Dear Little Rainbow,
I swear I haven't slept. I haven't missed a moment. The nights have been long. Days have stretched longer and longer over these last few months. Yet, here we are on the eve of your first birthday. Your bath is done. You smell so sweet. As I nurse you to sleep one last time as an 11-month-old I can't help but sit here in absolute disbelief that a time that seemed to string on forever happened so fast. It is the ultimate oxymoron. I remember looking at that positive pregnancy test and being filled with a combination of unparalleled love and fear. Dare I hope? Dare I dream? Am I too presumptuous to celebrate? Would celebrating now, mean that my mourning for you later will be felt even more deeply? I remember emailing doctor's offices and explaining my story and my fears. I remember telling your daddy that you were here and you were growing. I could see the steps he took backwards in the beginning. The physical and emotional withdrawal from me as he too was afraid that our story with you would end like your brothers'. I remember all the doctor's appointments. The twist in my stomach as I pulled into the parking lot. I still can recite the inner dialogue I held with me, myself and I. I remember the intense rush of relief I would feel when I would see your petite features on the ultrasounds and the tiny flickering of your heart. The weeks before you were born I visited Labor and Delivery too many times to count. The anxiety was next level. The intermittent contractions sent my brain into overdrive as I always feared that this was the moment that we would lose you. The morning you were born I had a routine MFM appointment. The only time I've ever been on time is for my doctor's appointments for you and your brothers. That ultrasound is one I would never forget. You were practicing breathing and your heart was thumping so loudly, but you refused to move. No matter what the medical staff or I did...nothing would get you to even move a finger. I remember texting your dad and pouring my fears out to him. I remember sitting for an hour waiting for my MFM to get out of surgery. She came into the room and sat with her right leg tucked under her as she sat on the rolling chair. She was sitting sideways on the chair and propped her arm on the headrest and leaned against it in a very casual but "real talk" way. She told me you weren't moving but that you looked great. But, that she knew all too well that if she sent me home that one moment you could be fine and the next you couldn't. "I think we should just have a baby today, is that ok with you?" I cried. I sobbed. A line of techs and nurses lined the hallways as I left and they cheered and smiled and sent me reassuring nods. It was Baby Day. I went home and grabbed my bag and your dad and I left for the hospital. You were born via cesarean at 2:43pm. "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us" by Starship Troopers was playing in the background... what a wonderful coincidence. Your little cry sent tears streaming down my face. I remember looking over at the warmer and seeing your tiny little body. 19inches long and 5lb10oz. I remember thinking about how incredibly tiny you looked. Those first few days I remember everything. I didn't sleep but for less than an hour that whole 3 days. I was overwhelmed with love for you and grief for your brothers. Coming home with you in my arms rather than a box with handprints was surreal. The sleepless nights were spent nursing you and watching you sleep rather than crying silently into my pillow with my breasts throbbing from fullness. Each milestone you met has brought with it feelings of joy and this desire to freeze time. This past year I have been a mess. My anxiety has ebbed and flowed. Some days (actually a lot of days) I know I haven't done my best. I am guilty of losing my patience and feeling overwhelmed. I have have tried to be the best mom I can be but I know I can do better. I have watched you these last few days I have seen how you have grown. You are moving everywhere. You are sweet and kind and oh so very sassy. You are developing a little temper, which actually is just you letting me know you have very strong opinions which I understand because.... well, I am your mom and you are me. I know this chapter has closed on us and while it makes me sad I am so incredibly grateful to move forward with you and to watch you continue to grow and learn. Selfishly I played with the idea of how I want you to stay small forever, but I already have my forever babies. I will cherish the time we had when you kicked in my belly and fit in my hands and would fall asleep across my chest. But, I am looking forward. I have memories and pictures and a thousands (like millions) of videos to hold close to my heart. But, I am so immensely happy to see you grow up. So, on this last night as a baby I hold you close and stroke your baby hairs because tomorrow you will be older and this time will be gone, but you will be here with me. And in the morning I will hold you and sing to you and carry-on on this wonderful adventure of motherhood with you. I love you Nora, my little rainbow baby. Happy First Birthday, We did it. We made it.
