Seven years
since we walked
into labour and delivery,
frantically anticipating
the early arrival of our first born.
Seven years
since we walked
down the sterile hallway,
empty handed,
past the newborn photographer,
what a stupid place to take photos.
Seven years
since we walked
down the gravel road,
arms full of lilies,
past the crab apple trees,
and laid you to rest
amongst the other names
that we know.
Seven long years
since we left you there,
not one day has passed
that we haven’t thought of you.
We lost our first baby. He was born at 35 weeks 2 days pregnant, it was both shocking and devastating, to say the very least.
The hospital social worker warned us that internet groups could be dark places and to be wary of them. Armed with a handful of bereavement pamphlets, a memory box and this information, we left the hospital.
Still reeling, I couldn’t handle the obnoxiously happy weekly pregnancy updates infiltrating my inbox. I tentatively logged on to the website to delete my account. My vision made blurry from constant tear swiping, I navigated my way to the “delete account” page — a nearly impossible feat. The site, like most sites, claimed to be very genuinely sad to see me go. They begged to know why I would ever want to leave their very informative and useful site, and provided a multiple choice click option. And for once in my life, I was grateful to have to explain my reasons to a computer, because there it was beside one of the tiny check boxes: miscarriage/baby loss. The site expressed its sincerest condolences and listed several forums I might find comfort in.
But wait, the social worker had warned me about these dark corners of the internet, where grieving people wallow in their sorrows amongst the internet cobwebs — often never heard from again.
Too late — before I knew it, I was the newest member in all three of the loss groups the site had recommended for me.
I have “real life” friends, great ones, family too, they were so so good to us after our loss, but my soul longed for a kindred connection with other souls, also still reeling from the overwhelming trauma, that is baby loss.
I spent hours poring over every single post. I made posts. I commented on posts. I marked comments with a tiny heart, just to let someone, somewhere, know they had been heard. It was a safe space where I could say whatever sad or disturbing thing I wanted and I was completely understood. Some nights, long after pre-loss me would have been sleeping, I lay in bed, clinging to my phone, the screen illuminated the darkness, as I refreshed my feed, over and over again. I didn’t want to miss anything.
There was a specific group of us, that had all lost babies within a few months of each other (three of us had babies born on the same day — including our son). We frequently commented on each others posts and passed private messages back and forth. Then one of them made a Facebook group. I was hesitant to lose my anonymity by linking these two worlds, matching screen names with real names, but I’m so glad I did.
We celebrate with each other. We cry with each other. We talk each other through some of the scariest moments of our lives. We lift each other up. We talk each other down. We’ve watched each other’s families grow both in size and in experiences. But most importantly, we remember together.
When the entire world feels like it is entirely too much, we make jokes about buying a castle together, or a tropical island and escaping it all — quite possibly forever.
I was so lucky to meet one of my friends, after almost three years of chatting online. She generously invited my family to stay with hers in her home in the Dominican Republic. It was awkward for exactly one minute before we dove deep into conversation, right where our last chat had left off. We visited her sweet baby in the cemetery and celebrated her rainbow daughter’s first birthday, alongside her family and friends. We holidayed together and watched both of our daughters playing in the sand under the palm trees. We marvelled at this exhaustingly beautiful stage of life, while reminiscing about our journey here. How lucky we were to have found each other.
I casually talk about my Internet friends and I’m often asked how I met them, because they are scattered about the United States, another in Canada and my dear friend in the Dominican Republic. “Oh,” people always respond, flatly, and I quickly feel the need to legitimize our friendship, but maybe it’s not something you fully understand, until you have internet friends, who regularly check in on you.
My soul found what it needed there, in that dark little corner of the internet, I found them, or maybe they found me, all of us a little broken, all of us in need of an understanding ear, all of us connected by a life-altering, world up-ending event.
Seven years, several miscarriages, many heart breaks, personal and family traumas, countless laughs and 27 rainbow babies (another on its way), we all remain friends.
