Fundraising for Amelia's Second Birthday.

Dear friends and family,

It has been two years since Amelia was stillborn. She should be running all over the place, potty training and stringing sentences together, but she is not...

On April 21, 2013 we will be walking the Vancouver Sun Run with Amelia in our hearts, pushing an empty stroller to raise funds for a conference Still Life Canada is hosting this summer.  The conference will give parents and healthcare professionals an opportunity to collaborate on building a community of support and informing changes in the healthcare system.

Please support us by sponsoring our walk to help cover the costs of this important event. With a donation of $10, $20, or even $50, you can help us reach our $1000 goal and help us create a better community of support for parents of stillborn babies.

For more information please visit Still-LifeCanada.ca

Three ways to donate:

By cheque: please make cheques payable to Still Life Canada and mail them to 529 - 3381 Cambie Street, Vancouver, BC, Canada  V5Z 4R3.

In cash: please give your cash donation to us in person.

Online: we accept any major credit card, 
please visit still-lifecanada.ca/01/contribute to donate through PayPal.   

Thank you for your generous support,

Alena, Dan, Mariya and Mr.Wiggles. For Amelia.

Same Time Last Year, Amelia Was One.

Same time last year we were celebrating Amelia's first Birthday. It took me a year to write about it.

Why?

Living it is one thing, I don't have a choice. I make the most of it as I go.
Writing it is a choice. It makes it real. I didn't want it to be...

Now, a year later, we attended two other first birthdays of our friends' stillborn children. These beautiful bittersweet events helped me look back and accept.


We started preparing for Amelia's first birthday early, before Christmas. We had this overwhelming desire to make a small difference in other children's lives and we knew it would help us get through our grief. Slowly but surely we collected a package of art supplies: colouring books, crayons and paints, that we shipped to an orphanage in Belarus, my homecountry. That particular orphanage is home to 80 children, all preschool age. Thinking of all those children living in institutions always made my heart hurt, so we did what little we could: we sent them a box of smiles. The package arrived just in time and was delivered on the first anniversary of Amelia's last day of life... I received these beautiful pictures on her first birthday.

We also wanted to help local kids, so over time hubby and I collected same art supplies as well as legos and summer clothes for a little girl. This package we donated to a local shelter for women and children. It was hard buying all the pretty dresses, knowing I should be getting them for my daughter. Yet it helped, at least I got to buy them and bring them home...

In the weeks and days leading up to March 25, I spent quite a lot of time making cherry blossoms from sugar paste. I believe I made close to fifty fragile flowers to decorate her birthday cake (actually, it was two cakes, I wanted to make a two-tier cake but the top one was too full of chocolatey goodness and way too heavy, so one cake became two :).

All this activity helped us get through the anticipation of the day.  It felt good. It felt sad.
Sweet, yet bitter.

On the day of her birthday, friends and family waited for us to decide whether we wanted to see anyone or not. We were in such an overwhelming place, an uncharted territory, it was hard to predict what we needed to get through. In the afternoon, we felt we needed to see them, we couldn't stand being alone. In less than two hours our house was full of friends, smiles, hugs, and good food. We greeted the evening with a party, with cake and candles, just like it should have been. It was beautiful.


We are so grateful for everyone in our lives. Everyone who came to the funeral. Everyone who came to the first birthday. Everyone who stuck around for all the good and the ugly in between.

Thank you.

Introducing Still Life Canada

In the first year of Amelia's life and death, as I processed everything that happened in the 24 hours between "I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat" to us leaving the hospital without our daughter, I realised that I was lucky to have the memories and keepsakes that our midwives and doula helped create. At least I had something...

Still, as I walked the path of grief, a lot of things were missing, Amelia was missing. 

The more I searched for support and meaning, the more I realised how little understanding there is of the process of stillbirth and its effects on families. I felt so alone.

In the second year of Amelia's life and death, I met two families who were walking their first year of grief. As we shared stories of our stillborn children, born at term in three different hospitals of one city, we realised how it was luck that decided what we got and what we missed during the precious last moments with our babies and the events that followed. 

It was also luck that brought us together, yet we felt anything but lucky.

Over coffee, lunch meetings, potlucks and walks in the park we decided something had to be done. We knew there was a gap in services, understanding, and awareness of stillbirth and we wanted to make sure parents walking in our footsteps will have less regrets and more memories. 

This is how Still Life Canada was born.

Still Life Canada: Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Education, Research and Support Society is a non-profit organisation that provides bereavement support for anyone affected by stillbirth and neonatal death and promotes research to reduce both.  As bereaved parents, we accompany others in their discovery of healthy grieving practices, work towards building a caring and compassionate community, initiate personal and professional development networks and provide opportunities for dialogue among parents, families and community.

Please visit our website Still-LifeCanada.ca to learn more.

With love,

Amelia's Family

Salt.

I'm finding it hard to breathe, my mind is gasping for air but my lungs won't move. My heart is breaking into a million pieces, all over again. Once again, I'm crying myself to sleep.

Next to me is my son, sleeping peacefully in his crib. Her crib. Tears roll down my cheeks, quietly, as I think of how she should be tucked into her bed tonight. Instead she is in her grave. GRAVE. My daughter, my beautiful little girl, has spent almost two years in her grave. She should be a big girl by now, running, talking, playing. Instead I feel like I'm loosing her. Time takes me further and further away from her. I hate it.