entire time I was in pre-term labor. What was obviously apparent to everyone was not to me and only after I delivered my son, too small to survive, did the reality of the day set in. My worst case scenario happened. I was determined to push any negative thoughts out as I sat in my anatomy scan for my second son, Marek. The doctors were certain I would begin labor in a matter of hours and offered me termination. I asked, "Is his heart still beating?" to which they responded, "Yes, it is. But, it is very dangerous to continue to carry. The risk of infection is too high". I blocked out all the catastrophic thoughts. This time was going to be different. I was hospitalized and continued to carry my son for 57 more days. The night before he passed away, I was puking and just knew something wasn't right. The toco showed nothing too worrisome and my doctor told my nurse that a few Benadryl to help me sleep is all I needed. He thought that my anxiety was too high and that is why my son's heart rate was 180-200 and why I didn't feel well. All night I laid there in pain and thinking all my catastrophic thoughts. I told my nurse in the wee hours of the morning, "I don't know what is wrong, but I know something is wrong". At which point they hooked me back up and learned I was contracting. In less than an hour I heard the words, "I am so sorry Makenna", and I knew. I knew because I am a catastrophic thinker. This scenario had already played through my head so it wasn't a matter of "if" but rather "when".
stand, she falls headlong into the hard tile and breaks her face? Horrible, graphic thoughts of my worst nightmare constantly playing out and adding to my already out of control anxiety. Catastrophic thinking for a parent after loss is like thinking that by having thoughts that you think them into being. That anything you read or feel is like deja vu and is a foreshadowing. Trust is nonexistent . When you receive good news you can't even celebrate it because you're left questioning if it's even true. How can you know something bad won't happen? How can you be certain that you have done everything? Are you sure you haven't missed something? And it's not because I don't want my daughter to be healthy. On the contrary. I want her to thrive. I want with every bone in my body for the doctor's to be right. I want that confidence. I just know that my worst thoughts have come true and I don't want to miss anything. I cannot lose another child. nbBeing a catastrophic thinker, and parenting after loss is my biggest struggle. It is a daily battle with my innermost demons and knowing what could happen, because it has happened. I know what it feels like. I know the pain and the anguish. I am well acquainted with the grief and suffering. Today, I am declaring that I am a recovering Catastrophic Thinker. I am going to trust that even though my thoughts have me in a tail spin and may always- that I am going to heed
I'm sure it makes some people uncomfortable. Oh, how sad- they must think. The looks of pity fall upon her. The disapproving whispers of people who think that enough time has passed. Shouldn't she be over it. It's been long enough. She should really focus her energy and attention to her living child and stop living in the past.
Never will "enough" time pass. Never will her heart "heal". Time will soldier forward. With time will come some moments of peace, but also big moments of grief. Milestones will come and go. The true reality of her loss will never fully set in. With each new experience she is awarded with a living child she will gain a deeper understanding of who and what she has truly lost. A stillborn baby is a baby that is born with no heartbeat. A baby that has grown and been nurtured for months in the womb only to be born still. In the moment they are born no cry fills the room. The silence is deafening. It's the moment that will haunt a loss mother's dreams; yet, fill her heart with such intense joy for the rest of her life. She has carried that baby, labored for hours, and delivered that infant with no reward of feeling his/her hot little breaths on her chest. How can you miss someone so much that you only just met? A birthday is a day that marks the day that a person was born. That a person was met with loving arms and soft kisses. It's a day that warrants a celebration. Every birthday is meant to be celebrated and to be commemorated. A stillbirthday is a day to support the loss mother. There is no party to plan. No children to RSVP. No cake to decorate and no presents to buy. There's no little person blowing out candles with a wish under his/her breath. Instead, there's a mother who's wishing that things were different. She's celebrating the day that she met and said good bye to a piece of her heart, forever. Be kind to her. Remember with her. Do not look upon her with pity. Do not judge what you do not understand. Every mother deserves to