Say nothing at all.

It's better to not say anything than to say something. Most of the time we don't know where the person is in their grief, in their life. Even most well-meaning comments can come at the wrong time.

I went to see Amelia today, seeking peace and solace. I did not find it there.

There was another bereaved mom there, I met her shortly after her own baby died last year. Everything was lovely, but... I was there with pain. I needed to let it pass through me. She was there with peace. Speaking with good intention about emotions I often feel myself, she told me she was feeling ok, that she moves forward and looks at life in positive light. I know the feeling, but it was not what I was feeling today. She has another daughter to love and to hold, I don't. She lost her baby after six months of a difficult pregnancy, the death was almost expected, she does not want any more children now. I lost mine at full term of a healthy pregnancy, Amelia's death was a complete shock to us, and we would love to be pregnant again now but we are not yet.

Today I can't seem to let the pain out. I did not need to hear about peace. Not today.

I wish nothing was said today.

RIP Jude.

Jude passed away yesterday.

I'm sad to see him go, yet glad he is free now.

 

This morning I went to my favourite local garden centre to pick up a few plants that Jude is going to become: We will bury him under a bed of flowers, in time his body will nourish the soil and Jude will become a flower himself.

A lovely lady at the garden centre offered to help, she must have noticed my slightly lost gaze as I was trying to find a plant to represent my blue-green fish-friend. She asked what I was looking for, I told her briefly that Jude lived with us for over two years and I'd like to keep him in my garden as a memory. "Lovely idea," she said. "Yeah," I thought to myself...

The next thing that came out of her mouth startled me: "Are you going to get another one?"

Hmmm, I heard that one before, many times actually, from well-meaning but ill-informed people asking about us having another baby. You've got to be kidding me! This illusion of replacement is Universal! They don't just try to replace my baby to fix her death, they are trying to replace anything that dies. But you can't walk into the same river twice.

"No", I said, "I'm not."

Somehow the lady seemed surprised and puzzled by my answer.

Even in death Jude keeps giving me clues to point my mind in the right direction. Our culture lacks grief awareness at the most basic level, misguidedly attempts to fix what cannot be changed, then gets bored with the whole process and moves on to brighter thoughts.

To help the bereaved we need to start with the basics. We need to accept that death cannot be fixed, changed, or avoided. It commands our respect and attention. Death is not a loss, it's an irreversible change of state.

Thank you, Jude.

Can fate be kind?

I sure hope so.

The sun came out today and my dear husband had a real smile on his face. It warmed my heart to see it. Still, I was shivering inside...

Then I saw an old friend, a ladybug that lived on our bedroom window this whole winter. I haven't seen her for a while, it was so cold. I'm so happy to know she is still alive and doing well! I bet she is waiting for spring to have her babies in our garden. Last year we had a whole family! That would be wonderful, that would be kind.

Resident Ladybug

I guess fate can be kind to me too. I hope so. Maybe it started today?



Love and Light,
Amelia's mom.

On a lighter note

You can call me Your Majesty :)

Saw this picture of The Queen in her younger days and it was like looking at one of my own pictures! My DH says that at least now he knows what I'll look like when I'm older... Hmmm :)

Love and Light,
Queen Alena :)

The one I long for...

Of course I'm having a crappy day today. My body is shaking inside out, my mind is racing. Do I stay in all day and just let myself be while watching time pass? Or do I put on a "face," go out there and do something with my day. Either way it's going to be hard. Either way at the end of the day I will be one day closer to Sunday.

While I contemplate this, I think about the people that I gained and the people that I lost this past year. The connections that I made, the friendships that deepened, the ones that dwindled. So much has happened. So much I am grateful for. Yet, I long for one thing only. My daughter. My beautiful baby girl.

Love never dies.

Thank you for the Snow.

My sweet Amelia,

Thank you for the snow. I know it's you. Who else would be making sure the cherry blossoms stay closed till April. They blossomed the day you where born last year. We are so scared of them this year. I saw a little tree starting to bloom yesterday and said something like "Bgaaaahhh." Not good. No cherry blossoms this week for us.

The snowflakes are getting bigger. It's Vancouver, it's March, and it's snowing!

You know snow always makes me smile.

Thank you my dear snow angel.

Mama

Hey Jude.

Hey Jude, don't make it bad,
Take a sad song and make it better.
Remember to let her into your heart, 
Then you can start to make it better.

When we where pregnant with Amelia we brought home a new family member. His name is Jude and he is a blue fighter fish. He is at least two and a half years old now. We love him very much.

I named him Jude because I always loved the Beatles song Hey Jude. So fish became Jude. Every day at feeding time I sang the song to him, usually the first verse or two. So I've been singing this for some time...

Now Jude seems to be nearing the end of his journey with us and it's really hard. Especially now. Yet, somehow, I know why he came to us. Just listen to the words.

Thank you dear Jude. We love you. Please live.

Please not now.

Please

My ugly shoes.

I'm wearing a pair of shoes.
They are ugly shoes.
Uncomfortable shoes. I hate my shoes.

Each day I wear them, each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so bad 

I don't think I can take another step.
... Yet, I continue to wear them.

