Today has had many ups and downs.
I was brave and went to church today. We got there late and ran out as soon as it was over so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. But I almost left about 3 times during the meeting. Everyone was just too happy for me today. Nothing wrong with that, but I think I'm in the anger stage of grieving right now. I just don't want to be around happy people with seemingly happy lives and families and kids and families with kids close together. Our kids will probably be about 4 years apart now instead of the 2 1/2 to 3 we were hoping for, so seeing siblings close in age just hurts. And there are lots of them at church.
After church I came home and cried, then took a nap, then got up and cried. Then we went to my parents' house to celebrate my cousin's birthday and to see her 2-month-old baby boy for the first time. Ugh.
But I was surprised. Seeing that peaceful little face actually helped more than it hurt. Holding him in my arms just felt so good. I'm aching to babysit, to have a baby around, even if it's not my own.
I had maybe my lowest moment tonight after we got home and put E to bed. Again, while I was brushing my teeth, I broke down.
I'm dreading Tuesday when I go in for my D&C. I just want to hold on to this little piece of my baby for as long as possible. And now I'm just grieving the loss of the physical part of this little person. There is no funeral. There is no memorial. There is no gravestone. There's nowhere to go and remember. I go into the hospital, they put me under, and they suck my baby's body out of me and that's it. There's nothing beautiful or peaceful about it. I never see him. I never hold him. I just wake up and he's gone.
It was scary hearing myself cry tonight. I could barely breath. It was almost an out of body experience, listening to myself and thinking, that sounds like someone who is truly in extreme pain. I had no idea I could physically cry like that. I could barely get any air.
It was a long time, but it finally died down, and I lay on my bed, silently, Ben holding my hand. And then, I felt this incredible peace. It was a wave of warmth and comfort just washing over me. And I knew everything was okay. And that even though things would be hard, everything would keep being okay.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Saturday
Today is tough, because I really think it was last Saturday that William passed away. I don't know why. I just felt a little different that day. I felt really good nausea-wise, and I just felt...different. Empty. Like there wasn't a living person inside me. I only see that looking back. I figured I was feeling a little different because I was finally feeling good and feeling semi-normal. But really, I think that's what happened.
Today I went to Lowe's to get paint samples for E's big girl room. I was doing okay until a couple came over to the paint chips. She was about 7 months pregnant. They were picking out paint for their nursery. I wanted to yell at them and tell them what I was going through. Of course, I kept running into them in the store. They even ended up right behind me at the check out. Somehow I held it together until I got home. I picked up some beautiful yellow tulips too. A friend told me that she had planted some bulbs right after her miscarriage, and that was her way of remembering her children every spring when they started to bloom. I liked that idea.
We were up until 3am last night again. I hate going to bed. I put it off until my eyes hurt from watching too much mind-distracting TV, and then it has to be done. It's always when I'm brushing my teeth that I break down. I think it's just because I have nothing else to think about while I'm getting ready for bed. And there's something about seeing myself in the mirror that makes everything more real. It's like when I see myself I'm reminded that this is all happening to me and that I'm looking at a woman with a 3-month pregnancy belly who is supposed to be pregnant but who is carrying a dead baby. And then I break down into great sobbing fits with my mouth full of toothpaste and Ben runs upstairs and we talk and cry until 3 am. And then I beg him to go get E and put her in bed with me. And he does, and I hug her until I fall asleep and Ben puts her back in her crib. And then he wakes up at 6 and goes to work. And the next day it starts all over again.
Today I went to Lowe's to get paint samples for E's big girl room. I was doing okay until a couple came over to the paint chips. She was about 7 months pregnant. They were picking out paint for their nursery. I wanted to yell at them and tell them what I was going through. Of course, I kept running into them in the store. They even ended up right behind me at the check out. Somehow I held it together until I got home. I picked up some beautiful yellow tulips too. A friend told me that she had planted some bulbs right after her miscarriage, and that was her way of remembering her children every spring when they started to bloom. I liked that idea.
