Father's Day - Remembering

Remembering our son

William George

April 1, 2009

On Father's Day

William Dreaming


life led me off the edge
of everything, daddy,
i wasn’t scared because
i knew you loved me,
i heard your voice,

booming rumble in
mommy’s tummy,
i felt your hand press
my back, my head and
you rocked me to sleep
nights and
i knew you loved me.

i don’t know why
i couldn’t stay
when my narrow world
narrowed again and then
grew infinite wings,
i felt you
and then

i became you, but
i always was
a part, a whole
contained and complete.
sing me to sleep, daddy.
i am dreaming
the dream
onward.

The Doctors

I wrote to The Doctors today.

It occurred to me, as I was watching the show and listening to them say how important it was for them to inform the public of health risks... who better to take up our cause?

So I wrote them a letter, and I'd like to encourage every baby-loss mama who reads this to write them as well. Tell them your story. We all know how much we hate getting new "members" to this little club of ours. Let them know there are women out here who are suffering, and maybe, just maybe we can get The Doctors to talk about stillbirth/antenatal death awareness and prevention and help us keep our numbers down. That would be a blessing, wouldn't it?

You can write them here.

This is the letter I wrote:

I'm the mother of four healthy living children, but on April 1, 2009, when I was 39 weeks pregnant, the baby I was carrying died.

And then he was born.

Our little stillborn boy, William George, was perfect. There was nothing genetically wrong with him. There was nothing abnormal found with the placenta or his cord and no infections were apparent. His heart simply stopped beating and he never took a breath.

I can't tell you horrible it is to carry a baby for nine months to only lose him so close to the end. But tragically, and maybe surprisingly, statistics say that a majority of stillbirth babies are, in fact, full term.

As a mother, of course I'm grieving... the pain of losing a child is beyond description. But as a doula involved in the birth community for the past twenty years, I am ashamed and appalled at how long the stillbirth facts flew under my own radar.

Why didn't I know that stillbirths claim 70 babies per day in the United States?

Why didn't I know that the risk of stillbirth is TEN TIMES that of the risk of a SIDS death?

Why didn't I know the risks? Race, obesity, advanced maternal age, a previous small for gestational age baby, etc...?

Why didn't I know that 1 in 115 deliveries in the U.S. results in a stillbirth - compared to Downs Syndrome, which accounts for 1 in 750 births?

Why didn't I know that almost half (40%) of stillbirths go unexplained, and most doctors don't recommend autopsies on babies to help decrease that statistic?

Why didn't I know that, according to a recent study, almost HALF of the women who later experienced a stillbirth noted decreased fetal movement?

Why didn't anyone tell me that EVERY woman should do kick counts starting at 28 weeks and keep track of the baby's activity at the same time every day to help reduce the stillbirth risk?

Some stillbirths are unpreventable, which is a terrible reality - but even if kick counts could save just 10% of all stillbirths in the U.S., that's still more babies lives saved than ALL of the babies that die each year of SIDS!

The medical community, it seems to me, is willing to "accept" a 1 in 115 ratio of stillbirth deaths. Why? Who would get on an airplane knowing they had a 1 in 115 chance of not arriving at their destination? And more importantly - why is nothing being done to make it safer?

Everyone knows about SIDS - the "back to sleep" campaign has been so successful, babies are wearing helmets now because the backs of their heads get flat from sleeping on their back so much.

But why does no one know about stillbirth and the risks? Why aren't kick counts being taught and encouraged?

Why don't more mothers know?!

There needs to be a movement in this country to increase awareness and prevention of stillbirth, or S.A.D.S: Sudden Antenatal Death Syndrome - and I think The Doctors can help put the spotlight on this.

I hope you take this up as a topic and do a show on it. It could really help reach women out there who are at risk, and perhaps save babies. No one told me, and my son is dead. And I'm a doula, I deal with birth and the research about it - I should have known. And if *I* didn't know - what are the odds the average first time mother is aware?

