December Blues

Faking it.

Gotta be honest...while Christmas and all the happy cheer IS a lot easier to manage with two living kids, I'm still definitely faking my interest to participate in all the festivities. I'm ready for a turn of the calendar.

I don't want a tree with sparkling lights. Luckily our kids haven't taken much interest either, but it does sit in our foyer, basically dead and ready for tossing. We have a few more days before that's deemed acceptable, but I presume it will be gone before the weekend is over. We're literally the only house on our block that doesn't have a single Christmas decoration adorning our house. We usually have wreaths and garland, but with the kids breaking things left and right (do we have anything left?) and December always hitting me like bricks, we sit here on the 22nd having not quite gotten our acts together.

December still totally grates me. I think of myself in complete and utter despair 5 years ago and how other families are out there mourning losses right now. I open the inbox for Faces of Loss to see a mom who lost her daughter at full term just December 3rd of this year. That was like three weeks ago. And I remember when that was me. And it's still me, just 5 years later. It will be an honor to post her story, but still completely heartbreaking.

I know it's not about the presents and sweets and lights and decorated houses and it's really about family and the birth of baby Jesus, who five years ago, I was even jealous of. How can someone be jealous of the Virgin Mary and the Christ? Well I was. 

I sat wrapping presents last night after my kids were just horrible kids all day long. Made me really want to give them nothing and just put the rest on the curb. I wrapped in a fury, slapped on some cheap and metallic bows from a jumbo pack and called it good. Felt nice to get that over with. I do remember a time when wrapping presents was a joyous occasion.

My last innocent Christmas has all sorts of beautiful memories attached. We traveled all around Europe by car with both of our families and spent Christmas Eve night in Berlin, Germany. We didn't have a tree and we didn't give presents; we just traveled and took it all in. 

This year was a doozy. We had so many changes and more to come. Some were good, some were bad. I'm ready for you, 2016. But December, you're not invited to the party.

The Day Before His Golden Birthday

It's the kind of birthday that comes only once in a lifetime...

Andrew will be 5 tomorrow. I know it's a bit dramatic to say, but can you just imagine for a moment (with me), what it would be like celebrating a 5-year-old? Some of you have children that age, so you already know. I don't know.

I can just imagine. Turning five and it being a golden birthday is really cool. Something about five means you're like, super big. Almost kindergarten status. In fact, I had already started kindergarten at his (would be) age.

I've lamented this birthday for a long time now. Five is half a decade. And just plain big. It's a long time since I held that baby boy body and birthed my very first child. I would do anything to go back and hold him again. More now than ever. It feels like he's so distant, because he is. Five years is a long time since seeing your child.

Benjamin has been talking about Andrew a lot lately. Their grandparents sent the book, Someone Came Before You and Benjamin refers to it as Andrew's book and asks for it to be read all the time. At the end, it mentions lighting a candle for the baby. Benjamin chose a cookie candle and we've been lighting it the past two days because he wants it lit for Andrew. He knows Andrew's birthday is tomorrow. We discuss it all the time, especially on the way to the children's museum (like yesterday) when we drive by the cemetery. There is always lots of discussion surrounding the flowers and wreaths and "big things sticking out of the ground."

Five seemed big enough to have a really great thing planned. Initially I thought about planting a tree in a local park in his honor. I was SET on this idea and thought it would be perfect. But, I'm not sure Illinois is our forever home, and I don't want to leave the tree and miss seeing it frequently if we do move in the future.

As he grows older, I'm going to continue to long for things to memorialize him, because that's what parents do. They want to make their children happy, or at least honor their lives in some way.

I just couldn't think of anything else. Nothing would suffice, anyway. So, on his 5th tomorrow, we'll probably go grab him some cupcakes, have our traditional dinner out at a restaurant and be together as a family.

Tuesday, we'll attend the remembrance ceremony we attend every year.

He'll get his tree eventually and when he does, I know it will be perfect.

Missing you and loving you forever, Andrew. I always, always will.

When I Wore It Last

not hiding the mom belly. don't care.

My husband's birthday falls eight days after Andrew's birthday. We had intentions to celebrate early (because the baby was coming and we'd be so busy!) using a Groupon at this fun fondue restaurant downtown. We figured it would be awhile before we'd get out to the city and have that nice of a date night for months.

We had a reservation for Sunday evening, December 5, 2010.

It's rather obvious, now, that we didn't make that dinner reservation.