I get funny looks wearing these shoes,

they are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others' eyes they are glad to be wearing their shoes, not mine.
They never talk about my shoes.

 

To learn how awful my shoes are will make you uncomfortable.
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But once you put them on, you can never take them off.

I'm not the only one who wears these shoes. There are many pairs in this world.

Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt.

Nobody deserves to wear these shoes.
Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman,
These shoes have given me the courage to face anything.

They have made me who I am.

Said truly by an unknown author, slightly edited by me.

Sharing In The Pain.

Last night we ran into G. in our lobby. He was pale, grey actually, and sad, very sad. We knew something was wrong just by looking at him...  And as we had to deliver similar news after Amelia was born, he told us that his wife died of cancer six days ago.

Wife. Died. It was hard to believe the words we were hearing, but his eyes told us how final the meaning was. They lived their whole lives together, they have a teenage son, and none of his family is in the country. It is devastating and we know he's in for a hard journey...

Now that we know death really exists it seems to be everywhere. This year we also lost grandparents on both sides, our friends lost loved ones. So many people know grief. Yet our society doesn't talk about it much, it can be such a taboo subject. As if we don't talk about loss it won't come our way.
Unfortunately, all that is born must die.


Living in grief can be very lonely. The space where our loved one's physical presence was, is now a gaping hole of loss, emptiness. This is where compassion comes in. When we are brave enough to share in the grief of our neighbours, feel their pain, shed a tear with them, we gain love and understanding. We ever so slightly lighten their load, if only with a couple of tears.

Please, be mindful of the bereaved around you. Don't offer advice or answers. Do offer love and compassion. Fruit-baskets are nice too, flowers and meals. Don't ask how can you help. Just help.

The love we take is equal to the love we make <3

Scared to sleep.

Since the end of February I've been scared to sleep. Every night I dread going to bed, every morning I wake up in cold sweat, glad the night is over.

It is March. We are approaching the one-year mark with lightning speed. The year was so long, the days of misery, the nights of nightmares. Now it's almost over. I wonder what will be on the other side of March 25, 2012? Will it get better? Is there some magic button that makes memories of Amelia easier and dreams of her happier? I doubt it.

Last few days I've been relieving many memories of Amelia's week with us. The seven days she was ON earth, from the Friday of her birth to the Friday of her funeral. While I always remembered the events of that week, my mind seems to have hidden the little details from me, to save my sanity I guess. It took almost a full year to grief-work through the onion layers that hid the horrors of THAT week.

The memory of how I allowed my midwifes to bathe Amelia, her one and only bath that I didn't do, because I just gave birth and after trying to gain energy from fruit juices was, well, doing a projectile vomit of said juice. I knew our time was limited and could not get up, so it was best for them to wash her and bring her back to me after all the juice was gone. Still, I never got to wash her myself. Ever. Never.

On the day of her funeral we had an hour to spend with our baby, just one hour. I held her little hand in mine the whole time. Somehow I never picked her up, never held her in my arms before saying goodbye to her little body forever. I was scared. As a new mom I wasn't ready to bury my baby. I was ready to cloth-diaper and breastfeed, attachment parent and love and cherish. I was not ready to bury her.

So tonight, at 3:22 am I don't want to go to sleep, I don't want another memory to come up, I don't want to accept and let go of yet another thing I DIDN'T do with Amelia.

But I do accept these two things. I do have a choice not to and if anyone dares to tell me otherwise, they can just pretend to be me for a year and then we'll talk. So I make a conscious effort to accept an let it be. Still, I will be waiting for the sun to rise tonight.

Little Girls that remind me of Amelia.

An interesting thing has been going on since I became Amelia's mother: almost every dark-haired little girl that I see in public gives me the same long stare that reaches into the core of my soul, as if she knows about Amelia.  It's like they can feel my longing and they instinctively acknowledge and witness my pain.  It fills my broken heart with healing gratitude, healing it with love and compassion.

I am forever grateful for these gifts.

::::::::::Becoming::::::::::: DSM V and Ethical Relativism

::::::::::Becoming::::::::::: DSM V and Ethical Relativism

Highly recommend this blog, it's written by a fellow bereaved mother who is an inspiration to me. If you wonder how I made it through the last 11 months, Dr. Jo is the reason. Eternally grateful to her.

It has been a while...

 It has been a while since I wrote, it has been a while since I was...

Lately I removed myself from facebook, blogging, etc. It helped. This way I could control when I got exposed to things that could hurt me, like pictures of other people's babies (no offence to other people's babies, it's not them, it's me, really). While I'm grateful for those who care and wish me well, sometimes I just want to scream when I hear "you'll be ok, just be happy!" Really? How do you know?

