The Adventure Starts Now

My grief has not been so overwhelming this week. I feel like I can carry on my normal life. I’m not sure what normal means, but it feels more like that. It doesn’t hurt as much to go through my day. I don’t burst into tears at every second. It’s also a weird balance. I still miss him. I miss carrying him. I miss what he could have been. I miss the idea of holding him. I miss being excited for him. But the pain isn’t as visible everyday. 

As I walk through my grief this week, I’ve been trying to figure out how and where I can grow from this. Not intentionally, but as a way to find hope for my future. I listen to stories from my clients, and I think of how it hurts to hear them talk, but that maybe that can still make me a better therapist. Maybe feelings and connections and going through such an incredibly painful loss can help me to help others. I think about how I felt desensitized when beginning this field just because of my own life experience. I didn’t cry or have much of a visible emotional reaction when hearing difficult trauma. I always viewed that as a benefit; a reason that maybe I was good for this field. But maybe it’s not a bad thing if it hurts to hear that a baby died or was abused or faced neglect. Those things are sad. It’s human to be sad. So I’m focusing on how those emotions can improve my therapy, even when I feel it in my gut to hear. I’ve been focusing a lot of how grief is a normal process that the body goes through and needs. It’s important it allow myself to process. These past couple weeks, I’ve felt the need to find distractions because the grief was so overwhelming. But really it meant that if I could just find a way to not think about my loss for two seconds, I had to find that space because my entire existence was filled with my loss. I was facing it at every turn. In every moment. I face children and families daily at work. But the world is filled with families, so the reminders are everywhere. My house is even full of reminders of what I no longer have. I have been working so hard at working with my grief and even that is overwhelming. 

But today it does feel more manageable. I saw a counselor. She was validating. The part that stood out the most was that the word “bereavement” literally means “to be torn apart.” That describes exactly what I feel. She gave me a book, which I highly recommend, called Healing Your Grieving Heart After Miscarriage: 100 Practical Ideas for Parents and Families. With the help of that book, and because I’m not already crying everyday, I have been leaning into times everyday for intentional grief. I think about my child in some way. I practice saying his name more. I have actually already done some of the ideas listed before starting the book, but I look into other ways to help my grief (internal) move to mourning (external). I realize I’ve been mourning a lot. I guess that’s good, or at least necessary. 

Today that grieving process looking like getting the pictures from our family photo shoot. It was at the photography session about six weeks ago that I told my siblings that I was pregnant. I was so excited for that opportunity. As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I knew that this was the way I wanted to tell them. The photographer (toward the end of the session) said, “Everyone say, ‘Natalie’s pregnant!’” It took a minute for everyone to understand it wasn’t a joke. It was such an exciting moment. Then Bryan got the onesie was had gotten – Baby Heinz May 2018 – out of the car to take pictures with. We also have an excited picture with the whole family around the onesie. These pictures are special, but they hurt. I will always be able to treasure them, but it’s really painful. Bryan and I looked through them together. “Back when we were happy. It’s such a distant memory.” I wish that wasn’t so true. 

This week has been full of pregnancy announcements. At this point, those aren’t even bittersweet; it’s just difficult. My reactions have been different to each of the three I’ve come across this week on Facebook based on proximity. It makes it no less of a struggle. One announcement was announcing the sex as a boy. I’m not close to these people, but every boy announcement hurts a little more. I wanted my son. Maybe the most difficult feeling is how to continue my friendships in the same way when those are extremely painful. 

I’ve been trying to figure out what it means to keep up my normal job in the same way. I’ve been so worried – at work and at home – that people won’t treat me the same. I want them to be just as honest, just as forthcoming, just as intentional. I know I hold high my expectations of myself, and I don’t want the image of where people do expect me to be to slip. I don’t want to feel fragile. I don’t want people to not tell me things because they are afraid how I will take it. 

As my husband so longingly told me, “You are fragile.” So while I still want things to be like they were before, I’m learning to walk in the space of both truths. 

I’ve been feeling so alone in my grief. No one seems to care as much anymore. Most people don’t ask me how I’m doing anymore. Not that I ever knew how to respond, but at least my pain was acknowledged. Now it’s like no one cares. Even the people close to me. It’s been a month since we found out about the loss. It’s been almost two weeks since the d&c. Maybe people think it’s starting to hurt less. I think that hurts more. Everything hurts more. I don’t know what it looks like to live my life anymore, but my friends all seem to move on. 

I wish people would ask me how I’m doing. I wish people would check in. I reach out a lot, but almost no one reaches out to me. That’s how it feels at least. Even people that seemed to reach out more in my life previously. It’s hard to know how to keep going anymore. 

I try to find comfort in quotes I find. Those seem to describe and acknowledge my pain in some way.

“Grief is isolating, but it never leaves you alone. In the moments we wake up crying, the car rides with tears streaming, grief is our companion. When everyone else moves on, forgetting our loss, grief remembers.”

It’s so difficult to be in this place. It’s so difficult to leave the room to cry because being in this place is always painful in every direction. 

