Rage

It's Christmas - the first Christmas without our baby. I have been crying every day for a week. It's almost too much to bear.

We attended the SHARE Christmas Memorial last Thursday at our hospital. We attended to honor our daughter, thank the womderful nurses who tended us during the worst days of our life, and show support other bereaved parents, some newly bereaved, others going on 12 years. It was an emotional event, so much so that DH left after the first musical number, not to be seen until the end of the event. Both of us have been in the pit ever since.

Grief is hard. There are rare days where I can manage my life without tears - those are the good days. My grief is never off my mind, but I do find days where I can manage without crying. I feel numb and sad, but generally there are few if any tears on 'good' days. Then there are days where I cry a little bit, but am still able to function and go about work, laundry, cooking, etc. My sad, functional days. There are lots of variations on this theme, each progressively worse until I reach rage. Today was one of those days.

I went to 10am Mass, hoping to gain some peace and to praise the Lord on His birthday. Instead, I felt tormented by babies and toddlers all around. I left early and went to visit my daughter's grave, and began to cry before my car even reached the cemetary. As I reached her grave, I sobbed apologies to my baby - sorry that it was Christmas and that we weren't able to be together. Sorry that we are missing out on our lives together. Sorry that her mother is a sniveling, sobbing wreck who comes to cry at her daughter's grave. It's not the way I want my daughter to see me. I want so badly for her to be joyful in Heaven, to be at peace with the Lord. And here I am, telling her how much I wish I were dead so I could be with her. I feel like a terrible parent and I ask that she not worry about her dad and I. I ask her to forgive me for sobbing to her.

On the way home I became angry, enraged. We go to church to praise God and are to be thankful for the good things in life. For life itself. What am I to be thankful for? If God is all-powerful and can claim responsibility for all of the good things we have, why can't I hold Him responsible for all of the misery as well? He is responsible. He took my daughter away. He could have saved her, but He didn't. Why? To teach me some cosmic lesson? To make me fear Him even more??? Is He happy that I fear Him more than I love Him? Life is full of suffering. Anytime we let in love, we let in suffering. This is life - and welcome to it. Wow - what a fucking good time.

I am enraged today. I have been crying for almost 7 months now - I am tired of holding the anger in. Tired of trying to be a better person - of going to Mass every Sunday hoping that this will be the week that I feel some peace and comfort.
I'm tired of missing my baby and wish I could just lay down on her grave and die. This is no life to be thankful for.

I'm not okay.

"How are you?"

My heart is broken and forever aches.

I wake up every day and remember that my baby died and I'll never hold her in my arms.

This life is no longer interesting, fun or enjoyable.

Sometimes it all I can do to breathe.

I look forward to nightfall every day so I can escape my reality for a while.

I'm wrapping Christmas presents for other people's children, not my own.

For Christmas and I bought my baby a grave blanket.

I want to die.

I'm not okay.

Back to Square One

Yesterday I saw a new Psychiatrist. The last one kind of pissed me off so I found a new one. After discussing my loss and describing my grief and resulting mood swings, he asked me a question that I still can't get out of my mind. He asked "What was your family life like as a child?" I asked "With respect to...specifically?" (I had no idea what this had to do with grief over the loss of my daughter.) He replied "Having a family, getting married. Was it ever discussed at home? Did your parents expect you to have a family?" I replied "Not really. It wasn't expected and it wasn't really discussed. I thought I didn't want children until about 5 years ago when I was 35." "Do you have a lot of guilt about that?" I replied "yes." He said "How much of that is driving this need to have a child?" WTF? Here's how I heard it: "Why did you wait so long to have your first child? What the fuck is wrong with you???"

Do I have a lot of guilt about waiting to have children until I was ready? I didn't get married until I was 36! At 37 we began trying to conceive and 18 months of infetility treatments later, I conceived. 9 months later, I lost my daughter just 12 days before her due date.

YES I FEEL GUILTY. I feel like shit. I've wasted my fertile years and worry that I'll never have a live child of my own. I always thought there would be time. I thought once we stopped using contraception, we'd get pregnant. I was stupid and naive. Yes, I feel guilty. Thanks for bringing that up for me to obsess over, again. I am 40 and still trying to conceive using my own, old eggs. I am desperate to have a live child. Desperate to have my daughter back, alive. Desperate to turn back the clock and make things right. I can't sleep at night worrying about the future.

I can't get those questions out of my head. He validated my fears and worries, my regrets. He gave them clout and made them significant again for me. It's back to square one for me.

Aching, Missing, Sad

When will I feel like living again? Will this empty, aching sadness ever leave me? At times I feel like my chest will explode with the heartache and emptiness of losing my daughter. I have no will to live and wish I could just disappear.

When Kara died, something inside me shattered into a million pieces. Some pieces are lost forever. I will never be the person I once was, I am forever changed. I look in the mirror and don't recognize the tired, sad face looking back at me.

How do people live through this? I'll never understand how one gets through the grief associated with the loss of a child. I am lost and bereft, miserable in my existence. I have failed as a human being, as a mother. My child died before I could give birth to her - how can I live with that? My arms are empty and my heart aches with the loss of my baby. I wish I could just disappear and be done with this life.

Thanksgiving

When I first lost Kara, one of my best friends gave me a necklace from Tiffany's. It was a modern art rendition of the Madonna & Child with Kara's name engraved on the back. It's a beautiful piece that has come to signify that my daughter is with God now. I wear it to keep her name close to my heart.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. My family joined us at our home and everyone brought a dish. Conversation was easy and the food was good. When everyone left, I went upstairs to change into sweats to relax. I removed the pendant and thought, "This is how I spent the holiday with my baby." It broke my heart. Everyone on my husband's side of the family had a baby this year - all around the time of Kara's death. My best friend mentioned above, is due in 3 weeks. (I haven't seen her since August.) Why does everyone I know get to have live, healthy babies? Every one of them has their smiling infants this holiday season, except me. My poor baby lies in her cold grave this holiday season. I want to hold her warm body and kiss her face. I want to change diapers and watch her crawl all over Grandma and Grandpa. I had a good cry over that last night. I'm crying again as I write this.

Each night in my prayers, I am thankful for my husband & his health, my family, and for the privilege of having carried Kara for 9 months. She was the best thing that has ever happened to me and I am so lucky to have been her mommy. But I'm angry and sad, too. Angry & sad that she died; angry and sad for everything we are missing out on together. This world is unfair and fucked up. It's hard to be thankful when your baby is dead, but I try to be thankful for the 9 months that I carried her and the wonderful experiences she gave me in return.

The Holidays

Today is the day before Thanksgiving - the first holiday without my baby. When I first attended my babyloss group, everyone talked about the 'firsts'; first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first Angelversary. At the time, I didn't think I would be so affected. I was in so much pain that I thought Christmas and Thanksgiving couldn't possibly be this bad. They're just another day once you've lost your child.

Yesterday I went Christmas shopping, intent on getting to the malls before the crowds. What I found was so much festivity and Christmas music, that I felt the pit coming on hard & strong. My chest seized up and I felt paralyzed by my grief. I felt like I wanted to die and for a few minutes, wished I had. How can I live like this without my child? Breathe...breathe...

The holidays loom large and dark. They cloud my vision and force me to reevaluate my existence yet again. We were supposed to be enjoying our first holiday as a family. Instead, I am searching for my purpose in life without my child. I am fighting anxiety over the promise of empty holidays without my child. I am trying to wake up each day and get through another hour, another day, the pit always nearby.

Aliens Among Us

Another bereaved mommy friend sent me an article today by Robin Wallace: http://dir.salon.com/story/mwt/feature/2002/03/20/stillborn/index.html

Ms. Wallace has it all right.

We experience pregnancy; savoring the good times and suffering through the difficulties. We experience birth; epidurals, ice chips, pushing, c-sections. We see our beautiful babies and experience the unbridled pride at seeing our perfect, beautiful, tiny creation. We see ourselves, our spouse, our parents in this little being. But we don't get to hear their cries. We don't get to hold a squirming, live baby and savor the absolute joy that brings. We will never know their personality or their achievements, contributions to the world. We will not see their first smile, first tooth, first Christmas. We don't get to breastfeed, nor will we take our babies home from the hospital. We experience all the good and bad of being pregnant and giving birth, without the reward of a live baby afterwards. It is heartbreaking and unfair.

Like Ms. Wallace, I guard every word spoken and am careful not to expose myself too much to strangers. I am constantly asked "Do you have children?" and I'm torn. Do I answer truthfully and share my most personal life with this stranger? Or do I answer 'no' and guard myself and the memory of my daughter? My average day on the job has become a mine field for me, as I meet strangers every day as a salesperson. I gave birth! I had a daughter! I carried her for 9 months! And yet, I have to work and make money. I have to try to 'live' and work in order to survive. How painful it was and still is to avoid questions of children and to 'hide' the fact that I was pregnant.

Also like Ms. Wallace, I carry around an extra 15 lbs of baby weight. When I first returned to work, I could see the glances from other women - it was OBVIOUS that I had either had a baby or was pregnant. I avoided all personal talk and tried to conceal my swollen belly with larger, more forgiving clothing. It was horrible. Having to 'hide' the fact that I gave birth was just horrible to me. How unfair that I can't explain away my weight like normal post-partum moms. Most moms take a year or more to lose the baby weight. We grieving moms don't have that luxury. I have lost 45 lbs in only 4 1/2 months. I am desperate to look normal again to avoid the questions. And yet, every pound I lose takes me farther away from my pregnancy and I mourn her all over again.