After we were released from the hospital, we brought our new daughter home. Healing from a c-section I slowly walked up the stairs and eased my body onto the couch. Breathing in the mesmerizing newborn sweetness, we relaxed by eating snacks and watching shows we had already seen. It felt good, maybe too good, in hindsight. Surgery had gone smoothly, baby was healthy and so were we.
And then they returned. Two tired faces ascended the stairs. Excited raspy voices called out, “baby!” The bags under their eyes, large and dark outlined the glassy eyes that seemed to have a presence of their own, presenting themselves before the rest of their bodies. Then their eyes lit up, making them momentarily recognizable, the second they laid them on their new sister.
“STOP” I yelled. “Wash your hands!”
They clambered up onto my lap, smiling, very curious and very smitten. They introduced themselves to the baby, declaring their love for her, as they pawed at her face and body, while I grimaced at the never ending amounts of coughing. They were surely still contagious. With little choice I put all of my faith on the foaming hand soap, it would have to do.
Grandma and grandpa had graciously agreed to watch the older two girls, even to the detriment of their own health. We probably would have asked for another night off, but they were beginning to feel the effects of the early stages of the flu themselves. So they left us, and just like that we were a family of five.
The hospital had provided a false reality, cocooning us. All of our needs met in the quietness of the busy maternity ward, a quality under appreciated with the birth of our first daughter. New parents, again, to our third daughter, we felt fairly confident, we were experienced and prepared to handle this. Holed up in our room, swept back into newborn bliss complete with sweet cuddles, simple needs and some painkillers, it’s no wonder we were so easily mistaken.
The two days days before I had gone into labour, our house was struck by the plague. High fevers, body aches and burning eyes were loudly and tearfully reported by our daughters. I doled out medicine, encouraged small sips of juice and carefully cuddled them, while the tv droned on and on. Washing my hands every time they became free for just a moment, I decided that even with only a 10 percent chance of protection, getting the flu shot, when it was offered at work, was indeed a good idea.
When contractions began, I was glad this baby had held on for at least the beginning of the flu days. Two weeks and two days early, she was my longest pregnancy. I had been anxiously anticipating her arrival, counting the random contractions for days as Christmas crept closer. On December 16th contractions were slow but regular, we packed our bags, showered and settled into bed. I had high hopes of getting some sleep before heading to the hospital. Contractions consistently arriving every fifteen minutes meant little sleep, but at 5 am when I stepped out of bed, something shifted and they began coming every two minutes. Trying not to panic at the acceleration, I calmly asked my husband to get ready and to call my sister to watch the older two who were still asleep. On her way to the gym, my sister unfazed by the presence of the flu in our home, happily turned around. She had been waiting for this call. Off we went.
The very kind obstetrician I had seen for all of my births and the duration of three pregnancies, had given me her phone number, and met us at the hospital. After losing my first baby due to birth complications, I felt very fortunate to have a kind and familiar face in the operating room at each of my subsequent c-sections. December 17th at 7:31 am, we heard her loudly enter the world.
After a great deal of unsuccessful pleas to hold their new sister, we put the older two to bed. Constant coughing escaped their feverish bodies and echoed down the hall as they attempted to rest, signalling the beginning of yet another long night.
As we prepared to settle into our own bed, we gently laid our sweet little one into her crib, five feet from our bed. At first grunt, I pulled her into our bed, just as I had done with her sisters. Last baby means I’m going to enjoy every minute of these sweet sweaty cuddles. Coughs, followed by crying, repetitively interrupted our sleep. Exhausted we took turns comforting the older two with cuddles and meds.
Each time, I not so smoothly rolled myself out of bed, eased my body to the floor, and gingerly lifted myself into what might be called mostly-standing. Recommending only Advil and Tylenol for surgery patients seems a little cruel. I slowly tread down the hall to the room I heard the loud cries of “Mommy!” from. I needed another dose of Tylenol anyway. I returned to realize I only had inches of space on a king size bed. Unwilling to move her and risk waking her, I precariously balanced myself on the edge and attempted to replicate the only position I found which allowed even a little comfort for an aching body. It didn’t matter, I wouldn’t be there long until I was needed again.
