Prior to losing Noah, I'd always enjoyed writing and had been told by many that I had some talent at it, that I had an ability to make people feel and see and smell the places I wrote about, to really help them connect with whatever it was I was writing. And so, when I lost Noah, I knew I had to write something. I knew almost instantly that I had to write something for him, a gift from my heart as surely as he had been a gift from God.
Writing the letter I made for Noah was a hard and painful thing, but also cathartic. As much as I cried writing it, it also brought me some measure of peace, knowing I was truly giving of myself, doing the most for him that I knew how. I never realized how far reaching that impact would be.
Back when I lost Noah, nearly some 6 years ago now, there wasn't anything like a blog out there in cyberspace. There were bulletin boards and websites with comments and articles, but that's about it. I did my research and found a loss group called SHARE. I think my genetic counselors might have even mentioned them, or my OB....I can't quite recall now, but I do believe someone pointed me in their direction. I found them online but was saddened to learn they did not yet have a chapter in Richmond. So what did I do? I did the next best thing and got involved online. I started posting to some of the message boards they had and in doing so, stumbled upon an unexpected blessing. I could help people.
Purely for me, I had posted the letter I wrote for Noah. I just wanted a record of it somewhere, a testament to my precious baby. And then out of the blue, I started getting emails and comments from folks who had read it, all people who had suffered a loss of one kind of another. They thanked me through their tears, and sighs and pauses, telling me how much my words had meant to them, how much it touched them. I had folks thank me and say that they had read the letter at their own children's funerals or memorials, some had placed copies of my letter into their own memory boxes, others emailed it to their family and friends and told them to read it, that this was how they were feeling but didn't know how to explain. And with every thank you I received, my heart felt lighter and happier. Sure I was still devastated with the loss of my son, but it felt so good to be able to help others through their own dark and terrible times. It gave me such pride and joy and made me realize yet again what a blessing having had and lost Noah was. Through him, I was able to touch countless others and right then I knew someday I'd have to write about the whole experience. I knew somewhere deep down, that part of my mission was to help others through the pressing darkness of their own losses.
And the blessings came, whenever I happened to talk about it, I found I was reaching people, affecting them in ways I never knew possible. And the more people I helped, the better I felt.
I had a very humbling experience yesterday, one more blessing brought back around my way at an unexpected time. I was talking to my mother on the telephone. I'd only recently told her about this blog, but she knew of some other women I'd been helping recently through church and some other things, women going through their own losses. She said she'd heard something the other day on the radio or TV about the heroes in your life and how so many times we never tell them how we feel. I could hear her voice faltering on the phone as she almost shyly told me that I was her hero. Even just thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes. Never in my life had I imagined to hear I was any one's hero, much less my mother's. I didn't know what to say. I mumbled some sort of thank you and that I appreciated it, that I thought it was really sweet, but I was honestly at a loss of words. You know, like so many others, I am more content giving than receiving compliments and as adeptly as my words can flow from my fingers while I am writing, I find I am far less graceful in person and my tongue often trips me up.
So I listened quietly to my mother tell me that I was her hero. I was her hero for how I dealt with the loss of my children, for how I managed to hold everyone together during that horrible time and how I have been able to put aside my pain, even dwell in it so that I might help others.
Thank you, Mom. It meant more than words can say. You are a truly special person and I am thankful to have you in my life. I love you.
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
Monday, October 13th
I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you to all those who've passed by my little corner of the online world and taken the time to say hello or leave a comment. I truly appreciate them. Feel free to comment or email me at anytime. I am always glad to talk.
On to other things.....
POST LOSS doctors visits:
I have one bit of advice. Well, maybe a couple. But first and foremost, going back to the OB after having experienced a loss is an overwhelming thing. At least it was for me. During those days and first weeks post loss, the slightest thing would set me off crying and having to walk into a waiting room full of pregnant women was no picnic. I was blessed to have a great OB and nurses who as soon as they knew I was there and checked in, they pulled me into the back halls to sit and wait for my room to open up rather than have to sit out there and be surrounded by all those happy pregnant women.
Well, they weren't all pregnant, but it sort of seemed that way. When it's a sensitive issue, that seems to be all you see. I highly recommend making your appointments for first thing in the morning or just after lunch when the office opens again. Waiting around, even in back halls, is not an easy thing. Try to spare yourself that anguish and limit the wait if you can.
I also had a really hard time seeing all these other pregnant women. It actually made me mad sometimes when I saw them smiling or laughing or holding their plump bellies as the precious child within moved. Seeing an obviously new parents-to-be couple nearly set me over the edge. They were all happy and smiles, clearly excited. She wasn't showing the slightest bit. Obviously it was early on. They were beside themselves, so happy and expectant and excited and all I wanted to do was throttle them. I wanted to march right over there and shake some sense into them, yelling at them to not be happy, to worry, to worry all the time! Didn't they know how it could all go so terribly wrong?!?!