Today I went to see the same doctor who told me that Amelia had "no heartbeat" today. I went to see her to find out WHY am I not pregnant again and WHAT do I do about it. I spent an hour in the waiting room with happy pregnant couples, flashing my "dead baby" tattoo. I spent five minutes with the lovely doctor. And I have no answers. None, nada, nilch. WTF? She (a very lovely lady) suggested I see a Reproductive Mental Health specialist, which is a great idea, in theory. I've been looking for help for about six months after Amelia died. I got nothing. I was told to call 911 if I felt suicidal when I told my psychologist that I tried to put myself INTO harms way a few times and contemplated JUMPING from our 18th floor balcony. She told me to help others like me, because apparently I was doing so well... Some time ago I stopped looking for help from people who learned about grief from a book. Now I look for it from within and it's working.

So I wonder, WHO the hell is working in the health industry? How does a person decide to become a healthcare provider? Do they even realise that they'll have to deal with real people and real issues? Or are they there for the paycheque? It certainly seems that way from where I'm standing.

Sometimes I hate some people. Today is that day. While I'm grateful for all the wonderful people in my life, I with others chose different professions.


Argh. 

I wonder...

Sometimes I wonder if I can say everything I think and feel out loud? Can I write it down for you to read? What will you make out of it?

Obviously, most people who read my blog understand it based on their life experiences (and Thank You so much for being brave enough to read it).

Hopefully, most people's experiences are very different from mine and their children are alive and well. They have no clue what it's like, yet, they assume things about it. That's just the way life is.

Therefore, I know most interpret my words differently, assigning meaning that is not what I give it. That's fair.

Yet I wonder, can I say that I'm having a horrible day, but it's actually ok as I'm facing my grief head on instead of hiding from it? And can the meaning of my words be understood the way I intend it to and not warped in the decoding process? I don't know the answer, but please keep it in mind...


So there goes:

I'm having a terrible horrible day. I feel like I've been asking for help left, right, and centre, and I'm getting shoved out of the way. I'm so tired of being bereaved, I'm so done with this "new" life. Yet, there is nothing I can do about it and it will never change, so I just sip my wine and eat my friggin' chocolate cake, pardon my language. And I'm ok. I'm awakened. And in a sick sense of the way, I'm grateful.


Still, don't worry, I'll be fine. Just a little wrincled and tired, but fine.

Feeling Robbed

I came across a beautiful video of a family going through loss, so raw and so honest.

The second clip shows the mother crying in her hospital bed, the sounds she made are so similar to mine. The deep cry, the animal howl. I hear it so often when I cry. Hearing another mother's pain validated my own grief and made me feel not alone.

The video also made me feel robbed. They got to take their daughter's body home for one night: they actually got to carry her out of the hospital and take her home. Why couldn't I?

Why could I not take my dead baby home for a few hours? Why could I not take her to the funeral home myself? It's not like I could harm her. It's not like they were trying to save her. It's not like there was someone at the morgue who needed her more than I did.

She is my daughter, yet I was not allowed to spend what little time I had with her. That I will never forget, nor will I ever forgive.


http://aso.gov.au/titles/documentaries/losing-layla

Second Holiday Season with Amelia

What an elusive child Amelia is.
First winter with us she was in my womb and all we could do was play footsie games.
This winter she is with us in spirit and all we can do is play clue games.
I love her dearly, but I would love even more just to hold her...

Amelia's First Elka (Tree in Russian :)

Understanding stillbirth

Yep, I'm doing it.  I'm spending days and nights reading through newspaper articles that mention stillbirth for my research project.
Why?  To find out how stillbirth is represented in the news media. 

I'm actually pleasantly surprised by the number of good reports out there on care and compassion needed by the bereaved parents and how to give it best.

I'm also appalled by reports of hospitals "losing" stillborn babies' bodies, leaving parents without closure. Sadly, those reports fail to mention the psychological trauma added to the already grief stricken parents.

And there are times when people refer to stillborn babies as "unborn" or "fetus." In the dictionary, fetus means "before birth" and unborn means "prenatal development stage."  So why are children that have been born still called that? Do they stop being children with their last heartbeat in the womb?

As a parent, when your child doesn't take a first breath and goes to the morgue with a nurse, instead of home with mom and dad, you need all the help you can get to get through the pain of loss. Please don't underestimate the intensity of this event.

For many months of my pregnancy we have dreamed about spending the rest of our lives with our baby, sang to her, played her jazz and The Beatles, read to her. After she was born we only got 5.5 hours to spend with her. And another hour shaperoning her to the Children's Hospital for her autopsy. And another hour before we buried her. Followed by a lifetime without her.  Amelia's life, no matter how short, is very important to us.

And we are not alone in this. Every stillborn parent I've met, in person and online, struggles with the lack of acknowledgement of their stillborn child.  As if their child lost meaning since he or she didn't live outside the womb. Why? This same child was so important before...

Grief is...

It can be a dull ache in my arms, a tightening of my rib cage that doesn't let me breathe, a sharp pain in my heart. When my fingertips go cold and sweaty and a sudden lightheadedness makes me take a seat, it is called grief. Grief, at times, is physical. And there is no pill for that. It exists and I can't pretend otherwise. I don't love it and I don't hate it, I simply live it. And it's not as bad to me as it sounds to you.