Bryan and I got a massage yesterday. The massage was relaxing, but waiting in the ladies lounge was not. There were two ladies there chatting who worked in obstetrics in a hospital. They talked about birth, delivery, pregnant ladies, and babies. They talked about babies born early and fighting for the lives. They talked about awful deformities that doctors missed. They talked about a mom on meth who left her baby in the hospital because she didn’t want them. 

I wanted my baby…

As I was sipping my water after the massage, another group of ladies were also painful. I’m not sure there will ever be another way but to be in pain all the time. These ladies were talking about how amazing it is to have their children home everyday after beginning to homeschool. I left early. I cried when I got home. I don’t even really know why. I cried a lot that day. I cry a lot everyday…

I was watching Grey’s Anatomy yesterday, and this quote can through. 

Do you know how hard it is to stand by and watch someone else live the life that you want? The life that you’re willing to give up everything for? -Teddy Altman, Grey’s Anatomy 

This describes a lot of what I feel right now on top of all my grief. I don’t know what to do with this hard feeling as everyone else in my life moves on and continues. The people in my life that get to continue their pregnancies just hurt. I can’t be happy. Even being in the same room with them is too painful. So I leave the room and cry. I feel like no one acknowledges my pain anymore. That’s what hurts. 

I don’t ever know what it means to keep moving. Everyday the place I’m in is harder than before. It doesn’t get easier.  

“Time doesn’t heal all wounds. It just puts more space between the times you remember the events that gave you these wounds. There are some hurts that never some hurting, no matter how faded the scars.” 

I’ve learned this to be true very quickly. This is one of those things that won’t ever go away. Time won’t fix this one. 

“Parents don’t just grieve the loss of their precious baby, they mourn never having the chance to hear them speak, teach them to walk, and see them grow. Every new day reveals something that they will miss out on. This is why parents grieve as long as they live.”

“There is no word to describe a parent that loses a child. That’s how awful the loss is.”

“The hardest part about losing a child is living everyday afterwards.”

“Long nights up with a baby are better than long nights up alone crying for your lost baby.”

Sometimes there are no other words. Today, my child, I only miss you when I’m breathing. 

After find out we lost our baby, I poured into research of what might be helpful. I looked through all kinds of information, says, and symbolism. I decided that I really wanted a necklace. I was on a search for a necklace that had a lot of meaning, but wasn’t so obvious. I had clients, and I don’t want them to ask about it because it wouldn’t be appropriate to self disclose that information. Nothing really felt right or stood out. 

I did finally pick a necklace after a lot of searching. It felt meaningful. The necklace came with a card that said “a piece of my heart has wings.” That was important for me. The necklace is in the shape of a heart and on one side the heart is made up of a single wing. The description said it could be for losses, not just a miscarriage. I planned that if anyone asked about it that I didn’t want to explain that I could just say that I lost someone close to me. 

It was actually really a strange feeling when the necklace arrived. I felt weird about wearing it. I surprised myself to see it in the mirror when I walked by. In some ways it felt important, but in other ways it just felt strange. I guess I don’t really know how to describe that feeling. 

I was surprised that no one commented on the necklace even if they knew about the miscarriage. I think I’m learning to take it as apart of me. That this jewelry symbolizes my child in some way. It’s okay that no one else recognizes that. In a lot of ways others don’t recognize my child like I do anyway. So it’s okay. Now this jewelry allows me to carry him with me. He has become apart of me. I like that some. I’ll continue to wear the necklace. I’ll continue to carry him with me. I will find some small bit of comfort in knowing that. 

It’s an odd feeling to keep moving. I know I have to, but it’s not exactly what I want. But I keep at it. Is that a sign of strength? Okay. Today it’s the only direction I’m allowed. 

Work has been so crazy this week. Tuesday (Halloween), I was still dealing with the same crises from Monday because the on call worker now needed someone to take over. I could not do it. At the time it felt like weakness, but today I see it as a positive limit that I needed in my life. I sat with this client all day on Monday. It was not my intent to have Monday be so crazy. I had planned to take scheduled breaks and go slow since it was my first day back to work again. Instead I walked into a crisis the moment I got in the door. I dealt with that the entire day. I was okay, but it was everything I had. I went home after a ten hour day and was so drained. That was the night that was most definitely the hardest. 

The miserable feeling then continued the next morning when I was asked to take over. I could not do it. So I said no. I needed that. I’m so glad I said no. It took me awhile to come out of my miserable feelings that day. I saw my client with the newborn. It wasn’t as bad at the first time. I had another client and a meeting before I started feeling a little better. I had been feeling such a lack of confidence going through my day and worry that I just wasn’t as good at my job. The expectations are always high and in some sense I knew I was falling short. My coworker asked me at the beginning of the day if I even wanted to see that first client. I cried. I just felt like I had to continue with my life. I didn’t know how else to do it. I knew I needed to keep going but I just didn’t know what that looked like anymore. I don’t know what it means to be normal anymore. 

I kept going and was able to get to that place of a bit more confidence as the day went on before I went home to Halloween festivities. 

On Wednesday morning, I was able to get caught up on all my notes before heading to work. It felt like a great day. I felt super confident with all of my clients. I had a packed schedule, and I didn’t care. I would get to it all. I was up early so I was tired by the afternoon, but I made it through my long day and felt great about it. But I was definitely ready for bed as soon as I ate dinner. 