And then one day, while pregnant again and visiting my perinatal specialist for one of those early fetal scans we had to do, I changed my mind. Now granted...folks coming here were often already worried, for one reason or another. You could see it on their faces, sometimes in the tears freely falling down as they left in a hurry. And I suddenly realized. I'd been judging everyone else unfairly. How do I know that this happy pregnant woman across the way hasn't had a loss before this one? For all I knew, maybe she'd lost five and this one, this one was finally going to be ok.
The point is, I didn't know and it was unfair of me to look at them so sternly. And even those who were pregnant for the first time...they should be happy and excited. Looking back that is one thing I was blessed to have with my first pregnancy. I had no clue. Everything was fine all along. I was blissfully ignorant. I had no idea of all the horrible things that could go wrong. Oh sure, you worried about the normal battery of tests, the Downs, the Spinal Bifeda, the Glucose test, the AFPs....but as some of us out there know, that is only like the pin-point tip of an iceberg. I am glad I didn't know with my first. I worried alot as it was, like any mother to be does. At least I had one pregnancy (and half of a second) without the gloom and doom constantly hanging over my head.
So again, when looking at the pregnant woman you run into at the doctor's office, or in a parking lot, or in the crowded aisle of a store...remember...when that sudden anger flairs its ugly head...or jealousy, remember we don't know anything about them. For all we know they've tried for years and years and had one loss or setback after another before getting to this hopefully happy point. We don't know. We've not been in their shoes. Give them space if you need to, and perhaps if you can manage, even say a little prayer for their baby, hoping that all is well and one more sister in this world won't have to know the pain and suffering we have.
REMEMBRANCES:
People do lots of different things to remember the precious children and babies they've lost. We do balloons.
Every year on the anniversary of their birth and death, we buy a balloon and write all over it with a permanent marker. We send up our messages of how much we miss them and Happy Birthday's and I love yous and all of that. My oldest daughter used to just draw smiley faces at first, but now she writes more. We don't direct or make her do anything. She can do as much or as little as she wants. My four year old is getting old enough now to understand something is going on, but she doesn't really get it yet. But that's ok. We all hold onto the ribbon at the same time and after one last round or goodbyes, we love yous, we miss yous (silent or otherwise) we let it go and watch the balloon sail upwards, up and up....floating off to Heaven to be caught in the hands of our precious ones so the message can be received. I know they see it. I like to imagine them there up in Heaven, all smiles and happy, running around with their decorated balloons.
At some point in time, I'd like to plant some sort of memorial garden too, but I am hesitant to do that just yet. I don't think I'd be very happy if we planted a garden (ie trees and flowers and shrubs) and then had to move. With my husband's job we sometimes move around and I know I would be very upset to leave something like that behind. I know I could do something in pots, but I have in mind something bigger, grander. Maybe one day it will all work out, but for now the balloons work and leave me feeling like I've done something special for them each year.
On to other things.....
POST LOSS doctors visits:
I have one bit of advice. Well, maybe a couple. But first and foremost, going back to the OB after having experienced a loss is an overwhelming thing. At least it was for me. During those days and first weeks post loss, the slightest thing would set me off crying and having to walk into a waiting room full of pregnant women was no picnic. I was blessed to have a great OB and nurses who as soon as they knew I was there and checked in, they pulled me into the back halls to sit and wait for my room to open up rather than have to sit out there and be surrounded by all those happy pregnant women.
Well, they weren't all pregnant, but it sort of seemed that way. When it's a sensitive issue, that seems to be all you see. I highly recommend making your appointments for first thing in the morning or just after lunch when the office opens again. Waiting around, even in back halls, is not an easy thing. Try to spare yourself that anguish and limit the wait if you can.
I also had a really hard time seeing all these other pregnant women. It actually made me mad sometimes when I saw them smiling or laughing or holding their plump bellies as the precious child within moved. Seeing an obviously new parents-to-be couple nearly set me over the edge. They were all happy and smiles, clearly excited. She wasn't showing the slightest bit. Obviously it was early on. They were beside themselves, so happy and expectant and excited and all I wanted to do was throttle them. I wanted to march right over there and shake some sense into them, yelling at them to not be happy, to worry, to worry all the time! Didn't they know how it could all go so terribly wrong?!?!
And then one day, while pregnant again and visiting my perinatal specialist for one of those early fetal scans we had to do, I changed my mind. Now granted...folks coming here were often already worried, for one reason or another. You could see it on their faces, sometimes in the tears freely falling down as they left in a hurry. And I suddenly realized. I'd been judging everyone else unfairly. How do I know that this happy pregnant woman across the way hasn't had a loss before this one? For all I knew, maybe she'd lost five and this one, this one was finally going to be ok.