I'm so tired of grief, of this pain, of this foreverness. It's only been two years though, I have the rest of my life to go.

I try to pretend sometimes that I don't have it, the Grief. I smile and act all happy.

Lies.

It's not happy.

I'm not happy. Not in the way the "innocent" people are.

My "happy" always has a grain of salt in it, a huge big pile of it, actually. Right in the middle. It makes a lot of the stuff taste butter, but at the core it's too.much.salt.

Little feet.

Today was the first day when I actually played with Mr. Wiggles' feet. Up until this afternoon I focused on his hands, face and anything but his feet. I kissed and cleaned them, but I saw them in a fog.

When I was pregnant with Amelia, she used to kick me in the ribs with her little footsies. It was cute and painful at the same time. I used to have to really push my arm into my rib cage to stop her from bending it outward. The whole time I couldn't wait to meet my little girl and kiss those feet.

The day she was born I thought I'd never get to do that. Thanks to my midwife, I got to kiss her foot once. Just once. She unwrapped her leg from the blankets and that's when it really hit me...

Backpacks.

The day Amelia died a weight was put onto my shoulders that I can never take off. It feels like a large, heavy backpack with straps that reach around my whole body, preventing me from taking a deep breath.

When I first got it on March 24, 2011, it was so much bigger than me. For a long time I could not get up, let alone walk with it. It took months before I could lift it off the ground, and almost a year before I could walk with it without falling. In that time it didn't get any smaller, instead I got bigger, stronger.

This awful backpack is not just overwhelmingly large, it is also excruciatingly painful. It is covered in spikes, large and small, for all the things I will ever miss with my daughter. They dig into my body at all times, taking turns in what hurts where. Sometimes it's in my heart, sometimes in my arms. It never stops hurting, but I'm learning to live with the pain, pretending that I'm ok with it.

As life goes on, other stuff gets added to the pack. For example, my sweet Mr. Wiggles came with his own backpack, light and soft, it is full of love and joy. Some days it helps me carry my other one. Other days it makes it harder, as I learn to carry the pain while feeling the joy. It's jarring how out of balance my two backpacks are, so painfully different, yet the same, because they are both mine and I love them no matter what...

Grief. Almost 2 years in.

Grief is a continuation of love. 

You can't grieve a person you didn't love, you can't not grieve a person you loved. 

To deny grief is to deny the existence of love. 

Grief is normal, after all, they do say that love hurts.

Five Valentines Days

My dear sweet girl. As you must know, you papa and I have been together for five years this Valentines day.

Today, as we spent the day with your papa and little brother, I missed you so much I can't find words to describe my heartache for you.

I look at the crib your grandma bought you and you are not there. I took down one of the butterflies I had on your wall and you are not there. Everywhere I look are little girls and their parents. But you are not.

I love your brother and I can't imagine my life without him. Still, I can't quite believe I have to live my life without you. Would he be here had you lived? I think he would have.

You should be sleeping in your crib while your little brother sleeps in his... And your papa and I should have both of you in our arms tonight.

We are one and the same.

I found a sister in pain in the most unlikely person.

While we were waiting to get a blood test done for Mr. Wiggles at a local hospital (our last jaundice test), a woman and a man came into the empty waiting room. They looked rough. Definitely drugs. Definitely street life. I stood back a little, unsure of what to expect.

With a cheerful smile the woman said: Congratulations!

She meant it, I realised, with the most sincere of hearts. I thanked her for that and looked her in the eyes. There was something there...

My baby is in foster care, they took him away when he was three months old, she said while reaching into her plastic bag to pull out a picture of a beautiful little boy, blond with chubby cheeks. The picture was attached to the plastic bag with clear tape, to save it from the rain and from being lost...

The next gesture she made was like looking in the mirror: she pulled her sleeve to reveal her baby's footprint tattooed onto her forearm. I took a step closer, pulled my sleeve up and put Amelia's footprint on my forearm right next to hers.

In that moment we were one and the same: two moms who lost their babies and who miss them deeply no matter what.

Two Children.

I'm out and about quite a lot and that exposes me to people. Many people. Ugh. Well-meaning strangers love to coo at the baby in my Ergo and ask if this is my first. Except for the first time that happened in the hospital, when I said YES, I always answer that Mr. Wiggles is my second. That response is most often followed up with an inquiry about my first. I always say that she died almost two years ago.

... Insert awkwardness here...

I hate to be that person.

But I can't say that Mr. Wiggles is my first, even though some people tried to convince me that he is. People like a neighbour with two kids and a random lady at a grocery store. Those who have all their children alive and well.

You see, I have a daughter. Her name is Amelia. She lives in my heart. She would have been twenty two months old. Today.

I also have a son. His name is Mr. Wiggles. He lives in my arms, most of the time. Sometimes he tolerates an Ergo or a bouncy chair. He is seven weeks old.

This is simple. Both my children I carried to full term, eagerly awaiting their arrival into the world. Both my children I gave birth to. Both my children I love with all my heart. Both my children shape the person I am today. All children are different, so are mine.

21 months.

Why does everyone I run into seem to have either a 21-month old baby or a older daughter/younger son combination?

Buying car insurance today: hear all about someone who brought in their 21 month old and the kid knew the alphabet already. And that someone had a baby girl five weeks ago and she has a full head of hair. I wish I could respond with, oh, gee, I didn't realise my daughter, who was born with a full head of hair 21 months ago, should be reciting alphabet by now, but instead she is dead.