I almost made it through the day. My friend texted me to warn me about how she would be announcing her pregnancy on Facebook and planned to tell me the sex on Saturday. I didn’t anticipate crying just to hear that, but it was very hard. I wanted so badly to be happy for her, but it just hurt. I should have been right there with her finding out the sex of my child soon. Instead I’m here without my baby, not pregnant, and over a month out before that possibility even remotely exists anymore. 

I encountered another crisis on Thursday. I was at home attempting to figure out my EAP, mental health benefits, insurance, in network providers, and offices. They don’t make it easy. I was on the phone with a lot of different people and didn’t get anywhere. I thought about not sharing that here, but I don’t care anymore. It’s not a sign of weakness that I’m going to see a counselor. It’s something we need to make more acceptable (and easier my goodness!) in our society. I didn’t get anywhere that day and instead of being a counseling office that was calling me back, it was a school principal. So instead I went to pick up a client and spent the rest of my morning with him instead of catching up on my Wednesday notes. 

Friday didn’t go exactly as planned, but I was able to make some progress and finally got scheduled with a counselor. It was so difficult to make that first call, and when it got hard I thought I might give up. The other office never called me back. In the end, I was able to schedule with someone that I found that specializes in miscarriage support. I’m glad about that, and I hope it’s a good fit. 

After a doctor’s appointment to discuss my crazy blood pressure during this time, I tried to do notes, but the system wasn’t working right and I wasn’t able to finish. But I was able to move up my last appointment, which meant that I would be able to just make it to date night at my church. I was so glad because I was so bummed that I had scheduled something and would miss it. We had still planned our date, but I really didn’t want to miss the short teaching. I’m so thankful for my church and how they are intentional about community and relationships. 

So we had a date night, and it was good. It was a little weird to go over our check in date night card while we had dinner and feel like there weren’t a lot of times in our life that were really good and fulfilling. But we knew how much we loved each other. We reflected on how weird this process has been for our relationship. It’s been miserably hard; it’s a bad time in our lives. But it doesn’t feel like our marriage is in a bad place. We feel closer. This is our journey, together. And this past month, that’s been terrible. But we definitely have each other. 

I’m so thankful for our relationship. At date night we were celebrating our dating anniversary. I don’t know if other people do that, but it has always been special for us. We were probably dating for at least a month or two before it was “official.” I guess that’s what happens when you get together in high school. Things just look different. But ten years ago today, Bryan took me out behind the church we were at in front of a large fountain that was lit up that night and asked me to be his girlfriend. Here we are ten years later. We’ve been through three major job changes together, graduating high school, long distance dating before I graduated college, and so much stress that I couldn’t put into words. And we have stuck it out. He has always been there for me. Our lives are so much stronger together. Especially when it’s hard. Today we have also lost a child. That’s the hardest thing. But today our marriage is still strong. I am so thankful to have him. 

At dinner, I was also able to vocalize how I feel a little different right now. Maybe it won’t last; maybe I’ll gain an amazing balance. But I feel more apathy. Maybe apathy is the wrong word. I care a lot less about what other people think about things in my life. I care less about the planning side effects of the things I need to do it my life. I care less about being on the go and can behave more peace sitting where we are at right now. I think it’s all positive. It is a little freeing. It still feels weird to have these feeling, but I’m learning to embrace it. At least where I am at right now. Everything in my life right now is so uncertain. And I typically like to have my entire life planned out, so this has been a difficult place to be filled with uncertainty about everything in my life. So I’m doing everything I can to embrace it. To be okay with my grief and what that looks like. To not know what my emotions look like on any given day. With the possibility that I might just burst out into tears at any given moment. To not know how much I can handle on any day. To know that everything is a lurking trigger and I’ll have to learn to deal with that. 

It doesn’t always feel good, but like everything else it’s where I’m at. I hope that this can be a place of growth because I don’t know that I could go through all this and be worse. I have to find something that I can take from this awful experience. Today I hope that looks like being more flexible and being more confident in my own decisions. 

Bryan and I are getting a couples massage today. I’m excited for it. I’m excited to do something to feel close with him again. I’m excited to try to feel a little normal in our lives. But I can’t help but be sad. I got a massage for the first time since our honeymoon right before getting pregnant. I had planned that the next massage would be a prenatal massage. But it’s not, so I’m trying to be excited for what it is. I love my husband so much. So today I will celebrate ten years of us. 

Halloween was difficult. The night before Halloween was the worst night I’ve had in this whole process. I had gone back to work again, and it was a long and stressful day. I cried a lot and had to call a friend. It’s a good thing she’s amazing and could help me. 

I don’t think we talk enough about what it means when things are difficult. That your thoughts scare you. That you can’t stop crying. That it hurts to keep crying. That you feel numb. That you feel like not getting up. That you feel like not moving forward. That you feel alone. 

Life is so hard. I know I’m not the only one going through struggles, but it’s hard not to feel isolated in this experience. Sometimes I feel mad that I work in a stressful field. I’m grateful for the support I do have, and the people that I work with that are creative in ways that they can help me. 

I feel like my entire life the way it was is a loss. I lost the current ability to be an amazing worker. I lost my ability to be caught up and on top of all my work all the time. I lost the ability to make sure all my kids are seen and well cared for. That makes it even more difficult when I can’t make it effectively though work. I want so badly to have that back.