After coming home with an empty carseat, we didn't know what else to do but reschedule that dinner reservation and celebrate Andrew's dad for being born anyway. We couldn't find anything else more important to do.

I was swollen, bleeding, and we were defeated. I wore this sweater for the first ever to that dinner date. I felt so ashamed for having a dead son and failing him. That my body failed him. I wanted to hide all parts of myself that resembled being a woman and especially a woman who was ever pregnant. I remember having a hard time finding something to wear. It had to fit the full criteria of being something: I did not wear while pregnant with him, fit over my swollen belly and didn't look horrible, and was not maternity branded. I hated the thought of wearing anything I'd worn while happily pregnant while in mourning and it took me a long time to be okay with that during Benjamin's pregnancy. Luckily, I borrowed most of the maternity wear while pregnant with Andrew, so they were returned to rightful owners as soon as I could get them out of my house. Not fast enough.

I was left with very little to chose from, so grabbed up this sweater and put it on. Maybe it was grief, but I hated the way it looked on me.

We had fondue. Some of the worst I'd ever had and I remember the very popular restaurant being packed, the dust that was stuck to the lampshade and fake flowers that decorated the poorly lit (romantic?) place. I remember the corner we stood while waiting for our table to open up and how I didn't feel like casually ordering a drink at the bar, though do remember drinking wine with dinner... because WHY NOT? I wondered how all those people could be celebrating and having Christmas get-togethers. I kind of thought they all knew what just happened to us and how I felt like my entire body was exposed. It was really cold outside, but part of me wonders if my grief made it feel colder. We valet parked. We rarely valet park.

I remember thinking it would be a terrible sweater to wear if I were a breastfeeding mom. And it is. One of the worst. Claire is down to three feedings in a day and I never feed her in public anymore, because she is fed around sleeping times. I picked that sweater up today and put it on. It felt just as wrong today as it did that evening. I wore it all day.

It's the last time I'll wear that sweater. I'll donate to the local consignment shop that supports programs that help victims of domestic abuse. Someone will buy it for $2 and wear it, having no clue how much emotion was underneath those fibers at one point. I'm glad to see it disappear.

Paying it Forward: Faces of Loss

In January of 2011, I was one month out from losing Andrew. In my email inbox was a message from a girl in Canada who had just lost her son that month. She had read the story I submitted to Faces of Loss and connected with me. Daily emails ensued. The following year, I had my rainbow baby, she had hers, and I drove to visit her. I actually met her in person at a Chinese restaurant, rainbow babies in hand, on my 30th birthday. It was somewhere in Waterloo, Ontario. Benjamin was not a pleasant restaurant guest (not much has changed) and I was super nervous.

The next day, we drove to her house and stayed two nights with their family. The following year, in June 2013, that friend brought her daughter and husband to our house here in Chicago, and 12 others joined. Laura and her husband (and many others) stayed a few nights with us. We've had many g-chat sessions and more emails than I've probably sent anyone in my life over these four years.

Last month, we flew to Vancouver and rented a house in Whistler for four nights with Laura and her family. This time, there were four rainbow babies present. We hit up the spa together, stayed up nightly lounging with beers in hand and chatting about life as it is with one child missing and two before us. It's natural now.

All of this was the result of the Faces of Loss website, founded by Kristin. As a result of Faces of Loss, Laura found my blog and email address, and sent me that first message. The message that told me I was not alone in that exact moment. The one where I knew that someone else, just 8 hours driving distance away, was missing her firstborn son as well. I read about a girl named Caroline and her son, Cale. We're now great friends who have also personally met multiple times now. This connection to blogs then connected us to one another and it was sort of a game of telephone that trickled out as we all added more to our connection base. As a result of Faces of Loss, I am now personally connected to (and frequently meet, chat, or email with) about two dozen babyloss friends who are on a similar timeline to my loss. Most now have a rainbow baby or two. They supported me heavily through my subsequent pregnancies like no other friends could have. Like my friend Brooke said in a recent post, they not only could say "I'm sorry," but "Me too."

That bit was really important. My friends who never experienced loss like I have were still wonderful and appreciated. But I needed those friends who could fully empathize and commiserate (now still!) with what I have been through in losing Andrew. Faces of Loss brought that to me. Faces, stories, timelines.