There's nothing I can do to bring my sweet, precious baby back. I can only try to reach out and increase awareness and hope that someone else won't ever have to experience the pain of birthing their baby still.

My grief/loss blog:
http://inannajourney.blogspot.com/

If you need more information:

International Stillbirth Alliance:
http://www.stillbirthalliance.org/modules.php?name=Content&pa=showpage&pid=14

Stillbirth in the News:
http://www.stillnomore.org/news.htm

Stillbirth Collaborative Research Network:
https://scrn.rti.org/

National Stillbirth Society:
http://www.stillnomore.org/

The MISS Foundation:
http://www.missfoundation.org/

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep
www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/medical

First Candle Research:
http://www.firstcandle.org/research/res_rs.html

The Present

I'm bleeding.

It's been eleven weeks since William died, and my period has finally returned. I've been anxiously anticipating this event, almost since the moment we lost his heartbeat. Part of me kept whispering, hurry hurry hurry. The empty-arms part. The full and leaking breasts part. The raging hormonal mama-bear part. That part of me wanted a baby and wanted it now.

Of course, what I really wanted was William. William alive, in my arms, at my breast, the perfect antidote to the crazy-making hormonal soup pumping through my veins. I couldn't have that. Logically, I knew it. So the next logical step would be another baby. As fast as possible, thankyouverymuch.

And another part of me wanted to give a big, fat middle finger to the universe. Take my baby, will you? Fine! Like Bill Cosby - "I'll make another one just like you."

I know. I can hear the universe laughing, too.

Fat chance, lady. Not only can't I make another one just like the one I lost - even if the complex mystery of DNA didn't make it impossible, biology aside, the fact that we're all individual from that first spark is just undeniable. Not only that, but the universe decided I needed to wait eleven weeks to contemplate my fertility and the potential possibility of together creating another being that, while not William, might be like William, at the very least, in that he or she would be of both me and M.

Eleven weeks. Wondering. Waiting. Impatiently. Asking questions of myself: Why can't this part be over? Why won't it come? Am I pregant already maybe? Have I even ovulated? Are these stupid tests even accurate? Why don't I know what's going on in my own body? Why would I think I would know - my body killed my baby, and I didn't know that, did I? Why does it take so long? Why can't we skip this part and go straight to the end? Is there something wrong with me? Do I have some sort of cyst or fibroid? Do I have a disease? Maybe I have uterine cancer and that's what killed the baby?

Insane thoughts. They wouldn't stop, even when I tried to stop them. And everyone around me saying kind words - be gentle with yourself. Your body needs time to heal. Your psyche needs time, too. But my ego is not only strong-willed, it's vicious. It wants what it wants. And it doesn't care who it has to hurt - my/itself included. Gentle? What has been gentle about any of this? My baby fought for his life inside of me until he grew too tired to fight anymore and gave up, and I was oblivious. I'm supposed to forgive myself, be kind, gentle, go easy? Feh. Not likely.

I grew angrier at my body by the day. I spent time looking at my "Ovusoft" program, analyzing cycles past. And skipping over that long stretch of time between July 2008 and April 1, 2009. It showed in the software as "cycle 65." Like every moon cycle before, or any that would come after, William was now just another bit of my fertility history, a revolution on the wheel. Is that what he would forever be reduced to?

Finally, desperate for any hint or clue to my current stuckness, I clicked on that cycle. It froze the entire program. The screen went black and then flashed a bright yellow error message. "Cannot complete that function." Yeah, tell me about it. Apparently, I couldn't either. That cycle will forever be aborted, inaccessible, a symbolic representation of the dusty reality - whatever bits are left of my son in his urn.

The next day, I started bleeding, finally - with a vengeance. The thing is, I hardly bled at all after William was born - it was like the lightest of periods. I was actually offended by how little I bled after his birth, how quickly my body was rid of him and getting back to normal. At the same time, I wondered if it was my own longing for another chance at this pregnancy thing that made it so.