Trying to solve my issue from the previous post I went on Meet Up to find a new mommy group. The only one that fits was started by a mom who had her baby in April 2011. And it caters to 2011/2012 babies. So I guess I'm out of that group...

Ugh.

Sleeping Snoring Baby

It really bothers me when he sleeps.

Not the fact that he is sleeping, but that I can't look at him without seeing Amelia. That's the only time I really see her in him. They look alike and I catch glimpses of her in his eyes, cheeks, lips all the time. But when he sleeps, she is all I see.

The only thing that saves me is his snoring. I never thought I'd be grateful for hearing a man snore...

So all I can do is turn away and listen to his breathing. I just can't look. It breaks my heart over and over again. Seeing the face of my dead baby in my living one's sleep.

I didn't realise how I'll never have a "normal" motherhood until now. Even with a three-week old rainbow I am a mother to a twenty-one-month old angel.

Between Two Worlds

Recently I found myself lost. Lost, locked up, confused. I don't belong to any group I know. It's just me and Mr. Wiggles (and dear husband, of course, but he's at work 8am-9pm, so...).

While I really insanely unbelievably enjoy every second I spend with my son, sometimes I also need adult human interaction and a reason to get out of the house other than running errands.

The babyloss community now feels like a wrong place for me to come to because now I come with Mr. Wiggles and all things baby. How can I bring a newborn baby to a group that mourns babies that died. It feels awkward for me and for them and I really don't know how to navigate it.

The non-loss community is really not a place I want to come to at all. They have no clue. They complain about things that don't make sense to me. They are so different. I will never be like them, and I don't want them to be like me. There is no point in mixing oil and water.

So where do I go?

I have no idea...

New Life!

I am so happy to announce the birth of our son, a healthy and happy new life. He was born a week earlier than anticipated and had to spend a few days getting treated for jaundice, but he is alive and healthy, a two-week old baby that I get to hold and I am so grateful.

History started repeating itself when I was 37 weeks pregnant, his kicks were not as strong and heart rate not as fast, same as it happened with Amelia. This time, because of Amelia, we had a choice of taking a different course of action than we did with her, so he was born into this world screaming.

Thank you my sweet girl. I am so sorry...

To protect his privacy for the future (see, he has one...) I decided not to share his name on this blog, so let's just call him Mr. Wiggles. He really lived up to his name actually, at two weeks he holds his head, pushes up and is trying to roll onto his stomach already. He must have been hitting the gym in the womb every day ;)

We love him so much. It's a different kind of love, full of joy and hope. I feel so much sadness for Amelia, it's a part of the overwhelming love I feel for her. My love for my son is a much calmer kind of love, I really enjoy it. It's so magical when you love someone who you can physically hold, kiss, hug, instead of loving the twinkle of a star, the flaps of a little bird's wings, the brush of cool air on your cheek.

And he looks just like her.

First Time Grandma. Not.

In the last few months a few people referred to my mom as first time grandma-to-be. Today that happened twice. Every one who said this to me knows about Amelia.

It pisses me off.

So, I want to respond, when someone in your family dies, it's like they never existed? Do you think that my mom has not been Amelia's grandma for 20 months already? You don't realise this, but she was there when her first grandbaby was born, she met her with tears in her eyes and pain in her heart. She held her, kissed her, fell in love with her. She took care of us when we got home, she cooked and cleaned for us when we couldn't. She bought Amelia sweet little gifts, dreamt of her, cried for her for the last 20 months and will continue to do so until she gets to meet her again. Do you really think our relationships with our children are only defined in diapers changed and bottles fed? Argh.

My mom will be a grandma for the second time. This time, however, we hope she will get to grandmother a living child.

Memories and Expectations.

My due date with Wiggles is fast approaching. The induction date is even closer. This is a relief.

It's also a deadline, if I may use the word, to find out whether our hearts will be broken again or not.
Since most babies live, I give it 51% chance of everything being ok. That's huge. Yesterday it was 50/50.

I keep myself busy so that I don't go insane (yes, I can't sleep at night because I count kicks, I have panic attacks from things that remind me of same time of pregnancy with Amelia, like dark evenings and big pregnant belly, and while I don't expect this baby to die, I can't imagine this baby living either).

I nest.

Part of nesting, a really big part actually, is going through all of the things we had ready for Amelia. I'm so grateful for them, but they do bring tears to my eyes and ache to my heart. It would have hurt more if I didn't have them, but it hurts still. They all remind me of what was, and what never has a chance to be. I miss my little girl so much.

I also have to turn Amelia's room into a room more appropriate for a newborn baby. It's hard. Her changing table used to be storage for candles, keepsakes, gifts. Now I have to find new places for those things. Not because I expect baby to live, but in case I have to grieve two babies, I will have room for that... So I just carried out a lantern I have for Amelia from her room into the living room. Somehow that really hurt. It is a huge change. Maybe it's for the better, maybe not.

Not knowing is the hardest part.

18 days left...

Please Read: Revolution on Standby: Bereavement and the DSM-5

::::::::::Becoming::::::::::: Revolution on Standby: Bereavement and the DSM-5

Dr. Joanne Cacciatore is a brave, strong woman, a bereaved mother. She is the founder of MISS Foundation that helped me so much in the first year and still does.

