human ashes, they belong to my only born child.  The first time I see my son's ashes are only the third time I have ever seen him.  I saw him soon after he was born.  I saw him again the next day.  One week later, he is brought home in a small plastic baggie, closed with a zip tie. A small amount of the ashes are placed into a separate bag to be made into a bead keepsake that I will continue to wear every day. Probably for the rest of my life.  The smaller bag had his name written on it.  I have held that bag so many times the printing has rubbed off.

These ashes are my baby.

I stare at his ashes and wonder which parts are his bones, which parts are his flesh, and which parts are the heart I used to love to listen to.  I wonder which ashes make up his eyes, and what color his eyes were.  I never got to see them.

How did it come to this?  He was so strong and so alive until suddenly he was not anymore. What happened that he wasn’t able to continue to live even one more minute?

When I met him for the first time he was so beautiful, so perfect, so handsome.  He looked like a solid, hearty, healthy baby. But he was sleeping so silently and peacefully. Angelically.  It was surreal, yet so real, holding him and trying to come to understand that my son's death would be his life.

He fit perfectly in my arms. What happened so that when I hold him now, I am wondering which of these ashes are his tiny, wrinkled fingers?  Which ashes are his surprisingly big feet? Which ones are his crooked second toe that looked just like his dad’s? 

I spend my days searching for signs of his spirit, for signs- of anything.  But on the few days when I can stand to stare truth in the eyes, I see my son has died.  What is left of him is what I am holding right now in this bag.

These ashes are my baby. 

These ashes are my son. 

My Baby's Song

My Baby's Song
October 2016

Cute little baby
You are so sweet!
From the top of your head
To the soles of your feet.
All ten of your fingers,
All ten of your toes,
Those bright little eyes,
Your soft little nose.
Those two sturdy legs,
Those two waving arms,
Your happiest giggle,
And all of your charms.
Each tip of each finger-
Oh my heart, do you touch!
All of it,
All of you,
I love you so much.

Henry Sean

Henry Sean Stewart, Born 1/12/17

My husband and I became pregnant almost a year after we miscarried our first baby, right about the same time we had pretty much given up on the idea that we would ever be parents. We miscarried right at the end of the first trimester, so the first several weeks of our second pregnancy were especially difficult and full of anxiety. But once our second baby had settled safely into the second trimester, the bond bloomed. Our hearts, every aspect of our lives, and our visions of the future flooded with hope, excitement, and expectation of our new lives as a family. 

We never found out if the baby would be a girl or a boy, but the whole time I just knew it was going to be a boy, and I knew he was going to be huge. My husband and I had picked out some possible names, but the one we liked the most for a boy was Hank. "Hank the Tank" was the nickname we privately called the big, sturdy son we imagined growing in my body. His full name would be Henry Sean Stewart; Henry had a more official ring to it, and to follow my husband's family tradition, Henry would take on his dad's first name for the middle. We kept his name private, waiting until birth for his formal presentation to the world. We picked out a couple girl names too, just in case, but I knew we wouldn't need them. It was totally going to be a boy. 

As the pregnancy progressed, the more vivid my dreams grew of what our son would be like, and the more I felt connected to him through every kick and movement. I was pretty miserable until the third trimester, but any ounce of misery was instantly replaced with bliss every time I felt him wiggle, roll or jab. The stronger he got, the more satisfied and complete I felt. My husband and I couldn't wait to personally meet whoever it was that was having such a wild time in my belly. We were so excited to finally get to know who he was and to be able to watch him grow, learn, and explore the world. 

I had a strange fascination with labor and was oddly looking forward to the pain. Though I didn't know exactly what to expect, I knew I would rise well to the challenge, and I knew the more intense it got, the closer I would be to meeting my sweet baby. Henry's due date was New Year's Day, and although I was originally hoping for a New Year’s baby, I was unexpectedly overjoyed when he was late. It was a relief to have some free time after the hustle of the holiday, and I was truly feeling fantastic and loving being so ripe with pregnancy. 

My labor started 10 days after his due date. The 29 hours of labor that followed were intense, but I was proud of how I navigated each wave. During the 29th hour while actively pushing, I was rushed by a team of nurses and doctors to an emergency cesarean section for reasons I am still not ready to understand. My sweet baby was removed from his safe haven, and the next 55 minutes were the most difficult I have ever had to endure as I waited to hear him cry. I couldn't see him behind the surgical curtain but I was told he was in fact a boy, he had color and a heartbeat, but he was unable to breathe on his own. After 55 minutes of intense resuscitation, my baby was still unable to breathe. He was taken to the NICU and I knew that after so long without oxygen my baby would either not survive or he would live his life with profound disabilities. There was no chance in my mind that an end result of this would be a healthy baby. After the c-section, when I saw my husband with a sorrow on his face unlike any I had ever seen before, I knew our baby didn't survive 

I held Henry in my arms and stroked his soft, smooth skin. Never have I seen a more beautiful, precious person in my whole life. His big, hearty size was a perfect fit in my arms. I had so much love for him, and I was already so proud to be his mom, and it was so confusing and unreal that he was not alive. Though time seemed to freeze while I was holding him, I still wish I held him and looked at him longer. I wish I could have held him forever, and that he was still in my arms. My arms, chest, mind, and heart ache without him. 