I have to remind myself a lot that I really am a damn good therapist. It’s true, really. I provide amazing care for my kids and have great clinical opinions. But it took awhile to get to that place. It’s only in the last several months that I have felt more confident about the work I do. So it’s that much more difficult to feel defeated over my emotions and this loss.

I am still figuring out what it means to be a therapist in this place. I am doing my best to remember how this experience will shape me for the future to improve the work I am already doing. I know there will be improvements to my therapy that come out of this one day, but I hate that it comes at such a great expense. 

Yesterday was Halloween. Halloween was when I had planned to officially announce our baby. I had planned a photoshoot with my friends. I had the best Pinterest inspired announcement ideas. I had the cutest signs. I had already gotten a little pumpkin for the pictures. We had even already taken some pictures with the cutest onesie we had gotten for the baby. That’s gone. In an instant. 

I had also planned to announce it to my work. We were having a costume contest on Halloween (as well as a Chili Cook Off). I was going to wear one of those skeleton shirts with the baby skeleton. I had just planned to wear it that day and wait for people to notice. I had envisioned how excited and surprised everyone would be. Instead I went late to the party. I didn’t dress up. I felt alone and overwhelmed by everyone and everything. I tried to have a good time and forget about my losses. It was still difficult, and I was glad to leave a little early to get to a meeting. 

Then there are the kids. All the cute, adorable children in their costumes and trick or treating. I did not really want to pass out candy, but Bryan did. I did not pass out any candy, and some friends came over to hang out with us. It was still a good night overall hanging out with them. But I could not go to the door. It hurt to look out the window and see the kids and their families. It hurt to hear the cute little voices of kids getting candy. It hurt to see the parents all dressed up with their kids. And man, it hurt to see all the facebook posts of every single kid and family in their costumes. I stayed off Facebook most of the day, and scrolled past all the pictures the next day. I hope one day the pain isn’t so thick. 

Today I continue to be sad for my loss, but I’m also working really hard to find my new normal (even though I know more really hard days will come). I’m so sad that I can’t be in the same place that I was, but there is no back button. I keep moving forward, even when it’s everything I don’t want. 

It is a unique burden to name a child that we never got to hold.  It does not feel happy.  It does not feel right.  It does not feel special.

When we finally decided on a name, we picked it quickly.  It felt weird to say aloud.  I did not want to tell anyone what name we picked.  It felt so weird.

I thought about it a lot.  When a family picks a name – when we envisioned how we would pick a name – they talk about names for hours over several months.  We would look through hundreds of names and pick out our favorites.  We would spend time filtering out the ones we liked best.  We would finally pick a name.  We would practice saying it.  We would see how trusted friends and family felt about the name.  We would make sure that we liked it and that it felt right.

When we picked this name, it was quick.  It did not feel right because we picked it in a day.  We did not get to do all those exciting things we had envisioned doing.

Bryan had originally called the baby Philip.  He did that on his own the day we brought home the sonogram picture.  He told me, “I call him Philip.”  It was weird.  Neither of us really liked the name.  For a few days the name stuck.  We did not even get to pick it out together.  It felt so weird.  I was afraid to tell people the name.  A few days later my mom asked me if we would remember the baby as “Baby Heinz” or as “Philip.”  I told her I did not know.  It felt like so much to think about.  It felt so overwhelming.  I asked Bryan what he thought.  “Did we ever decide on a name?”

So we decided to go ahead and pick a name together.  We did not go back and forth with names.  It felt like settling and just deciding.  I told Bryan a name I liked.  He agreed.  We decided to incorporate Philip into the name even though neither of us were a big fan of the name because it was the first name for the baby.

It still feels weird today.  Names are so important.  I hope one day it does not feel weird to say his name aloud.  I hope one day I can say it without crying.  I hope one day using his name will feel like honoring him.  I want his memory to stay alive but – like everything else right now – today that feels hard.

We named our baby.  We did not get to welcome him to the world.  We had to say goodbye before we said hello.

We love you, Andrew Philip Heinz.

I had never really understood how ingrained families are in our world. Of course.  We are centered as a population on forming families, reproducing, repopulating.  So the triggers of a family that I don’t have are everywhere.  I thought at first that pregnant women and babies were the most difficult to see.  That was true.  But I did not realize how far the triggers extended.  Every family moment and any kids were difficult.  I had lost everything.  My baby would not grow up to be that age – whatever age that was.  We would not have those sweet family moments.  I was hit by even the mentions of raising families.  People would talk about what it was like to raise a family today or the difficulties or brining a child into the world.  Everything hit me.

A few days after finding out about the loss I went to see a client in her home.  This client had just had a baby.  Her baby was less than two weeks old.  My supervisor told me that I did not get a medal for pushing through to see her and that I could wait.  I almost canceled several times, but I went anyway.  Of course she was happy, but that was hard too.

One week before finding out about the loss my sister in law had a baby.  I went to see the baby, but Bryan was not able to go with me.  I was so excited to see her.  Everything about the experience was different and exciting.  I was in the same place where I would be delivering in eight months.  I looked around the room trying to remember what everything was like so I would be ready.  I held the newborn baby.  I was so excited.  “This will be you in a few months.”