On the contrary, I find this physical grief is what makes me feel alive and see the beauty in the world. Sometimes people ask me when am I going to live again, that I should try to move on. Move on from where? Live what? If I didn't live, I'd be with my daughter, and I am not, so I live. Grief makes sure that I am acutely aware of being alive and of the time's passing. I never stopped living. My life changed and now I live a new life, but that doesn't mean I don't live.


The key to grief is accepting life for the lessons it brings.




Love & Light

Normal.

"Normal (for a bereaved parent) is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did laundry or if there is any food".

Just read this on a fellow b-mom's link. So very true.
Everything seems like such a dreaded task now, when my body and mind are so tired.

We deal with our bills every three months, mostly when we get an angry letter... Not because the lack of money, but because the lack of energy.

We clean the house little bit by little bit, and only when it cannot wait any longer. Just recently we got a Roomba. It's like a member of the family now, a good little worker too.

Our fridge has been empty for the last eight months. Pizza-vegetable is eaten as often as the real thing these days.

To top it off, in front of me stands an unfolded top-half of our tree, Yolochka, as I call it (Russian for little tree :) The old Alena would have had the full thing up and out by now. Argh.

Oh, and there is the pain of our first winter with and without Amelia. I was looking forward to taking her up the mountains to play with the snow, now I don't know what to look forward too.

The Better, The Worst.

The better I function, the worse I feel.
Not cause of guilt, or regret,
But of the knowledge that
This "new" good, is the
"Old" good's worst nightmare.

8 Months Today

It has been eight long months since I held you in my arms, since I kissed you, since I said good-bye to you. It seems like a lifetime without you, but it went by so fast.

You took a piece of my heart with you, leaving me a piece of yours.

Mama loves you, forever and ever.

That week again.

Got myself a cake. Had a slice. Mmmm, chocolate!

Walked into the bedroom closet. Turned on Lady Gaga.

And danced my pants off!!!!!!!

Yours truly, dancing in the closet!

Feeling much better now. Highly recommend it!

Back to doing social research.

:)

Finally, I saw her in my dream!

I saw Amelia in my dream today.

She came, with all her toys, to save me from this place. There was her Mimi doll, her Chicken farm stack, Ella's teddy bear, and her laughing Dino book. Best of all, she was there. Dark wavy hear, button nose. She looked just like I thought she would, so cute, I didn't care that it was a dream.

I didn't care that in that dream I was in what seemed to be a prison, or a movie theatre of some sorts, she was there, there to get me out of this place.

I hope she comes again tonight...

Silent Mother

For a long time now I've been trying to find a word that would describe me as a mother. I just found it.

I am a Silent Mother.

Not a Tiger Mother, never will be for that matter, not after what I've been through with Amelia.
Not a Dragon Mother either, I didn't get to be one. For that I'm part grateful, part sad.

I am a Silent Mother. My baby was born silent. The room she was born in was silent. The people were silent. There were no congratulations, just silent looks.

I don't tell many people that I have a daughter, I stay silent as they assume I don't have a child. I stay silent to stay sane.

I am silent when I talk to my daughter.

And she, silently, talks back to me.

I am a Silent Mother.

At Night

For the last seven months I wondered what is it like where you are at night. I don't mean your spirit, but you body. The one I carried and cared for, the one I longed to hold, the one I hugged and kissed. As any mother, when I worry about you in the middle of the night, I just want to open the door to your bedroom and see you sound asleep in your crib. But you are not there, and neither is your crib.

So tonight was the night we went to see you at the cemetery. It was everything and nothing I imagined it to be. It wasn't as dreary as I thought it might be. Instead, it was peaceful. The fog rolling over the hill. So quiet.

Sometimes I imagined that at night, when everyone is gone home, you and your friends come out to play on the grass. In my mind I saw you run around, laughing, smiling, playing with your friends. Just what any other kid would do when their parents are not watching. But you weren't.

It kills me that I have to drive to the cemetery to see you in the middle of the night, just to make sure you are ok. It hurts me that I don't have the guts to correct people when they assume I don't have you, just to avoid the awkwardness and the silly comments. It drives me crazy that you are not with me, that I can't tuck you in at night. Yet, somehow, I put one foot in front of the other every hour of every day, and I carry on. Because I love you, and because I am your mother.


Good night my darling, sleep tight and don't let the ghosts bite.


Love you forever,
Mama

Congratulations

We decided to go to the gym everyday this week. Do it together while my hubby has a week off, get into a routine. Got to the gym, everything is great. Of course, the guy taking us through the tour and the sell was our neighbour from before we were even married. Nice guy, we had a pleasant conversation. At some point Amelia came up. We received a nice big round of Congratulations from all sides of the room. We thanked them. Then answered all following questions honestly, but briefly: we had a baby girl, she was over 7lb, that was seven months ago.

The guy obviously assumed she is alive. I mean, that's what most babies do. And we didn't bring it up, we were there for a workout, not a deep sharing session.



It felt good. The idea our baby girl is alive and well. We had a few other times like this, where we left the conversation without telling complete strangers our daughter died. I think it's fair enough. Those moments are so bittersweet. But there is still more sweet in those that the ones where we tell the whole story. I hate those moments, as I usually the one who tries to console others.