Bereaved mothers are not part of the " mommy club". My friends have live children. I can't even imagine having a pregnancy that ends in a live birth. The concept is so foreign to me. I have no stories to share except sad ones. My grief surrounds me and engulfs me - every thought and every spoken word is touched by my sorrow. So where do I fit in? Certainly not with other mothers of live children.

I am an alien living amongst strangers. Only other grieving moms can understand the
alienation associated with losing a baby and having to navigate your life afterwards.

What Now?

What am I to do without you?
I planned for you for so long
anticipated sleepless nights
breastfeeding, tummy time
rocking you to sleep.
Cuddling my baby girl
smelling that lovely baby smell.
Anticipating that first toothless grin,
looking into those sure-to-be blue eyes.
I wanted all of it.
Every single moment.
I lovingly washed all your clothes
assembled your crib
painted your room.
Organized your drawers and closet
over and over
until it was perfect.
Just like you.
I picked out precious outfits
for your uncle's wedding,
his rehearsal dinner,
walks in the park with grandma.
I worried about day care
and would you sleep through the night?
I worried about whether you would love me
the way I already loved you.
I pictured you in your bassinet
in your nursery full of happy birds.
Pink and green everywhere
so pretty and perfect.
I never knew
that babies died
for no reason.
What am I to do now?
I've painted the room,
packed away your things.
Too painful.
What now?
I am left with lonely sleepless nights
thinking of you
and of what we've lost together.
What now?
I have lost my constant companion,
my daughter, my life.
I had such hopes for you, darling.
I think of you in your resting place.
I want to crawl in and hold you forever.
What now?
I pass people with their babies
and their normal lives,
and wonder,
would Kara look like that now?
Would she be that big?
Her smile that wide?
Which milestones would she be passing?
My precious baby,
I miss you every second
of every day.
Not a moment goes by
that I don't grieve for you.
What now?

Broken

There are days where I feel like I'm drowning in my grief. I'm caught in a riptide and being carried out to sea. I can't catch my breath, I'm tired of treading water. I wish I could give up and let the tide pull me out to sea where I could die; to finally be at peace and be with my daughter.

I am so sad all the time, that the only way to describe myself is 'broken.' I am broken. My heart, my soul, my spirit is broken. I have cried so much that I don't even remember what it is like to be happy, not even for a moment. I look at my wedding photos and want to put them all into storage. How could I be smiling like that? Who is that happy person? Will I ever smile like that again? I am bitter and so deeply saddened, there is a giant hole in my heart that can't be filled. When I cry, it's bottomless and huge. I don't 'cry it out' as I've heard people describe their waves of grief. My tears are endless and the waves are deep and frequent.

I view the world through a veil of tears and my entire world is tinted by my daughter's death. Every conversation, every interaction, every action, every breath; all are done through my grief. Kara is in everything I do and say, everything I think and dream. She is always at the forefront of my mind and not a minute of my day goes by without her being my first thought before I respond to my work email, as I'm on that conference call, while I'm at lunch with a client. I wonder if people can see my grief; can they see my sadness, my loss? I live in fear of the innocent question "Do you have children?" because I can't respond without tears. "Yes, I have a daughter who I lost at full term." This is my cross to bear. I must live with this awful sadness all the days of my life.

I miss you Kara. I miss you baby girl, more than anything in this world. I would jump in front of a train right now, if it would bring you back. I love you baby girl.

Infertile and full of grief

I'm still struggling with finding happiness in this life anymore. I can't concentrate, find no pleasure in anything, don't want to see friends, have no interest in socializing. I don't find pleasure where I used to, and it's an unbalanced feeling. When will this change for me? I thought maybe if I were to get pregnant again. But no, we're not to be so lucky this month.

We just learned this morning that our 1 embryo tested abnormal, so the cycle has ended. So have my chances of conceiving until the next cycle, which is mid-January. Although I've tried to prepare myself all week, it still comes as a crushing blow. There was a tiny flicker of hope in the back of my mind, that burned even when I knew the chances were slim. Infertility combined with the loss of my infant daughter is a crushing combination and I don't know how people get through this. Waiting and waiting, trying again, waiting and waiting, only to be disappointed over and over again. And I get older every day.

I miss Kara every single day. Her beautiful little face brings me to tears - I have a difficult time looking at her pictures without losing myself and falling into the pit. Last night, my husband told me he cares about nothing anymore and if he could lay down next to her and just die, he would happily do so. Sadly, I feel the same way every minute of every day. It's a battle just to find the will to live every day. I don't know how long I have to live like this.

Happiness Eludes Me

Since I lost Kara, I've lost my purpose in life. I don't know why I'm here, or what I'm to do with the rest of my life. I am struggling with finding happiness in my life outside of being a parent to a live child, in the event I never am one. How messed up that I clarify what kind of child I hope to parent: a Live one. This is my life now - clarifying that I am a parent, yet not to a live child. My baby is dead. What is my reason for being?

And can I find happiness without ever being a parent, if it comes to that?

I left Mass early yesterday - I was restless and couldn't focus properly. As I left the church, there were two women with baby girls in the back - babies the age Kara would have been now. As I walked by them with my head down, I thought "That should be me and Kara." I made my way to my car and went to visit my baby in the cemetary. When I sit at Kara's grave and realize I may have another 40+ years in which to do this, I am overcome with sadness and hopelessness. I want to lay down and join her; melt into the earth and hold her.

I have some soul-searching to do. I must find happiness again, I just don't know where to start. Just living my life one day and sometimes one hour at a time is the best I can do right now.

Kara's Monument - 4 Month Angelversary

October 4th was Kara's 4month Angelversary.
It feels like yesterday, it feels like years.

We visited her grave on Saturday to see the monument and to honor her memory on this solemn day. We placed a vase of white roses at the foot of the monument. White - for my innocent, pure, beautiful baby.

Her monument is pale pink, with a Celtic cross to honor her Irish name, and a bird from her nursery to honor her memory in our home. The stone turned out beautifully, but as I emailed photos to my family I thought 'how tragic that I'm emailing photos of my baby's headstone instead of photos of her first smile, first tooth, first tummy time.' The finality of it hits me all over again and I am thrown into the abyss once more. My heart is broken. My life is shattered.

I know I must try to live the best life that I can, in Kara's honor. But I'm just not 'there' yet. Some days I can still barely function, and I am disinterested in life in general. I don't enjoy things I used to, and I muddle through my days longing for bedtime when I can escape my reality. When will this change? I know I am the master of my own destiny, so only I can change this. When will I change this? How long until I can look forward to something-anything again? I am pinning all of my hopes on another pregnancy. I shouldn't, but I can't help it. I think that if I'm able to deliver a live, healthy baby I'll have something, someone to live for. A reason to be happy every day, a reason to live my life.

I've come a long way in 4 months. I have a long way to go.

What is My Purpose....?

I just can't come to terms with this new life. I thought I had a purpose - I was finally going to be a mom. I had this little person coming into the world who I would be responsible to nurture and to care for. My life seemed to be on track, if a little behind schedule. I knew I waited too long to have children, but surely a late start does not mean all is lost, or does it?

I'm 40 and my firstborn child has died. There are days when I feel I'm looking over the edge of an abbyss - the deep, black hole I'm looking into is my life. I am on the precipice - and it's terrifying. What is my purpose, if not to be a parent to a live child? I am desperate to conceive again, afraid of failure and a lifetime of 'what if's' and 'if only's'.

If only I didn't wait so long to have children. If only I had met my husband earlier. What if we had married sooner after we met? What if I never have another child? What is my life worth if I cannot mother my child?

These questions torment me day and night. I am listening to a client, privately wondering how old is too old to have children. I am writing emails, all the while wondering if I'll ever get pregnant again. I cannot concentrate on my daily life without obsessing over my future and what it holds for me. Nothing brings me joy anymore - only anxiety and depression.

I know that our lives are what we make of them. But I haven't the fortitude or the will to make my life worth living right now. I am stuck in my grief and mourning the loss of my precious baby as well as the loss of my most fertile years. I don't know what the future holds for me, but I am hoping against hope that I will be blessed with another baby. I need some HOPE and without a child, there seems to reason to be here anymore.

No Escape

This week will be 16 weeks since we lost Kara. I feel...lost, bewildered, unglued, anxious, restless, exhausted and unhappy. I can't escape myself or my reality.

I am lost. Who is this person I have become? I hate myself, hate the life choices I made that led me to have my first child just two weeks before I turned 40. Why did I wait so long? I know why - and none of those reasons make it any better. I know hindsight is 20/20 - but that doesn't take away the pain and the guilt of having waited possibly too long, to bear my first child. And now my child is gone. I am lost without her.

I am bewildered. What the fuck happened? I spent 9 months waiting for this little person to come into the world. I prepared her room, bought the prettiest clothes and bedding sets, washed and folded all of her things just days before her life ended. What was I thinking just hours before? When did she die, exactly? What was I doing at that moment? Could/Should I have known at that second, that she died? How did this happen? I am bewildered at how fast a life can change forever.

I am unglued. Every minute is a struggle to live. I cannot function without feeling my emotions are unraveling; I'm barely hanging on to life. I l.i.v.e because my physcial body lives. But my heart is broken and my mind sometimes wraps around that fact, and I become unraveled. How could this have happened?! How can it be that I visit my baby girl in the cemetary every week?!

I am anxious and restless. I struggle to get away from myself, but I can't. I can't relax for a moment, without finding another activity I can do to keep in motion - keep busy. I try to read a book, but my mind wanders to my baby girl and all I've lost. I can't work, can't sleep, can't relax. I want to crawl out of my skin and find a new body - one that's not broken with grief.

I am exhausted. I can't get enough sleep - even with Ambien, I wake at the slightest sound, unable to get back to sleep. I lay awake worrying, 'will I ever see Kara again? I'm not a good enough person...I must try harder.' 'Will I ever have a live child? I'm so old - 40 now and childless.' worry worry worry. it's exhausting.