I could not wait.

Then we went to our appointment and found out that it would not be me in a couple months.  I hated that.  I was so ready.  I would be such a good mom.  Wouldn’t I?  Was I not suppose to be a mom?  Maybe I would be a bad mom and that’s why this happened?  I knew that the stories I was telling myself were not true, but I could not help but hear those stories.

Bryan and I could not bring ourselves to go see his niece after that.  I knew Bryan still needed to meet her, so it made it more difficult.  I asked him every weekend if he wanted to see her.  It wasn’t until the Sunday before the d&c that we saw her at another event.  We held her.  I did not cry, but it was hard.  It was hard to see Bryan holding her and know that we would not get to hold our baby.  It was hard to know that at that point I was still pregnant but there was no baby growing inside, so there was no happiness there.

So today every family is difficult.  The ones in the store.  The newborn at church.  The parents that talk about their kids.  The people I work with.  I hate that.  I have people in my life who I love that I find it difficult to be around right now.  I am so happy for them, but it is hard.  I am trying to be patient with myself.  I am trying to remember that I won’t feel this way forever.  Today this is where I am at.  I have no choice but to be okay with where I am at for today.

To those people: Please know that I care about you.  Know that I am happy for your family.  Know that I want to be there for you.  Know that I will be able to be supportive in the future.  But today is not that day.  Today it is hard to be around your family, even though I care about you.

It took me awhile to make another post because I was afraid of what people would say. I have heard a lot of positive comments about my first entry, and I was worried that the next one would not be as powerful. But I don’t care. I am not writing this for other people. This is for me. And if you want to follow along or if this helps you in some way – great. This is still my story, and this is still my journey. This is what it looks like to keep moving forward…

10/26/17

I went back to work on Wednesday.  I thought I was ready.  I will never be ready.  Previously, work was a helpful distraction – a bit of normalcy where I could feel like I knew what I was doing.  Work on Wednesday was not that.  It was putting up a front, wearing the mask.  It felt like pretending.  It felt like forgetting.  It felt like moving on without my baby, and I did not want to do that.  I took it slow.  I rearranged my schedule so that it was not overwhelming.  It did not help.

I got home and cried.  It feels like it will never get easier.  Bryan sat with me.  It was helpful, but I still felt alone.

“Let me know how I can help.”

A lot of friends and family have offered me that.  I don’t know how you can help.  So even with all those offers, I still feel alone.  It is such an isolating experience.  I keep reliving lying there on the operating table – knowing that this is the end, and never wanting it to be the end.  I remember how alone I felt to be lying on that table.  I remember waking up alone and in pain.  I cannot stop thinking about it.

I am apart of a lot of online communities. One person there was able to help put into words this “alone” feeling. She described it as being alone without the baby. I had not been able to think about it in that way before. I was the only person who was carrying this child. I had someone with me all the time for the first time in my life. Now I am alone. It is a terrible feeling.

But I also feel a weird peace that it’s over.  It is such a confusing place to be in.  The feeling is fleeting.  I just keep crying.

So I reach out.  I text people.  I can’t bear to call them most of the time because I know I will cry the whole time.  Sometimes I want to stop crying.  Other times it feels like there is no other way.

I tried to go to work this morning.  I felt terrible.  I canceled a few things and stayed in bed.  I finally got up but had a lot more pain than the previous day.  My emotions were all over the place.  I tried to remember that the hormones weren’t helping right now.

I finally was able to get up and ready enough to make it to my first appointment.  Before I got there I had already decided that I would cancel another appointment and go home before coming back later to make it to the last one.  When I got home, I tried to focus on how I was doing.  I couldn’t help but to start crying before I even got home.  After a little bit of time at home, I knew that I was in no place to be seeing another client.  I was not able to meet with this client last week, and the client has been struggling.  I felt so guilty.  I knew I could not see him, but I could not bring myself to cancel the session.  It is a good thing I have the support of such amazing people that work with me.  My supervisor canceled the appointment for me, and I decided to take off tomorrow as well.

“This is a time in your life where it is okay to be selfish.”

I was trying to remember that.  I am trying to remember that.  I had already emailed someone to let them know I would not make it to my leadership class that day.  That was hard.  I told her in the email that I was trying to remember that knowing when to take time for yourself and putting in place appropriate boundaries and limits is the strength of a leader.  I still believe that, but it’s still hard.  I live with the daily burden of having to carry the weight of the world – of having to do it all – be it all – be the best.  Even so, I am aware of the burden I carry, and I do everything I can to put up boundaries.  I maintain a work and home life balance.  I don’t let myself get burnt out because I love my job, and I won’t take that risk.

But how can I carry that burden like this?  How do I keep going when I feel so empty?  What does it mean to continue living without my baby?

I know that it is normal to be in this place.  But this place is miserable, and I don’t want to be here.

There are few things I find comfort in right now.  Sometimes these things are not comforting.  Sometimes I cannot bear to read through them.  Sometimes they give me just enough peace to keep going.  I’ll share some of what has been helpful later.  Right now I am working on getting through this moment when it feels like the pain will never end.