We were up until 3am last night again. I hate going to bed. I put it off until my eyes hurt from watching too much mind-distracting TV, and then it has to be done. It's always when I'm brushing my teeth that I break down. I think it's just because I have nothing else to think about while I'm getting ready for bed. And there's something about seeing myself in the mirror that makes everything more real. It's like when I see myself I'm reminded that this is all happening to me and that I'm looking at a woman with a 3-month pregnancy belly who is supposed to be pregnant but who is carrying a dead baby. And then I break down into great sobbing fits with my mouth full of toothpaste and Ben runs upstairs and we talk and cry until 3 am. And then I beg him to go get E and put her in bed with me. And he does, and I hug her until I fall asleep and Ben puts her back in her crib. And then he wakes up at 6 and goes to work. And the next day it starts all over again.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thoughts for Friday
Some reasons why grief after miscarriage is more complicated than grief after the death of a loved-one:
1) It's almost always very sudden and you don't know when it happens. You can't pinpoint a date or time of death. You will always mourn the day that you found out, not the day it happened.
2) You have to deal with the fact that you will never meet this person that you already love so much.
3) You're mourning the loss of a future for a person you will never meet.
4) There's nothing physical to bury or to memorialize. There's no body to have a funeral. There's nothing that other people can physically see.
5) No one understands what you're going through unless they themselves have been through the same thing before.
6) You have no good memories or photos of your child to get you through the tough spots.
7) You feel strange having extreme grief for a person you never met or touched and almost doesn't seem real, yet the grief you feel is very very real.
8) There's always the what if--what if I had been better about my prenatals? What if I hadn't taken that medication? What if I hadn't lifted E's carseat?
9) You've been through months of suffering, through extreme morning sickness, fatigue, etc. all knowing that in the end it will pay off--and now it won't.
10) You go through the physical pain of miscarriage and again, come out with nothing.
11) Because I have another wonderful child, I know what I'm missing out on.
12) I never got to hold him, but he's so real. I feel just like I've lost E. The pain is no different.
13) All of a sudden the plan that you have for your family changes dramatically.
14) You're grieving the loss of the innocence of pregnancy. You know that if you're pregnant again, it will be filled with dread and anxiety, not just the pure happiness and innocence it once was.
15) You're grieving the loss of the idea that you are in control of your life. You realize that all is up to God and we have no control.
Some things I've been thinking about.
1) It's almost always very sudden and you don't know when it happens. You can't pinpoint a date or time of death. You will always mourn the day that you found out, not the day it happened.
2) You have to deal with the fact that you will never meet this person that you already love so much.
3) You're mourning the loss of a future for a person you will never meet.
4) There's nothing physical to bury or to memorialize. There's no body to have a funeral. There's nothing that other people can physically see.
5) No one understands what you're going through unless they themselves have been through the same thing before.
6) You have no good memories or photos of your child to get you through the tough spots.
7) You feel strange having extreme grief for a person you never met or touched and almost doesn't seem real, yet the grief you feel is very very real.
8) There's always the what if--what if I had been better about my prenatals? What if I hadn't taken that medication? What if I hadn't lifted E's carseat?
9) You've been through months of suffering, through extreme morning sickness, fatigue, etc. all knowing that in the end it will pay off--and now it won't.
10) You go through the physical pain of miscarriage and again, come out with nothing.
11) Because I have another wonderful child, I know what I'm missing out on.
12) I never got to hold him, but he's so real. I feel just like I've lost E. The pain is no different.
13) All of a sudden the plan that you have for your family changes dramatically.
14) You're grieving the loss of the innocence of pregnancy. You know that if you're pregnant again, it will be filled with dread and anxiety, not just the pure happiness and innocence it once was.
15) You're grieving the loss of the idea that you are in control of your life. You realize that all is up to God and we have no control.
Some things I've been thinking about.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Thursday: Babies R Us
I'm having a really hard time going into E's room since she still sleeps in the nursery. We just got her a big-girl bed and were going to transition her in April so that she'd have enough time to get detatched from the crib before the baby took it over. Ever since her bed came, I've been thinking of our other room as her room, and the nursery as the baby's room.