Please read her blog post, think about it. If you can, spread the word; if not, just make sure you keep it in mind when you come across people who think grief has a time limit. Please have the strength to tell them it doesn't.

Thank you.

Piano Lessons

I was waiting outside my piano studio today when a passerby commented on my growing baby belly. We had a pleasant enough chat about baby, music and the weather.

Yet, once again, a stupid comment ruined the moment:

Stranger: Take your lessons now, when baby comes you won't have the time for it!
Me: I started taking piano lessons after my first baby was born. Every child is different.

Before the unfortunate adviser could say another word, my wonderful piano teacher opened the door and hurried me in.


Lesson of the day: Assumptions should be banned. There is no excuse for assuming we know anything about another person. Each person's life is different. No matter what we think, we just don't know.

Halloween 2012.

With Amelia and Wiggles.

My body. I don't trust it.

Amelia was supposed to be the safest with me, in me. But my body betrayed her, it let her die in it.

It took me a while to forgive the object that my soul occupies, while it might sound weird to those with different beliefs (I'm not religious), but I definitely felt a separation between body and soul. Soul despised and blamed body. Body didn't care.

Since I got pregnant with Wiggles, I started hoping that this time it will not betray me. My soul seems to be doing everything it can to please the body to avoid being hurt again. Yesterday I realised that no matter what I do, I still might not be able to prevent things from happening.

We went to see our midwife for a routine appointment. Wiggles was kicking all morning, on the drive to her office, and during our appointment. At the end of it we decided to listen to the heartbeat of the active little baby in my belly. But we couldn't find it. We kept getting mine instead. She tried and tried and tried. One doppler, another doppler. Just like with Amelia. A sound of another baby's heartbeat coming from the room next to us. Just like with Amelia. Our room stood still. Everyone was thinking the same thing, I could tell. But Wiggles was actually giving us a few kicks while we were searching for that magical sound. So in our minds, we knew baby was alive. But there was NO heartbeat. To our hearts, baby was gone. In that moment I felt so betrayed by my body again. I can no longer trust kick counts, for what if it's just my body playing tricks on me, deceiving me so that it can kill my baby. What if as I feel the kicks and get reassured by them, Wiggles is actually in trouble, or worse? What if lighting will strike twice?

Then, all of a sudden, the magical sound - the heartbeat. Baby is Alive. This time we get to walk out of there with a heartbeat.

Such a mix of emotions...

My midwife told me that most likely Wiggles had his/her back next to mine and that's why we couldn't get the sound. So last night I was supposed to sleep over my right hip to make baby move to the front of my belly.

The night Amelia died I slept on my right for the first time in that pregnancy. I still can't accept that.

I did not sleep last night. Neither did Wiggles. We kept tossing from left to right to sitting upright.

I hate this. Why can't I be like many other moms, worrying about mundane things? Not knowing how much can change in a heartbeat.

October 15 - Stillbirth Remembrance Day

Today is the day we remember all babies who died before they were born.

Stillbirth a cruel way to end a pregnancy. A baby so loved, so cherished, never gets to see the light of day. A mother, ready to spend the rest of her life with her child, never gets to look into her baby's eyes, hear her baby's cry. A father, ready to teach his child games and life lessons, gets to bury his baby instead.

Stillborn babies are not just dreams, like some assume, they are not figments of our imagination. They are real children, made of flesh like the rest of us, loved by their parents, like the rest of us. They lived, briefly, but their heart pumped blood through their systems, their eyes opened and arms waved and legs kicked. They experienced light, warmth, sound. They felt love. They will always be loved.

Candles are lit across the globe for babies who live in our hearts.

We Walked For Them Today

A dream came true today: we walked with family and friends, old and new, to celebrate our children that died, remember their lives and make meaning out of our new lives by raising awareness that, sadly, it happens. Pregnancy and Infant death happens to the best of us.

In the morning I called Mother Nature a Bitch for two reasons: for taking away our babies and for raining on the day we celebrate them. It Rained on our "parade" today. Seriously.

But you know what,  rain can't dampen our love for our children. Friends and family gathered in good spirits, we had a wonderful day full of love, laughter, balloons and cookies. Tears were shed, hugs were shared, love was in the air as we came together in the park in the pouring rain. There was almost no-one else there and that's when I realised how lucky we were with the weather. We had the place to ourselves, we felt safe to share our feelings. For our first walk rain worked so well, it literally brought everyone closer together! And that was the whole point. It was incredible.

For the first time I felt like Amelia's life had meaning. Thank you all who made it possible.

Lots of love.

(Pictures to follow!)

And let's hope next year there will be sun ;)

Being A Better Parent

A few people told me that Amelia has made me a better parent, a better person. I don't know about better, I think I was just fine before. Was I really a bad person and a bad parent before?

She made me a different parent because she made me a different person. One that is more grateful and forgiving, one that it more paranoid and over protective. I don't know if that's necessarily better...

Still, did I really need to learn that lesson through my daughter's death? If anyone thinks that to be true, please explain to me how this mother has five living children...

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/world/mother-who-super-glued-toddlers-hands-to-wall-says-children-were-a-stress/article4606482/

Another Day, Another Hospital Visit.

This morning started off in a panic. I wasn't feeling well and we got very worried (read: completely freaked out). So I brushed my teeth, got dressed and we headed to the Hospital. Again.