 

10/29/17

Everything still feels overwhelming. It is hard to know where to go from here. I cry a lot still. Even when I think I am okay. It just keeps hitting me like a wall.

Again and again and again.

Today I cleaned out our spare room.  When we got back from our appointment when we first found out that we had lost the baby, there were reminders of our baby everywhere.  I gathered up the onesie that we had gotten, the pregnancy journal I now had, and the pregnancy pillow I had to help me sleep, and I put everything in the spare room and shut the door.  There was also a bouncer in there for my nephew.  As the time went on, I added extra things we had in there that were painful to look at including the sonogram we had.  I knew that I wanted to make a shadow box with everything, but right now that felt too overwhelming.  So today I put everything in the closet and cleaned the room so I could open the door for the first time in three weeks.  I think it felt good to have it clean and open, but it is a little painful too.  That room was going to be the nursery.  Now I look at it knowing that it will stay just the spare room and that hurts.

The day that we found out that the baby was already gone, a good friend told me, “I am sorry for all the people that will tell you that you are strong.” It took about a week before I really knew what she meant. I have been told many times lately that I am strong, an inspiration, and brave. I have been told how proud people are of me. I don’t feel strong. This is survival. I don’t want to be an inspiration. I just need to get through this moment. This is not a place of hope. This is not a place of good. This is a moment in time that requires me to keep moving forward. I can’t move on; I don’t want to get over it; but I do have to move forward. I have to keep going because there is no other way. I can’t go back. I will always carry this with me. I won’t look the same, and that is hard too. But I will keep moving forward.

 

I have thought a lot lately about the song Bryan and I danced to at our wedding. “Our song.” It is called “Your Guardian Angel” by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. Listening to the song in the past couples years has made me realize how young we were when we first got together ten years ago. It has such a teenage angst to it. Even so, it has a lot of different meanings for me now.

The song does not have anything to do with babies, but that has been the lens I have been seeing it through lately. It starts with, “When I see your smile tears run down my face.” I can’t help but start to cry from the beginning for my baby’s smile that I never even got to see.

“I will never let you fall
I’ll stand up with you forever
I’ll be there for you through it all
Even if saving you sends me to heaven”

The chorus hits me hard in a place of guilt that I could not be the one that could save my child. I know that none of this was my fault, but the feelings are there anyway. “Seasons are changing and waves are crashing and stars are falling all for us.” This part really speaks to where we are at right now. I have thought a lot lately about how the seasons change. They change even when you are not ready for them to change. Life keeps moving. And sometimes the seasons changing means everything dying. Those seasons are always hard. But the seasons continue to change. And at some point, life grows again. Even if it looks differently when it grows back. I am trying to remember that in whatever way that means for our family.

The song also takes on a different unintended meaning as well – that maybe now we have our own guardian angel watching out for us. I don’t always know exactly how I feel about it, but I do like the image that our baby is an angel in Heaven being cared for by God. “To think…the first thing you saw when you opened your tiny little eyes was the face of Jesus.” It is a nice image to hold onto. I never thought the song would take on so many different meanings through our life. Today I am not sure that the song gives me good memories in the way that it did when I held Bryan dancing at our wedding.

But I am definitely glad that I have him. He has been an amazing support. He has been my rock. He has been hurting too. But I am glad he has been there. Always.

Over the years, I have had a lot of different purposes for this blog. Largely this blog was suppose to be a way to communicate about my family, and more specifically my children. My sweet little adventures. The ones I have dreamt for. As time went on, I came to terms with the idea that my life didn’t have to start when I had children. My life was – is – happening now. And I didn’t want to miss it, so I created the blog (I made my husband create it), but I never actually started it. I thought I would start it when I started my career, but I didn’t. I thought that I would start it when we started trying to give me something to do, but I didn’t. Now this is still not the way I had envisioned starting this blog, but here I am. In every way that I had not intended it to be – here is my story.

My story starts at the very beginning of April 2017. As a planner, I thought a lot about when we would try for a baby. I dreamt about it. I prayed about it. I calculated due dates. Overall, I changed my starting time a lot. And mainly it meant pushing it back. A lot of things happened to get to the time when we finally made the decision to start trying. I finally made the leap and decided not to put off my family any longer.

But it wasn’t easy. I started charting very early on in the process. I needed to know what was going on in my body. It was helpful, but it did not help us get pregnant immediately like I thought we would. We tried for seven cycles before getting pregnant. It was the biggest emotionally rollercoaster. It was terrible. I would wake up early; I would stress; I could not help it. I wanted to be pregnant so bad. We had friends get pregnant during that time. That hurt a little. We had been trying so hard and weren’t pregnant yet. We decided that it was okay for now and we would get pregnant soon. But we didn’t. The months came and went, and it was miserably stressful. I searched through tons of data and information. I looked through the statistics. I knew with six well timed cycles that our chances dropped significantly. I knew it wasn’t as long as some people, but with all the data I had, I knew we should have been pregnant already. (Even though I knew that the chances of getting pregnant each month, even with the best odds, weren’t that great.) Would we ever get pregnant? Would we ever have a child? How is it that I lived my life for so long worried about the possibility of getting pregnant, when it was really hard to do! I was stressed. I was angry. But I had to continue.