I'm unhappy. I turned 40, just two weeks after Kara died. I am old and have squandered my youth - having made terrible decisions up until I decided to have a child. My child means everything to me and she is not here. How does one regain their life after this? I am unhappy because I miss her terribly. I am unhappy because I should live this life in her honor - she didn't even get to take one breath - how dare me squander more of my life! I am so unhappy, I can't change it.

I have to simply 'be' right now.

Trapped Inside Myself

It's been a while since I've written. I've been feeling terrible lately and haven't made the time to sit down and face my feelings. Sometimes the feelings are so overwhelming that I can't think straight. This has been my life for the past 3 months.

Everywhere I go there are triggers. Something will remind me of my grief and I begin the slow, downward descent into Hell. There was the neighbor with blue ribbons on her mailbox, signifying that she had her baby boy. Then there was the client lunch where a stranger asked 'how's the baby?' (I realized a moment later that she was asking my customer how his baby was, and I learned that his wife had her baby 1 month after Kara died. I didn't even know he had a pregnant wife.) Then there are the looks from women who are wondering how far along I am, because I still have a swollen belly and look 3-4 months pregnant, 3 months after losing Kara. Still again, I have my career with its own perils. I'm in sales - a big part of my career is making small talk with strangers, people who I could care less about, trying to seem interested in order to further the 'relationship.' In fact, I have many customers I truly care about on a personal level. They have been wonderful throughout this trying time and I am grateful for their friendship. But there are countless others whom I don't know, don't care to know, and yet have to try to get to know. This is a source of anxiety for me and I don't know how to deal with it. It's part of my job, and I can't stop 'seeing' people without losing my job and therefore my income.

I'm waiting in my room for time to run out. My flight is at 5pm, and checkout is at noon. I'm anxious about how to fill my day, anxious about the flight home. I cried several times on the flight out, feeling like a trapped animal with my grief. Another trip to the lavatory to cry and try to pull myself together for another 30 minutes - maybe 45. I worry about the flight home and worry about my upcoming week - entertaining and riding with a customer to visit his customers. I am not prepared for real life, I don't feel like I'm really making progress. I will not be surprised if I lose my job this year - I'm unproductive and ineffective now at what I do. I used to be great at this - used to love my job. Now I dread waking up every morning, not knowing what I'll have to face on that day. Another baby in the restaurant at lunch? Another woman looking at my belly? Another man asking if I have children? It seems innocent to someone who hasn't lost a baby. To me, is a maze of horrors that I need to navigate carefully every single day and I have to plan for 'down time' so I can cry if I need to and pray quietly for strength during the day.

I want to crawl outside of my body and just get away from myself. How should I deal with that constant feeling of wanting to get away from myself? There's nowhere to run from myself - I can't peel off my skin and get any relief. I have to suffer through my earthly confines and try to hold it together for another hour, another day.

I am at a conference in Florida with numerous anonymous people I'm supposed to mix with during cocktail hour and organized dinners. I cannot concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time, and find myself having to escape to the ladies room for a few moments of silence and solitude. My grief is like a wet blanket, smothering me with its weight no matter where I go or what I do. I cannot escape it. It's worse when I'm in a crowd - I feel small and isolated, alone and afraid. My grief can sneak up on me and overtake my emotions at any time. I'm vulnerable and weak and in no position to 'entertain' people with any confidence or effectiveness. I am ready to go home and be in silence and solitude for a few days.

Numb

What a waste that I'm alive ~ I'm living my life just wishing it were over. I go through my days feeling disconnected and isolated. On the outside, I may look normal. But on the inside I am sad and hopeless, wishing my life away. My baby died - how can I ever be 'happy' again? Happy? I don't even want to be here! How can I live, knowing that I will never hold her, will never kiss her or smell her baby-smell? The sadness consumes and suffocates me ~ it's hard to breathe. It is in the depths of this despair that I wonder how I can survive this grief. I wonder how I can go on. Then I remind myself that I have no choice. I was not given the choice to live or to die - so I must continue to work, pay bills, eat, exercise. It sucks. I am 'going through the motions' because I must.

I feel like I'm floating outside of my body - I can see what I'm doing, but I can't control it. When I drive, I feel like I'm not really there - amazed that the car stays on the road. Physcially, I'm numb. Emotionally, I'm raw. It would be so easy to die, but I would leave my husband bereft and I can't bear that thought. That is the only reason I remain. This life totally sucks and i wish it would just end. I'm tired of it.

I'm So Tired

I am so tired of being sad. My sadness follows me everywhere, I can't escape it. I am exhausted, yet restless ~ unable to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time. I can't rest; napping isn't possible with the racing thoughts that chase me. I am restless for physical activity, but nothing wears me out enough to relax. So I continue in this endless circle of weariness, restlessness and sadness, until the night comes and I can lay down in exhaustion.

I stayed in bed until 8am this morning hoping to make my day shorter. Once up, I was restless and eager to burn off some energy. I went to the gym, ran errands, re-potted plants, showered, & went shopping. It's 3pm and I'm so tired, I would love a nap, but I'll just lay down and have panic attacks. On my way home, I passed a pregnant neighbor's house. Her sister was outside tying blue ribbons on her mailbox and stairwell - obviously she had her baby this weekend. Passing by was enough to undo me today. I don't want to be this way. I miss my baby girl so, so much. Why do other people get to have happy pregnancies that end in live/healthy babies, but I didn't? I feel singled out - an outcast. I hate my life. I just want to lie down and not wake up again. I am so tired of this sadness, of feeling sorry for myself, of missing my daughter and all that will never be.

I was never a 'happy' person. I was never the bubbly, cheerful person that some of my friends are ~ there are people who are just full of joy no matter what. I have never been that person. But I liked my life and I was content. It wasn't perfect, but it was mine. Now I hate my life. I want to trade this one in for another one. I can't look in the mirror without seeing the sadness on my face and the loss on my body - the sagging belly and breasts that were bursting with life just 3 short months ago. Now I'm just a deflated, empty shell of a person. I wander around trying to keep busy, just waiting for the night to come so I can escape to my sleeping pills and a few hours of peace. And even then, I'll wake at the slightest sound and the racing thoughts start in once again.

I'm so tired of this life, I just want some relief. If only I could go to sleep and not wake up again.

The Depth of My Pain

Its Labor Day weekend. I should be savoring my last days of maternity leave before returning to work on Tuesday. I should be hosting a bar-be-que/birthday party for my dad & best friend Grainne. Instead I attend church, visit the cemetary and try to make sense of this life without my child.

My grief scares me. Its a deep dark place where I can get lost in my tears. If I allow myself to really feel, it is an emptiness that makes my chest hurt. I can see nothing but my own sadness and desperation. This place is hopeless and empty, so full of despair its frightening. I wonder how I can go on another 40+ years like this. How can I look forward at what is left of my life, knowing that I'll never hold my baby Kara in this life? How can I have any happiness while here on this earth? I just want to die so I can be with my baby girl again.

I feel isolated from the rest of the world. None of my friends and family can understand the loss of a child. How can they understand the emotional despair and physical torment? There is nothing to talk about anymore; I'm just not interested. Small talk is pointless. I can see in their eyes, that they don't get it. They try to comfort, but their mind is already on something else. They have living children who have to be taken to little league, to ballet class, to preschool. They can't comprehend this place where I live now. I have nothing in common with them any longer.

I don't have many friends, but those I do have been with me for 15-20 years. My best friend in the world, hasn't visited since the funeral - its been 11 weeks. She stopped calling just a few short weeks afterwards. I'll get the random email asking how I am, but I'm hurt she hasn't made the effort to come and see us. Another friend hasn't contacted me at all since the funeral. Only one friend has been persistent throughout my grief. She is the person I named Kara for and would have been her Godmother. Kara found a babysitter and drove over an hour to see us, 7 weeks after the funeral. She was persistent and kept reaching out in support, all throughout my darkest days. She brought me a necklace with a pendant called 'Madonna', with Kara's name engraved on the back. I shared my despair and my hopelessness. I shared my fear of ever having a live child, ever in my life. I shared my anger at having prayed so fervently every night for Kara's safe delivery. Her gift was touching and thoughtful, one that I wear every day to remind me of her words that day: "Pain is something we risk when we let love into our lives." I have never loved this big and this unconditionally. My suffering is a direct reflection of my love for Kara. The bigger the love, the deeper the pain. This is my gift to Kara. I miss you baby girl.

And the world keeps turning

This new life is not a life I chose. I do not want this. I have no say in this, this life without my daughter. "You're so strong." Really? Because I did not choose to be strong. I just continue living, unfortunately. And people think that's 'being strong.' "You have a lot to live for." No,I really have nothing to live for, except my husband. And he would be just fine without me, in time. I've learned that the world just keeps turning while your heart is ripped out of your chest and you're left to find your own way in this terrifying new existence that you have no control over. Life goes on. The sun rises and sets, we get up every morning, go to work, make love, see a movie, play on the playground, do laundry, see friends, celebrate holidays. Everything keeps moving forward, with or without us. It's horrible and I want no part of it. How can my life go on when I've buried my infant daughter? How can I ever wake up without feeling the gut-wrenching pain of loss and of having failed her? I muddle through my days until nightfall comes and I can escape to a drug-induced sleep. I am exhausted all day long - unable to nap when I'm tired because I cannot escape the trauma of my daughter's death. I go all day until physical and mental exhaustion claim me and I have a few hours in another consciousness.