I followed Faces of Loss, but then had to take a break while I was pregnant with my two rainbows. I just couldn't manage reading the stories and igniting that fear. I was more interested in distracting myself from the reality of actually being pregnant. For sometime, the stories trickled in and then somewhat slowed to a stop. Running a non-profit website with volunteers who are busy and working and caring for children is a tough job! Story submissions were waiting to be published and there were just not enough hands on deck. Another fellow friend, Amy, worked tirelessly and often alone to keep things afloat with story editing and publishing, but just couldn't manage all that was coming in on her own. Concurrently, I was receiving emails from friends who either lost a child or knew someone who did. They wanted guidance. I desperately wanted to send them to Faces of Loss, because that was my greatest hope after loss. But, I couldn't. Stories were not being published and I didn't want them to feel more isolated in their grief.

Back in December, I sent out an email to some fellow babyloss friends who had been volunteers for Kristin's non-profit website. I was curious about volunteering and how all that worked. I really wanted to get this thing up and working again. They sort of challenged me about volunteering myself.

I thought I couldn't. I was knee-deep in potty training and told myself that if I finally got the toddler to take action on the potty, I'd consider it. I told my friends Laura, Molly, Caroline and Brooke. They also challenged me, encouraged me and let me know they were interested in taking on equal roles with me to get those stories posted for other loss families to read and connect with; that Faces of Loss made a profound impact on them. Molly told Keleen, and she wanted in as well.

Benjamin finally potty trained (and hasn't looked back, people!). I shot the email off to Kristin about our interest to get stories up again so newer loss families could connect and create relationships like we all have. She was thrilled to have more volunteers and sent over instructions. Faces of Loss was created out of Kristin's longing for her own Stevie Joy. But like many of us, she has a very busy job and has two rainbow babies at home as well. It's her lovechild, we're just trying to nurture it.

As of Tuesday, January 27th, Faces of Loss is now up and running after 10 months of dormancy. Forty-seven stories have been published as I type this, with more in the queue. Here's to connecting families and creating lifelong friendships with people who can also say, "Me too." And please. If you would like to support and read the stories from families who have waited a long time to be connected and have their stories read, head on over and check them out. I'm sure they would appreciate some comments, words of encouragement, and maybe an email or blog visit. The site is still undergoing maintenance, so please be patient. But the most important aspect, the faces and stories are up and running! The Facebook page is even up and running again, thanks to Caroline!

Also, tell your friends, encourage them to submit their stories and submit your own! 

*Our goal is to have all submissions in the current queue posted in February and all submissions to follow within a week turnaround, just as the site states. All details on how to submit are here. 

(Even the Littlest) People Matter.

I feel like I need to talk about other things than potty training and my naughty toddler. As a quick update, the toddler is still naughty, but he's totally potty trained for day and naps and it really was fine and good after five days. We're now on day 13 of zero diapers and totally set. We're about to throw his butt in pull-ups for nights though because Mama needs to sleep and do less laundry, but anyway. We have two living children and that's all that really matters.

We'll be celebrating our daughter's first birthday exactly 10 days from today. In six days, about 40 people will cram into our home to witness her baptism and first birthday festivities. Four days later (on her actual birthday!), we will be flying to Whistler for skiing, spa indulgences and fun with our good friends and fellow babyloss family who are also parents to Jack, Grace & Piper. Jack's fourth birthday was on New Year's Day. Who would've thought we'd be renting a ski condo in Canada with friends who also have a dead son, four years later? If you asked me on December 4, 2010, I would've called you a lunatic. But we're so grateful to have such close friends who literally carried us through some tough days in those first months of loss and still have so much support to offer.

Just a few days before Christmas, Andrew's print arrived in the mail. We decided on a professional pencil sketch for his 4th birthday. Like so many of our babyloss friends, we wanted something to display in our homes that would show the true beauty of our children while still keeping them sacred and protected from gawking and ill responses. We first caught a glimpse when I was sent the initial sketch two days after his birthday. I was so happy to receive this during his birth month.

When it first arrived in my inbox, I was underwhelmed. It was stunning and drawn with such care, but it wasn't the boy I held in that hospital room-- nothing one dimensional could possibly contain all that he was in our arms that evening. There were tiny changes I requested she make (space between fingers as I remember & skinnier nostril cartilage). It was beautiful, but I found myself underwhelmed because it wasn't really him, as if what I expected was to have him back in our arms for the cost of a pencil sketch. We will never have more of him and never another portrait or photograph or experience with him. This was it.