The point is, I didn't know and it was unfair of me to look at them so sternly. And even those who were pregnant for the first time...they should be happy and excited. Looking back that is one thing I was blessed to have with my first pregnancy. I had no clue. Everything was fine all along. I was blissfully ignorant. I had no idea of all the horrible things that could go wrong. Oh sure, you worried about the normal battery of tests, the Downs, the Spinal Bifeda, the Glucose test, the AFPs....but as some of us out there know, that is only like the pin-point tip of an iceberg. I am glad I didn't know with my first. I worried alot as it was, like any mother to be does. At least I had one pregnancy (and half of a second) without the gloom and doom constantly hanging over my head.
So again, when looking at the pregnant woman you run into at the doctor's office, or in a parking lot, or in the crowded aisle of a store...remember...when that sudden anger flairs its ugly head...or jealousy, remember we don't know anything about them. For all we know they've tried for years and years and had one loss or setback after another before getting to this hopefully happy point. We don't know. We've not been in their shoes. Give them space if you need to, and perhaps if you can manage, even say a little prayer for their baby, hoping that all is well and one more sister in this world won't have to know the pain and suffering we have.
REMEMBRANCES:
People do lots of different things to remember the precious children and babies they've lost. We do balloons.
Every year on the anniversary of their birth and death, we buy a balloon and write all over it with a permanent marker. We send up our messages of how much we miss them and Happy Birthday's and I love yous and all of that. My oldest daughter used to just draw smiley faces at first, but now she writes more. We don't direct or make her do anything. She can do as much or as little as she wants. My four year old is getting old enough now to understand something is going on, but she doesn't really get it yet. But that's ok. We all hold onto the ribbon at the same time and after one last round or goodbyes, we love yous, we miss yous (silent or otherwise) we let it go and watch the balloon sail upwards, up and up....floating off to Heaven to be caught in the hands of our precious ones so the message can be received. I know they see it. I like to imagine them there up in Heaven, all smiles and happy, running around with their decorated balloons.
At some point in time, I'd like to plant some sort of memorial garden too, but I am hesitant to do that just yet. I don't think I'd be very happy if we planted a garden (ie trees and flowers and shrubs) and then had to move. With my husband's job we sometimes move around and I know I would be very upset to leave something like that behind. I know I could do something in pots, but I have in mind something bigger, grander. Maybe one day it will all work out, but for now the balloons work and leave me feeling like I've done something special for them each year.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Christina Ann Painter
Well, we got pregnant once more. We were excited and nervous. We had all the same tests as before but this time we were also seeing the perinatal specialist for regular fetal scans from early on.
With this disorder, you can't really tell anything is going well or going wrong until the bone growth takes off around 16+ weeks. That's typically the earliest you start to see some indictation of things going right or wrong. So I had to spend long months experiencing all the things of pregnancy, the morning sickness, the breast tendernous, the tiredness. All of that for months and months without knowing if things were going to work or not.
I was consumed with worry and dred from the beginning. Always nervous. I often cried. I even stayed on my antidepressants for a while to try to help. I tried to keep living, going on day to day caring for my daughter, trying to keep things regular and normal for her. We ended up telling both our families early on that we were pregnant again because I wanted the prayers. I needed them. Interestingly enough, it was our church ministers who we told first. We took solace in knowing we weren't alone. The senior minister at our church told us when we'd lost Noah that he and his wife had lost their first child full term. We encountered more and more people with similar background, different types of losses of course, but still losses.
I'd joined a loss support group after Noah. And ladies, I will warn you know...some people in those loss groups change after you get pregnant again. Suddenly you aren't one of them, even though you have so far to go and are not out of the woods yet. I had a very dear friend I made through the group and she never quite came to terms I think with the fact I was finally able to have another healthy child. And I don't fault her for that. If I had not been able to have Olivia, I probably would have been stuck in that same rut of pain and loss.
And not everyone understands. Shortly before Noah was delivered, but after we knew things were desperately wrong, we were supposed to go a baby shower for some friends back home. Or rather I was, it wasn't a couples thing. We got a lot of resentment because I bowed out. I couldn't take it. The thought of being there and trying to be all happy and excited for someone else, someone about to birth their first baby when all I wanted to do was cry and worry about my baby and how I was likely to lose him soon. I was in no frame of mind to celebrate anything. And people thought I was selfish. Maybe I was. But how can you really expect me to go and sit there while you oooh and ahhh over all your adorable little boy clothes when I know in a matter of weeks or days my child, the child in my belly, might be dead. I am sorry. I couldn't do it. I truly think it's one of those things that unless you've walked in those shoes, you don't know what it's like.
I didn't want to see anyone else's baby. I didn't care how cute they were. None of it mattered. It only reminded me more of all I'd lost or was about to maybe lose.