And then it took eleven weeks for anything to happen. But when it did, the floodgates opened and I was baptized in my own blood. It pooled between my thighs. It ran in rivulets down my legs. I left fat droplets on the bathroom floor on every trip. I cleaned it from my sheets, my pants, the seat of the car. I was afraid to get out of the shower, the only place it felt safe to be open, to let it flow and wash away the bright red residue of my pain.

This was, finally, the outward display of my inner state of being, something I'd been looking for all along and didn't even know it.

I'm now bleeding for my son both inside and out. And now that it's here, that I have started another cycle, number 66 according to the software, I'm not even thinking about starting over, making a new baby. This blood has brought me here, to this moment and the present weight of my grief instead of looking to some possible hopeful future.

The present is pain. The present is death. The present is blood. I am here, I am in it, I am it, and there is no other way out but through.

My body is very, very wise.

Reparations

I'm thinking things I shouldn't be thinking. I'm frankly ashamed of myself for thinking them.

But I can't help it.

Today, I read a story about AIG not paying claims to folks who survived that astonishing crash-landing into the Hudson several months ago. At first, that sounds heinous. Why wouldn't they pay for the suffering of these folks, who went through a harrowing ordeal and thought they were going to die?

Well, it turns out that airline insurance goes into effect only when liability is established. In other words, if the airline was negligent, they pay. If they weren't negligent, they don't have to pay.

I'm not sure whether that's right or wrong - and I hate insurance and the concept of insurance in general just on principle. But what got to me were the quotes from the woman who scrambled over seats holding her infant son, looking back at her husband holding her four year old daughter above the level of water seeping into the plane.

Yes, it was scary and I'm sure they are suffering from some aspect of post-traumatic stress disorder. I'm sure they thought they were all going to die.


But they didn't.

They're still here. They're still breathing. That woman still holds her baby every single day, hears him cry, gets to see his eyes open. But she's complaining about the medical bills coming in, because they have a $3000 cap on their mental health insurance, and they're seeing therapists for their PTSD symptoms.

"Why should we be paying out of pocket?" she said. "That's why they're there. They're the insurer."

Really?

Is that the world's tiniest violin I hear playing?

Sure, I wish I had someone I could blame this on. I wish it could be that easy. I wish I'd been on that plane instead of birthing a dead baby. I wish I'd held my son as I scrambled over the seats and was dealing with PTSD from that - while I nursed him. Really.

I want to tell her - be grateful, lady. It could be a hella lot worse.

And ya know, I know it, too, for myself. I could have had to make the horrifying decision to end my child's life, like some parents I know who have been thrust into deadbabyland. I could have lost my son when he was 3 months to SIDS. I could have lost my entire family in some terrible accident.

But I'm not sueing doctors and midwives and demanding payment from insurance companies in my grief - and believe me, my PTSD leaves me shaking after long outtings where I have to be with people for too long.

I'm dealing with the same symptoms this woman is... the same fears of the unknown, the loss of safety, the anxiety...and in my judgment, a much bigger loss and grief. I actually lost someone I loved.

But she thinks she's entitled. That's what gets me. She thinks she's entitled to some sort of payment or reparations for her suffering. Why? Because a bunch of birds flew into a plane engine, and a pilot landed the plane safely? Everyone lived. Who's to blame for that? Should the insurance company pay for an act of god where the outcome was more than acceptable - it was fucking miraculous!

If so... then which company is responsible for my son's death?

Where's my bailout?

Delivery

You're not going to believe what just arrived at my door.

The day after William was born, I went online and canceled an order we'd made. M's mom had generously offered to buy the "big car seat" for us as a baby gift, but it had been back-ordered. I couldn't imagine accepting delivery of a car seat William would never use - and had no idea at the time whether or not we'd ever need such a thing again. So I emailed and canceled the order.

A week ago, I noticed a charge on our credit card. When I tracked it down, I found it was the company who we'd ordered the car seat from. I sent them a scathing email, telling them I'd canceled the order once, and insisting they reverse the charge and not ship the car seat.