If God gave me a choice, and told me I'd go to Heaven, I would die now. If I could be assured that Peter and my family would not grieve, I would go this instant. It is selfish and indulgent to think this way. But I feel my daughter needs her mommy more than anyone here needs me. It is my duty to be with her. Fighting this urge to mother, is like fighting instinct. We have no control over that. We can control where we live, what we eat, who we marry, what career we want, the car we drive, our reaction to how others treat us ~but not the physical need to mother our children. It is built into our human existence at such a level that we cannot overcome it. How unnatural to have to bury your child. It's cruel beyond words.

I want off this planet. The world keeps turning, but not for Kara. It is incomprehensible to me that my daughter lies in her grave while I continue to live my life. I should have died and she should have lived. One of my online friends says she's living her best life in honor of her daughter. I wish I could feel this way. My brain tells me that I'm wishing my life away waiting for the day I can die, and it's disrespectful to Kara because she didn't even get to take one breath. How dare me! But my heart tells me this life is not worth living without her. It's disrespectful of Kara to live a happy/full life, because she's not here to enjoy it with me. How can I ever enjoy anything ever again? My baby is dead! I visit my daughter at a cemetary! How can anything every be okay ever again?! It can't. So don't try to distract me with your idle conversation and your dinner invitations. I'm not interested in living that life right now. I'm not interested in anything except trying to get pregnant again so that I can have a reason to live. Because right now, I just wish I were dead so that I didn't have another 40+ years of visiting her grave, celebrating Christmas, weddings and other births, without my daughter.

10 weeks....

Today marks 10 weeks since Kara died. Since then, there have been 3 babies born to our family. My husband's ex-wife was induced just days after Kara died ~ they have a healthy baby boy. His cousin had her 4th baby just weeks later. My sister-in-law just had her baby girl last Sunday. It seems everyone in my neighborhood is a new mom or is 9 months pregant. I am surrounded by newborns and pregnant bellies everywhere I go.

Not one of them knows our horror. They all know that we lost our baby at 37.5 weeks. They all know that we are unable to be around pregnant women and new babies. But they can't know the reality of our daily lives. They can't know unless they've lost a baby.

My days all begin with a panic attack usually in the pre-dawn hours of 4 or 5am. Once awake, I try to calm my pounding heart, and fend off the memories of her death. Flashbacks of 'I'm sorry Babette, there is no heartbeat' and of laying in that hospital bed waiting for her birth. Images of her being placed in my arms, and my feelings of helplessness and loss, comingle with memories of how in awe I was of her beauty. These memories swirl around in my head until I resign myself to face the day.

The rest of my day passes like every other day since Kara died. Emotions ebb and flow like waves. One moment I feel 'normal', the next I am sobbing as if my heart was being ripped from my chest. Sometimes I get that moment where I can 'accept' her death, and my this new, awful life. Seconds later, I am overwhelmed by my loss yet again, and cannot fathom another 40+ years without her. I have no reason to be on this earth now. This life holds nothing for me anymore. My baby is gone. My heart and my will to live, went with her.

I am a 'new' person, as a result of Kara's death. Things that once meant a great deal to me, are trivial now. Worries that seemed larger than life, seem ridiculous now. I can't watch the news, or crime TV, without crying. I feel an utter loss of faith in the human race. We are a cruel race, taking life for granted and causing pain and despair in others. We treat each other without love and respect, and are full of hatred and lack compassion in our everyday lives. My view of the world, like my own life, has changed forever.

I will never be the same again. The 'old' me is gone forever, replaced by this jaded person who I don't recognize. I look in the mirror and see tired, puffy eyes, and a body overweight and saggy from pregnancy. I no longer care so much about the things I used to love - working out & staying fit, shopping, work, friends, family. Nothing means anything anymore. I muddle through my days doing the barest of necessities, waiting until the time I can take my sleeping pill and disappear for while. Only to wake again before dawn, remembering the horror that is now my life.

I long for the day when God calls me home, to be with Him and my daughter Kara once again.

The Wrong Universe

Today marks 2 months since Kara was born and placed in my arms. I feel as if I'm in a nightmare - I was pregnant for 37 1/2 weeks. Where is my baby? The baby I dreamt of , the baby I planned to spend my entire summer with? Where is she? She is gone, leaving daddy & I alone. So very alone. We are trying to pick up the pieces of our lives; trying to find a reason to continue living each day, without our baby girl.

A few months ago, we were discussing quantum mechanics & multiverse theories. For every second in time, there are numerous possible outcomes. Each of these outcomes split off into another universe, over and over again. This is the multiverse. According to the MWI theory, the multiverse exists in the same time parameter. All universes are structurally identical, but exist in different states. They are also non-communicating; no information can pass between them. At the time, this was beyond my comprehension.

On the way home from the hospital, Peter said "Somehow, we ended up in the wrong alternate universe. Somewhere, Kara is alive with us and we are bringing her home from the hospital right now. We are in the wrong universe." I understand the concept now - my life has become a stranger to me. Somehow, our lives branched off into some other 'possibility' that wasn't of our choosing. We no longer exist in our original universe. This is a foreign land, one that holds no pleasure for us anymore.

Our lives will never be the same. We no longer 'fit' into this world. Alone in our grief, we push through each day, trying to find some purpose, some hope, to keep going on without our child.

I miss you baby girl. I will love you forever, and look forward to the day when we will be reuinted on the other side.

Dear Kara, it's 7 weeks without you...

Dearest Kara,

Yesterday was 7 weeks since we learned of your death. Today, is 7 weeks since you were delivered and placed into my arms - the most beautiful little baby girl I had ever seen. 7 weeks since my life has ended. The memory of those days will never leave me. They replay over and over in my mind. I miss you more every day - the pain is not getting any 'softer' as people tell me it will.

Baby, I wish I could go back in time and change things. I can't believe this is our life now - here, without you. Everything was ready for you. Daddy & I were SO ready for you to arrive. I was hoping you would come early, because you were so big, and I was not getting any sleep. How naive - when we're so sure we'll deliver healthy babies just like everyone else, we worry about the pettiest things - stretch marks, weight gain, sleepless nights - none of it matters. If only I could go back now.... I would give anything to have you here with us. I would give my life for yours in a second.

Nothing could have prepared me for this life without you. Throughout my pregnancy, I was so confident that you would be healthy, and so ready for you to come into this world to change our lives forever. I was counting down the weeks anxiously. It never occurred to me that something could go wrong, and that you would never be with us.

I never knew such profound sorrow, until you left us. My world as I knew it, has ended. My love, I was just so excited for you, and now I have to learn how to live life without you. You never even lived outside of my womb, but you were such a huge part of our lives. Every day, I struggle to live this life without you.

My love for you is bigger than anything I know. I have never felt such deep love for another human being. Your loss is something I will feel every moment of every day, for the rest of my life. I can't see my future without you as anything but bleak. My heart has been torn from my chest, and I'm just trying to exist in this new life I've been handed. I don't want this life - I want the life I imagined while I was pregnant with you. I want you here in my arms, baby.

My days are full of nothingness. I try not to wallow in my sadness, but there are times that I can't avoid it. I know you don't want this for me, and I don't want you to worry about me. I just want you to know how much you are missed and loved, and how you have impacted our lives. Even with the profound sadness and despair over your death, you are the best thing that has ever happened to Daddy & me. We love you more than words can say. I don't wish this sorrow away, for to do so would be to wish you had never happened. I could never wish that. You were a gift - and I am so grateful to have had you inside of me for 9 months. I am so grateful to have been your mommy - even if we were only here together for a short time. I know that we are truly together forever. While I'm here on earth, you will forever be in my heart and mind ~ always my precious little girl. And someday, I will join you in God's Kingdom and we will never be separated again.

I love you baby girl. You are always and forever my special, beautiful baby girl.

Love,
Mommy

6 Weeks Without Her

Tomorrow is June 16th - Kara would have been 1 month old.

Instead, she's been gone for 6 weeks. I should be pushing her in her stroller, dressing her in beautiful clothes, entertaining her grandparents, aunts & uncles, as they marvel at her beauty and try to make her smile. I should be worrying about trivial things such as losing the baby weight, pumping milk, and who she resembles more - my grandfather or my husband?

We have been thrown into an alternate universe. This is not the right life - something happened, and it's not supposed to be this way. What happened to our perfect life? There's been some huge mistake. Kara was our whole world, and now she's gone. She never even took a breath. At 37weeks, 3 days, her heart stopped in utero - and our lives went with hers.

Kara, you never got to see your daddy's face, or hear his voice, or feel his warm embrace. You didn't get to take a breath, or even cry. I didn't even see the color of your eyes! You'll never lay in that crib or giggle at the birds in your nursery. You'll never run to greet the ice cream man, or attend kindergarten. I didn't get to take home the baby I've waited for and dreamt of, for 9 months. I cannot live with knowing all that you have already missed, and all that you will miss out on. I cannot fathom this new life where you are not here with daddy and me. I cry for hours and hours each day for everything we've lost together. Baby, if I could give my life for yours, I would gladly do so. I would give my life to be able to hear your cry. I would die happy, knowing you're alive and with your daddy.

I am so grateful for the 9 months that you were inside of my body. We were connected in the most intimate way that 2 human beings could be. You felt my every mood, my every craving, my love and anticipation for you. I felt your strong kicks, somersaults & hiccups, and gave in to your fantastic appetite. Pregnancy is not fun, and I complained of pains and discomfort. If I knew how trivial it would all become, I would have cherished every sleepless night & physcial discomfort. After all, it's all we'll ever have together. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn't have slept a wink, for fear of missing out on one minute of your brief life. I was so naive, Kara. Never in a million years did I think you would die before you were born. I didn't even know it happened to healthy babies in healthy pregnancies. There were no signs - you were active and strong. What did I miss? How did I fail you? My life will never be the same.