It took just 17 minutes to get there, thankfully it is a public holiday. Thanksgiving. It brings such mixed emotions.

We haven't been to the maternity ward at this hospital yet, so it was all new. Strange, unfamiliar, unsettling. Yet friendly and purple, which is not blue, that was our old hospital. Thankful for that...

We were seen by the nurses right away, baby was trying to escape the fetal monitoring device and everyone was relieved by that. This was the first time we got to use the device, first time I got hooked up to it. With Amelia, we went in for the test but the doppler showed no activity. Neither did the ultrasound when they brought it in. We never got to the stage of getting the pads attached to belly and seeing lines appear on a green strip of paper. Today we were thankful for that green strip of paper.

After a few hours of meeting nurses, residents and doctors, we were released with good news. We got to go home with baby alive and well in the belly. Yet I couldn't shake off the feeling of sadness, panic and guilt. We never got to do that with Amelia. I'm so sorry my sweet baby girl. Thankful for Wiggles, so sad and sorry for You.

There were so many emotional triggers in the hospital, that didn't help either. From chasing the heartbeat, to the hospital bed, to the apple juice (which after giving birth to Amelia I drank in large quantities, trying to get some energy to hold her, and then vomited in a spectacular display of apple juice three-tier fountain). Water only from now on, please.

I have no idea how we are going to get through the next nine weeks. I just hope that we will be taking home baby, alive and healthy, for ever and ever. If not, I'm still thankful for Wiggles.

Things for Baby

So far, I bought a few things for this baby.

First was a toy, at about 14-15 weeks. A present to baby for making it through the first trimester and being alive. That way in case something happened I had a toy to bury baby with.

Second was a pack of receiving blankets at about 20 weeks. Baby was big enough to be born and I needed those with Amelia, so I decided that either way I needed these now. I have them packed in my hospital bag already.

Third was me allowing my mom to buy a winter suit for baby a few weeks ago. That way I have something to bury baby in...

Cheerful, I know.


I also had a nightmare one night that baby was born alive and well and I was so unprepared that he or she had awful diaper rash, because I didn't have a bum cream. Next day I went out and got a pack of wipes and bottle of cream. Those are the only things I bought for "live baby."

But I have to say, making those three first purchases made it much easier to walk into a baby section now. The only things that get me there a clothes for girls Amelia's age...

Is there going to be a baby?

This morning we had an interesting conversation with Hubby that went something like this:

 - Your belly got bigger since yesterday! It seems so much more real, like there is a baby in there...

 - I know, it feels so strange. Not sure how I feel about it.

 - So, what are we going to do if we actually get a baby out of this?

 - Um, I have no idea. I can't really think that far... I was so prepared with Amelia, and this time - it seems I forgot everything.

 - I guess we'll offer it tea or coffee and go from there.


The strangest thing is that we have no idea what to do with a baby that we might have a chance to bring home, alive and well, kicking and screaming. With our sweet Amelia, we read books of attachment parenting, had plans on making sure the umbilical cord was not clamped right away after birth, plans on breastfeeding and co-sleeping. We felt ready. We were so excited.

With Wiggles, there are none of the books, none of the conversations. There is the date: Christmas Eve. That's the one we tell people who ask on the street, in a random conversation. It is our due date and it's pretty cool. It takes the conversation away from inappropriate comments telling us how hard life will be once baby is born... If we want to let them in further, we tell them that we will most definitely be induced earlier, as a precaution, because our first born baby died. That makes them run...

I can't find a word that will describe how we feel right now. We are cautiously hopeful while remaining fearfully optimistic. Preparing for the worst, hoping for the best. We don't know what will happen in 10 weeks and we can't think past that. Life as we know it is 10 weeks long, anything beyond that is a great unknown.


That's our experience with pregnancy and birth so far: normal pregnancy, and then unknown, unexpected. Amelia's death was unknown, unexpected. Wiggles' upcoming birth is unknown, and the outcome will be unexpected, no matter what it is. We just don't know what to expect. No-one knows. They might have wishes and desires, but they don't know.

So what's the point in reading about attachment when in the end we might have to be letting go?

Sharing a Great Post: Recipe for Raw Grief

I just read this on Dr. Jo's blog. Wow. So true, so powerful, so vivid. 

::::::::::Becoming::::::::::: Recipe for Raw Grief

Babies cry, I cry.

I went to see my midwife yesterday. It was a "brave" visit - I went by myself. I checked on Wiggles before leaving, of course, he kicked up a storm and his heartbeat was great. Knowing my baby was alive, I felt so strong walking into the waiting room of the clinic that became so familiar by now.


There was a lady in the waiting room, sitting next to an empty car seat and baby things: a new grandma. I smiled politely and sat next to her (there aren't many seating options there...). It was getting uncomfortable: she seemed happy and eager to start a conversation while I just didn't want to go there, so I picked up a book on loosing a baby from the lovely library they have and sat back down next to her. I think the she got the message and I spent the next few minutes in relative peace (I was reading a book on loosing a baby after all).

A few paragraphs later I looked up from my book to see a glowing new mom and her baby come out of one of the rooms, big smile on her face. Everything slows down for me: baby is quiet, I see his head, full of blond hair, still has the cone shape. I look away, down, anywhere... They coo and woo and make a joke about him making a man-burp. I gather up all the smiles that I have in me, turn to them and agree with the man-burp description, saying how cute that is.