In every one of these exhausted waking moments, my brain and body so tender and so tired, my heart was full. Our family had been completed with the arrival of our newest daughter. It’s such a strange thing for a heart to feel such peace, while it simultaneously feels such sadness as I thought of my oldest, the son, I lost. I had begged the universe for these nights, six and a half years earlier, where a tiny human needed me and now there were three. Three, creating the most beautiful chaos, and I am so lucky to be in the thick of it.
pregnancy after loss
such a peculiar place to be so hopeful yet helpless
but i guess thats like anything in life
perhaps that’s life itself
everything important depends on the systems we take for granted seemingly constant until they’re not
sleep
sweet relief
until reality forces her way through the cracks in my eyelids
and sadness overwhelms my lungs
spreads through my bloodstream and consumes me
they say time heals all wounds
my broken heart says otherwise
time is so repetitious
unrelenting
inescapable
it’s getting warmer and i haven’t smelled a drop of rain in weeks
time
always present in the changing seasons
reminds me where i was years earlier
just when i think i am doing alright
my body remembers
if time heals all wounds
why must this season come each year?
breasts leaking
abdomen glued back together
a drop of blood traces its way down my leg
“where’s the baby” my body asked
afraid to hear the answer
“he’s gone” i whispered
and we wept together
my body and i
slowly dragged forward
my fingers scramble to cling to anything that might stop time
ten deep lines scar the earth
prominent now
they slowly fade away
as hard as this is
this is familiar
and it’s mine
the earth keeps spinning
when my world has stopped
moving forward means leaving pieces of you behind
-i’m not ready
i press my body against the earth
needing to feel close to you again
my tears water the ground you lie beneath
the sun continues to shine
i hate her for shining
for bringing each new day
the grass has begun to sprout
the earth has moved on
and yet here i am
it comes crashing down
a powerful wave in a furious storm
i’m lost
my lungs on fire
i’m not sure which way is up
not sure if i care
time is undone
and i am brought back to those first days without you
i’m left gasping for air
emotionally spent
but grateful for the reminder
-YOU were HERE
eventually i can let it gently wash over me
as the tide slowly moves in
peacefully
it pulls me out to the sea
for a moment
memory connects us again
the sun warm on my face
the water an understanding friend
giving me the time i need
i gently wash ashore with the returning tide
October 15th is here, baby loss and miscarriage awareness day. The day that I wonder if this is the October that I will share my story. The 6th October since losing our sweet first baby. So here it is, the story and the feelings that have been lingering in my thoughts and my soul, that I have long anticipated writing for myself, and for you.
We became pregnant quite quickly and waited the obligatory twelve weeks before announcing our expected bundle. It was an uneventful pregnancy that consisted of routine doctor appointments and ultrasounds, We were always relieved to hear the word “normal” at every visit, the word all parents hope and pray to hear throughout pregnancy and continue to hope for as their children grow.
Each week as my pregnancy progressed I checked the baby loss statistics, comparing the percentage of survival to the week before it. I felt secure in the numbers as they surpassed the 99th percentile. We did some light research, followed by some shopping and we prepared a nursery.
At week 35, in the very early morning of my husband’s birthday, my water broke, while lying in bed. We were anxious as we headed to the hospital, unsure of what to expect in labour and delivery and only slightly concerned about our baby coming a little early. Upon arrival we were shown through the NICU, just in case our little one would need a week or two of breathing help and monitoring. Walking through the NICU I saw tiny babies who presented quite well and I knew we were in the right place. If these little little ones were doing alright, a 35 week baby would be just fine.
He wasn’t.