So here I am, wondering what my next visit to the gym will be like. And how long can Amelia be alive in that reality.

Lightbulb

I was laying in bed, thinking. Thinking about us, the humans. The way we live, the things we love. I feel that as a whole, as all people together, we are travelling on the wrong track. With all the greed in the world, all the indifference, egoism, consumerism we cultivate, we are forgetting what is really important: each other. How can we not realize that no other physical creation has true value, life value, other than a human. We are the ones who give meaning to things, be it cars, jobs, houses. But we are the only ones carrying real meaning.

While I was thinking these deep thoughts, a lightbulb exploded above my head. I mean I really saw an explosion in front of me, above the nightlight. It lit up the room, just for a few seconds, and it made a sound, but only I heard it. Only I saw it. It freaked me out, enough that I can't sleep now.

I think it was Amelia telling me something. At first I worried, is it something good, or is it something bad? I think it's good. As the thought going through my head at the moment was good, I think it was a sign to say it out loud. So, here it is.

I believe that we, the global society, need to have an Ethical Pact with each other. It is time to take an oath to be true and honest with each other, as we are with ourselves, making sure that all decisions we make are ethical.

I know it sounds hippy, but why not? Why not value a life of a person across the world more than a purse in my hand? Don;t get me wrong, I am all for comfortable living and all for toys and things, but there is no need for extremes. I wonder if this is what the 99% want, a simple Ethical Law that we all must follow so that everyone has enough. So that no-one throws out food while another dies from hunger.

 Think about it...

On this sunny day

I f'n miss my girl. Pardon the language, but I miss her so much, words can't describe it. Every inch of my heart aches for her, ever cell in my body cries for her, every little bit of energy in my soul lives for her.

I have no choice, I must carry on. I smile and live my life, but it's not the same, never will be. A big part of me is missing, I am not the same. So much I, I, I. Sometimes it feels like it's more about me than her. Well, it is. She is too dead to care right now, I'm still alive.

A daughter to be proud of

Amelia turns seven months old today. What a big girl she would have been. Instead, she is even bigger, and better to some degree. As I was driving over for a visit this morning, I realised that instead of twenty or so years, it took just nine months for my baby to reach independence. She is, after all, a land owner and is very self-sufficient. She is mature beyond her years, for she knows what very few of us only suspect. She is as beautiful as an angel can be, even more so in my eyes.

You might think it's just my imagination, but I have been getting to know my daughter for the last seven months, and she is as real as you and I.  She is stronger, smarter, and kinder than anyone else I know. She makes flowers bloom (like a single bloom on her lilac tree in late August), she opens up the clouds so that the sun shines on me when I visit her. She even made the rain stop on a few occasions. And she saved my life, twice, in the last seven months. I know it, as I was there. So, compared to an average seven month old, she is a genius. And I love her more each day.

Those who don't have children in heaven, or whatever you call it, think it's magical thinking. Still, every bereaved parent I met told me they feel their children, they communicate with them. We don't call gravity "magic" anymore, do we?

Amelia's Garden

The Week We Eat Cake

It is that time of the month. It is the week we eat chocolate cake. Feeling the dates creep up on us, it usually starts on the 21st, we go to our local grocery store for a specific cake: same one my mom bought seven months ago tomorrow for Amelia's birthday. We eat it every month. This is one of the little things we do to cope with the crushing pain in our hearts. Same way as we drink beer or wine, cry, etc.

Some people, upon hearing that we eat chocolate cake every month without any concern for our figures and diets, have expressed feelings of jealousy and called us lucky. I am always shocked to hear such a response. Does it really take a death of our own child to let us eat cake without guilt? Maybe for me it did. But I wouldn't call myself lucky for that. I'd rather have Amelia in my arms, and leave the cake at the grocery store for someone else to eat. But I can't, so instead I drown my sorrow with chocolate. So I wonder, don't these people realize it? Do they really think we are lucky because we let ourselves eat cake?  I'm really trying to get my head around the way our life events shape our perceptions. I mean, would you really want to be me? Even if that means you can eat as much cake as you want? I doubt it. So why get jealous?

Just saw this on failblog.org. How perfect is this!

Argh! Time for me to get another slice :)

Thankful for the Love

Amelia and I made a Love cake today. I made the hearts when I was 7-8 months pregnant and she stayed really quiet the whole time, which was very unusual!

It is sometimes hard to find things to be thankful for. When there is too much stress in our lives, our vision becomes clouded. As I stopped to think about gratitude this weekend, at first I felt that I had nothing be grateful for. My heart was hurting, mind racing from a cocktail of emotions. How can I be grateful when my would-be six-month old is buried at our local cemetery?

When I thought about the cemetery, I remembered how we had to pick out Amelia's spot the day after she was born; so beautiful, weighing almost eight pounds. I remembered our family and friends who hugged us as our baby's "treasure chest" was covered with earth, on the spot we picked a week earlier.  

 I realised I have a lot to be grateful for:

I am so grateful for every person who stood by us on that day and the many days that followed. 