They sent me an email saying they were "looking into it."

Apparently, they didn't look very hard, because the car seat showed up on my doorstep today. I knew it might happen, of course, given the non-responsiveness of this company. But I wasn't prepared. As much as you try to prepare yourself for these things, you just don't know until they happen how it's really going to feel. Even when you anticipate the hurt and the anger, it doesn't matter. It still makes you sad and angry.

It makes me want to reach through the computer and wring someone's neck. I want to call their customer service and rip someone up one side and down the other and demand refunds and reparations and free stuff and anything else I can think of that might make them realize how truly horrible it is to receive something in the mail your dead son will never use.

But we all know what I really want. And no one, let alone some third-party seller of car seats, is ever going to understand what it's like to stand here, on this side of the world, where babies don't breathe and no longer need the protection of things like car seats or their mother's arms.

Returnables

So there I am standing at the bottle return machine, tossing in Coke Zero and Pepsi Max cans, when I find something very strange: a sticky pair of my six year old son's socks.

It's not the first time I've found something weird in the bottle bag. The container we toss the returnables into is right next to the trash, and I've found everything from socks to toys to food in the bottle bag. Lovely little surprises. Not.

After I set the socks aside and finish emptying the bag, a group of young kids with carts full of beer cans and bottles comes in. They're probably college age, I figure. I move on to the glass-return machine. There are only two of those, and I'm standing next to one of the young boys when I notice what's in the bottom of his cart: a pair of socks!

"Are those socks?" I ask.

He looks up at me, surprised. "Uh... yeah. I have no idea how they got into the bottles."

"Want to see something funny?" I reach under the plastic bags and show him the pair of socks I'd found in my bag. "My son's."

He laughs. "I guess it never ends. You'll still be finding socks in the bottles when he's twenty-two."

I laughed, too, but it occurred to me... I'll never find William's sticky socks mixed up with the returnables. He'll never be a twenty-two year old kid returning beer bottles at the store with his friends.

I pushed my cart away quickly, still smiling, because I didn't want him to see the tears welling up. It's just too hard to explain to people anymore how I can be laughing and crying, all at the same time.

Behind the Curtain

I know safety is an illusion. None of us are safe, ever, at any time. I imagine giving birth to a dead baby isn't the last time the universe is going to teach me that lesson. I do hope it's the biggest - but I know there are no guarantees.

Last night someone broke into our garage and stole our riding lawnmower.

Today I felt thrown back to those early, early days, the first week after William's death, when I couldn't go outside without trembling with fear, when I had to stay close to M. to feel even remotely secure. In those days, if I wasn't touching him, it felt as if I would disappear, be swallowed up by the black hole I could sense all around the edges of things. 

Today, I felt that again.

I spent today locking the doors, looking over my shoulder, jumping at every noise.

This is what happens when the veil is lifted, when you get a glimpse of the man behind the curtain. Everything becomes a violation, and you are powerless in the face of it.

I'm not angry about the lawnmower. Considering my anger issues lately, that's surprising, I suppose. But when you've lost your most precious thing, everything else just pales. It's a hunk of metal machinery. Nothing. So not important.

But having the veil lifted again brings me to my knees. I was doing such a good job of pretending, a little girl at a tea party, some for you, some for me, isn't this nice? And then the world forces me under again, drowning me in helpless fear, relentless horror.

I am not safe, my children are not safe, my husband is not safe, you are not safe. Nothing is safe. 

The world is a dangerous place. 

How could I have forgotten, even for a moment? My own body couldn't protect one fragile, precious life. How could I think the wide expanse of the universe was going to protect me or mine? How could I have fooled myself, lulled again, like following the call of the piper, just wanting to believe?

I could pretend... or run... or hide. I could close my eyes, hold fast, and pray. I have done all of those things since William died in the face of the devastating truth that not only is the world not safe now... it never was. 