This was shared on her facebook page, and now here. Andrew, spitting image of Claire. 

                                                 
After a day or so, I kept staring at his portrait and just fell in love with it. We received the professional copy just a week or so later and had it professionally framed. We picked up the framed piece two days before Christmas and it now has a place among our family photos. It is a cherished piece. We also ordered four copies that will be given to our families when they arrive this week.

Now four years after losing Andrew, we're still trying to find our place in this mess of babyloss. We want to contribute and help others. In many ways, we've already done that. My husband has recently signed up to help as a liaison for NILMDTS. My friend Brooke (who is basically a babyloss celebrity and contributing author to Three Minus One and I've had many meals with her and she slept in my house! Are you jealous?) blogged about a company called Sevenly recently. One of their recent campaigns supported Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. I bought up two shirts immediately and posted a picture of one of them on Instagram. They still have some available in four different prints, so check them out! They've raised over $19,000 in shirt sales for NILMDTS, donating $7 from each shirt to the organization.

We're just so passionate about supporting them and ones like it because it normalizes loss for everyone. It makes losing a child more bearable, less embarrassing and more accepted. It makes families like us feel like human beings with hearts and not looked at like charity cases and lepers. We gifted some local NILMDTS photographers gift cards during the holidays to encourage their efforts and thank them sincerely for all they have done for us and other families. I attempted and successfully managed to use my grant-writing skills to send $1k their way. We shop on Amazon Smile with with 0.5% of purchases going to the organization that is the sole reason we have images of our firstborn son and proof that he was real, ours, and is adored. 

If we ever get the guts, we'll use a NILMDTS photographer to shoot family pictures. We're not ready. Four years and two kids after losing our firstborn child, we still haven't had another professional photo shoot. He's always missing. It still hurts and there's still a void.

I'm considering another volunteer opportunity (because I really do need more to gab about than potty trianing, amiright?), but that's just being discussed and nothing concrete yet. It will probably take a village and in an effort to keep Andrew's memory alive and well within me, it's something I'm seriously considering.

People are still losing babies. I can't do anything about that (and neither can they, sadly), but it's something that hits me hard and something no one should go at alone. 

Toddler and Baby Lifesavers

The only reason I'm a capable and relatively happy human being right now is because of Benjamin and Claire. Well, mostly Benjamin. He came after Andrew and saved me from a very dark place. Not that the dark place doesn't still exist, but him being alive and allowing me to perform the duties of a mother literally brought me out of a dark place into some light again.

I often tell strangers about Andrew. At least a few times a week, his life comes up in conversation enough for me to explain things. I usually add the whole bit about being able to talk about him without crying because it's been a long time and I have two living children who carry on somewhat of a legacy for him. They carry some of his traits, features, and quirkiness, I'm assuming. I want to assume. I'm guessing I'd be bawling my eyes out while explaining his story if Benjamin and Claire were not in the picture after losing him, no matter if it had been 4 hours or 4 years like we're approaching in December.

With these kids, I feel like I gained some of my happiness and life back.

Without them? I would be in a very bleak place, I think. It's because of them and only because of them that living without Andrew is made manageable. It's a little scary to me that they carry so much of that healing burden for me. It's not fair to them, maybe. But honestly speaking, where on earth would I be without them?

Perhaps a dark post for a Monday, but honest. Something I've been thinking about a lot this week. I'll be back soon (after Halloween festivities and Benjamin's first school program!!) with pictures from pumpkin patch adventure and Disney World!

Letters to Andrew + Invitation

If you will join me, please unite in lighting candles to remember the babies at 7 p.m. this evening.

Small Bird Studio

Dear Andrew,

I almost wrote "sweet" Andrew, but really, who knows who you would have been. You might have been spunky, but I presume more circumspect than your younger brother. I think you would've been an intellect and someone who was easy to please. I guess I can't picture you being anything but wonderful because that's the dream I had for you as a baby growing for those nearly 39 weeks.

One thing is certain; the person you would have been has left a gaping hole in our family. I always said I wanted two children, but missing you makes me sure I want three. Except, I have three and you're not here. If I had one more, I would feel like I want four. I will always want you.

Missing and loving and lighting a candle that is not enough, because we love you.

Love,
Mom

Same Old {Grief} Story

We're seriously closing in on four years since Andrew died. The quick update?