The months waiting were agonizing. We prayed. We prayed hard. Through it all I said I'd never do it again. If something happened and something were wrong with this baby, I was done. I couldn't go through it again. It was just too hard emotionally and physically. By this point I felt like I'd been pregnant two years. Between the first miscarriage and then Noah and then now being pregnant with Christina I was constantly in a stage of pregnancy or recovery or about to become pregnant.
Early fetal scans showed things not looking great. Measurements were off. We even went to my parent's church, a place we got married, to have a laying on a hands (our church didn't do that.) I was desperate. Anything I could try I would.
In the end, the worst happened and on August 14, 2003, Christina Ann Painter was stillborn in the same Richmond hospital her older brother had been nearly a year before. It wasn't the same room. As before, we got to hold her tiny body, take pictures, have some family there to hold her fragile litte body and say their own goodbyes. We elected to donate her remains to the International Skeletal Dysplasia Registry at Cedars Sinai like we did with Noah. And we had a memorial for her at our church after.
We were devastated once again and for a while, I thought my heart would never recover. Being around other babies was even worse than before. I didn't want to hear them, see them, smell them. Nothing. Everything reminded me of the precious babies I'd lost. I felt myself withdrawing more and more.
And then I kept on coming back to something miraculous that had happened at the hospital with Christina. I remember crying as they once more hooked me up to the machines, pumping medicine into my veins that would eventually make me deliver her. I remember being so upset and distraught one moment and then in the next, suddenly having this peace. Out of no where, this peace settled over me and I suddenly just knew that if I tried one more time it would be ok.
NEVER ever had it been in my plans to try again. During the entire 21 weeks of Christina's pregnancy I swore I would never do it again. If the worst happened, either we'd settle with one child or possibly look to adopt. And if we adopted it would have to be internationally because I could not stomach the possibility of someone coming to my house to take a baby from me because they'd changed their mind. I could not handle another loss. If we had more children, it would have to be adoption.
So never, never ever had I thought of trying again and suddenly I had this knowledge, this feeling that if we tried one more time it would be ok. The induction process that early on is a rather lengthy one (around 24hrs) and so we saw a parade of doctors from my ob and the perinatal specialists, 6 of them in all...I remember them coming in at various times but all saying the same thing. "If you can bear to try one more time, the odds are with you."
Each time another doctor came on duty and told me that, it stuck in my mind. Someone was trying to tell me something. Another and another and another, hammering home the point. It would be ok.
After Christina, I just knew...early on...I needed to try again. Derek needed more convincing. He wasn't so sure. He was hurting badly and didn't know if he could go through it again. And there just wasn't us to consider, but also our families and friends who had to ride this roller coaster with us. Going through the uncertainty and loss is almost too much to bear.
But I knew...I knew I would never have peace unless we tried. Derek took a leap of faith, believing in me and my convictions. As soon as we could try to conceive after Christina, the very first time, we got pregnant. And from the beginning it felt better. I had so much more hope and peace. Yes, I had moments or worry and concern and doubt, but I just felt better.
I still remember...when we were really early on....having Christmas at my parent's house. I was helping my mother get some linens out for Christmas Eve dinner the next day and she was talking to me about how we were holding up and if we thought we might consider adopting one day, or if we were done. Just talking really. And I was saying I didn't know, we'd just have to see. My mom was kneeling by a buffet, getting a table cloth out of the bottom drawer and she suddenly looks up at me and asks, "Are you pregnant?"
I was stunned and my look of stunned disbelief must have been answer enough, because her immediate response was, "Oh..good." She said she didn't even know why she'd asked if I was pregnant, as it popped into her head she just blurted it out, even though she'd never even considered it a possibility before. And her initial reaction was happy and good instead of fear and dread. I guess even then somehow we knew.
Derek and I moved from Richmond to Charlotte during the middle of that pregnancy. It was hard and sad to leave my trusted doctors, but we stayed just long enough to get through the critical weeks and scans, confirming that everything was looking ok. They wanted so badly to see me through to completion, to see that happy ending, but were happy to know things were looking up when I had to leave. One more scheduled ultrasound once in Charlotte to confirm things were still looking up and then we felt it was ok to finally breathe. Well...sort of. I never really relaxed totally until she was delivered safely and I could hold her in my arms and see and hear for myself she was really ok. And she was. Our beautiful little Olivia Nicole. Born August 2, 2004, just shy of the 1 year anniversary of losing Christina.
People ask how I did it. How could I bear to try again after all those losses? How could I manage? I know for certain, I could not have done it alone. God's grace helped me through it. He gave me the strength I needed. I know HE was there in the miracle of peace and knowledge that came over me in the hospital that day. A day and time I was facing another crushing loss. A day, like so many other before, I'd sworn I was done. I'd never be pregnant again. I simply couldn't take it again. It was too much to bear.