I look for answers everywhere. I've read every book on child loss and many more on grief. I'm meeting other grieving mothers online, and couples in 'group'. I've spoke with priests, therapists, psychologists, nurses, doctors - no one can tell me when I'll 'feel better'. When will I wake up and not cry for hours and hours? When will I sleep through the night again without waking in an anxiety attack? When will I stop hating pregnant women and women with newborns?

People tell me that grief never goes away, but it 'softens' in time. How long? Soften? Does that mean the physical pain in my belly will go away? Or does it mean I don't wake up crying every morning for the rest of my life? Will I learn to accept the depression and accept my new shitty life? Do I stop hating new mothers and pregnant women? What does this mean???

Kara, I must trust in my faith in order to carry on just one more day. I know that you are one with God now; you know all. You know how much we love you - you've seen your daddy's face, heard his voice calling you 'honey bunny', seen us crying at your grave. You know I awaken every morning with a deep longing for you and for what we will miss together. You know our love for you will never end, nor will our sorrow. I need you to know how much we love you, and how much you are missed.

I'm so sorry baby. So sorry for all that you won't get to do, so sorry for all that we'll miss together. My life is not worth living without you. I wish I could go back in time to June 2nd, with some advance sight of the future. Then you could be in that stroller today, while mommy & daddy walked you along the beach to the calls of the seagulls. You will always be my perfect girl. xoxoxoxo Love, Mommy.

Missing the Future

I am lost without my daughter. It is 5 weeks and 3 days since she died, and the enormity of this tragedy continues to shake me.

We spent the last 2 days with my in-laws at their summer home. Usually, there is a constant parade of family traipsing through - mostly cousins with their babies & children in tow. We asked that if we come, they have no other guests. They happily complied and we had a few days of genuine rest. The anxiety attacks were less severe, the crying jags fewer, and we were actually able to nap in the afternoons. At home, we can't sleep at night, or in the afternoon. Exhaustion has taken its toll - we feel wiped out and emotionally defeated.

The reality of our loss has again presented itself. Pictures of every family event dating back 20 years, are present everywhere.

Christmas
My in-laws host Christmas Eve every year for the entire extended family. After dinner the children follow the adult women upstairs to sing Christmas carols and look for Santa's sleigh in the night sky, while the men put the presents under the tree. Sleigh bells signal Santa's arrival, and the children run excitedly downstairs and set upon the Christmas presents like wild animals. It is a tradition I used to scorn as 'ridiculous' and 'silly.' I failed to see the charm in singing Christmas carols and instead saw the evening as a night of gluttony - my in-laws spoil their only grandchildren, my step-children. I always told my husband - 'when we have children, we will not be doing Christmas Eve there every year. It's disgusting how they spoil your kids.'

Seeing those pitcures - made me realize that Kara would never have that chance. She would never be a part of that tradition. She would never go upstairs with us to sing those carols. She would never be spoiled by her grandparents or tear open her presents with her cousins and siblings. She would never be in those pictures where everyone gathers tight to make sure they're all in the photo. I was ready to deny her that opportunity because I felt it was in bad taste. Now I feel sick that she'll never even have that chance. I'm sure that if she were here, I'd let her be spoiled rotten by her grandparents. I'd make sure she participtated in all family traditions, because they love their grandchildren, and who am I to deny her their love and attention?

There were also photos of my step-children at the summer home from the time they were toddlers. They are now 11 & 13 years old - the tradition continues. Kara will never have the chance to spend summer vacations with her grandparents. She will never swim with her cousins, play on the jungle gym or eat ice cream on the beach. She will never wear a ruffled bathing suit and have sunscreen slathered on her soft baby skin. She will never participate in summer camp or the 4th of July fireworks at the lake. She will never sit on grandpa's lap while he expostulates on politics or complains about jet skiers on the lake, or anything else he feels like talking about with a captive audience.

Today, I am struggling to accept her loss of Peter's family, and their loss of Kara. It is tragic and heartbreaking, and I continue to cry over new losses to be discovered every day.

I visited her grave today and told her how much I love her and miss her. I asked her to please continue coming to me, for I know that during my moments of peace, she is with me. I only have peace when I am calm enough to feel her presence. For now, these moments are fleeting. I am drowning in a sea of despair and she is with me at the moment the waves cease to crash and allow me to catch my breath. Her presence just beyond my grasp most times - but I know she is there during the moments of tranquility just before I fall asleep. If only I could hold on to those moments for longer than a few minutes at a time.

Kara - I'm sorry I thought I could deny you the spoiling from your grandparents. I'm sorry I thought I would keep you from that. I'm sorry you'll never get the chance. I love you baby. And I'm so sorry for all that we've lost.

It's The Birds....

The nursery. What to do with the nursery? I'm 40 - I might not conceive again. Kara was our little miracle - after 2 years of trying to conceive including 18 months of infertility treatments and 3 IVF cycles - she was the little egg that could.

When I found out that 'he' was actually a 'she' - I painted the nursery deep pink. It is beautiful. It matches the potterybarn crib bedding with little pink birds.... I painted that nursery with thoughts of my baby ~ would she like it? would she ask me to repaint it when she was 5? would she like the bird-theme I picked out? I love birds - they are so happy and cheerful - always singing and cheeping - and happily bouncing through our yard. I love them. I thought this would make a happy nursery for my baby. The dresser is white with a few dainty flowers handpainted around the brass pulls. The changing table is pale pink with a scalloped edge - everything was just right. All these happy thoughts of my baby and her life, and how I wanted to make her room 'just right' for her.

Since we lost Kara, I can't go into the nursery without my heart breaking into little pieces. Slowly, we began to put things away. One day, my husband took the crib down and put it into the basement - along with the bassinet. Another day, we packed away tiny diapers, lotions and creams. On yet another, we removed her tiny socks, hats & frilly outfits from drawers, sadly packing them in the closet. Day after day, one or two tasks at a time.

Slowly, I began entering the room and putting more baby shower gifts into her closet, wondering ~ do I take them back to the store? Do I pack them away? Will I have anything left to remind me of her if I do? Am I trying to erase her memory? Or am I trying to make my home less painful to live in? What is the right and proper thing to do? I still have no answers.

Two days ago, I decided it was time to paint the nursery. Something suitable for either a nursery - or a guest room. As I stood in the paint aisle, trying to pick a color, I decided it was too much for today, I should just find a primer. In the primer aisle, I was again overwhelmed and could not focus. It is unbelievably sad that I must cover up that pink paint - because it reminds me of everything I will never have. All of my dreams for Kara come crashing back to me at the sight of that room. Every time I brought another baby item into that room, I fantasized about how her new little life and all the fun things we would do together.

My husband keeps the door to the nursery closed. But even as I walk by, I see pink reflected under the door onto the white carpeted hallway. Little traces of my shattered dream and of my lost child. A pink room she will never see. Little birds on her bedding that she will never giggle at. A pink dressing table she will never lay on to have her diapers changed.

Hy husband just walked in a moment ago and began removing the furniture from the nursery. I go up to help him, and he shoo's me away, trying to save me from the pain. But I persist, and remove the bird valances from the windows. As I pack them in the closet, I see a few outfits still hanging there - so sweet and new. Pink dresses, knit jumpers, and a pink jumper with an appliqued bird. Memories come flooding back of being happily pregnant, buying her outfits without a worry in the world. Without even a thought of my little baby not being born alive. I was so naive and innocent. I can't handle this reality. It is ugly and horrible. I am broken inside and angry, sad and hopeless, as I finger the dresses on their hangers, just to feel the rawness of my pain even deeper. Why must I do this to myself? I am drawn like a magnet to her things.....I cannot stop. There are times when I cannot run from the pain and I draw it into me, deeper and deeper until I cannot find my breath. The appliqued bird on that jumper, it did me in today. So delicate and innocent - like the baby that died in her mother's womb.

I will miss her forever, my little Kara. My life ended with hers.

Another Morning Without Kara....

This morning started like every day since June 4th, 2008, when Kara died. The panic attacks grip me at 3am. This is my life, a living nightmare. My baby has died and there is nothing I can do to change that. She was only 12days from her due date! She was so beautiful! My heart breaks every morning before I even open my eyes. The day looms black and terrible before me and I am horrified. Another day of grieving for my child - my first child, who was torn from my womb before her time. Is there anything I wouldn't give to have her back? No ~ I would gladly die to give her life. Nothing means anything anymore. This life is meaningless and I am only here because there is no other way. You cannot outrun grief, or go around it, or ignore it. It always knows where you are, and it will find you.

We have a false sense of control in our lives. This - I can't control. I can't turn back time & bring Kara back. I can't change the fact that I am 40 and have squandered my youth. I am hateful of the women who told me I had 'plenty of time' to have children. My generation has been misled and lied to. My eggs are old and I may never have another biological child. There are no words to describe how this makes me feel.

This morning started like every other ~ wandering around the house trying to avoid my grief - finally succumbing to great wracking sobs, bringing me to my knees. I cannot pull myself from the depths of this despair. Instead, I wish I could die to be with my daughter. If this 'new' life means waking up to this every day, why bother? This is my life now - and I just don't know how I will continue day after day. I look forward to the sunset each night - because it's another day over. I yearn for night, when my body surrenders to exhaustion and I have a few peaceful hours of rest. Only to begin this nightmare all over again tomorrow.

This is my new life - life after the death of my baby. It can't be changed, it can't be avoided - it just 'is'.