I'm still sad and angry about him dying. I know sadness is the primary emotion, but anger comes out most often it seems. Acceptance doesn't appear to be near or even possible.

I don't mask anything well, so if you talk to me on a regular basis, you'll likely sense the anger and sadness when I talk about him. I'm just still so beside myself.

I'm mostly busy and super thankful to have his brother and sister to drive me nuts and amaze me everyday, but if you asked if I was happy or content, I would honestly never choose those words.

Someone asked me the other day if everything was going great with us, as if the alternative was something horrific or saddening. And really, things are going as great as can be with two kids. Except, the obvious knowledge of us really having three means that no, everything will never equal going great like, ever. There's always an addendum, it seems, to our happiness. I know we're not the only ones who've experienced tragic loss, and I'm aware that many people live with that similar addendum.

At nearly 4 years out, I'm still angry with God, even though I don't believe he saves us from harm or is the one who inflicts. I think he is supposed to be a comfort, simply put. I do believe God showed up in other people after Andrew died. The nurses who were doing a lot of the dirty work for us, the friends who showed up in such a horrible situation to offer their presence when they probably just wanted to flee the scene, the strangers who sent cards, and the list continues. I think I'm most angry with God because I don't know who else to be angry with.

I rarely cry. The tears are there occasionally and flood like a river. But mostly, they're absent.

Being at home with the kids can make things even harder, ironically. I have my hands full, but my brain is not full of anything but tasks. The intellectual stimulation is lacking because time does not allow for much of that, which then allows for sadness to creep in. This mom job can be really lonely in itself, and then even more lonely when you know you're missing 1/3 of your kids.

It's a cooler fall day here. The grief season is approaching.

New Blog Header

My incredible friend Alli changed my header for me a few years ago... but since then I've had two more kids and feel like I look nothing like the girl in the snuggie anymore. I'm sprouting gray hairs, no longer claim to be in my 20s and living a very mom life.

It's also been 3.5 years since Andrew died. While I grieve him openly, freely and often, I don't have as much to say about my grief or how it's changing at this stage. Sure, we have two more kids and we're very busy ensuring they become acceptable members of society, but Andrew is not lost. I think about him every single day. The pain is still very real and the tears still flow.

Just today there was a boy at the playhouse named Andrew. He was three, of course, and spelling his name aloud as he was writing on one of those Magna-Doodle things. Every time he wrote a letter, he would repeat the last ones and describe how it is written. A-N-D ..."tall line and big belly"... A-N-D-R ... "tall line, small belly, and little line" and just kept going on and on. He was so proud that he was sharing his name with everyone in the room.

I could've vomited.

But yes, this post is about the new header. My friend Kari recently wrote a blog post about designing her own blog header and it sort of lit a fire under my behind. I knew I could do it and I've done similar pieces of design before, but never paid much attention to the blog header. Honestly, I was nervous about how to incorporate my whole family and that's why it sat the same for so long. I wanted Andrew represented on here even though I don't write about grief for every post. He's still our son and part of our daily lives and will always be part of our family. We still can't stomach taking professional family photos because of how hard it still is to imagine Andrew not being a part of the pictures.

I didn't want people who visit this blog to assume I've moved on or don't want to share Andrew anymore. It's just never going to be that way. I wanted to represent him in a photo with my other two, but struggled with how to make that happen. I could use a picture of his name in the sand. His urn. A candle with his name. But none of these seemed to be enough to represent that he really was our flesh and blood and really did exist. I have photo proof. Just not any interest in showing them to the masses who would not necessarily find those photos in loving spirit. I protect him and the little bits of him I still have. I just needed people who visited this blog to know that our family lost someone very important and that he will never be shamed or forgotten. That this blog is different than just a mom blog. When writing about my living children, my firstborn is never far from my mind.

With that, the new header. For his fourth birthday, I plan to have Dana pencil sketch his beautiful face. I may switch the header to his sketch eventually, but I really like how this one turned out.

Free Chicago Pregnancy & Infant Loss Couple's Retreat

One of my fellow babyloss mamas  (thanks, RyAnne!) sent over this flyer about a special couple's retreat located in Chicago for families who have experienced pregnancy or infant loss.

It's a one-day retreat, free of charge and open to all faith backgrounds. For those who are local and haven't personally connected with other couples (or even those who have!), this is a great opportunity to develop a community of support. I know firsthand, having that tangible support and getting a hug from someone who understands the piercing pain of loss can be a huge salve for the heart.