remember with fondness these special occasions. Give grace. Give support. Say their names. Celebrate with her as you would any other birthday. Because, a stillbirthday is still a birthday. It is the eve of Marek Christopher's stillbirthday. As of December 18th he will be 2 years into infinity in heaven. How my heart yearns for this sweet strawberry blonde boy. Happy Birthday, Marek. Momma love you. It's Thanksgiving. A day that is filled with love and family. Food and giving thanks for all that we have in our lives. But, today I am reminded of what I do not have. I do not have two mischievous boys gaping at the Macy's Day parade and exclaiming at the big floating cartoon characters. I don't have two boys watching the dog show and trying to (successfully) convince me we need more pups for Christmas. I don't have the laughter and tears of fights and making up while playing. I don't have two brothers terrorizing their sister and then smothering her with kisses. I don't have two boys sneaking bites and begging for food then sitting at the table and snubbing their nose at half of what is offered (mainly veggies because, I mean look who their is father) but magically finding room for pumpkin pie. There's alot I don't have. So, I am changing my perspective. I am thankful for two sons. Two beautiful boys. Taken too soon, but who were here, nonetheless. I am thankful for the time I carried them. I am thankful that they only new love and warmth. I am thankful for our birthing teams, from all 3 of my babies. They carried me through the happiest and saddest moments of my life. I'm especially thankful for my TAC surgeon, Dr James Sumners, for giving me the procedure that then saved my daughter's life. I am grateful for my faith and knowing that my children are waiting for me patiently in heaven where they know no pain. I am eternally grateful for the few photos and items I have to remember them by. I am grateful for being able to hold their small bodies close to mine and the time I had to just stare into their perfect small faces. I am grateful for my husband for being the father they needed and the support that helped carry me through. I am grateful for our families who still celebrate and remember our children and remind us that they are forever a part of our family no matter how much time passes. I am grateful for our friends that take the time to speak our children's' names and not rush my grief (hint: the mourning never ends, it just becomes a new normal). I am grateful for my online grief support- the Turning Hearts Mommas. The #sadmomsociety, as we darkly refer to ourselves. This group of Mommas is spread throughout the world and has been everything I didn't know I needed on this journey of being a mother with empty arms. They've lifted me up and carried me through on my darkest days. I am grateful for our rainbow. She truly was sent special just to us. Even as I write this I hear her laying in her crib awake and singing. She does not know the pain that is forever stamped on our hearts but her happiness and joy and smile brings me out of the fog when I don't even recognize I am slipping. Holidays are stark reminders of what I am missing. Of what should be, but what is not. I am a loss mom- I am still sad, I always will be. My heart will forever ache for that bossy older brother and that wavy-haired strawberry-blonde boy who should be fighting over turkey legs. But, I am so incredibly thankful that I am their mother. That I will always be. That they were here. That I will see them again. I am grateful for who I am now because of them. Even if I could go back and knew the outcomes I would do it all again. Every time; because I am thankful for all children and the mother that they made me. Happy Thanksgiving. Even if your heart is heavy. Let the tears fall and the smile pull through. Whether it's been 5 months or 20 years, I remember your babies and I am thankful that they were here. That they were born. Share with a Momma who is missing their little. I see you. What are you most thankful for this Thanksgiving? I honestly do not remember the early days after I lost my babies. I have flashes of images that are accompanied with emotions that are seeming to fade with time. The weeks and months following losing each of my sons is all a blur of waking moments and sleep. I don't know what I was thinking or doing. I do remember the kindness that was shared with me and my husband from others, but that's really it. As time has gone on, much to my disbelief, my grief has evolved into something that is difficult to describe. The pain of losing our children is still hard, but seems distant. Perhaps it's my mind protecting me from the intense feelings that are partnered with remembering - maybe my grief is truly transforming. Oh, how it seems like another lifetime. I've detached enough that my days are easier but I am constantly feeling pulled back to their memory.