I am grateful for the meals, gifts, flowers, cards, walks in the park and everything else that so many people generously gave us. I remember a moment when I was looking around our home, seeing the tiniest details in the beautiful blooms, smelling the scents of the ripe fruit basket, smiling at Amelia's changing table that was overflowing with gentle and supportive cards; I realised that our home was full of love and support, we were not alone. I really mean it when I say Thank you to all of you who made it happen.

I am grateful for my family. I am grateful for my friends. I am grateful for my pets. I am grateful for my life. To me, this is all that really matters.  A bereaved mom once said that you really value life only after you lose life. How true. Another bereaved mom said that losing your child is like receiving a "sick gift." It now makes sense. I am grateful for the way I appreciate life now. Little things don't matter anymore, and it feels good. It gives me more time to appreciate the big, the important moments, people, places.

Hope you all had a good Thanksgiving!

 Love & Light
~A~

Every day

Every day I live without Amelia, I try to understand what happened and learn how to live with it. It's hard to describe the grief of loosing my daughter, but let me try: I'm missing every day of her life that should have been, that could have been, but is definitely not. 

When I saw this video, I realized that I'm really missing Every Day without my daughter.

Understanding each other

I've been thinking a lot about what you, my reader, get from my writing, how do you understand and interpret it? I wonder how do I sound to a person who never walked in my shoes? How can a few words, selected either in the heat of the moment, or after long and careful consideration, convey the reality I live in?

First of all, I hope you understand that what makes it onto this blog is such a small piece of the puzzle. My postings are missing many thoughts, events, and ideas I omit for the sake of saving time, space, and heartache (except for that rambling post about "bad apples," that felt good! :) I rarely mention all the little things that hurt me or give me strength every day. It is hard to keep up with the pace of life as it is right now, the littlest things like house chores can be exhausting. Mostly because of constant reminders of what we lost, like a coffee shop full of babies and toddlers I walked into today. The lady behind the counter proudly told me they hold mom and toddler groups on Tuesday mornings, the ones I was supposed to be a part of. Instead, I told her my daughter passed away. She either didn't hear me or pretended that she didn't. I walked out with a crappy coffee and a heavy heart.

Second, there is each persons' individual life perception. Your lifetime memories, events, trials, and tribulations make you who you are. You might be going through your own heartache right now, or you might be living the happy life (if you are, savour every moment of it!). The joys and sorrows we get to experience help us understand others, be compassionate towards each other.

Third, I wonder at what point do people gain a better, deeper understanding of each other? Until I lost Amelia, I lived in a world of what I now call "regular" life: good and bad relationships, school and work deadlines, family matters, relocation and immigration. You get the idea. I did not have the easiest life, but it was good and I remained optimistic. When I saw people hurting, I genuinely felt for them and tried to help the best I could. I wanted to see everyone healthy and happy. I was not naive, but I was shielded.

Now, I feel like a veil has been lifted. I understand now that it was impossible for me to comprehend and for others to explain the pain they were going through. It saddens me that the sight of me, happily pregnant, made other women hurt. I understand I did nothing wrong then, and now what I feel is not wrong either. It is just life.


So as I try to explain something that can only be understood by being where I am, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone, let me ask you this:

How long did it take you to heal from a bad breakup, or a divorce?

How much did you cry when your pet cat or dog die?

How hard was it to pick yourself up when your parent died?


I hope most of you would say you haven't experienced these things. If you did, I'm sorry for your loss. It really sucks.

But to get back to my point, if either of the things I mentioned above is one of your worst points of reference on the $hit-scale (pardon my English), please try to put it into perspective:

People can be hurt for years by a bad break-up, a nasty divorce. How long does it take them to trust again? After being hurt by someone when I was only 17, it took me over 8 years to really trust someone else.

After losing a pet, the emptiness of your house can be unbearable, the atmosphere forever changed. When my mom and I immigrated to Canada, we had to leave our 14 y.o. cat behind. Knowing that she lived the remainder of her life with someone else, not understanding why we left her, not knowing that we still loved her, still saddens me and makes me tear up (thankfully they are great people and I am forever grateful to them for taking care of our kitty!).

I am lucky that my parents are both alive and well, so thankfully I can't compare there. But I know for sure that when you lose a parent, people never say to you: "You're young, you'll have another one."

What I'm trying to say is that please know that I was where most of you are now: I did not know what it was like to lose a child, I never wanted to find out. All I can ask of you is to have an open mind and don't assume anything. Don't assume that your are going to hurt me or help me by doing or not doing something, don't assume that you can imagine how I feel and know how to make it better. I am not saying this in anger or resentment, I am just saying what I hear many bereaved parents repeat over and over: people assume, but they have no idea. That's what makes people the worst and the best part of grief.

I guess the reason I keep putting myself out there, baring my heart and my soul, is to give you some food for thought, an image of a different point of reference, an explanation why a total stranger might run away from you in tears or give you a helping hand.

Celebration of Life

As I went to bed tonight, memories of Amelia's funeral came flooding in. I am still trying to understand how we had to bury our little girl just seven days after she was born. Instead of a lifetime together, we got a lifetime apart. It hurts me how quickly her life ended, how cruel was this dream.