Now that the baby is no longer coming, I can't go into that room without crying. Ben has had to get her ready for bed every night because all I can do is get her out of her crib in the morning and plop her back in for her nap. So we decided that we would switch E into the new room this weekend instead. Which meant I had to go to Babies R Us to get a bed rail for her. Only place I could find them around here.
I begged my mom to come with me for moral support. She was going to meet us over there. E and I got there a few minutes before she did, and as soon as I pulled into the parking lot, I started to sob. Every car had a mom pulling out an infant carrier with these tiny little babies in them. It was terrible.
I managed not to cry while I returned the little brown herringbone suit I had bought on clearance for Christmas pictures in next December. I managed to hold it together as we steered clear of the maternity section.
Even then, I kept finding myself looking at quilts and decor and thinking, "oh, that would be cute for the baby's room."
And then reality would set in.
Now that the baby is no longer coming, I can't go into that room without crying. Ben has had to get her ready for bed every night because all I can do is get her out of her crib in the morning and plop her back in for her nap. So we decided that we would switch E into the new room this weekend instead. Which meant I had to go to Babies R Us to get a bed rail for her. Only place I could find them around here.
I begged my mom to come with me for moral support. She was going to meet us over there. E and I got there a few minutes before she did, and as soon as I pulled into the parking lot, I started to sob. Every car had a mom pulling out an infant carrier with these tiny little babies in them. It was terrible.
I managed not to cry while I returned the little brown herringbone suit I had bought on clearance for Christmas pictures in next December. I managed to hold it together as we steered clear of the maternity section.
Even then, I kept finding myself looking at quilts and decor and thinking, "oh, that would be cute for the baby's room."
And then reality would set in.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wednesday
I woke up repeating "Liam" over and over again in my head. He just seemed so real, so tangible to me. Giving him a name really helped me to give him an identity, to make him a real, living person, to make me sure he wouldn't be forgotten. It eased some of the pain, gave me someone to grieve.
I think I've been pretty much crying all day. This feels nothing like I would have expected it to feel. I feel like I've lost a living child, it feels just like if I lost E. This baby is so real to us. At least to me. Ben of course, is devestated, but it's nothing like what I'm feeling. I think that surprised me. I think he's more distressed by seeing me so distressed.
Why doesn't anyone talk about this? I wish I would have been warned. No one ever says how hard it is to lose a baby. No one. I wish people would be more open about this.
I've been checking my Facebook and email all day. I can't believe how many comments and messages I've gotten. I really feel very loved. Just missing the little one I love so much.
I think I've been pretty much crying all day. This feels nothing like I would have expected it to feel. I feel like I've lost a living child, it feels just like if I lost E. This baby is so real to us. At least to me. Ben of course, is devestated, but it's nothing like what I'm feeling. I think that surprised me. I think he's more distressed by seeing me so distressed.
Why doesn't anyone talk about this? I wish I would have been warned. No one ever says how hard it is to lose a baby. No one. I wish people would be more open about this.
I've been checking my Facebook and email all day. I can't believe how many comments and messages I've gotten. I really feel very loved. Just missing the little one I love so much.
Naming
Ben got home late from the airport.
I don't think he expected to find me how I was--basically doubled over in grief, sobbing my eyes out. But that's how I felt.
We talked and cried (mostly I cried) until about 3:00am. I wanted to do something to keep the memory of this baby alive, to help us always remember, to make sure they were always part of our family. So we decided to give our baby a name.
Every time I had seen the ultrasound, despite the fact that I desperately wanted another girl, I couldn't help but feel like that little person I was looking at was a boy. I was fairly certain about it.
We sat in silence for a long time. Once in a while one of us would make a comment. Finally it came to me. William. Ben's dad's name, a long traditional family name, and a name that we had always thought we would use as a middle name if we had a boy. It was perfect. We could call him Liam, and if we ever do have a boy, the middle name of William will have even more meaning.
I apologized profusely if our baby was a girl, and said she could be Mina (short for Williamina).
I cried some more, but went to bed at least feeling better knowing that this little person had an identity and wouldn't be forgotten.
I don't think he expected to find me how I was--basically doubled over in grief, sobbing my eyes out. But that's how I felt.