Labour did not progress, and I was induced. With each contraction our little one’s heart would slow down, but would pick up again after the contraction had subsided. After awhile it was decided that a caesarean would be a wise choice for our circumstances.
In surgery my uterus was very contracted, our little one’s head was stuck in my pelvis and the cord, up by his ear, had a great deal of pressure on it. They couldn’t get him out. Panic filled the room as all of the medical professionals available tried everything they could think of. Amidst all of the panic, I was calm because I knew, I just knew, that they could figure it out. My husband was removed from the room and right before I went under general anesthesia I heard from a doctor, “I don’t know what to do.”
I woke to very somber medical staff, their faces displaying the gravity of the situation, and still I was completely ignorant of just how wrong things had gone. Staff broke protocol and wheeled me into the NICU to see my little one. There he was; I got to lay eyes on the one that I had dreamed about, the one that had kept me up at night, the one that had made me so uncomfortable, the one I loved so fiercely from the moment I first felt him, and I was proud. There is nothing quite like meeting your first baby, the one that makes you a parent, the incredibleness of it all as you study their tiny body and marvel at the mystery that is life. Aside from all of the wires and tubes, he was breath-taking and incredible, he was perfect.
A medical transfer via helicopter should have been my first clue that things were not going well, but it wasn’t until we arrived at the children’s hospital a few hours later and saw my sweet baby, looking very unhealthy that I realized that this story wasn’t going to end the way I had dreamed that it would. This day wouldn’t be just a story we told him each year on his birthday, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.
His head was so swollen. There was a bleed in his brain, caused by the pressure from the vacuum the medical staff needed to use to get him out. Medical staff was busy, wracking their minds and trying everything they could think of to save his life. Unfortunately the trauma his tiny five pound, five ounce body had received was too great, and he passed away after eleven hours of life, surrounded by love and in our arms.
Confused, exhausted and broken we left our little guy in the hospital and returned to the quietest house in the world. Empty body, empty arms, empty nursery. I was so lucky to have a husband that I was able to cling to through all of it. Thankfully our home was soon filled with family and friends and flowers and food, everyone took such great care of us, we will be eternally grateful for the kindnesses we were shown after losing our son.
If you are brave enough, determined enough and fortunate enough to get to do it all over again, the stats are refreshed and your chances at heart break are just as likely as they were the last time around, except they feel overwhelmingly like 100% because I lost 100% of the babies I carried. It feels like life should owe you a pass, because when you’ve been one in one thousand, that feels like enough.
And you’re aware. So. Much. More. Aware. Of every single thing that can go wrong. In order to feel normal you seek out people that are like you, that understand you, that get you completely and you surround yourself with them. I was so fortunate to connect with a supportive community of women online, who had all lost their babies within a few months of us losing our sweet son. We helped each other through the hurts and the healing and we have remained friends over the years.
It goes excruciatingly slow. Agonizingly slow. Painstakingly slow. Each hour is torturous and there were countless times I wanted to ask my obstetrician for a medically induced coma, or a crystal ball. I could endure the 40 long weeks of pregnancy if I KNEW it would end in crying that would interrupt our sleep for years to come. She could provide nothing, besides a somewhat unsure assurance that what had happened would not repeat itself. But it should never have happened in the first place. They say lightening doesn’t strike the same place twice but whoever said that doesn’t understand my luck, and just uttering those words felt like challenging destiny.
So when we lost our second baby, another boy, at 15 weeks pregnant, after having a healthy ultrasound the day before, I wasn’t surprised. Because life. Because stats. Because history. Simply, because.
Determined to have a family, we gave it another shot. And the stats began again, we were at the mercy of the numbers. It’s a weird place to be, hopeful but detached, wanting to give this baby all the positivity in the world, yet preparing to announce another baby’s passing. There is a weird peace that comes from admitting powerlessness in circumstances where you would very much like to control the outcome.
But this time we were able to bring our baby home. Our little ball of sunshine, bright and beautiful, our daughter.