It often feels like a dream, a really scary, surreal dream. But on nights like this they become all too real. I'd say it hurts more now than it did before, because now I understand how "forever" it is. Nothing else is more permanent than death.

The flashbacks that I get are moments in time that my brain simply couldn't handle six months ago. These memories are safely stored in my head and usually come back around the same dates as the events. Like the feeling of leaving the hospital without my baby; the week leading up to her funeral, all the arrangements we had to make instead of staying in bed with our newborn; the day we laid her to rest.

For her, it was the end of her time here on Earth with us. For us, it was the beginning of our lives without her.

I would like to share some pictures with you, although they are not easy to look at. If you are wondering, it really does help me to go through these, look at them, see them, have them. This is just another angle of the same memories my brain throws at me at all times of day and night. This is also a memory of our physical time here with Amelia.

Pictures were kindly taken by Eugenia Filippova

Amelia and I

Here we are. I'm still learning to smile. It feels so awkward now to smile for pictures. I don't really want to smile, it makes no sense. So what you get is an attempt at a smile... Oh well, such is life.

Also, please note the lovely pancake Amelia's papa made her this morning! Would she be eating pancakes at 6 months? Maybe boiled carrots would be better... I guess this way she can have anything she wants. Maybe later tonight I'll share my wine with her ;)

Amelia's Deathday

It is a hard day for us today. The whole month has been brutal, this week has been almost unbearable, and today is just awful.

I had a plan to post pictures of Amelia's birth for her 6 months, but ran into a bit of a roadblock. The pictures are not easy to look at, let alone share. They are brutal in their nature. They hide nothing. But the saddest thing for me at the moment is that there isn't a single picture of my daughter and I that I can share, frame, treasure. There is one of my husband, my mom, my grandma, but not me. And there is nothing I can do to change that.

So I don't know what to post. I really have nothing here.

Days leading up to the Six Months

It is interesting to see how my posts become less frequent as time goes on. I wish I could say that it's because my grief gets easier with time, but I can't do that yet. For me, grief becomes different, it changes in taste and colour. All sorts of things, places, and people leave different impressions on my heart and mind, altering the way I see, feel, and deal with my loss.

I admit to turning a 360 and shutting out the world lately. Right from the beginning of my grief journey I was very open, hoping to help others see and understand what a bereaved parent goes through, at least my version of it. I wanted to find some good in my pain. Slowly, I started keeping more and more inside. I can't put a date on when it happened, it was a continuous process, but I can tell you why: Some People. The reason is that simple: random individuals.

If you were to ask me right after Amelia died what was the hardest thing about losing her, I'd say it was giving birth to my dead daughter, my perfect little angel, so wanted, so loved. If you ask me now, I'd say people. Please don't get me wrong, there are more good apples in the basket than the rotten ones, but the rotten ones really do stink out the whole orchard.

This post is dedicated to the bad apples.

How can people, from complete strangers to those close to me, hurt more than labouring with knowledge that my newborn has no heartbeat? Sadly, there are many ways. Mostly those are stupid words people choose. I've heard all sorts of things, from "You weren't ready yet," to "You are young, you'll have another one," to "how long are you going to wallow in your grief?" There are also actions: there is nothing worse than a cranky toddler screaming into my head at 8:30pm in an otherwise empty restaurant, because his parents decided that it was ok to sit right behind us instead of choosing ANY OTHER table in the medium-sized place. There also unintentional moments when a new mom would park her stroller right in front of us in the mall, she obviously never lost a child, otherwise she would have recognised the look of complete terror in my face. Hopefully when I have a living child I'll be more mindful of others. So the list goes on. This is not pointing fingers at anyone, I have no "beef" so to speak. It is just a sad reality that I'm facing.

Going back to the words people say, I'm so tired of hearing how I wasn't ready to have my daughter and that when I am, I'll get a living baby to hold and to love. Really??? I was 27 when we conceived Amelia, perfect age: not too young, not too old; have been happily married for a few years now, we own a home, we both have careers and are educated, we are healthy and at a point in life where there is nothing else we'd rather do but raise our daughter. I am more ready than Casey Anthony was, I'm more ready than that mom who dressed her toddler as a prostitute. Yet people who don't know me at all have the guts to say to my face that I wasn't ready yet. One day instead of quietly saying "yes, I was," I'll make them explain to me exactly what makes them say such a stupid thing.

Sadly, this is just a tip of the iceberg. About two months ago I went to a reproductive psychologist (pre- and -postnatal) to seek help. She didn't bother looking through my file before our meeting, so I had to go through the whole "OMG what happened?" thing. It's tough as is, now imagine trying to explain "cause of death unknown" to a so-called health professional. It is brutal. Either way, I walked out of her office 45min later with noting. No help, nothing. And that was not an isolated episode. At this point I am so tired of seeking "professional" help that I think I'm better off without it.