We talked and cried (mostly I cried) until about 3:00am. I wanted to do something to keep the memory of this baby alive, to help us always remember, to make sure they were always part of our family. So we decided to give our baby a name.
Every time I had seen the ultrasound, despite the fact that I desperately wanted another girl, I couldn't help but feel like that little person I was looking at was a boy. I was fairly certain about it.
We sat in silence for a long time. Once in a while one of us would make a comment. Finally it came to me. William. Ben's dad's name, a long traditional family name, and a name that we had always thought we would use as a middle name if we had a boy. It was perfect. We could call him Liam, and if we ever do have a boy, the middle name of William will have even more meaning.
I apologized profusely if our baby was a girl, and said she could be Mina (short for Williamina).
I cried some more, but went to bed at least feeling better knowing that this little person had an identity and wouldn't be forgotten.
The First Day of Grief
I sobbed in the car all the way to my mom's house to pick up 2-year-old E. I couldn't wait to hold her in my arms, to have my child to touch.
They were sitting on the couch when I walked in.
"There's no heartbeat."
I could barely get it out before collapsing onto the couch.
I don't remember what was said. I calmed down, and we talked some more, and then we both started crying again. And sweet E, wonderful little girl, came running in from the other room where she was watching us, and looked up at us with those innocent little barely 2-year-old eyes and said,
"What's wrong guys?"
We both started laughing. Then she turned to me and said,
"Sorry, Mommy." And to my mom, "Sorry, Grandma." And she put her head down and pretended to cry too, for a good 30 seconds. Just the compassion of a 2-year-old was incredible. I'm so grateful for her.
My mom was wonderful enough to drop everything she was doing that day and come to our house. I didn't want to be alone.
After lunch I got on the phone and called to cancel my first-trimester ultrasound sceening. That was one of my favorite things when I was pregnant with E. It was supposed to be the next day. The nurse got my information, and I told her I needed to cancel my appointment for the next day. And then came the dreaded question.
"What's the reason for the cancellation?"
"The baby no longer has a heartbeat."
Silence.
"I'm really sorry. Thank you for calling."
Why do they have to ask questions like that? The other one I'm dreading is "What's the reason for the return?" when I go return the maternity clothes and few baby items I've bought. Those are terrible questions.
Mom stayed for hours and watched mind-numbing TV. Then she went home. And I started telling people.
I sent out an email to close friends. And then I did something that seemed so unfeeling, but the most efficient way to get the word out since we had told everyone already. I logged on to my Facebook account and posted simply,
"Sad news. No heartbeat today."
And then I cried some more.
They were sitting on the couch when I walked in.
"There's no heartbeat."
I could barely get it out before collapsing onto the couch.
I don't remember what was said. I calmed down, and we talked some more, and then we both started crying again. And sweet E, wonderful little girl, came running in from the other room where she was watching us, and looked up at us with those innocent little barely 2-year-old eyes and said,
"What's wrong guys?"
We both started laughing. Then she turned to me and said,
"Sorry, Mommy." And to my mom, "Sorry, Grandma." And she put her head down and pretended to cry too, for a good 30 seconds. Just the compassion of a 2-year-old was incredible. I'm so grateful for her.
My mom was wonderful enough to drop everything she was doing that day and come to our house. I didn't want to be alone.
After lunch I got on the phone and called to cancel my first-trimester ultrasound sceening. That was one of my favorite things when I was pregnant with E. It was supposed to be the next day. The nurse got my information, and I told her I needed to cancel my appointment for the next day. And then came the dreaded question.
"What's the reason for the cancellation?"
"The baby no longer has a heartbeat."
Silence.
"I'm really sorry. Thank you for calling."
Why do they have to ask questions like that? The other one I'm dreading is "What's the reason for the return?" when I go return the maternity clothes and few baby items I've bought. Those are terrible questions.
Mom stayed for hours and watched mind-numbing TV. Then she went home. And I started telling people.
I sent out an email to close friends. And then I did something that seemed so unfeeling, but the most efficient way to get the word out since we had told everyone already. I logged on to my Facebook account and posted simply,
"Sad news. No heartbeat today."