I go between guilt and feeling as if I am betraying my first two children - and living this blissfully happy time with my rainbow. Each new experience that I have with Nora, I am reminded that I will never have these moments with the boys. That this time was taken from Logan and Marek. I smile and am present and, more often, I am living in the moment and truly soaking in all the new adventures. Only when Nora is in bed do I sit back and reflect. Now that I am able to act out my maternal urges, losing the boys has become less about my stolen motherhood and more about the two little people that will never grow up. Never laugh and smile and be a part of this loud and chaotic household. Slowly my perspective changes and I see a new angle of grief that I couldn't comprehend before. I am trying to master this new balancing act in my heart. Holding true to the memory of my first two children but still being present and the best mother I can be to my daughter. I would say I am having more happy days than sad, but the month is October. October to January has been a rough time the last few years. It's the time frame that I have been pregnant with all my children. These months are laced with memories that are forever attached to the season, smell, holidays, weather- just everything. This is a new season of grief. An albeit confusing one. I feel my life pulling me forward. Yet, I know a piece of me will forever be left in those hospital rooms. My daughter has awoken a part of me that I thought was gone. I will never be whole. It is not her job to complete me. But, I am so grateful that she was sent to me by Logan and Marek to bring comfort and purpose back into my life. During this month of October, there are many noteworthy causes. Pregnancy and Infant Loss is one I will forever hold close to my heart. On the 15th, there will be an International Wave of Light. I will light a candle in memory of my babies and for all the children that have gone too soon. I invite you to light a candle with me. Let the mothers whom have lost a child to- miscarriage, ectopic, stillbirth, infant death- let them know you are with them in remembering their children. They are not alone. You are not alone. Join me in spreading love and comfort. Our society is obsessed with babies and pregnancy. “When are you due? How are you feeling? Are you finding out the gender? Do you have any names picked out?” It’s exciting and overwhelming. People want to know, they want to be involved and want to know every intimate detail of how the baby is growing and how you’re adjusting. So, what about when the baby dies?
No one wants to talk about baby-loss. They chalk it up to a failed pregnancy and offer a few small words that are supposed to heal the broken heart and then “try again” “you can always have more” “they’re in a better place”. I wanted that baby. It wasn’t just a pregnancy that ceased to be...it was a small person who’s heart stopped beating. It’s a two year old playing with toys in the living room. It’s the kindergartener smiling proudly at their graduation. It’s the little girl who wants to dress as a witch every year for Halloween. The young boy who would have grinned ear to ear when running the bases when he hit the ball down centerfield. The teen learning to drive- the college freshman dragging home putrid smelling laundry from the dorms. The young man who would find love. The young woman you would go on to have children and lead a fulfilling life of love and happiness. The lawyer, the doctor. The teacher, the farmer. Your loss wasn’t just a “lost pregnancy” but a person with hopes and dreams and aspirations. There’s a lifetime to mourn. That grief can’t be hastened to fit into another person’s idea of what’s acceptable. Some days are easier. Some days it hits like a ton of bricks. I am not quiet with my loss of my boys. I speak out, I use my millions of hashtags... why? Because I don’t want others to feel alone. Because loss is not a private matter. It’s not a loss that should be hushed and swept under the rug. Mourn the baby as much as you would celebrate the baby. I welcome conversation. I put hashtags on everything cause that’s how I hope to help the grieving mother to find me. A mother of loss leads a very isolated life. I want to invite them to me. I pray we can change the conversation. That people can stop letting their insecurities and feelings get in the way of another persons healing and grief. That they can leave their comfort at the door. No one wants to hear about dead babies, I get it- Lord knows I do. But, I want to speak of my children. I want to share their pictures just like I would my living children. They are a part of me. They’re not here but that does not mean my heart does not long for them and wish for them. They are not a private matter. They are my children. Don’t let others make you feel shame for wanting to share your grief, love, and photos. Let’s be the generation that helps change the narrative. Let’s be the change. Coming from a big family, I’ve been surrounded by babies for as long as I can remember. I cared for siblings and later babysat for families in my small town. My love for children and people grew as I continued my service to others as I became a caregiver. I had such patience and a calm about me. I always wanted children. (I played with dolls religiously, and house, too). I wanted my own brood. I was keenly aware of children around me and the interactions these children shared with their mothers. I wanted to be that mom that just went with the flow and was relaxed and confident. It’s how I imagined I would be some day. I believe I would’ve been that mom, too.