Because babies were dying, even if I didn't know it. Any of the four children I have now could have died inside of me. They could die right now. The truth was out there, in here, all along. Nothing I could have done and nothing I'm doing now can defend against it. 

There are no champions. There's no holding out for a hero. There are no happy endings.

The police officer who came to take our report said, "You'll never get it back." 

I thought, I know. 

He said, "Hard to prevent something like this."

I thought, I know. 

He said, "Sometimes you just have to cut your losses."

Ouch. I thought, I know, I know. 

Then he said, "Besides...how could you prove it was yours?"

And I thought... oh, believe me. I would know him anywhere. 

But of course, I wasn't thinking about lawnmowers anymore. 

I never was.

Do You Want Fries With That?

It's been a bad few days.

I'm angry. With everyone. With everything. I'm angry at my body. It killed my baby. It's taking a hella long time to recover, and my cycles still haven't returned. I'm angry at my kids for... for... for breathing. My husband, too. I'm angry at everyone for breathing while my son isn't. I'm angry at the moon. It's full and ripe and round, and I'm not. I'm angry at people who expect me to keep functioning day in and day out at some level of normal, and I'm angry at myself for doing it.

I'm angry at the television and the radio and the Internet and books. I'm angry at sunshine and birthday candles and cake and presents. I'm angry at the laundry and the dishes and my printer and our cars and my cell phone. 

I've been keeping myself as busy as possible, catching up on work, going down a list of things to do, because otherwise, I'd throw this laptop through the wall, get into my car, and drive until I found a bridge to sail off of. 

Routine is good, I tell myself. I just need to get back into the swing of things. I told myself that in the shower today, and felt pretty good about it, considering it was ten in the morning and I was already in the shower and I hadn't gone back to sleep after everyone left. 

That was a step in the right direction, I figured. I was up, dressed, motivated, working. 

Two steps forward apparently always equals one step backward. Tonight, M. brought home dinner, and the drive-thru didn't give him something I wanted, that I'd specifically requested. I was so angry I was shaking. Literally shaking. I sat at the kitchen table and felt the whole world narrow to that one thing, my anger at everything focused down to a burning pinpoint. I had to leave the room before our entire dinner went flying. 

I went to my bedroom and thought I would cry, but instead I just sat there and trembled. I knew I wasn't angry about the food. I wasn't angry with my husband or my children. I wasn't angry with any of the things I'd been taking my anger out on. It doesn't take a rocket scientist or even a psychologist to figure out what I'm really angry about. 

I'm not angry because I can't have a fucking order of french fries. 

I angry because can't have my son.

What do you do with anger like that, I wonder? 

Me?

I apparently take it out on my husband and my children and my body and my printer. 

I don't think I broke the latter.

The other three?

The jury's still out. 

Eight Things

Okay so I was tagged. And I have a hard time resisting a meme. I admit it, navelgazing is fun... :) 

So...

8 THINGS I AM LOOKING FORWARD TO:
Blood tests (strangely)
Conceiving again
Being pregnant again
Giving birth again
Holding a newborn again
Seeing my baby's eyes open
Nursing my baby
Telling my rainbow baby about my William

8 THINGS I DID YESTERDAY:
woke up
brushed my teeth
kissed my husband
cried
took a shower
wrote a poem
listened to my husband call the police
watched the Red Wings lose

8 THINGS I WISH I COULD DO:
have William alive in my arms right now
have William alive in my arms right now
have William alive in my arms right now
have William alive in my arms right now
have William alive in my arms right now
have William alive in my arms right now
have William alive in my arms right now
have William alive in my arms right now

8 SHOWS I WATCH:
Hockey (Red Wings)
The Tudors
American idol
The View
Family Feud
Animal Cops
Food Network Challenge
A Baby Story

8 FAVORITE FOODS:
Sun-dried tomatoes
Bacon
Chocolate
Waffles
Fondue
Hot & Sour Soup
Popcorn
Crab

8 PLACES I'D LIKE TO TRAVEL:
Wherever my son is
Eight times

8 PEOPLE I'VE TAGGED:
I don't want to tempt anyone else.
This stops here! :D

Two Months

Today is my daughter, Z.'s, 8th birthday. It's also the two-month anniversary of William's death.