That's a first for me. I pat myself on the back and stare at the wall to catch a breath.


Front door opens, another car seat, another new mom. She sits right in front of me, the only available chair in the room. The baby is so brand new, his hair still looks sticky. I take another deep breath. I can do it.

A sudden cry from the back of the clinic alerts me to a third newborn. Three. Is that what I get for being strong? A year and a half after Amelia's death and birth, for the first time I look at a newborn with love in my heart, and then there are THREE? I feel my eyes swelling...

This should have been me last March, in that office with my own baby. I never went back after she was born, there was no need...


The baby in front of me picks up on the cry and starts wailing. I can't hold it anymore. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. I try to keep distracted by texting my husband, my friends, but no luck. The babies cry louder and louder and I'm starting to shake.

Finally my midwife opens the door and I find refuge on her shoulder, with all my snotty tears. I'm so grateful to have an understanding and compassionate friend in her, someone who is not scared of me, of Amelia. After the tears fade I realise that those walls are thin, they must have heard me cry...

Oh well, we all cry sometimes.

I really wish there was more understanding of how hard it is for us to see newborn babies. Not because we don't love babies, but because we love our own so much it hurts.

Well-meaning comment that I hate.

Everything will be OK this time, trust me.

Said a complete stranger, an acquaintance, a relative, a friend, and everyone in between.

You are healthy, so your baby will be ok. I know it!

At this point, if I can, I walk away. I have nothing to say to someone who has a direct line to G-O-D, who can see into the future. Because if they do, why didn't they tell me Amelia was going to die?

Funny thing is, I was absolutely normal and healthy when pregnant with Amelia. There was no reason for concern. We all trusted that everything would be ok, why wouldn't it... But it wasn't.

My doctors don't know why Amelia died, but there is a reason. It can be something rather simple, or something very complicated. It can be anything. Babies are resilient, but fragile. Life is fragile. My OB does not tell me that things will be ok this time around, she just watches me closely and plans on doing more so as Wiggles grows. She also isn't planning on taking any risks, so most likely Wiggles will be born before our Christmas Eve due date.

So that's the truth: We don't know what killed Amelia and we are doing everything we can to prevent the unknown from striking again. Hoping for the best, while remaining realistic. Not optimistic, not pessimistic. Realistic. Babies die, but most live. We don't know the future, and neither do complete strangers, acquaintances, relatives and friends. That's life.

When I hear the things will be fine comment, I feel that people try to diminish what we went through with Amelia, like something was supposed to be wrong with her all along, like her death gives all our future children a safety blanket, like I didn't give birth to a healthy-looking dead baby, like the fact that my reality is different from most other realities out there.

It minimises the real fear I have every minute of every day of this pregnancy, that I will have to survive the death of another baby, my baby. It is not the same fear as people have when bad things happen to others, it's the fear of bad things happening to me while others watch with relief that it isn't them.


So, the best thing to say is: Good Luck.

That's all. Two words.

Everything changes, yet it all remains the same.

It has been almost a year and a half since I became a mother, and not just any mother, a bereaved mother. Seems like it has been forever. I can vaguely remember the naive, innocent "old me." I don't really miss her, but I do miss the easiness that she had in believing in good luck and sad things always happening to "other people."

Now I'm hopeful, but realistic. Grief, I hope, made me stronger, more compassionate, acutely aware of so much more happening around me: It opened up a whole new world to me. For that, I am grateful.

My relationship with grief keeps changing. As I got used to the pain and horror of Amelia's arrival in and out of this wold, I felt a gentle push of change. It made me slightly fearful, yet I look forward to it.

Babies

This morning we went to the pool we have in our building. It was great. There was another couple and a grandfather with a toddler. We enjoyed reading our books and taking it easy. Until a new mom came with her baby, not more than 8 weeks old. She sat there and the baby started screaming. I had to leave, immediately.


I have to admit it: I have a very hard time seeing babies these days. Their presence scares, hurts, and angers me.

It scares me because they are once again reminders that at the moment I have two children and hold neither in my hand. Guaranteed is nothing. One in less than two hundred expectant mothers will loose their baby before birth. When I see someone with their baby, the odds become even less in my favour. Someone has to be the one. Last time it was me. Now, seems like every one else has their baby, so what will happen to me? This scares the breath out of me. We have 1 in 20,000 chance of Wiggles having down syndrome. My midwife said these are some of the best numbers she has seen. Yet, one will be IT. 19,999 will not, but 1 will be. For them the odds don't matter anymore. For me, a chance of bringing this baby home alive and healthy are 50/50. That freaks me out.

It hurts me because I missed so much with Amelia and I will never get it back with her. It hurts me because I don't know if I will ever get to experience having my own child on my lap, to love and to raise. Will I just keep being pregnant only to loose in the end? It hurts me so much.

It angers me because it seems so easy for so many. I see people walk around like it's no big deal to bring a child home. They behave as if it's the same for everyone, as if they don't care that the sight of their baby might hurt someone around them. They probably don't know. But it doesn't make me feel any better... It angers me that I am the one being hurt, the one who is bereaved, the one who is scared.


I feel bad for feeling those emotions, yet that's what they are. I still can't get over this morning's episode. And I bet you that mom didn't feel bad about bringing her baby to the pool, she didn't feel bad about causing me these emotions. If she was using the pool that would have been one thing, but she just sat there... Couldn't she go to a park across the road? Why would she need to go to a pool when she can't use it? I wonder if she will ever know how seeing her made me feel?