I was destined to be the mom that cared but didn’t hover. That smiled from a distance while my children embarked on new challenges and experiences. Who would yell across the playground when a step was missed climbing the equipment, “You’re brave. Brush it off”. I know... I just know that’s who I was supposed to be. That’s not who I am. With losing two babies I was robbed of who I was becoming. My mind took a sharp left and now I am struck daily with the fear that it’ll happen again. That once laissez faire approach I would’ve taken has now changed due to this hyper awareness of every possible negative “what if”. The consequence is no longer a scraped knee. It’s now much worse, because I’ve lived through much worse. I’m a catastrophist. A worse case scenario over-thinker. My confidence is gone and my ease is no where to be found. I spent my beginning weeks and months with my rainbow vigorously working myself up to lay her down and walk out of the room only to get downstairs and be doing laundry and think- “What if she’s stopped breathing? I should go check on her. But what if she’s fine? I am worrying about a non-problem. Maybe I should go to the bathroom before I check in case she’s dead? If she’s dead I’m not going to have time to use the bathroom for awhile. But, I shouldn’t waste time finishing the laundry or going to the bathroom because what if she’s already gone? Or what if I went right now and I saved her? I’m wasting time *panic intensifies*” (It’s bizarre. It’s odd to see it even written out. But, these are daily thoughts.) I race upstairs and hold my breath as I see her still in her bassinet. She takes a big dreamy sigh- and I feel as if I could collapse in relief right where I stand. I’ve had to train myself to not let these unprovoked thoughts dictate my actions and my parenting, but some days it’s a losing battle. I wasn’t meant to be this mother. Afraid to leave the room. Afraid to put her down or leave her from my sight. The mom who has to work herself up to hand her to family who wants to snuggle and love her. I’m not who I planned to be but I am the mother I am. I may always seem to helicopter over my baby. I will aways choose to hold her rather than lay her alone to sleep. I’ll try hard to let my children learn even if it means they have a few tumbles. I can’t promise I won’t be tense and holding my breath and calming myself in even the most simplest of moments. I’m going to have to work on my own fears and anxieties as they are my own and I will try and not project them outwards- I will try every day. I will always “play it safe” because there’s enough I can’t control that I will never add risk. I will be fierce with my love and will try so hard to smile and be brave for my children even when I’m crumbling inside. I’m not the mother I was meant to be- I am the mother loss has molded me to be. I pray the mother I am is the mother my children need. My path may have been changed due to my experiences but I will work hard to not let it rule the kind of mother I know I still want to be. "You are absolutely glowing pregnant". "You know if you breastfeed that weight will literally fall off". "There will be plenty of time once the baby's here to 'bounce back'". -Literally everyone on planet Earth But, then you come home from the hospital. Engorged breasts. Sore everything. Eyes perpetually red rimmed. Head pounding from the sobbing and the sudden start of the fall of pregnancy hormones. Your gait is slow. Your body is tired. You eventually take that first shower at home and you can't even enjoy the warm water on your skin cause you feel empty. Your ears feel strained from the absence of the sound of crying. You stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom and gaze at the body you feel so betrayed by. The body that harbored life. That grew and stretched with the promise of a new beginning. Instead, it gave you the beginning and ending all in a single day. Your skin in angry with marks that showed where kicks used to be. Your stomach is jiggly. Yes, jiggly like jello- and so sore. Your face is fuller, your arms are, too. Don't even look at your back end cause Lord knows those mesh panties aren't camouflaging anything. This whole time you were not bothered by this transformation as you reassured yourself it would all be worth it. Yet, here you are. Naked. A physical, emotional, and mental version of someone you don't even recognize. No baby in the other room, waiting on you. No baby to snuggle and smell. You have nothing. But, boobs that throb and a body that isn't your own. This is what it feels like. It's such a small glimpse into what it feels like to have that postpartum body with no baby. To sport that "mom-bod" when strangers don't know you're a mom. The depression makes you want to sleep. To escape. If you were like me and had no "sunshine" children (children born before loss) then you could sleep all day, with no interruptions except to wake and realize that - no, it wasn't all just a dream and that you are laying in soaked sheets full of breast-milk. If you were like so many other loss mothers that went home to their "sunshine" children you were back to the grind, except now you're trying to bandage the broken hearts of siblings and trying not to break down every 5 seconds. You're