I Can’t do Without You – Irving Berlin

There was I satisfied to live and die
In a little world where life was all arranged
There were you in a world I never knew
Suddenly we met and ev'rything was changed

All my life, I did without you
But now I can't do without you

All my life I never missed you
Until I kissed you
I never missed you

All through life I went
And thought that I was meant
To live and be content
Without you

Then I put my arms about you
And now I can't do without you

There was I gazing at a cloudy sky
Thinking that the clouds were all there was to see
There were you pointing to a sky of blue
Showing me how bright a day could really be

My Confession.....

I have a confession to make.

September 28, 2007 - We received the PGD testing from the IVF lab. One healthy embryo - hooray! It's a Boy! I felt I could 'relate' and 'bond' with a baby boy much easier than I would a girl. Perhaps it was because of my relationship with my mother. I favored my dad when I was little. He was the big, strong, calming presence in my life as a child. He loved me unconditionally, and I knew it, always. Not to say my mother didn't love me - she did. But, I had a deeper bond with my dad - period.

Also - I'm a bit "macho." I work out, am an over-achiever in a men's field, and I am very no-nonsense. As a child, I used to ride dirt bikes, climb trees, pull the wings off of flies, poke eyeballs out of the fish my dad cleaned, and sometimes pop their stomachs open to see what their last meal was. More snips and snails than sugar & spice. I wanted to please my dad at all times. I saw femininity as 'weak' - maybe because my only female role model accepted her poor treatment by her family as 'deserved'.

My mom had a teriible family growing up. The only acceptance and love she received was from her alcoholic father, when he felt like using my mom to hurt his wife. So, my mother grew up being resented by her 3 siblings and her own mother, for receiving the only affection her father ever doled out. He died when she was 15, and she never acknowledged the true situation. She parented me, her only girl of 3 children, resenting my relationship with my father, with whom she could never truly be satisfied. She probably never really liked me. I believe it's because my dad loved me. I was competition for his attention.

Here's the confession:

At my Nuchal exam in January, I was told, "It's a Girl"! My response? "Oh Shit." My husband laughed and said "I'm going to tell her you said that" with a grin. I cried just a little bit on the way to the car. We had already named the baby boy after my dad, and I was fearful of having a girl. I also felt like I 'lost' a little boy, by hearing now that it was a girl. When we left the hospital, we got to the root of the issue ~ I was worried that my daughter would find me intolerable and prefer her father. My husband made me see that my mother never accepted me for who I am, because she was jealous of my relationship with my father. I would not be this way with my own daughter ~ it was not possible, he said, because I love you completely and unconditionally, as I will love our daughter. It took me a few days, but I mourned the loss of my fantasies of a baby boy and gradually became excited about the arrival of a baby girl. I embraced the fact, and went a little crazy in the nursery - which is a story for another day.

My baby girl has been gone for 1 month and 1 day. I feel terribly guilty about my response to learning that she was a girl, not a boy. I feel like a piece of shit for saying 'Oh Shit' and for worrying that my husband would love her more than he would me. I feel horrible that I had this precious little girl inside of me, and I was scared of her. Scared of being marginalized in my own family ~ ignoring me at the dinner table in her teens, preferring her father to her mother as a baby. All those reactions that I had to my own mother - I feared in my own child. It was short-lived - but I still feel guilty. After all, my daughter did not live to hear me explain myself when she was a teen. She would have laughed at me and told me it was okay, because she loved me. I would have already known that, and told her so. I would have told her that I had loved her from the moment she was conceived, and would have shown her her first photo - the 8-celled embryo (blastocyst) from the IVF lab, which I kept. I would have showed her every minute of her life, that she was wanted and loved and cherished. I know I would have. But I never got the chance.

So now I sit at her grave, and tell her to please know that she is, was & always will be, loved and wanted. Through my sobs I tell her that I miss her and will never stop missing her until we are reuited in Heaven someday. I cry and beg her forgiveness for my reaction to learning she was a girl and not a boy. I beg her to forgive me all my complaints during pregnancy - because I would do it all again and again and again if I could have her back in my arms, safe and alive. I beg her to forgive me for not knowing she would die in my womb - for I believe I should have known that her heart would stop. I beg her to forgive me for her death. As her mother, I feel responsible for her death - no matter what the doctors say. I tell her over and over again, how I had never seen a more beautiful baby girl. I tell her that I could never picture her when she was inside of me and how I wondered what this little miracle would look like. She is the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life, and I tell her that, when I sit at her grave.

An email from a friend, concerning the death of my child...

I received this email from a good friend in CA, whom I emailed right after the death of my child. This is someone who I used to work with, someone who I've stayed in touch with year after year, and someone who I thought was my friend. Pay attention to the tone of voice and lack of respect paid to the death of my child, only 4 weeks prior.

July 2, 2008

Hi Babs - Happy Birthday!

It's been oh so very long since we chatted. I hope you're doing well. I did receive your email the day before I went on vacation, diving in Curacao. I am so soo soooo sorry about your loss. I was too mortified for words because I know how much it means to you.

Are you coming out to CA anytime soon? I'm in the middle of a job change (surprise, surprise) I have a offer to go back to Lantech, the company I was with for 6 years in Europe (but I'd work out of LA for now) or I have another Aviation company in Carson that I am in the middle of Interviewing with. I would handle Airbus and travel to GY and France. I don't have the perfect background for it, but they really liked me, so I am waiting to find out in the next couple of days.

On the dating scene, well I'm not sure what I last told you but I've been dating 2 men for the past year. Wierd, yes. But I broke it off with one, then he kept calling for the past 6 months straight, and what the heck. I just adore him, it's just that it could never be a long term thing because I'm not Jewish, and not looking to have kids. The other guy Paul is a sweetheart, but his life is full of too much drama for me. So in the meantime, I started to look at Fitness-singles.com. I haven't gone on a date yet - but there are 2 guys that I've been talking to whom Claim they want to meet. We'll see.. I'm told from my friends not to hold my breathe LOL!

So I would love to catch up with you Babs! I hope you have a wonderful Birthday.

I miss you!
Carlyn

June 4, 2008

I started this blog one month after the stillbirth of my first chid, Kara. My life ended at 2:15pm on that day.


Wednesday June 4, 2008; 1:45pm. Routine office visit 37wks 3days into my pregnancy.
After being weighed, submitting a urine sample, and the routine blood pressure test - I am told all is normal and I am shown to an examination room to wait for Dr. Jacoby. At 2:15pm, Dr. comes in and small talk is made about how large the baby will be. I am scheduled to deliver via c-section on June 16th - just 12 days away. I elected for a c-section because I am a chicken shit when it comes to child birth. It is horrifying to think of a person being squeezed out of your body through a small opening - which may be forever changed. Major surgery is more my style - pain killers, a fast delivery, lots of drugs for recovery. Let's do it.

Dr. measures my belly and declares 'this will be a big baby'. I ask 'how big?. She replies with a smile, 'around 8lbs'. She continues to the heart rate doppler and squeezes the ultrasound gel on my swelling belly. I am so large now that it is difficult to do normal things such as lay down, sit up, walk, etc. We are both expecting the steady heartbeat of the fetus, like so many times before. I was just here last Wednesday and the heartbeat was stead and strong. Dr. is having difficulty, she is moving the monitor round and round my belly. She applies more gel and a strange look appears on her face - (I am getting hot thinking about it right now.) She switches on the ultrasound machine and I see a still baby, with no heartbeat. Dr. says 'Babette, I can't find the baby's heartbeat. I am so sorry.' I said "WHAT!? HOW CAN THIS HAPPEN? THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING! OH MY GOD - WHAT THE FUCK?! (over and over and over, in a rasping, barely there voice I have never heard from myself before). This continued for a good 10 minutes until I found my voice and tears began to roll down my face. My life was over. HOW COULD THIS BE!? SHE WAS JUST HERE! I FELT HER KICK LAST NIGHT! oh my God - over and over and over. Dr. called Peter in Miami to deliver the sad news, as I was unable to speak. Peter was on an interview and this happened to be the only day he'd spent away from me in several months. She put me on the phone with Peter, and we were both in shock - not really knowing where our lives were going from here - how does one go on once they learn their baby has died?!

Peter was at the airport, going through security - he would be on the 3pm flight back to Newark and would call me when he got to the gate. I immediately called a few close friends to tell them of the horrific news - and to please spread the word to other friends, as I was unable to repeat the story more than once or twice, and unable to speak without sobbing out words in partial sentences. Then I called my mother. She was unable to understand me when I cried 'Mom, we lost the baby.' I repeated myself and she didn't understand. I finally said 'The baby is dead!' She yelled at me 'Babette! Are you kidding me! What are you saying!?' I had to yell back, because she sounded angry with me - but I think she was just in shock. We all were. I asked her to come pick me up - they wanted me at Riverview Hospital right awa and I could not drive. When my mother arrived, they brought her into the Dr.'s private office with me and she explained the next steps. They would induce labor and try to deliver vaginally. NO, there was no explanation for Kara's death - they may find some explanation once they see the baby - perhaps a cord accident, which is more common that I knew. I initally thought they could put me to sleep and take the baby, and make it go away. Make this whole nightmare disappear. But no, it is not possible and I had to face reality.

I was admitted to the hospital sometime between 4 and 5pm. I don't remember. I only remember walking through maternity (i would not take the wheelchair) to get to the deserted end, where they put the unfortunate people like myself, who are waiting to deliver a dead baby. Walking past the maternity waiting room was like a bad fucking dream. What is this? Why do all of these people get to greet a healthy baby and I am walking to my death? This is unfair and horrible.