On The Night You Were Born...

...The moon smiled with such wonder

That the stars peeked in to see you

And the night wind whispered,

"Life will never be the same."

 

He was born at 9:04 p.m. Tonight, at 9:04, I was taking a hot shower. I wasn't laying in a hospital bed vomiting, shaking and welcoming my son into the world silently like I did three years ago. It was much more pleasant this evening. The smell of his candle (apparently discontinued, of course)--dubbed as such because it was given to me during my pregnancy with him and has a very babylike smell-- permeated the air. 

 

Today wasn't nearly as kind. Before noon, I'd sobbed at least a handful of times. Ray and I chatted about how it's crazy that even three years later, it's horrible how raw your grief can still feel at times. It might be just a day, but it's the anniversary of the worst day of our lives.

 

Of course we still miss him. Of course we wonder what our lives would be like with an intelligent three-year-old roaming our house. Of course we wonder what he would be eating for lunch and what his favorite toy would be. But the sad truth and reality is that we never knew and will never know a single answer.

 

We went about our day and I took Benjamin to storytime between sobfests. Surprinsingly, I held it together at 2-3 year old storytime. We had a drive-thru lunch because that's all I could muster. Naptime arrived and I made Andrew's 2013 ornament out of pieces of clothing he had worn. I thought that would do me in, but really, I was okay with it. I was mostly composed because I wanted to make something worthy of displaying in his honor. I look forward to hanging his four ornaments on the tree this year. Christmas trees, while beautiful and innocent in nature, still mock me. Never will we have a tree in the same place we did on that cold December morning we arrived back home with empty arms and a bag of mementos. The tree has a whole new room and will never be purchased before his birthday.

 

In between cutting pieces of the only clothing he had ever worn, I read countless texts messages and emails from some incredibly thoughtful people who still remember he lived and existed. I was honored and completely humbled by people who remembered. It's really one day a year that I fully experience the impact my lifeless son had on so many people.

 

I took Benjamin to the playhouse down the street after naptime and we went to dinner at one of our favorite local, kid-friendly burger places that has toys and books for kids to play with. We know Andrew would've liked that place. Benjamin sure does. We arrived back home to the fanciest of Whole Foods cupcakes I purchased yesterday and Benjamin attempted to burn himself while I blew out the candles. My three-year-old would've been elated to do so himself, I'm sure.

 

A traditional evening of books, toys and all things Benjamin and off to bath and bed for Andrew's little brother. The fourth December 5th we've experienced without our firstborn son alive. And the numbers keep adding.

 

Because there has never been anyone like you... ever in the world.

For never before in story or rhyme

{not even once upon a time}

Has the world ever known a you, my friend,

And it never will... not ever again.

Right Where I Am: 2 years, 7 months, 24 days

I planned to write this a long time ago. But somehow I never got around to it and while my thoughts are constant, my writing is not.

We're closer to 3 years without Andrew than we are two. Or one. Though, my memories of the day I met my firstborn are still quite vivid in my mind. I'll admit, I have to look at his photos to perfectly remember his cute nose and beautiful lashes sometimes, but the memories of what it felt like to hold him for that short time are still so vivid. The rush of sadness and love is still so memorable.

We were at Costco yesterday and Benjamin managed to find a little girl and her two brothers. They were eating at the food court and the 4-year old boys got up to walk somewhere. The dad called their names to get their attention and it caused Ray and I to look at one another with our jaws dropped. The twins boys were Andrew and Benjamin. So that's what it's like to have siblings that are both alive and with the same names you carefully chose for your own children.

It still makes me infinitely sad that I cannot introduce my Andrew in person (or let him introduce himself!). And it makes me sad that Benjamin will never know his "big" brother, who ironically is and will always be much smaller than he. The sting of losing Andrew is still sharp and I'm still angry about it. My friend commented recently to me that although Benjamin never met his brother, the firstborn, he acts as a second-child. He's more cautious, curious, subdued and observant.

At this stage, I boldly proclaim that I birthed two beautiful boys when other moms at the park ask about how many children I've had. I'm far past the stage of caring about making others sad or disappointing them with news. I am proud to be a mother of two boys and will stop at nothing less than to honestly share our story. It helps me honor Andrew and it forces others to face the reality of loss and that it's perfectly normal to be transparent about sadness in our society.