On top of that Z. is sick and can't really enjoy it. Although she's giving it the old college try! She's got a fever, but insisted on going to school, since we bought cupcakes and everything. So I loaded her up with Ibuprofen and sent her. What a horrible mom I am. Daddy delivered her cupcakes mid-day with another dose of fever-reducer, and she came home sunny and bright, but slowly wilted as another dose of medicine came due. Definitely some sort of bug.

I received some very kind words today, two months after William's stillbirth. I was amazed how many people remembered and reached out. It was really heartening.

And then... *sigh*

This past weekend, we went to my mother-in-law's for Z's bday, and my mother-in-law sent us home with two baby dolls to wrap for Z.'s b-day from her collection (she's trying to downsize) which was very nice of her.

Today, she calls. I think she's calling to either a) wish Z. happy birthday (which it's early for... they're still in school) or b) to acknowledge that it's been two months since William died.

Nope, neither.

She says she knows Z. likes the dolls you can dress up and change better than the just "sit on the shelf" kind. The two she sent home could be either, really. She suggests I go into my dead son's bedroom, find some "gender neutral" baby clothes, and give those to my daughter for her new baby dolls.

I just sat there blinking at the phone. Really? You want me to do...what?

I said, "I don't think so."

Her response? "Well... you're not using them!"

I just hung up.

Different

M. said this morning, "How did our kids get to be so different?"

Z., our girl together, is talkative and impulsive. D., our boy together, is taciturn and cautious.

I replied, "I don't know, but I sure wish we'd had the chance to find out what the tie-breaker was going to be like."

Boy, do I.

Kindness

We have been showered with kindness since William died. We have received cards and letters from so many people expressing their condolences and love and support. I don't think we could possibly thank those folks enough for thinking of and reaching out to us. Every bit of sympathy was a light in the darkness to me in the very early days, and now it buoys me, keeps my head above water when all I want to do is sink into the murky depths of my grief.

And now, every time I look this, I remember the mommy group I've been a part of for almost ten years now, who got together to buy me a bracelet and keychain to remember William:

I feel so loved every time I look at it.

And see his name, and the sign for infinity. Forever.

And if I'm not wearing it (which isn't very often) I have the matching keychain they gave me:

With his name and the symbol for infinity on it too.

And my April "due date club" - who I had to deliver shocking and, I imagine, rather frightening news to about my son's death and subsequent birth - got together and sent their love and support in the form of a lovely charm:

With his full name engraved on it, and "in my heart."

There just aren't words to say how much this means to me, how kind and thoughtful these gifts are. They aren't just memorials to my son - that alone is a gift, having something tangible to hold - they also remind me that I have people in my life who remember, that his memory will go on not just in my heart, but that he's touched the lives of so many others who carry him in their hearts as well.

And it's a reminder that I am loved, held, supported. That's the even larger gift these beautiful little treasures are symbolic of, and I'm grateful. I want them to know that the kindness of the hearts who gave these gifts is felt so deeply and appreciated, but there just aren't words.

Regrets

I didn't have enough time. 
I didn't kiss him enough.
I didn't sing to him.
I wish I'd sung to him. 
My favorite things... my best thing...
I wish I'd held him more.
I wish I'd rocked him.
I wish I'd had time alone with my son.
I wish I'd unwrapped him fully.
I have no pictures of his little feet.
Or his long, delicate fingers.
I wish I'd taken more pictures.
I wish I'd thought to call NILMDTS.  
I wish I had a picture of him complete, whole. Not just pieces, covered, touched up.
I wish I'd kept part of his umbilical cord.
I wish I'd been the one to bathe him.
Dress him. Put on his first...and only...diaper.
I wish I'd thought to come home to give birth.
I wish I'd opened and looked into his eyes.
I wish I'd held him skin to skin.
I wish I'd had the time to think about what I wanted.
I didn't know I would want more of him that way - even in death.
I didn't know there was so much I would regret.
I wish I'd known.