I remember getting into a gown and into a hospital bed - an IV line was hooked up and a nurse trained in grief counseling began taking my vitals and explaining what to expect in the next 24 hours. She was very kind, but I was completely in shock and unable to comprehend what was happening. I was already far, far away, only my body was there, nodding to questions, lifting my arm for the bloodpressure cuff. I was not there. I was already with Kara in my mind - trying to understand why she left just 12 days short of her due date. I could not comprehend what they were doing to me - nor did I care. I wanted them to kill me. When asked why I could not have a c-section, they replied that major surgery is never the first option and they would rather I deliver vaginally since the baby is no longer alive. A c-section may scar my uterus and might make it more difficult to conceive next time, and also introduced a higher risk for the mother. I was okay with that - I wanted to be put to sleep and to never awake. Please put me to sleep, doctor. Please take the pain away that is my life now. I am okay with it - knock me out so I will never wake.

5:45pm - Peter is 2 hrs into his flight - he should be landing at 7pm. The Dr. comes in and explains that he will be inserting something into my cervix to begin dilation. Once I'm dilated to an acceptable size, he will begin pitocin to bring on contractions. He inserts the tablet and I feel sharp, searing pain, then it's over. Now I wait. For what, I'm not sure. I've never given birth before, so I am not sure what to expect. 2 hours later, my water breaks. I am told to take shower, and numbly follow my mother into the bathroom. I am unable to function, so my mother helps me shower, dress, use the toilet, clean up the blood. I am bleeding so badly, I am hoping I will hemorrhage to death. I've heard of that before - seems an easy way. Unfortunately, hours later, the bleeding subsides. Dr. comes in several times to check my cervix, which is dilating very, very slowly. Once I reach 2 cm, he begins the pitocin drip and asks if I want morphine or an epidural. I decline - as my husband is not there yet and I want to be clear of mind when he arrives. It is 9pm and still no sign of Peter.

9:45pm - my mom is still with me and my brother & his fiance, my dad & his wife, all have come & gone. I continue to cry, but still feel unconnected to this horrific world - I am not here anymore. I am full of emptiness and sadness too great to bear.

10:20pm - I receive a text from Peter - 'landing at 10:40pm, hope you get this.' He calls at 11:15 - he is on the ground and heading to the car. He will be here by midnight.

midnight - Peter arrives and rished to my bedside - he is sobbing and I am sobbing and holding each other. I want to dissolve into him and disappear. I want to turn back the hands of time and make this not happen. What have our lives become? We are scared to breathe, to live another moment in this new world. We are unsure of our place in this world any longer. Everything we took for granted, is now precious and frail. How could this be happening to us?

Peter stays by my side for hours, until the contractions begin. I refuse the epidural and morphine, because I am not in physical pain - only emotional. I ask for sleeping pills so that I can rest. More nurses come in and out - all trained in infant bereavement, all expressing sympathy and understanding. I am in a daze - hearing their stories but only vaguely. This is their tragedy, not mine. I cannot accept. Vilma shares her story of losing 2 babies - TWO!!! I cannot fathom the despair and turn away. This is not happening. It is not possible to lose TWO babies! How does one go one? Vilma explains her struggle and her happy ending of a baby girl- their 'victory baby' names Victoria. She is at peace with her life, accepting her tragedies and feels blessed to have one living child. She has persevered - how will I? I continue crying all throughout the night - silently, in the hopes that I will not wake come morning. We meet Linda - our night nurse. She is kind and sweet, telling me she will be here for us all throughout the night. She will never be far from us.

Thursday June 5, 6am. Linda comes in to take my blood pressure, test the dilation of my cervix, renew my IV, etc. She is kind, like all of the others. She gives me a sponge bath and tells me the story of her son. 15 months old, dies suddenly on her front lawn while they are outside playing with his toys. No cause of death was ever found. His heart simply stopped - like Kara's. "They" believe that unexplained in-utero deaths are like SIDS - the child/fetus heart simply stops beating. There is no comfort in this - just information that leads me no place good. Will any child ever be safe until they pass the 2 year mark? Will I ever even get pregnant again? Can I endure another pregnancy only to have a full term baby die on me? This is not a good place - I want to die.

Peter wakes and we are both in a daze. Not knowing what to say or do. We hold each other and turn on the TV to break the silence. Every movement is slow and painful - we move as if encased in wet concrete. We hold each other and cry on & off, all day. My mother returns at noon with essentials from home, but could not find our digital camera. She brings toiletries and a change of clothes for Peter, and essentials from my diaper bag, which I packed just 2 days prior, with all the essentials I thought I'd need when I was in labor. It sickens me to think that 48 hours ago, I was packing my overnight bag with a going home outfit for me and baby Kara. I am overcome by grief and the crying has no end. I vow never to go through this again and think I can possibly be content with dogs and focusing on my weight training - maybe I'll indulge in my fantasy of becoming a fitness competitor - I'll throw myself into that. Odd thoughts - but I am still in shock.

My brother & Christy return in the early afternoon to keep us company during the long vigil. Mom stay and keeps us company as well - running for coffee and soda when needed, trying to help me stay comfortable while I continue to bleed and contract.

Sometime around noon, I ask for the epidural. I'm told I should get it now, because the anesthesiologist has a busy schedule and may not be able to get to me in time later on. I get the epidural and a shot of morphine, because I am terrified of having to face my dead baby. I do not think my mind will endure the sight of her - so heartbroken am I. I fear that I will break in two. The morphine takes the edge off and the epidural is working nicely.

At 5pm - my Dr. comes in and says I'm not dilating, and I've spiked a fever. They have decided to perform a c-section and I'll be heading into surgery now. I am relieved that this waiting is over, and that I will be given a short respite from grief by being sedated. Horrible thought - but I am on the verge of losing my mind from the waiting and the anticipation of seeing my dead child. My life has ended and I am just living because my heart continues to pump blood to my lungs, which continue to breathe. I have no control over it.

Peter calls my dad and he & Maureen come back to the hospital to wait for my recovery.

I am wheeled into the operating room and given a sedative, which makes me vomit twice. I fall asleep while telling the anesthesiologist how scared I am and how I need to be sure I'm not awake for this procedure, with tears rolling down my face. This continues until I am asleep.

I wake to sounds of sobbing. I don't know where I am for a moment, until I see my husband holding an infant and sobbing over her. Oh God - it's Kara. My baby has died!!! Why am I awake? Why couldn't I just die with her? I am foggy and can't understand anything being said - until someone asks if I want to hold her. I am unsure, because it is too painful. Peter brings her to me and lays her in my arms. My heart breaks into a million tiny pieces as I look into her small, beautiful face. I have never seen so much beauty, and I am amazed that she looks exactly like Peter and me. I cannot believe this perfect little person was created by us. Our love is go great, that we created a miniature replica of ourselves fused together. This baby was inside of me for 9 months. Here is the person I've been waiting for. Here is the person who has haunted my dreams for 9 months. Here is the person who has driven me to near madness through pregnancy pains, insomnia and 3am meals alone in the kitchen. Here is the person I longed to hold, cuddle, kiss and sing to. Here is the person who I thought would enjoy waking to birds in her nursery every morning. Here is the person who would wear all the pink and ruffled outfits I recently washed and folded so carefully. Here is the person who I would spend this summer with, waking long strolls in the park, each day in a new ruffled outfit with matching hat - so adorable in her pram. Here is the little girl I anticipated for the past 9 months - the person who would make daddy and my lives complete. This is the person I've waited my whole life for, and she is dead.

Peter tells me I said two things upon waking "Can't they do something, to bring her back? Anything?" and "Oh my God - she's so beautiful. I can't believe how beautiful she is. We are definitely trying again."

She is gone. She left us over a full day ago, to be with God. My life is over.

Linda takes photographs and I feel 'dirty' and inappropriate. Why are we taking pictures of my dead baby? I don't ask this, but I feel morbid and it feels wrong. I am still drugged out and don't hold her for very long. I wish I held herlonger and didn't have so much morphine in me. We call a priest and he comes to bless Kara. I am only comforted by the knowledge that she is with God and did not suffer. I gaze at my daughter's face, her little hand with long fingers, her gorgeous feet -she is perfect. Absolutely perfect, except that she is dead.

This is my life now. I don't know how I will go on.

I stayed in the hospital for 3 more days, recovering from the c-section, but trying to recover from the loss of my child. Peter stays with me - in a state of shock, calling the funeral home and our parish to make funeral arrangements. He calls his parents and his children, to come to the hospital to see their granddaughter and their sister. They arrive on Friday and Kara's remains are brought back to our room. Everyone looks at her and comments on her beauty - but no one picks her up to hold her. It seems inappropriate now - she has been in the morgue overnight. It breaks my heart.

Everyone leaves at dinner time, and we are alone again with our grief and our thoughts. We ask to see the baby again and Kara is brought up for us to hold and cuddle. Daddy holds her and tells her everything in his heart. How much he loves her, how much he misses her, and calls her 'honey bunny'. He tells her she is safe iwth Godin Heaven and that someday we will all be together again. He tells her that he does not fear death any longer, because he looks forward to seeing her face and being with her in eternity. He tells her he will always love his little baby. I hold her and talk to her about everything I wanted to do with her this summer. I tell her I'm so,so sorry this happened and to please forgive me. I tell her that I love her more than anything in this world and if I could change this, I would. If I was given the coice to die in her place, I would have gladly chosen that path. I tell her she's beautiful and that I will forever miss her and that I will see her again in Heaven someday.

i don't know how long we each held her - I only know that she was cold when I kissed her forehead and her perfect little nose. I have never seen a more beautiful baby, in my life. Why has God taken her from me?

That night is again, a blur. We are in such a state of shock, that the world is unreal. We sit quietly and stare at the TV, unaware of what is on, or what is being said. We finally sleep - and wait for morning.