It still opens up doors. I still meet other moms who lost children and go on to share about their losses when I open up about my own. My mentality stands that if my reality of loss is uncomfortable for them, we don't need to carry on as friends.

One of our new friends we met at storytime has been dealt a rough road of multiple miscarriages and complications related. We were at the zoo recently and she asked if I'd ever attended a grief group, because she recently attended one and found it helpful. I talked through all the reasons I never did, and then explained how blogging and our recent BLM meetup is daily therapy for me. That in the earliest days, I had support from all over the globe at my fingertips and not just on the last Tuesday of the month at 7 p.m. It made me wish she and all of the other loss moms out there had the same support I feel so lucky to have.

I am so grateful for the support. While I don't blog about grief daily based on lack of time (surely not lack of thoughts!), I'm still living and tearfully remembering all we've come through over these last 2 years, 7 months, and 24 bloody days.

Right Where I Am at 6 months
Right Where I Am at 1.5 years

Chicago Rainbow Weekend 2013

This past weekend was monumental.

I had expectations for the weekend meeting of 13 of my friends (only 3 of which I'd met before) and their rainbow babies. Those expectations were shattered.

It was better than I could've ever imagined.

To an outsider, I assume the idea of 14 women (3 husbands) and 14 children, all who have the common bond of dead children would be royally depressing. A group you'd hope to avoid running into because our faces represent whole families of children who are missing for no acceptable reason. I'm sure we represent what every other person on the planet hopes they will never become-- a parent who has buried a child.

And I guess that's true. Before losing Andrew, I would probably have gone out of my way to avoid that sort of thing. On second thought, I would've ignored the thought of such a group meeting because I was invincible. Had it all together and knew it would never happen to me. Why would it? Life was good.

Our group represents a bunch of women, men and children that are intelligent, attractive (yes!), fun, interesting, unique, and bereaved. We're different in so many ways, but the people we've become over the last few years since losing our children is what bonds us.

I've spent the last 2.5 years (yes, Andrew's 1/2 birthday was just a week ago) pouring my emotions out to writing as a way of therapy. Others took to their keyboards and did the same. We supported one another with words and that meant we did not feel entirely alone. Like we were not on the island of grief alone. And that someone, somewhere was crying similar tears of sadness over losing out on the life of a child they fully envisioned would be coming home with them and staying for good.

This past weekend, my house in the suburbs of Chicago was home base for what we coined the BLM Get Together 2013. Or Rainbow Weekend. We were central-ish being in the Midwest. In total, 31 people filled my home over the course of a few days with every single one of us missing at least one beloved child. We each had our rainbow in tow-- the child born after the sadness of losing a child-- the light after our storms. Our storms are never over and our children never forgotten. In fact, they are remembered and recognized even more because we have their siblings to hold and love.

This weekend.

We laughed. We cried. We did both at the same time. We ate. We took photos. We picnicked. We stayed up late hours chatting. We smiled.

It felt therapeutic. This whole weekend was just what our souls needed. After 2.5 long years of feeling isolated and suffocating in my own skin, I felt a huge release this weekend.

Sure, it was mayhem. With that many children ranging from 7 months - 2 years, you can imagine what kind of crazy my house looked, felt and sounded like this weekend.

But honestly? We wanted it to be crazier. Instead of 14 children, there should have been 29 of them wreaking havoc on everything they could find. Sure, we wouldn't know one another and this whole meeting would be null and void. But tell our hearts that. They aren't rational.

Our beautiful rainbow babies in hats knitted by a grandma missing her granddaughter, Elizabeth. Incredible and emotional for us all. Lots of Kleenex.

Mamas and their rainbow babies

Families from all over: Missouri, California, Washington, New Jersey, Alabama, Texas, Illinois, Canada, Minnesota, Tennessee (and many others were in our hearts and thoughts as they were unable to come).

These families and many others who could not attend this weekend were part of a large camaraderie we created through blogging. I know blogging gets a bad wrap as being self-indulgent drivel. However, without this bit of communication, I'm not quite sure where I would be today in my grief. It's still misery. It's still horrible to wake up every single morning knowing that I will never see my son again. Blogging has become a way to connect with others in a way I never imagined would be necessary in my life. That picture is important proof that these women and their beautiful rainbows have changed my life for the better.

Misery loves company. Maybe. Okay, yes it does.

But Lord. I'm just so happy I found these "miserable" people when I did and that I got to hug and cry with each one of them this weekend. I'm only sad it's over.