Ghosts

We have a ghost in the house.

No, my dishes aren't flying around the kitchen by themselves, and I'm not feeling cold spots or seeing my breath in the hallway and I can't see dead people. 

Well...unless you count my dead son.

Him, I see. Everywhere. I'll wake up in the morning and look for him sleeping in the cosleeper, but he's not there. The cosleeper hasn't been next to my bed since the day after he died. I'll be driving and look in the rearview mirror, expecting to see him in his car seat, but he isn't there. The car seat was never installed. He would be nearly two months old now, bright eyed, smiling, holding his head up. He would be here, if he wasn't dead, and my mind still... STILL... can't wrap itself around that fact.

I never had the experience of him alive outside of me, in the world. He never slept in his co-sleeper or sat in his carseat, so how is it that I'm seeing him there? In my mind, he will always be a baby, a tiny, lifeless infant. Yet I'm getting flashes, images, of what could have been, like I'm seeing pieces of an alternate universe or reality where William didn't die, where he is right now a bright and happy almost-two-month-old.

I'm seeing ghosts.

Warning Labels: Dead Baby Mentioned

I want warning labels. On everything, please.

Movies, TV shows, books, you name it.

"Warning: Dead Baby Mentioned." A simple DBM would suffice.

I'm so tired of getting the wind knocked out of me when I rent a movie or turn on the television or open a book, and all of a sudden a baby dies, or someone mentions a previous loss. I know I'm particularly sensitive to it, but now that I've gotten back to some semblence of functional, that kind of thing really throws me. It pulls me immediately back down. I can't breathe, I feel like I'm drowning.

Not that there's not enough stuff in the world to remind me every single minute of the day - breathing, for example, and the fact that my son never did. That's enough to make me think of him. The fact is, he's with me all the time, just below the surface, and I'm using all my energy lately trying to keep it down. It's like holding a beach ball under water. It takes a lot of strength and energy, and eventually, I get tired and worn down and it comes up again.

So I know, eventually, I'll be reminded by something, someone, in some indirect way that's going to hurt. But the direct references to loss? Those are really too much, especially when I'm not expecting it. That feels more like someone coming up and hitting me in the gut with a baseball bat.

There should be a searchable database somewhere where babyloss mamas can check for a DBM.

Think "deadbabymentioned.com" is available?

(p.s. I've been warned there's a DBM in Marley & Me. There's also another in the Twilight series. And if you're watching The Tudors and didn't already know, historically... there's a DBM in there, too, in season two.)

****Please feel free to list your own and add to the DBM list!****

I Want...

I want a pair of ruby slippers.

I want three wishes.

Or just one. One wish. 

I want a time machine. 

I want a do-over. 

I want a happy ending.

I want a happy ending. 

I want a happy ending.

The Report

The doctor's report arrived in the mail today.

I'd requested it along with all the other medical records, but the doc hadn't signed off on it yet, so they said they'd mail it as soon as she had. 

Nothing new, really, although that nuchal cord was mentioned again: 

"There was a tight nuchal cord that was noted and reduced."  

On the placenta report, it says "tight nuchal cord x2." 

Would be nice to know it was that - a tight cord, a freak accident. No one seems to think so, though.

I read the whole report and made it through. It wasn't easy, but I did it.

The worst parts: 

This was a male infant with Apgar scores of 0 and 0 at one and five minutes respectively. 

and 

In summary, this was a morphologically normal appearing male infant. The patient and her husband were consoled appropriately. Spiritual counseling was offered and declined. They were allowed to bond with the fetus.  

As I folded it up and put it back in the envelope, I found myself wondering if the person who transcribed the report thought about what they were typing? Was this just another report? Did they feel anything when they came across the words, "the patient was delivered of a stillborn infant at 2213 hours?" 