So we continued trying, and finally one day, I saw a very faint line on a pregnancy test. When you are trying, you end up taking a lot of pregnancy tests, so I knew even though it was faint, that something was definitely there. I knew that this was finally it. The date was September 14th. I waited anxiously to tell Bryan. It was still very early in the morning, and I didn’t want to wake him up. I had my own surprise. Thankfully he didn’t wake up like he had other times. Thankfully he didn’t ask me what the test said like he had in the past. I laid in bed letting everything sink in. It had finally happened, and I was so excited. I calculated my due date. I figured out all the details. I was 3 weeks and 3 days pregnant. It was so early, so I thought I had so long to wait. I was glad to have found out so early, thanks to all my charting.

When Bryan finally woke up enough and was starting to get up, I asked to turn on the light. I presented him with a onesie and laid it on the bed. He didn’t even read it. He looked at me. “Are you?”  I told him I was and told him to read it. I was so excited about that onesie. I had secretly gotten it when we first started trying. It said, “Daddy, I may not be born yet but you are going to be the best daddy a kid could ever have. I can’t wait to meet you. Love, Your baby.”

We were so excited. We shared our news with people. I started feeling pregnant. The changes happened early. By that next week, I was an emotionally wreck. I started not sleeping well. As a therapist, I started trying different tools to help myself. They didn’t work. If you don’t know, I need a lot of sleep, and I treasure my sleep. If I don’t get enough sleep, I don’t do well emotionally. I cried a lot that week. I cried about everything. I got choked up when I talked about unrelated things. It was miserable. So there I was, miserable, for an entire week. I reached out a lot. I told more people so I could have more support. I got a fancy pregnancy pillow. It made sleep a lot more comfortable, but it didn’t really help. I would wake up in the middle of the night and cry for hours. Nothing helped. Until the next week. I could finally sleep! I still would wake up early thanks to digestion problems. Pregnancy really wrecked havoc on all areas of my body. During that week, even though it was early, I got a lot more attached. It was one thing I could do. I started talking to my baby. I told my baby all my hopes and dreams and fears. I promised that Bryan and I would take care of the baby. I promised to do everything I could to take care of my baby. I told the baby to “grow, baby, grow” and I would take care of the rest. I started writing letters to the baby as a way to journal. I fell in love with my baby. It was so early. My baby didn’t even have a heartbeat! Didn’t even have ears! But I loved my baby. With everything I had.

I was really anxious and nervous. It came with the hormones. I worried about keeping my job and making it through the pregnancy. I worried about coming back after maternity leave. I worried about finances. I worried about car seats. I worried about other people. I worried how they would handle the news. I worried about how it would affect my job. I worried if I would be a good mom. I worried about parenthood. And I worried about my baby. I checked the miscarriage rates daily. I watched the numbers go down. Some times were harder than others. When I cried for the entire week, nothing I did could help reframe my thinking. But after that week, I was able to reframe a lot. I was able to have a tiny bit of peace. I told myself that if something was wrong, it was already wrong, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Something was wrong.

We waited anxiously for our first appointment. I was so nervous. I was hopeful too. It was October 6th. Before we left the house, I hugged Bryan. I told him that no matter what I still loved him. I would always love him.

They were running behind at the doctor’s office and I was a nervous wreck. When we finally went back for the sonogram, we both knew something was wrong right away. I couldn’t see the baby on the screen. The tech said that she was trying to see with another angle. We knew that was it. She asked me about my cycles. I told her I was positive about my dates, and that based on my dates, I should be measuring a day ahead. She explained that right now the pregnancy sac was measuring at 5 weeks. I should have been 6.5 weeks. She explained that if my dates were wrong than everything we were seeing would be normal. It was normal not to see the baby at 5 weeks. But I was 6.5 weeks. I should be able to see my baby. I should be able to hear the heartbeat. She was hesitant to give me any kind of confirmation and explained that they would need to do another sonogram later but agreed that she was a little nervous. I started to cry as she finished taking her measurements. By that point the process was uncomfortable and painful, and I didn’t want to be there anymore. She offered us a sonogram picture. We took it. I gave it to Bryan and didn’t look at it much. There was no baby to see. I got dressed and moved into another room to wait for the nurse practitioner who does the confirmation appointments.

It took her awhile to get there and the nurse was asking me all kind of questions about pregnancy that overall made me feel more like something was wrong. Bryan and I talked a little. We texted people that knew. “Most likely non viable.” “No baby.” It was the nightmare. It was three weeks of wasted time. Three weeks of misery. I had had no spotting. No bleeding. But there was no baby. It was only a short time that the baby grew.

The nurse practitioner explained that she sees this a lot and everything ends up fine. I cried as I explained how I was charting. She tried to explain that even with charting the dates could be a few days off. I snapped back that it could be a few days off, not a week and a half. I told her how early I found out. She stopped and clarified how long I had known about the pregnancy. I responded, “three weeks.”

“Oh.”

She gave us information about miscarrying. She said it was better if it happened naturally. She explained that if it didn’t happen in a few weeks that we would need to discuss a d&c because the risk of infection could go up. She had another tech take my blood to verify my blood type and to confirm that the “pregnancy was non viable.” One blood draw wouldn’t give me any information. They would take it again on Monday morning, and then compare the numbers. It needed to go up, and it needed to double.