All the days since then have been a blur. As my body heals, my heart becomes emptier and the sadness grows darker and more profound. But despite my grief and pain, Henry continues to shine light into my life; my relationship with my husband has previously never had any shortage of love or affection, but the life and the passing of our baby has brought us even closer, led us to be more open, and has even given our relationship a sweeter, more precious quality. Henry has brought out a deeper level of support, trust, and generosity from those around us as well as from people we don't even know. Strangers have expressed being genuinely moved by the story of Henry, and over a bridge of compassion, some of those strangers have crossed into the intimate circles of our greatest support.  While the grief from my miscarriage felt incredibly lonely and isolating, since even the beginning moments of Henry's birthing and death, Sean and I have been wrapped up in protective blankets of sincere love, help, and caring from almost every person we have encountered.

Even though not having him physically here brings me unmatched pain, I do feel like his spirit is always with me, and that brings me a quiet sense of comfort.  I can't help but to fantasize how he would look and be as he grows older, and in a sense, I still have hopes and dreams for him and look forward to what he would have become. I will always love him, want the best for him, and be so, so proud to be his mom. Henry will always be my beautiful, precious son. 

What it's like to lose a baby, from my point of view. In 2,000 words or less.

I am pulled between a split sense of obligation and wanting to write my miscarriage “story.”  I struggle with wondering if I begin to write about it as an act for myself or for others. I’ve read several accounts of women’s miscarriages over the past weeks and as heartbreaking as they are, each one brings a sense of comfort to know that I am not alone. 

As I try to figure out what happened, I can't help but to be turned off by the idea of needing to call losing a baby a “story.” Stories are supposed to have a beginning, middle, and then an end.  Not only does it feel like losing this baby has no end in sight, but I don't really know when the real beginning was.  And how do I know that this isn't actually the start of a new beginning to something else?  I'm a firm believer that life works out the way it is supposed to, and that out of ugliness and pain can emerge the truest of beauty and strengths.  But I'm just not ready to go there with this one yet, nor am I willing at this time to be at a point of acceptance.

So what do I do when I don’t know what to write?

I write anyway.

Life for me has changed so much in the past couple years that sometimes it seems the only thing I have held constant is my first name. About 4 years ago I took a job working for a local agency, halfway through being promoted to a position that incredibly intense and stressful, and ended with a four day hospitalization for an unexplained dire affliction that had my doctors stumped.  I still suffer problems from it that will probably never go away, but in some ways, I'm glad it happened; once I was out of the hospital, life simply opened up.  Within one week I left my full-time benefited position, started working part time in an old position I always felt was my true dream job and calling, and met Sean. I had a sense of fulfillment and freedom I hadn’t felt in years. Just when I felt like life couldn’t get any better, two months later my part time position turned into a full time, tenure-track career, and Sean and I began an official venture together towards sappy, blissful love.

Sean proposed to me 10 months after we met, and almost 3 weeks later we were married.  We weren’t planning to buy a dream home only 6 months after we said ‘I do,” but we did it anyway.  Since we moved into our 5-acre “urban ranch” we have started up something resembling a hokey petting zoo. I took on his 2 dogs as my own, he has learned to love my cat he is severely allergic to and my 7 goldfish.  We've filled a coop with a rainbow of chickens and a few ducks here and there.  To mow our lawn, but mostly because they were irresistibly cute, we impulsively bought a couple of goats we treat like family dogs.  I love being with Sean, the laughs we share, the luck we have, and the life we have started.  I never thought I would be lucky enough to find someone I so truly love and feel so extremely comfortable with. It seems to me that ever since we met something in me fundamentally relaxed.  I no longer have an excessive compulsion to go, go, go, or achieve, achieve, achieve that previously propelled me forward.  In so many ways, life simply feels easier.

I always joke that Sean and I like to make major life decisions about every 6 months.  We talked about waiting a year to even begin conversations about starting a family, but soon after settling into our home we felt it was time to start baby planning and strategizing due dates that would best compliment my work schedule.  People talk a lot about how hard it is to get pregnant and how long it takes.  Even my most trusted doctor openly rejected my planning, saying that not only is it rare to get pregnant quickly, but couples actually have no say or control in their family planning; it’s actually the babies that get to decide when they are conceived and when their birthdays are going to be. 