Did they imagine my baby, our family, our pain? 

I know I would. 

Stillbirth Certificate

This arrived in the mail today:

Michigan is one of only twenty-one states that offers a certificate of stillbirth.

I feel lucky to live in a state that will at least acknowledge my son's birth, even if it isn't an "official" state or federal document.

No mother who goes through this should have to fight to have her child recognized as a "baby" and not a "fetus." And yet, in twenty-nine states, there are mothers who don't get to have this. They don't happen to live in one of the few states that offer a stillbirth certificate.  

And while I feel grateful... I really do... I'm also outraged. Why doesn't every mother get this? At least, at the very least, why doesn't every mother get some acknowledgment that her baby was born?

I think it's both tragic and reprehensible that I feel lucky to be holding a piece of paper instead of my baby.

Request for All the Baby-Loss Mamas

I hate that babies keep dying.

I love having this community of women for support who have experienced this loss - selfishly, I do.

But I hate it when someone else joins this "club." Couldn't William have been the last? Why does it still have to keep happening, over and over? Mothers wander toward us in the darkness, wailing and lost, calling for their babies, and we welcome them with open arms and heavy hearts. 

I'm only a month and a half into this journey, and already I hate it. 

Another mama entered this realm a few weeks ago. She said goodbye to her tiny twenty-week old beautiful baby boy, Simon Alexander, and like the rest of us, she's trying to make sense of it all. Me, I write. Others paint. Others garden. Some write their names in the sand.

This mama is collecting footprints for a project.

So I'm putting a call out, a request to all of you baby-loss mamas who got to take home your baby's footprints...but not your baby.

Will you send your baby's footprints to her?

You can email her here for more details.

Every one of us is holding out our empty arms, longing for our babies, and instead we find the comfort of another woman who is missing her child, too. We might hate to welcome new members, but our support for one another means so much.

Thank you, mamas. Thank you.

Unbalanced Life

Can't sleep lately at night. Although I can sleep all day, it seems. Strange unbalanced life.

M. and I stayed up (again) talking last night until almost dawn. He was fired on May 5 (don't panic... it's not a bad thing... his old job was horrible and only fired him because he'd already found something else...) and had last week off entirely. This week and next, he's working a short schedule at the new job, so we have more time together. It's been such a relief, and so very needed. I think he's recovering from the anxious atmosphere of his previous employer. He has so much more life and energy. I have my husband back.

Today was our final postpartum visit with our midwife, which was a much needed few hours of conversation about life and birth and death. Lots of laughter and tears and even a bit of closure, I think. She says she would be happy to do our next birth... assuming we have one. I have been thinking a lot about that possibility lately, impatiently waiting for my cycles to return. M. and I have talked about it, and we probably will try again. I said, before William was born, that it felt as if someone were missing from our family. Now, someone really is... 

Today was also my fifteen-year-old son's choir concert. B. had a solo, and it was the first one we've been able to make it to this year (M's schedule and the distance between our house and my ex's really precluded it.) He was amazing - I was impressed. And I found myself wiping away tears (again... I do that a lot lately) because seeing him doing something he loves moved me so much. I don't think there is anything quite as satisfying as watching your child doing something they truly love and are passionate about. Made me happy for him, and sad for William, who will won't be here to find that thing, whatever it might have been, that made him light up that way.

I suppose everything will be measured this way now. Graduations, new jobs, marriages... lost teeth, school plays, puberty... I will celebrate with my living children and still be thinking about my dead one.

The older kids' stepmom stopped me and expressed her condolences about William. It's funny, but sometimes in these situations, I feel like I'm comforting them, not the other way around. 

I'm so tired. Maybe I can sleep tonight. I can understand the inclination to start taking medication - Ambien, valium, whatever works - just to sleep, to ease the anxiety, to numb the pain.

Sometimes I read over these posts and think I sound so melodramatic. God, I even get sick of hearing myself go on about it. I would give anything to feel something else besides sad, angry or depressed.