I hope she won't. But still.... 

Milk.

I am so mad. My body is getting ready for nourishing another baby and it looks like there will be lots of milk. That's a good thing.

With Amelia I also had a lot of milk. Sadly, that was a bad thing. It came in three or four days after she was born, my breasts were so full, they hurt. I could not contain it. Some advised me to bind my chest really tight, but I couldn't: I had to cry and with a tight chest I was suffocating.

It was traumatizing to have so much milk and no baby to feed, so I really wanted to donate it to babies that could benefit from it. I had everything: milk, pump, bottles, and most of all desire to share, to help.

But many times over I was advised against it: it would be difficult, you have to do blood tests, you have to follow a certain diet, as if you were feeding your own.

I thought they knew better, so I gave up. That was a mistake. I knew better.

All that milk went to waste, with no real purpose I resorted to wine in search of respite. I would have much rather skipped the wine and shared my milk, Amelia's milk. There would have been at least one baby in this world that had something in common with her in that moment, that would have been an immediate positive in all the tragedy. But it scared others, so it wasn't.

Now, I hurt when I feel my breasts swell, my heart aches and my jaws clench. I go back to the moment of no baby to feed and nobody wanting the milk. I don't want to feed this baby this way. I wanted it so much that I resent it now. I was told that when I have another baby I can share my milk then. Hell NO. Not a chance. If I get this baby home, do you really think that I will be wanting to do the blood tests and all the extra pumping and storing and what not when I have my own to feed? No.

Why did you have to say No to me then??? Did you not think it would leave a sad mark on my heart?

Well, it did. No milk for you.

Does another pregnancy help the grief?

No, it doesn't.
It adds another layer of feelings, emotions, fears and hopes to the existing grief.

I thought long and hard about this question, it seems we all want Wiggles to "fix" the pain of Amelia's death. Well, no-one can do it, not even her sibling.

To say Yes would be so easy. Fixed, done. Just get pregnant and all will be good again. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way.

The first three months were hell: the chances of miscarriage are so high I was sure it was going to be me, I mean I was 1 in a 1000 before, why would I be spared this time. I silently hoped and prayed, but didn't really expect any miracles. Most of the time I was unable to function, my fear was mind grappling. I lost weight and was just so sad inside, so scared to dream.

When the second trimester came, I finally felt like I could breathe just for a little bit. And the next day we had The Scare. I won't go into details, but just as I felt safe, I started bleeding. I was fourteen weeks. Things were in slow motion again. Even though everything turned out to be fine this time, I still worry every day. Today I'm pregnant and for that I'm grateful. But it's hard to expect a living baby at the end.

With some smart advice from a fellow mamas, I began bonding with Wiggles. This child of mine is so loved and wanted. Yet I am very painfully aware that he or she will too have to die one day. My only wish is that it happens when I'm already with Amelia. You see, this is what sets me apart from other pregnant women. I don't have that naive happiness anymore and they know it.

This pregnancy is also raising a lot of things that I either forgot, or chose to forget, about Amelia's pregnancy, death, and birth. The pregnancies are different and that's sad for some reason, yet I'm glad that they are. I wonder what will it be like giving birth to this baby: will he or she be alive? Will I be sad? How am I going to get through it? At this point in my pregnancy, the baby will be born, dead or alive. At this point, my dear husband is preparing what we are going to do in case we have another death. We are not sure how to prepare for life. When we prepared for life before, we got death.

And this really hurts, because in all this, we are so acutely aware that our sixteen-month old baby girl should be running around the house, but she is not. She never will. Yet we want it so badly...

If Wiggles lives, all the firsts will be experienced with our second child. So, while this pregnancy gives us hope, it brings up a lot of fear, grief, and sadness. The only dream for Wiggles is the biggest gift there is: Life.

This picture if definitely worth a thousand words.

This is how I feel so many times when I cry at Amelia's grave and feel a soft touch of the wind on my cheek. Just imagine green grass under my feet...

 

A friend found this picture of a mother and child by a young sculptor, Martin Hudáčeka.

Our neighbours have a baby.

This morning, while eating pancakes on our sunny balcony, we realised our neighbours have a baby. They are in the building across from us and there it was, a baby on their laps. About five or six months old... Does it mean they conceived when we were already grieving? I can't even do the math right now.

WHY? Why does everyone else seem to have a baby while I'm pregnant again? There are no guarantees Wiggles will be ok, so it's not like I feel that I'll soon have a baby. I'm just watching everyone while hoping for my own without any real plans for it.

I hate this. I feel like screaming: This is my SECOND. I'm supposed to be experiencing all that you have for much longer than you, yet I'm still waiting. And planning on what we'll do in case Wiggles dies too...

Argh.

She's in the Past: Don't think so.

I met this lady at the pool today. Somehow we started talking, one thing led to another and I did something I avoid these days: I told her I'm pregnant. It seems most people are unsure of my state these days, I'm in that lovely place between looking fat and pregnant.

Since there is no other child visible around me and I'm relatively young, she assumed it was my first and told me how when she was pregnant with her first, she was on complete bedrest and now her son lives in Calgary. Well, I told her that when I was pregnant with my first, all was completely well until my daughter died and now she is at the local cemetery.