We went home and cried a lot. I canceled the rest of my day. It was so difficult. I wanted to do everything I wasn’t suppose to do in pregnancy but I couldn’t. I was still pregnant. Bryan told me that he called him Philip (that’s not the name we later decided on). “It’s a boy?” I cried more. Bryan asked if there was any way there could still be hope. I explained how there was not. And if by some miracle there was hope, that something would be seriously wrong with the baby.

I went to supervision at work anyway that day. I needed some normalcy. The distraction was helpful. I cried a lot that weekend. All my hopes and dreams were shattered. I missed my baby.

I went in again on Monday for the next blood draw. The tech explained the result of my first blood draw and how the next one needed to double. I was told that the results would be in first thing Tuesday morning, and they would call me. I was so anxious waiting. I knew there would be no new information. I started to feel hope. I knew it was denial. It’s weird being a counselor and being aware of myself going through the stages of grief. I waited anxiously all morning and stayed home until my first appointment. I called the doctor’s office at 10:00. I left a message for the nurse. I knew I needed this information today, but I knew I had no good time to answer a call for the rest of the day. By my last appointment, I still had not heard anything. If I got the call during the appointment and did not answer, the office would be closed by the time I was done with the appointment. When I got to the appointment, I explained that I was waiting for a call from my doctor. They finally called during my appointment, so I couldn’t ask all the questions I had. My hormone levels had gone up but “not appropriately for pregnancy.” They had not doubled. This was confirmation. But this was annoying. My body still had no idea that something was wrong. I felt like a graveyard. I carried my dead baby. I didn’t want to be pregnant. I didn’t want to have all these symptoms. I wanted this to be over. I made an appointment to talk to the doctor.

More waiting. The appointment was over a week away. There was already so much waiting. That was the worst part. I waited to miscarry and researched my options. I decided I couldn’t continue waiting and would take the d&c. After I decided that, I was terrified to miscarry naturally. I read stories about what it could be like. It could be simple. It could be like labor and birth. It sounded miserable. The entire process was already miserable.

My next appointment was October 19th. Bryan took off to come with me again. I had to have another sonogram. That felt like torture. I asked a lot of questions. I was so nervous. I should have been 8.5 weeks now. The pregnancy sac had grown 5 days in two weeks. There was still no baby. So now the pregnancy sac measured 5 weeks and 5 days. She called it a blighted ovum. I still had a hemorrhage, which was there last time. She told me that meant that I might have spotting before miscarrying. I talked to the doctor. I was glad to see familiar faces this time since I normally work with the doctor. She explained everything. She told me that if I wanted to try to miscarry naturally, she would give me two more weeks at most. I told her I wanted this to be over. We sat down with the scheduler. She was able to schedule the surgery for Monday. It was inconvenient for work, but I knew I needed this to be done as soon as possible. She gave me information for a number to call if I miscarried over the weekend.

I was in a panic all weekend about miscarrying. On Saturday I had a small amount of brown spotting. I prayed that it was just the hemorrhage. I was terrified of miscarrying naturally at this point.

I made it to Monday (October 23). I was suppose to be 9 weeks pregnant today. The waiting was miserable. I got to the hospital at 10:15 as scheduled. It was a weird feeling. It was a sad feeling to be “getting rid” of my baby. I was very worried. I knew the procedure was simple, but I knew the hormones and the emotions would be really hard. I cried when they first took me back after the nurse left for me to get changed. They were suppose to let Bryan come back after my IV was in. She let him come back then when she saw me crying. I had to sign all the general consents for surgery – that I could receive a blood transfusion if needed, that I could have CPR if needed. I also had to sign information for fetal death and the remains. That was hard. The signature line said “mother” where I had to sign. Bryan came in to be with me as they got my IV started. We waited around a lot at that point. The hospital was running behind, and then my doctor was running behind. The anesthesiologist came to talk me through the procedure. He explained the extra medicine I would get today to help with pain. “Today is not a day to suffer through the pain.”

It was 45 minutes after my appointment was scheduled and nearly three hours after we got to the hospital when my doctor came and they took me back for the surgery. They told me that they were giving me something to relax me. When I got on the table, I started crying really hard. They gave me oxygen and told me I was doing great. I remember crying hard into the oxygen mask, and then I don’t remember anything else. I woke up in recovery and had some pain. They gave me more medication. I asked to roll on my side to help with the pain. Then I asked when I could see Bryan. I started crying again. I didn’t feel up for moving, but they said they could take me to the other room so I could be with Bryan. I cried some more as Bryan sat with me until we could leave. We left 4 and a half hours after getting to the hospital. This was not the labor and delivery that I had imagined.

Now I’m at home, in some pain, and grieving.  It’s hard. There are no other words for it. As I go through the rest of this process, I have no idea what lies ahead. I’m working on getting through each moment. Each moment for myself – my physical health, my mental health, and each moment without my baby. I have amazing support, but it’s the worst experience I have been through.

Today I am a mother. The only experience I have with motherhood is loss. I have lost my first child. He will forever be missed. And I will forever be changed.