And yet...with HIS guidance, my world changed and a new blessing came into my life. My youngest daughter. And as crazy as it sounds, I would not change any of it. As horrible as those losses were and are, they made me who I am today and I can promise you I am a much better person for it.
With this disorder, you can't really tell anything is going well or going wrong until the bone growth takes off around 16+ weeks. That's typically the earliest you start to see some indictation of things going right or wrong. So I had to spend long months experiencing all the things of pregnancy, the morning sickness, the breast tendernous, the tiredness. All of that for months and months without knowing if things were going to work or not.
I was consumed with worry and dred from the beginning. Always nervous. I often cried. I even stayed on my antidepressants for a while to try to help. I tried to keep living, going on day to day caring for my daughter, trying to keep things regular and normal for her. We ended up telling both our families early on that we were pregnant again because I wanted the prayers. I needed them. Interestingly enough, it was our church ministers who we told first. We took solace in knowing we weren't alone. The senior minister at our church told us when we'd lost Noah that he and his wife had lost their first child full term. We encountered more and more people with similar background, different types of losses of course, but still losses.
I'd joined a loss support group after Noah. And ladies, I will warn you know...some people in those loss groups change after you get pregnant again. Suddenly you aren't one of them, even though you have so far to go and are not out of the woods yet. I had a very dear friend I made through the group and she never quite came to terms I think with the fact I was finally able to have another healthy child. And I don't fault her for that. If I had not been able to have Olivia, I probably would have been stuck in that same rut of pain and loss.
And not everyone understands. Shortly before Noah was delivered, but after we knew things were desperately wrong, we were supposed to go a baby shower for some friends back home. Or rather I was, it wasn't a couples thing. We got a lot of resentment because I bowed out. I couldn't take it. The thought of being there and trying to be all happy and excited for someone else, someone about to birth their first baby when all I wanted to do was cry and worry about my baby and how I was likely to lose him soon. I was in no frame of mind to celebrate anything. And people thought I was selfish. Maybe I was. But how can you really expect me to go and sit there while you oooh and ahhh over all your adorable little boy clothes when I know in a matter of weeks or days my child, the child in my belly, might be dead. I am sorry. I couldn't do it. I truly think it's one of those things that unless you've walked in those shoes, you don't know what it's like.
I didn't want to see anyone else's baby. I didn't care how cute they were. None of it mattered. It only reminded me more of all I'd lost or was about to maybe lose.
The months waiting were agonizing. We prayed. We prayed hard. Through it all I said I'd never do it again. If something happened and something were wrong with this baby, I was done. I couldn't go through it again. It was just too hard emotionally and physically. By this point I felt like I'd been pregnant two years. Between the first miscarriage and then Noah and then now being pregnant with Christina I was constantly in a stage of pregnancy or recovery or about to become pregnant.
Early fetal scans showed things not looking great. Measurements were off. We even went to my parent's church, a place we got married, to have a laying on a hands (our church didn't do that.) I was desperate. Anything I could try I would.
In the end, the worst happened and on August 14, 2003, Christina Ann Painter was stillborn in the same Richmond hospital her older brother had been nearly a year before. It wasn't the same room. As before, we got to hold her tiny body, take pictures, have some family there to hold her fragile litte body and say their own goodbyes. We elected to donate her remains to the International Skeletal Dysplasia Registry at Cedars Sinai like we did with Noah. And we had a memorial for her at our church after.
We were devastated once again and for a while, I thought my heart would never recover. Being around other babies was even worse than before. I didn't want to hear them, see them, smell them. Nothing. Everything reminded me of the precious babies I'd lost. I felt myself withdrawing more and more.
And then I kept on coming back to something miraculous that had happened at the hospital with Christina. I remember crying as they once more hooked me up to the machines, pumping medicine into my veins that would eventually make me deliver her. I remember being so upset and distraught one moment and then in the next, suddenly having this peace. Out of no where, this peace settled over me and I suddenly just knew that if I tried one more time it would be ok.
NEVER ever had it been in my plans to try again. During the entire 21 weeks of Christina's pregnancy I swore I would never do it again. If the worst happened, either we'd settle with one child or possibly look to adopt. And if we adopted it would have to be internationally because I could not stomach the possibility of someone coming to my house to take a baby from me because they'd changed their mind. I could not handle another loss. If we had more children, it would have to be adoption.
So never, never ever had I thought of trying again and suddenly I had this knowledge, this feeling that if we tried one more time it would be ok. The induction process that early on is a rather lengthy one (around 24hrs) and so we saw a parade of doctors from my ob and the perinatal specialists, 6 of them in all...I remember them coming in at various times but all saying the same thing. "If you can bear to try one more time, the odds are with you."
Each time another doctor came on duty and told me that, it stuck in my mind. Someone was trying to tell me something. Another and another and another, hammering home the point. It would be ok.