dealing with the tantrums cause the siblings don't know how else to express themselves. Which is worse? Neither. There is no competition in the loss world. It all.... sucks (yes, that's the most eloquent word in the English language that best describes it all). Days would roll together. I would wake to eat something - fast and easy. Sometimes, overeating- other times starving myself. But, I never did any of this on purpose. The cycle continued. Some weight was lost, not all of it, 9lbs remained. But, I didn't care enough to come out of my fog to change anything. I had no desire or energy to put to task any plan. My second pregnancy meant bed-rest for 92 days. Hospital bed-rest for 57 of those days. Strict bed-rest where I only got up to pee and wore compression boots on my feet. I atrophied any muscles I did have. My muscles shriveled and left me weak. And even after all my hopes and effort and months spent in trendelburg just staring at the ceiling...my time honored tradition of returning home without a baby continued. It played out similar to the first time. I sought a way to help make sense of it all. I never truly found the secret healer but this time I decided to pump and donate. For 3 months I pumped milk from my postpartum body in an attempt to help others. I pumped the equivalent of my boy's weight in grams in ounces of milk. It helped heal my heart, some. Yet, the weight remained. 9 more lb stayed on my once svelte frame. 18lbs total. I didn't want to leave the house cause I didn't feel like myself. Here I was with a postpartum body but no baby to show for my efforts. A body torn apart by the majesty of pregnancy and left shattered and lumpy and heavy. Having a postpartum body with no baby is indescribable. It's all the words; yet, none of them truly depict the truth. Having a postpartum body with a baby is hard, too. I am learning this with my rainbow. Time is mysteriously missing from my day. I'd rather giggle and coo with my 4month old then attend a class at the gym. Breastfeeding has me craving ALLLL the sweets. But, now I have purpose. I have a little girl that is only getting more active. I want to lead by example. I want to exude confidence and happiness in myself so that I can share all the good things with her. Come along with me as I write about my postpartum journey, after my rainbow. I will be writing about it and sharing everything. I want to be a better version of myself, and I hope it will inspire you to join .... P.S. I have a pretty awesome coach, so stick around. #operationmmombod I make my journey very public. Sometimes it's not easy...alot of the times it's not easy. The stigma of society still shushes the mother that's mourning. Whether the test was positive for only a day, you've carried for weeks and made it through that "safe zone" (I hate that phrase), or you've carried and bore a perfectly formed little person that never took a breath. It seems like everyone around you is stuck like a record player.
"You should really keep that private" "You can always have another" "They're in a better place" "I guess it just wasn't in God's Plan" This is not what a mother who's lost needs to hear. These are the last things she needs to hear. She needs a hug. She needs you to listen to her. She needs to know that it's not fair and you are so incredibly sorry her little passed away. Loss is loss. There are different degrees of loss. No two experiences are the same. However you need to grieve, do so. When I lost my children I felt so alone. Many well-intentioned persons tried to offer their abounding insight and wisdom on my experience, one they did not share. Everyone wants to say the right thing. I've lived through the horror TWICE and I still don't know what the right thing to say is. With my openness of my experiences I have had so many friends, acquaintances, and even strangers approach me. Everyone feels alone. Desperate for a connection or someone who knows how they are feeling in their grief. It's crazy to me to see all these women approach me on a weekly basis. Loss is everywhere. It's devastating and it is so incredibly lonely. Keep talking to me. If your journey does not include putting yourself on a public platform like I choose- then still know I am here. Know that no matter what stage your loss was I will cry with you. I will not try and placate you with shallow words and positive spins. I am here for you. I am here to listen to you. I am here to remember your child with you. Know that you are not alone and your grief is valid. That your child does matter. That it is NOT fair. Come to me and let me help share your sadness and anger. You are not burdening me with your pain. I carry it too, let me share your heavy load. To the mother who no one sees... who's children are not in her arms, I see you. To the mother with her whole brood in tow but is still missing a little voice in the back seat, I see you. There's nothing you did to earn this. Nothing you could have done to prevent this. God is not punishing you. I really have no answer. It's simply not fair. Come to me. Talk to me. Judgement does not reside here. You are safe from clumsy words and pity stares. I still think of your babies often. I am here for you and see you, Momma.
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