Sunday morning we both wake crying, again. Every morning, this seems to be our life. Wake, cry, hold each other, cry. We check out at noon and begin packing our belongings to leave this place of death. Maybe at home we will find some comfort - or maybe it will be a house of horrors, everything reminiscent of the pregnancy and the expected baby.

The drive home is surreal. FLowers are blooming, the sun is shining, and kids are riding their bikes in the park. It is a beautiful June day, and our baby will never see any of these things. We are sad beyond belief and cry all the way home. Once home, we climb into bed and spoon - crying ourselves into a restless sleep. I am in terrible pain from the surgery, and our bed is too flat for comfort. Peter lifts me out of bed and prepares the pull out sofa in the basement. He takes every pillow in the house and makes an angle like the hospital bed, and gently helps me into bed. He sleeps on the couch next to me. We stay here for 3 days and 3 nights. Each day waking up to cry, never leaving the other's side. We are unsure of our stability without each other. No one goes to get coffee or use the bathroom without notifying the other. Each morning I wake sobbing, telling Peter I want to die. Please just let me die! And each morning, he reminds me that he needs me and cannot live without me. Asks me to please hang on and to know that Kara is in heaven and knows everything. She knows that we love her and miss her. She knows that we are in pain and wishes only for us to grieve for a short time, as she is happily in Heaven with God, awaiting our arrival one day. But I am not to be consoled.

I want to die - and just have to figure out a way to do it. not sure if Heaven will admit me.

From Sunday through Thursday, I wake up this way. The day proceeds in the same form - crying and sleeping intermittently. It is agonizing. Kara's funeral is on Thursday the 12th. We are not prepared for this.

28 days since losing Kara

Today, I feel like I am dying. I only wish I were. Since 2pm on June 4, 2008, this life has held no meaning for me anymore. I exist, simply, because I am not dead. I continue to live and breathe, despite wishing to join Kara in Heaven. I have no desire to continue on this path, and wish every night before bed, that tomorrow, maybe I just won't wake up. Oh please, God, please let me be with Kara.

But I do wake up. I wake up all throughout the night, initially unsure of what has woken me. In a moment, I realize the deep dread in my belly and I try to fight off the despair. Sometimes I am successful, and can fight it for another hour or two before getting up to start my day. And sometimes, like this morning, the pit of dread is a physical pain that I cannot ignore. I lay and cry, trying to get some release from the physical and mental pain and suffering of losing my baby. My mind will not quiet - it is turning these facts over and over in my head: firstborn, stillborn, Kara, empty, lonely, worthless, dread, sadness, infertile, old, disillusioned, heartbroken. On and on it goes until I break down in sobs and have to get out of bed. I just don't know why I'm still here. It seems too cruel to take a baby from her parents, and leave them here with broken hearts, dreams and souls. It is something that has destroyed my life as I knew it.

There is no relief, not really. This grief is like an ocean of waves. Like the water, grief is a constant presence surrounding me and cushioning me from the real world. I am floating in my own grief and can catch glimpses of the real world in between crests of waves, or when looking down at my feet and I see shiny shells, dulled through the salt water vision. I reach down to pick them up, but swirling sands and currents hide them just out of reach and the water deceives me with their depth. Sands swirl at my feet, but I cannot control their movements, only watch fascinated as they swirl to uncover perhaps more shells, or new patterns in the sand, slowly burying my feet as they go. I can see the beach, too. All those happy people with blankets and umbrellas, building sand castles and eating ice cream. But not for me. I am floating in this womb-like state, unable to join in that world. My emotions are right on the surface, caught in the rip current, unable to wash back to the beach and rejoin the happy people. Sometimes when I feel the sea has calmed, and I can't see waves on the horizon, I begin to swim to shore - slowly, unsure of my strength. I am not in a rush. I concentrate on one stroke at a time, because I am so frail and weak, yet I keep paddling. I'm also much wiser now - there is a small chance I'll make it to that shore, so I don't get my hopes up. I feel a sense of dread and look below me for the cause (what is down there?) then look behind me to see a wave cresting in the distance. I know I cannot out-swim this one. The dread in my belly is too sharp. I try for a few more feet, but the wave overtakes me and I am again washed beneath the surface of the ocean, holding my breath, spinning out of control. Which way is up? I can't see through the white water and churned sand, I must gather my self control and try not to panic. The moment continues, and the pain and anguish are almost too much to bear. My body hurts, my heart is bursting once more, and my mind is a prisoner of it's own horrible grief. Thoughts of death enter my mind. It would be so easy - just breathe in. But if I do that, how will I know I'll be with Kara? I don't. I must simply continue treading water, saving my strength for the largest waves.

I am trying to find meaning and comfort in the words of the Lord. Kara is in heaven and is one with God. She knows all and sees all. What kind of parent would I be in taking my own life? Would God punish me for doing so, thereby never allowing me to meet my daughter? I have experience with selfish people ~ it's not something to be admired. I despise it and do not want that image of me to be Kara's. As much as I despair, I believe it is God's plan for me and I have to accept it, day after day. It is not easy - it is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I must trust in Him and accept his will. He has given me many gifts that I treasure, here on Earth. My husband is the greatest gift of all. Peter is my rock, my protector, my lifeblood. When I am unable to continue, he carries me. Peter shields me from all things hurtful and unpleasant, even tragic. I find comfort in his arms ~ his love for me is boundless. Peter is like my father when I was a child - no harm would come to me as long as my father was with me. He was my protector - so strong. Many times as a child, I wanted to curl up inside of my dad and hide until the bad things passed us by. In my dad's arms, I could always find comfort and protection. I find the same feelings with my husband - he can defeat any evils and make me feel safe. It is he who I rely on day by day, to give me the strength to go on. I must remain here on Earth for Peter - God sent us to each other to live out our lives together until we join Him and Kara in Heaven.

I do not know why He took Kara from us. I will never know - hence my grief continues. I let the waves wash over me and the calm waters return again, if only for a few moments, an hour, a minute. I must regain my strength in between swells, because there are more on the horizon and I know I can't outswim them.

To My Dear Sweet Baby Kara

We lost our baby Kara on June 4, 2008. At 37wks 3days, the doctors could find no heartbeat. I thought a letter to my baby would be an appropriate start for my blog.

My dear sweet baby Kara,

You are a miracle, the baby that daddy & I hoped and prayed for, for years. September was a joyous month! Finally, God had blessed us with a baby, and we eagerly awaited your arrival in June.

Pregnancy was not easy, but to know you were growing inside me every day was its own reward. How excited I was to be your mommy! The hopes and dreams your daddy and I had for you! We would give you the world. Every future plan, every conversation, revolved around you. June could not come quickly enough.

You grew so fast – I wondered how my belly could get any bigger with 8 weeks left! I was amazed at your kicks and acrobatics inside my womb. You were feisty and strong, sometimes pushing your feet against my belly where I scratched or rubbed. You were telling me you were there, and that you were healthy and strong. I felt relief and joy every time you responded to my touch. It was an amazing thing to know that my daughter was responding to the touch of my fingers, while still in my womb. I sometimes woke at night and rubbed my belly when you were restless, and spoke softly to you telling you how much I loved you and couldn’t wait to meet you. Each and every night in my prayers, I thanked God for this miracle baby, and told him I would cherish every moment with you. I thanked him for my incredible husband, and told him we would be the best parents possible. As difficult as the pregnancy became near the end, I would have endured far more, just grateful for the opportunity to be your mommy.

Last Wednesday, I learned that you had passed into God’s hands just hours before. I refused to believe that you would leave daddy & mommy that quickly, without warning. You were just here!!! Where did you go? Why did you leave us? We waited for so long for you! It was not possible that your life could have ended so silently!

Daddy and I waited for your birth all that night and the next day. When you were finally delivered, I woke to daddy’s sobs and I knew that he was holding you in his arms. The sight of you was the most beautiful thing I have ever known; your perfect face, with daddy’s eyes and hair, and mommy’s nose and mouth. I felt as if I knew you already. I just didn’t know how beautiful a baby could be, until I saw you. When I held you in my arms, I thought I would die of love. Your skin was so soft with beautiful little fingers, perfect adorable little feet, rosebud lips, kissable cheeks. How could this be? How could you make it 37 weeks and disappear? A perfect little baby who we would never watch grow up.

All of those dreams we had for you. Gone. How will I get through the next hour? The next day? The rest of my life until I see you again in heaven? I did not know it was possible to hurt this much, to feel so hopeless, to wish so badly to go back in time just one day, to try to change history. Was there something I did to cause you to leave? Was there something wrong with my body, that it didn’t nourish you enough to be healthy? How could I go on without my baby? Life has no meaning without you. My heart breaks into little pieces multiple times a day when I think of life without you.

I walk by your empty room and feel hopeless and cheated. My body betrays me and makes milk to nourish my baby, who is no longer here. My womb is empty and barren, having had you torn away too soon. My heart is broken, as I am cheated out of the sleepless nights of feeding you, soothing your cries, rocking you back to sleep, holding you in my arms, singing you lullabies and taking long walks in the park. I will never hear your cries, see your beautiful eyes, your first smile or your first tooth, and never hear your first words. I can only imagine, in my mind, what your voice would be like, the color of your eyes, the smile on your face. I have long endless days stretched before me, wondering if I will ever feel anything but intense pain again. I cannot imagine getting through the next hour, let alone the rest of my life. I cry tears of anger, loss, hopelessness and desperation. I cannot believe you were taken from us!

Daddy says you’re with God, and we will someday be reunited in Heaven. Death is no longer fearful, for I will finally see you again. But for now, I will put one foot in front of the other and try to get through the next hour without falling apart. I look at your pictures and feel some comfort in your beautiful face. I have never seen a more beautiful baby! You are our angel baby – and we will love and miss you forever.

Love Always,
Mommy