After Christina, I just knew...early on...I needed to try again. Derek needed more convincing. He wasn't so sure. He was hurting badly and didn't know if he could go through it again. And there just wasn't us to consider, but also our families and friends who had to ride this roller coaster with us. Going through the uncertainty and loss is almost too much to bear.
But I knew...I knew I would never have peace unless we tried. Derek took a leap of faith, believing in me and my convictions. As soon as we could try to conceive after Christina, the very first time, we got pregnant. And from the beginning it felt better. I had so much more hope and peace. Yes, I had moments or worry and concern and doubt, but I just felt better.
I still remember...when we were really early on....having Christmas at my parent's house. I was helping my mother get some linens out for Christmas Eve dinner the next day and she was talking to me about how we were holding up and if we thought we might consider adopting one day, or if we were done. Just talking really. And I was saying I didn't know, we'd just have to see. My mom was kneeling by a buffet, getting a table cloth out of the bottom drawer and she suddenly looks up at me and asks, "Are you pregnant?"
I was stunned and my look of stunned disbelief must have been answer enough, because her immediate response was, "Oh..good." She said she didn't even know why she'd asked if I was pregnant, as it popped into her head she just blurted it out, even though she'd never even considered it a possibility before. And her initial reaction was happy and good instead of fear and dread. I guess even then somehow we knew.
Derek and I moved from Richmond to Charlotte during the middle of that pregnancy. It was hard and sad to leave my trusted doctors, but we stayed just long enough to get through the critical weeks and scans, confirming that everything was looking ok. They wanted so badly to see me through to completion, to see that happy ending, but were happy to know things were looking up when I had to leave. One more scheduled ultrasound once in Charlotte to confirm things were still looking up and then we felt it was ok to finally breathe. Well...sort of. I never really relaxed totally until she was delivered safely and I could hold her in my arms and see and hear for myself she was really ok. And she was. Our beautiful little Olivia Nicole. Born August 2, 2004, just shy of the 1 year anniversary of losing Christina.
People ask how I did it. How could I bear to try again after all those losses? How could I manage? I know for certain, I could not have done it alone. God's grace helped me through it. He gave me the strength I needed. I know HE was there in the miracle of peace and knowledge that came over me in the hospital that day. A day and time I was facing another crushing loss. A day, like so many other before, I'd sworn I was done. I'd never be pregnant again. I simply couldn't take it again. It was too much to bear.
And yet...with HIS guidance, my world changed and a new blessing came into my life. My youngest daughter. And as crazy as it sounds, I would not change any of it. As horrible as those losses were and are, they made me who I am today and I can promise you I am a much better person for it.
The time after Noah
I cried alot. I cried often. And at first, because I didn't want my husband to see how much I was hurting and get upset too, sometimes I even hid the extent of my grief from him. I realized early on though, that that wasn't doing either of us any favors. We needed to share in our grief. Yes, we each dealt with it in our own ways, but we both needed to see and feel the depth of each other's grief.
It was hard having a three year old to care for. It was hard trying to hold it all together when I just wanted to break down and cry so many times. Some people questioned how much she'd understand and know, but she was closer to four than three and she understood alot. Alot more I think than people gave her credit for. We were told to give her a high level reason for why her baby brother died. But also to be specific. We didn't want her thinking that people died when going to the hospital or doctor or that she could just suddenly die in her sleep either (if we said the baby just went to sleep in mommy's tummy and didn't wake up.) We were cautioned to be realistic without going into to much detail and so we ended up telling her Noah died because his lungs were broken. That the doctors tried to fix them but they couldn't and so he died. But we were quick to reassure her that her lungs and Mommy and Daddy's and everyone else's were fine too.
She had some questions naturally. Like why couldn't Jesus fix Noah's lungs? Why couldn't Noah come back alive like Jesus did? It's hard to explain about miracles and hope and faith under those circumstances.
I'll never forget a couple weeks later when I was having one of my usual sad times and was awake, but laying down in our bed, just having a bit of quiet. She came in to the room and went right to the window and pulled up the blinds, I watched as she peered up from under them, looking up into the darkening sky. This little three year old, who so many people thought didn't really get it or understand, proceeded to say, "Star lite, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight. I wish Noah could come back and that his lungs wouldn't be broken and that he could be here and Mommy and Daddy could be happy again." It was one of the most beautiful and sincere things I'd ever heard and while it broke my heart to hear her making such a request, it touched it as well. How sweet and amazing was my little girl to make a wish like that! And then I had to sit up, crying by now, and call her to me, trying to explain that while wishing on stars is great and fun and wonderful, sometimes those wishes just can't come true.
Hard times.