This is my second child.

The lady was nice about it, said how sad it is, as I hoped, but then it came out: Don't worry about it, everything will be ok. WHAT HAPPENED IS IN THE PAST, NOW is the FUTURE. So DON'T THINK ABOUT IT (she didn't yell it, but might as well).

WTF. Really? You are so scared of a baby dying that you'd rather pretend it's possible to treat it as something like milk spoiling? Throw out the old bottle and get a new one, all is well, it's in the past.

Yes, Amelia's life, death, and birth are all in the past. But those three things changed me as a person: she made me a mother and I experienced bereavement. While I don't plan on staying in grief for the rest of my life, a child's death is not something that a parent can process quickly. Her death is recent enough for me.

The fact is, there most likely would not be a Wiggles, had Amelia not died. I would be at the pool with her instead. As strange as the statement sounds, nothing about this is normal, with a sixteen-month old at home, we had no plans of having another child. We wanted ONE child, a daughter. Yet, here I am, pregnant again.

That idea of having just one kid I did put behind myself. It's in the past, as I now want more children.

But my daughter is NOT in the Past. She is in the Present, in the form she changed into at the time of her death: she's in our hearts and thoughts, in the actions we do or do not take, in the people we meet. She is as much in the present as she would have been had she lived, it's just that my mommy group would have included live babies instead of dead ones, our conversations would be about different things, and so on. She is here, just not how we'd like her to be. If your son is in Calgary, that doesn't mean he's in the past! You still think and talk about him!

So here it is: death is not the end of someone for those close to him or her. It's a change of state. Deal with it.

Rainbow on the horizon!

With a heart full of hope for the future, and sadness for Amelia, I am cautiously announcing that we are expecting our second child this winter! Our rainbow Wiggles is due on Christmas Eve and even though I'm not religious, it makes me wonder :)

We are happy and scared, knowing how there are no guarantees, not even for us in this case. Once in a while I do catch myself dreaming of the little things that might be, a white crib next to our bed, a baby of our own that we can actually hold and kiss. But those moments are kept in place by the fear of another loss, more heartache. Either way, Amelia will have a sibling and will be a big sister!

Please pray for us and for Wiggles, even though we don't pray, positive vibes are greatly appreciated.

Lots of love and peace to all.

Memories.

Cold sweat is rolling down my back, memories flood my mind, sharp pain squeezes my heart. Just a few moments ago I was peaceful, content. I was reading a new book, sitting in a comfy chair under a blanket, while the rain came down hard on the world around me. Hours passed while I was in this quiet state, until I looked up and felt Amelia near me. She was there the whole time, I just didn't see it. So loving, so kind.

And then I remembered. The last day she was alive. I was sitting in our rocking chair, in the same spot by the window, reading and watching the clouds go by. Same hours went by as I sat there peacefully, as if taking one last break before the storm.

The next day she was dead.

I can't sit in that chair anymore. Still, it is the closest thing I have to her right now.


I love you more than words can ever tell,
Till we meet again.
Mama

Not here with me.

Here I am again. Crying my eyes out in the middle of the night, for the daughter I will never hold again.

I want to go back to the time when she was alive and kicking. To the day she was born, silent. To the day I held her hand, for an hour before her funeral. Why didn't anyone tell me it was OK to hold her then? Why was she in the stupid box as I stood near?

 One day, this too I will let go. But not tonight.

Sleep is impossible when all I can think of is her. The more time passes, the further I go from her, yet the more I love and need her. I would even take back the hours, the days, the weeks after her birth/death. I was so close to her then.

As my identity as Amelia's mom grows, matures, develops, Amelia herself becomes more distant. I feel like I haven't talked to her in ages, I mean, really talked to her. She still sends me reminders and I know she is always near, but I also know that at some point I had to let her do her thing and start doing my own. I guess like any parent does, just so much sooner than I wanted.

This is hard. Parenting a dead child is freaking hard. Most might assume that with the child's death parenting ends. Nope, it ends with the parents...


There is no big conclusion to this post. I miss my baby tonight and every night. I miss the toddler she would have been, the teenager, and the woman she would have become. I miss the grandkids she might have given me. She left a huge void for the rest of my life that will never be filled and it hurts really bad.


I love you forever, my little blueberry.
Your mama.

One year. One month. One week. One day.

I have been a mother for over a year, yet I never changed my own child's diaper.

I have had sleepless nights for over a year, yet the only one crying is me.

I have celebrated my daughter's first birthday, yet there is no picture of her eating her birthday cake.

For the last year I watched others get pregnant, give birth, bring home babies. I watched other people's children grow, learn, laugh.


Soon will be my second mother's day. The day I and many others dread. I will be home that day. Leaving the house will not bring me any joy. Someone might mistake me for a non-mother. I'll have to watch others bask in their glory of the day. Confined to the safety of my home, I will observe the day.

A few days ago I overheard a mother of two young children complain about mother's day. I wanted to strangle her. How dares she? I understand she didn't know that next to her was a brokenhearted momma, aching to hold her baby, jealous of the stroller and the car seat with a wiggly baby and the toddler in a carrier on the dad.

She spoke as a person who has no clue. But that is no excuse. Bereaved mothers are everywhere, they are of all ages, races, professions.

So this Mother's day, and Every day, please keep us in mind.

Please be gentle.

Please be kind.


Thank you.