We got pregnant at the first chance shortly before our one year wedding anniversary. For the past several years I have felt indifferent about having kids, but after falling in love with Sean, a family felt undoubtedly like something I wanted to grow and share with him.  Once I was pregnant, the feeling of wanting this was confirmed tenfold.  I loved being pregnant and I loved getting lost in dreams of our future family. For the first time ever I was excited to be as big as a house. The world suddenly smelled amazing.  I spend hours blissfully wondering what our kid might look and be like, reading pregnancy and parenting books, and googling stages of fetal development and how to best take care of my body and growing baby at each stage. I had a fair share of unpleasant pregnancy symptoms, but was only sick one day to the point I couldn’t contain my nausea anymore.  It was a day that all I could stomach was fruit, and also happened to be the day marriage equality was legalized in the entire United States.  As a result of all the fruit, I puked rainbows all over our property during an evening walk with our dogs and goats.  I joked that even my puke was so happy it was celebrating gay marriage.  Even the parts that really sucked were kinda fun.  Everything felt absolutely perfect.

It's said that after the first trimester the risk of miscarriage drops by 80%.  For this reason Sean wanted to wait before we spilled the beans.  One day before the end of the final stretch of the first trimester, literally the day before I had planned to announce to the world that we were pregnant, I found out our baby had died.  It is such a weird, awful, and puzzling thing to learn. Suddenly my reality simply didn’t exist anymore.  I couldn’t stop sobbing, yet couldn’t exactly tell what feelings or thoughts I was having.  To have a baby that is dead inside of a still very pregnant body is the emptiest and most lost experience I have ever had in my life. And no one outside of my family knew that it was happening. I kept using the word “sad” to explain it, but it just didn’t do justice.  When someone asks how you are, how do you politely respond that it feels as if everything in your being has been burglarized, brutally stabbed, and then left alone to silently bleed to death without anyone else being able to even tell just from looking?  

I scheduled a D&C as soon as I could and expected to feel some sort of relief afterwards, to maybe have a sense of closure. I honestly and fully expected that the procedure would help me begin to move on.  But unfortunately every day after the D&C got worse.

One of the especially difficult parts of losing a baby is that the experience doesn't stop.  5 weeks later I'm still bleeding and even though any sight of blood is a stabbing reminder of my baby not making it, I am absolutely paralyzed by the decision to either let it continue or seek remedy to make it stop.  It wasn’t until last week my body officially stopped thinking it was still pregnant.  My hormones are so out of whack my body and emotions don't know left from right.  I gained a lot of weight from the pregnancy that will not budge, no matter what I do. And now, out of a packed walk-in closet full of clothes showcasing a me from a different life ago, I only have 4 shirts and 2 pairs of pants fit ok enough to wear in public. I wear them like a surrender flag.

I hide from both acquaintances and people I know because I fear they will ask me how I am, even if just for compulsory greetings. Either I will break down and cry, or worse, I'll lie and say “I’m ok.”  I’m surprised that as much as I want to talk about it, I usually prefer to shut up, comply with social norms, laugh when I’m supposed to, listen even if I don’t want to.  Instead I write about it all later for people to read so they can pretend like they didn’t.  

The outside world moves at a pace that is faster than I can muster to move.  I have no motivation, energy, or interest for anything outside of what grapples in my mind. Even things I do that feel genuinely good tap my shallow reserves of energy.  My body and soul crave on a deep, deep level nothing but stillness and silence.  Stillness and silence are like the needle to my vein.  Yet even when I have that, I still can't get away from this screaming that goes on inside of my head and body.  It’s an unintelligible screaming that gets quieter at times, but never really stops. Ever.  And no one hears it but me.

They all say with time it gets easier, and to add insult to injury, all my doctors, confidants, and a therapist tell me the only thing that will help me heal is time.  Never in my life has time ever moved so slowly.  No matter how hard I try, I literally can't imagine the future. I struggle to envision even one day ahead, yet put myself in a frustrated frenzy trying to move forward. With the help of a trusted counselor and my best support- my dearest husband, my latest projects as of a couple nights ago are to practice patience with myself to help me through mere moments at a time and to soften the pressure I put on myself in an effort to move more forgivingly towards resolution of grief.  It's hard, but it's a lesson I imagine I want to learn. Seems like it would be a good life skill, and maybe the lesson I would be thankful to have pulled out of this once it's all further down life's road.  

It's so crazy that a non-visible something as little as a kidney bean can take over an entire life this much.  

In the eye of this storm, I can't help but to honestly wonder- would having a child really bring me that much joy?  What if we have a kid and the next 18 years is even worse than these last 4 months have been?  Is trying again something I really want to do? Though all at the same time, I feel an imminent deadline crashing down on me to try again as soon as I can because the longer I wait, the higher the risk.

These nonsensical, loaded worries don’t stop until I remind myself of my Project Patience.  So I try to let those thoughts go, and sometimes they actually go away. At some point I can think again about what is supposed to happen next, but now is simply not the time.

As you come to as much of an end as I can provide, please don’t get me wrong; my intent is not to publish a sob story.  I’m not looking for sympathy, I’m not looking for people to wonder whether or not I’m depressed, or if they should step in, help, or say something.  I am seeking out what I need as I need it, and writing this is part of it.  

Screw the need to have a story, anyway.  I’d rather hope that someone reads this and finds comfort knowing that she is not alone.