Eventually we got the results from Noah's autopsy at Cedars Sinai and they confirmed what we had suspected. He had, as best as they could tell, Asphyxiating Thoracic Dysplacia. Well, at least we had a name for it now. And with a name we found that my husband and I were each apparently recessive carriers for his bizarre disorder and that one in every four pregnancies had a chance of this occurring for us again. 1 in 4. That's still 75% chance of a healthy baby. If someone told you that you had a 75% chance of winning the lottery, most of us would probably go by a ticket. The doctors and specialists further told us that the chances of it occurring back to back was 1 in 16. So, theoretically, the chances were even greater we could have a healthy baby the next go round. Yes, it was still a 1 in 4 chance, but back to back was 1 in 16.
After much prayer and thought and discussion, we decided to try again once we got the clear for trying from my OB.
Pretty much as soon as we could get pregnant, we did. This time with Christina. And so, another chapter unfolds....
It was hard having a three year old to care for. It was hard trying to hold it all together when I just wanted to break down and cry so many times. Some people questioned how much she'd understand and know, but she was closer to four than three and she understood alot. Alot more I think than people gave her credit for. We were told to give her a high level reason for why her baby brother died. But also to be specific. We didn't want her thinking that people died when going to the hospital or doctor or that she could just suddenly die in her sleep either (if we said the baby just went to sleep in mommy's tummy and didn't wake up.) We were cautioned to be realistic without going into to much detail and so we ended up telling her Noah died because his lungs were broken. That the doctors tried to fix them but they couldn't and so he died. But we were quick to reassure her that her lungs and Mommy and Daddy's and everyone else's were fine too.
She had some questions naturally. Like why couldn't Jesus fix Noah's lungs? Why couldn't Noah come back alive like Jesus did? It's hard to explain about miracles and hope and faith under those circumstances.
I'll never forget a couple weeks later when I was having one of my usual sad times and was awake, but laying down in our bed, just having a bit of quiet. She came in to the room and went right to the window and pulled up the blinds, I watched as she peered up from under them, looking up into the darkening sky. This little three year old, who so many people thought didn't really get it or understand, proceeded to say, "Star lite, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight. I wish Noah could come back and that his lungs wouldn't be broken and that he could be here and Mommy and Daddy could be happy again." It was one of the most beautiful and sincere things I'd ever heard and while it broke my heart to hear her making such a request, it touched it as well. How sweet and amazing was my little girl to make a wish like that! And then I had to sit up, crying by now, and call her to me, trying to explain that while wishing on stars is great and fun and wonderful, sometimes those wishes just can't come true.
Hard times.
Eventually we got the results from Noah's autopsy at Cedars Sinai and they confirmed what we had suspected. He had, as best as they could tell, Asphyxiating Thoracic Dysplacia. Well, at least we had a name for it now. And with a name we found that my husband and I were each apparently recessive carriers for his bizarre disorder and that one in every four pregnancies had a chance of this occurring for us again. 1 in 4. That's still 75% chance of a healthy baby. If someone told you that you had a 75% chance of winning the lottery, most of us would probably go by a ticket. The doctors and specialists further told us that the chances of it occurring back to back was 1 in 16. So, theoretically, the chances were even greater we could have a healthy baby the next go round. Yes, it was still a 1 in 4 chance, but back to back was 1 in 16.
After much prayer and thought and discussion, we decided to try again once we got the clear for trying from my OB.
Pretty much as soon as we could get pregnant, we did. This time with Christina. And so, another chapter unfolds....
Monday, August 25, 2008
One step at a time
I recently started talking to a young lady who just experienced the loss of a baby. She was nearly 9 weeks along and while some people may not think that is very far, I believe it is. The loss was very real to her and her husband. They'd been trying to get pregnant for a year and a half. My heart goes out to her, I wish there was more I could do or say, but I know all too well how it is. I experienced a number of losses myself, including one early miscarriage at about 6 weeks. The one thing that sticks most in my mind is something my husband's aunt once told me. A loss is a loss is a loss.
My husband's aunt and uncle lost their eldest son in a car accident when he was nineteen. Needless to say they had a really hard time getting over that. And honestly, it is not something you ever really get over, but simply learn to deal with. At least that is how I see it. Anyway, at a loss group she was a part of, she was having a hard time with women who were there for their own needed support, women who had had a miscarriage. And it wasn't until someone said that a loss is a loss is a loss, she finally got it. Everyone's losses might be different than her own, but they are no less real and painful to those experiencing them.
I would have to agree there. When I lost my second and third child later, the loss affected me differently and I was mad when people so callously said things like, "Well, maybe this is God's way of taking care of things...' or "Maybe it's a blessing it happened now." Are you kidding me?! I often felt resentment for those who had lost an infant or child later on in life, people who sometimes viewed my loss as less than their own. I was sooooo mad! I wanted to scream at them, saying it wasn't fair, at least they had had time with their child. They had had the chance to see their beautiful eyes open and looking up at them. They had felt the unbelievable warmth of those tiny fingers wrapping around one of their own and squeezing. They had the experiences of their baby's coos and babbles, seen what color hair they had, experienced first teeth and feedings and diaper changes. They had seen their children grow. They had birthdays and Halloweens and Christmases and Easters and little league games or ballet classes. All things I NEVER had the chance to experience with my children. It was so unfair.