And then I cried some more.
A Child Lost
So I’m staring at this blank page.
That’s kind of how I’ve been feeling. Just blank inside. January 26th, I went in for my normal 12 week appointment with Dr. Newman. She checked me out, everything looked great, and then she got out the Doppler thing to listen to the heartbeat. It would have been the first time actually hearing it. I had seen it twice on ultrasounds, both at 8 weeks and just 2 weeks before, at 10 weeks.
She pushed it all over the place, but we couldn’t hear anything. She said the placenta was probably just blocking it, so we headed over to the ultrasound room. I got up on the table, and she showed me the picture of our little one. She measured him, measurements looked fine. But she kept moving the probe around, looking for that heartbeat. I could see her getting more and more concerned. After a few minutes, she told me she was going to go get another doctor for another opinion.
“I really hope I’m just missing something, “ she told me.
Dr. Nunes came in and took over. He picked up the probe again and looked for a long time. He turned to Dr. Newman and said something like “yeah, this is where we should see…” and that was it.
There was no heartbeat.
Our little one was gone.
Dr. Newman turned to me, and with real sorrow on her face just said, “I’m so sorry. I was not expecting this at all. It’s probably only been 2 or 3 days.”
I didn’t know what I was feeling. It was shock and disbelief and fear all together.
“It’s nothing you did or could have prevented. There was just some congenital defect that made it so this child couldn’t survive,” she told me, her hand on my shoulder. “I’m truly sorry.”
She left to give me a few moments alone. I sat up, still in shock, and called Ben on his business trip.
I was so grateful he answered.
“There’s no heartbeat.”
And I started to bawl.
All I could hear was “Are you serious? Are you serious?” Then a pause, and “Kirs, I’m so sorry.” I managed to get out some sort of conversation with him before the nurse came to check on me.
Dr. Newman came back in again.
“Why don’t you take a week, and then come back in and we’ll discuss your options here. Give yourself time to digest all this and talk to your husband. Again, I am so sorry.”
And that was it. I walked out of the office, carrying my dead baby inside, and a heart that felt dead too.
That’s kind of how I’ve been feeling. Just blank inside. January 26th, I went in for my normal 12 week appointment with Dr. Newman. She checked me out, everything looked great, and then she got out the Doppler thing to listen to the heartbeat. It would have been the first time actually hearing it. I had seen it twice on ultrasounds, both at 8 weeks and just 2 weeks before, at 10 weeks.
She pushed it all over the place, but we couldn’t hear anything. She said the placenta was probably just blocking it, so we headed over to the ultrasound room. I got up on the table, and she showed me the picture of our little one. She measured him, measurements looked fine. But she kept moving the probe around, looking for that heartbeat. I could see her getting more and more concerned. After a few minutes, she told me she was going to go get another doctor for another opinion.
“I really hope I’m just missing something, “ she told me.
Dr. Nunes came in and took over. He picked up the probe again and looked for a long time. He turned to Dr. Newman and said something like “yeah, this is where we should see…” and that was it.
There was no heartbeat.
Our little one was gone.
Dr. Newman turned to me, and with real sorrow on her face just said, “I’m so sorry. I was not expecting this at all. It’s probably only been 2 or 3 days.”
I didn’t know what I was feeling. It was shock and disbelief and fear all together.
“It’s nothing you did or could have prevented. There was just some congenital defect that made it so this child couldn’t survive,” she told me, her hand on my shoulder. “I’m truly sorry.”
She left to give me a few moments alone. I sat up, still in shock, and called Ben on his business trip.
I was so grateful he answered.
“There’s no heartbeat.”
And I started to bawl.
All I could hear was “Are you serious? Are you serious?” Then a pause, and “Kirs, I’m so sorry.” I managed to get out some sort of conversation with him before the nurse came to check on me.
Dr. Newman came back in again.
“Why don’t you take a week, and then come back in and we’ll discuss your options here. Give yourself time to digest all this and talk to your husband. Again, I am so sorry.”
And that was it. I walked out of the office, carrying my dead baby inside, and a heart that felt dead too.
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