Since Amelia passed on, I have tried many things to help me deal with her physical death. From some obvious choices of red wine and walks in the park, to more exciting ones when I painted with oils, crayons, watercolours, you name it. I wrote, on this blog and in a journal that I started for Amelia when she was conceived. I tried jogging, had a private trainer, took kickboxing classes, did yoga, hiked, and am taking ice-skating lessons now. I sang my little heart out almost daily (even though I'm pretty bad :), played piano, and will take piano lessons in the fall, and I like drumming my djembe really loud. I power-sanded almost every surface in my house, filled-in tiniest imperfections and painted three coats of paint, even in the closets. I grew a memorial garden. I danced. I cried. I screamed. I laughed. I dressed up. I'm sure I'm forgetting something, but you get the idea. All these things helped, some in good, healing ways, others in ways that made me realise I had trauma I needed to deal with. Who wouldn't after what I've been through? Pardon the grim details, but when I pushed Amelia out, the skin on her arm came off. From the force of birth. Yep, I was so scared to hold her, I never got to really see her fingers, the shape of her nails. Every time I exercise, I get flashbacks of being in labour, of giving birth to her, of giving her away and leaving the hospital empty handed, having no other way out than though the fire. Needless to say, I don't push myself too much.

Yet, I wonder why is it that when I tell people that I can't or don't want to do something, like going to the mall or back to the hospital where I gave death (birth doesn't seem to be the right word) to my Amelia, why don't they just accept it as is and leave me alone? Why do people have to push their assumptions and opinions on me, when they have absolutely no clue? I come across it all the time, persistent advice of some sorts. Well meaning advice, but still... Oh, you Must do this, why don't you just try, you don't know until you do. Um, no. You don't know, because You have healthy living kids at home, or you have a dog, or not even that. I don't tell people what to do with their living children, because I don't have one of those and I don't really know what it's like. Why do they feel the need to tell me what to do with my dead one?

Is it because it will make it easier for everyone? I guess it would be a lot better if I just went back to life as it was, then no-one will have to feel awkward around me, and when they ask me how many kids I have I'd say what? None? Hell NO. It doesn't work that way. I have one daughter, she was born still, without a heartbeat. She was full term, seemingly healthy, absolutely beautiful. Do you know that about 30% of stillbirths have no known cause? Do you know that in 2008, in British Columbia alone, over 400 children were stillborn? That's more than one-a-day! At least one set of parents a day in our province goes through hell and back. And then there are those who lose kids in all other sick and horrible ways. These are rough stats and no, I'm not going to dig up their source right now, but it gives you a general idea why I won't say that I have no kids, why I can't go back to that hospital, why I can't jog, why I emotionally eat, and why I can't go back to how I was before. Because before I was probably as likely to say something stupid to a bereaved parent as anyone else. That's why it is time for a change.

That is why from now on, if someone hurts me with an insensitive comment, I will tell them politely that it hurts. After all, wouldn't you?


On this lovely note, I say good night.
Love and Light to you all

Kids do grow up fast...

Here it is. Five months since you passed away. I still don't know what to call it: died, became and angel, or a cloud? You should be learning to sit and stand, instead I wonder how close to going back to the Earth are you? I don't think it's morbid, just a fact of life. The "present" reality. Makes me kind of scared of the future. But since we are, I believe, programmed by evolution to hope and carry on, so shall I.


I don't understand how my grief can be getting better and harder as time goes on. Every emotion has its own wavelength, different feelings come at different times. Moments of intense grief are now alternated with good, even beautiful emotions. When I feel good, I see the tiniest changes in shades of colour, the harmony of sounds around me. The wind touches my shoulders and I think of Amelia, what if it's her little hand, gently caressing my shoulder. I smile as I love my daughter more and more...

But on moments like right now, like today, all I feel is shattered dreams on the edges of what should have been. I can't look back, it feels like I'm in a triangle, where looking back and looking forward still gets me nowhere. Sadly, being "in the moment" really sucks.

Since I'm a fighter, I'm looking for a way to relieve stress that works. None of my former methods of exercising or meditating work. Argh!!! Any advice? Please :)

Gave me hope

“In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”

-Albert Schweitzer

The Sound Of Grief

I never imagined grief having a sound. Well, it does. From the first moment of my new life, when my brain was in denial and my heart was full of blind hope, my body was screaming inside. You could not hear it, I didn't make a sound, but I was screaming so loud it silenced the world around me.

It has been a constant in my life since. Walking down the street, past a playground, I silently scream until there is no playground. Smiling at friends, lying that I'm ok, I scream until they believe me and relax. In a grocery line-up, stuck between a newborn and a toddler, I scream until I run out of there, tears rolling down my cheeks. Not on purpose, not because that feels good, but because I can't help it.

Thankfully, there are days when those screams come out, when I can't keep it in anymore. Those terrifying animal sounds that come out of me are a relief. If you heard it, you'd probably think I've gone mad. And I have, I mean, I talk to birds and bees as if they are Amelia coming over to say hi, I hug the balloons I bring her to the cemetery, as if I'm hugging my baby. The reality is that, when I seem ok, I am most likely not; when I seem in pieces, I am whole. These bleeding heart screams take me back to the moment I met my angel. That is what it real, what is imprinted in the pieces of my heart, when it was breaking in a silent scream.

I guess it is true, I am a crying bear.