But then you get back to a loss is a loss is a loss. And just because someone's experience in losing a child is different than your own, it doesn't make it any less painful or real. Having children now 4 and 9, I can't imagine what it would be like to lose one of them and yes while I have experienced all those things I missed with my other three angels, I am still in no way ready to give them up or stomach their loss any more easily than I would have before. It is a different beast, but the pain is still the same.
I feel very fortunate and blessed to be able to talk about my losses now. But more than that, I am grateful for the chance to help someone else through their own grief, even if it only makes one moment of one day a little better. You have to take it one day at a time while you are in the midst of that darkness and heartbreak. One step at a time. One wobbly foot placed before the other. Take heart in the knowledge there is hope to be found and there can be peace afterwards, though pretty much all of that is up to you.
Losing my three has made me a better person in the end I think. I truly appreciate all the love and support of friends and family in my life. I live each day a little fuller (usually anyway) and I am so thankful for what I do have. My husband and children are blessings to me, even those I've lost. Through them I've been able to help and comfort others and for me, that is the greatest way to honor their memories. If by having had my three, and lost them, I am able to better relate to others and most importantly give them some small measure of hope, it was worth it. They are worth it. My children and my experiences aren't something to be swept under a rug, no matter how pretty or expensive. I wear the experience like a badge of honor, forever emblazoned upon my chest, upon my heart.
And if anyone out there reads this and needs to talk, please don't hesitate to let me know. It's hard, it's painful, it sucks. But at the end of the day, you can also find much to be thankful for if you open your eyes and truly look around yourself.
My husband's aunt and uncle lost their eldest son in a car accident when he was nineteen. Needless to say they had a really hard time getting over that. And honestly, it is not something you ever really get over, but simply learn to deal with. At least that is how I see it. Anyway, at a loss group she was a part of, she was having a hard time with women who were there for their own needed support, women who had had a miscarriage. And it wasn't until someone said that a loss is a loss is a loss, she finally got it. Everyone's losses might be different than her own, but they are no less real and painful to those experiencing them.
I would have to agree there. When I lost my second and third child later, the loss affected me differently and I was mad when people so callously said things like, "Well, maybe this is God's way of taking care of things...' or "Maybe it's a blessing it happened now." Are you kidding me?! I often felt resentment for those who had lost an infant or child later on in life, people who sometimes viewed my loss as less than their own. I was sooooo mad! I wanted to scream at them, saying it wasn't fair, at least they had had time with their child. They had had the chance to see their beautiful eyes open and looking up at them. They had felt the unbelievable warmth of those tiny fingers wrapping around one of their own and squeezing. They had the experiences of their baby's coos and babbles, seen what color hair they had, experienced first teeth and feedings and diaper changes. They had seen their children grow. They had birthdays and Halloweens and Christmases and Easters and little league games or ballet classes. All things I NEVER had the chance to experience with my children. It was so unfair.
But then you get back to a loss is a loss is a loss. And just because someone's experience in losing a child is different than your own, it doesn't make it any less painful or real. Having children now 4 and 9, I can't imagine what it would be like to lose one of them and yes while I have experienced all those things I missed with my other three angels, I am still in no way ready to give them up or stomach their loss any more easily than I would have before. It is a different beast, but the pain is still the same.
I feel very fortunate and blessed to be able to talk about my losses now. But more than that, I am grateful for the chance to help someone else through their own grief, even if it only makes one moment of one day a little better. You have to take it one day at a time while you are in the midst of that darkness and heartbreak. One step at a time. One wobbly foot placed before the other. Take heart in the knowledge there is hope to be found and there can be peace afterwards, though pretty much all of that is up to you.
Losing my three has made me a better person in the end I think. I truly appreciate all the love and support of friends and family in my life. I live each day a little fuller (usually anyway) and I am so thankful for what I do have. My husband and children are blessings to me, even those I've lost. Through them I've been able to help and comfort others and for me, that is the greatest way to honor their memories. If by having had my three, and lost them, I am able to better relate to others and most importantly give them some small measure of hope, it was worth it. They are worth it. My children and my experiences aren't something to be swept under a rug, no matter how pretty or expensive. I wear the experience like a badge of honor, forever emblazoned upon my chest, upon my heart.
And if anyone out there reads this and needs to talk, please don't hesitate to let me know. It's hard, it's painful, it sucks. But at the end of the day, you can also find much to be thankful for if you open your eyes and truly look around yourself.
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