Candles lit and wish paper sent in honor of our babies and those who could not be present to light candles for their children.

Other recaps from the weekend written by Brooke, Melissa, Tiffany, Natasha and Keleen.

Black and White

You'll never see one of those photos on Instagram posted by me. And I'll never have another one printed.

We have a large canvas print from our wedding in black and white that I love, but that was before. Before is okay, but this is after. Like two sides of a coin and definitely different people within us.

Before all things I knew were good all of a sudden turned upside-down, black and white photos were modern chic. They had edge to them and provided a sense of mystery to photos that left you wondering.

What color is that shirt?
Is that tulip white or yellow?
What color eyes do they have?

Your brain is left to the intriguing mystery and fantasy that the colors could be anything you want.

Andrew's photos were in black and white. For obvious reasons. And as much as I cherish/adore/love/hoard them, it saddens me that they are black and white. They're gorgeous. Taken by a professional photographer and touched up in probably so many places that it makes you wonder what the real baby looked like. Well, except us. We know exactly what that gorgeous baby looked like.

They do look like him, except the color. Of course the color. It's as though the obvious choice to print in black and white helps conceal imperfect skin coloring... but more vividly adds the mystery of the unknown about a baby sadly unknown. And it's hard to forget the notion that things are quite black and white when it comes to the reality of loss. That things are not colorful or cheery. They're black, white, gray, permanent. Their lack of color somehow symbolizes the permanence of losing him.

In June, he would be blowing out the candles on his half-birthday cake. A boy standing tall at the age of 2.5 years. What a joy that would be to see the boy he should become. At well over 2 years after losing him, it still brings me to my knees. Maybe not so often, but still painfully so.

Letters to Andrew {6}

The day we arrived home empty-handed from the hospital after losing Andrew, we immediately re-booked our flights from California to Florida instead. Our California trip was scheduled for a post-baby shower and to introduce Andrew to all of our friends and family. With no baby to bring, we chose to change our itinerary altogether and booked a cruise to the Bahamas. It wasn't meant to be a vacation and we didn't look forward to it. We were far too sad to look forward to anything. I couldn't even manage to understand how I'd make it another day, let alone look forward to a trip we'd take a few months from that date.

This time, we set out for the islands again, but this time a bit further into the West Indies. Somehow, I feel connected to Andrew when we travel to that region, because he was so close to me then. He was still so fresh in my mind and it was days and not years since I'd held him for the one and only time.

On one of the days we spent on St. Kitts, we took a taxi to Cockleshell Beach at the Southern tip of the island, looking on to Nevis, the sister island and other half of the small country. The entire beach was pretty desolate as there were no cruise ships docked that day. There were other families with their children playing in the calm waters and people dining at the two restaurants. We took walks up and down the narrow shoreline and spent the time on shaded beach chairs with the only sound coming from the crashing waves and a rooster that couldn't seem to figure out his place in life.

I felt an overwhelming need to see his name in the sand, so I wrote it. A few times, actually. The waves wanted to wash it away and I needed to see it.

Beloved Andrew,

I don't shower what's left of you with kisses quite as much as I did in the earlier days of missing you. I don't cry as much... though just typing that has reduced me to big alligator tears. It upsets your brother to see me crying, so it's a good thing he's napping right now. The magnitude of losing you still catches me by surprise when I think of just how much we lost on that dreary day in December. 

I read an article this week about a celebrity who had a late miscarriage and was deeply saddened by the loss. There were comments from ignorant strangers that made me so angry. They didn't understand that an entire life and all of the plans that came with that precious life were gone. It's been a long time since I felt injustice and anger about losing you. Those feelings came right back up when I read about others trivializing that baby's life.

When we were in St. Kitts with your little brother this past weekend, I couldn't stop thinking about you. There were many children at our resort. Many that were about the age you would be now. My heart will always wonder and ache for the boy and man you should become.

We arrived back in Chicago to cold, just as we did when you died and after that Bahamas trip we took because you died. The winter chill stings my soul and mocks us with its presence. 

We miss you. There's nothing more to say about it, but I'll keep saying it. It can never quantify how much, as the words are just not powerful enough. I love you. 

Love, 
Mom

Full Circle

This is just one of the series of birthday week posts, but I felt like it deserved its own.

This day is big, you guys. Remember this post last year?

Huge. Monumental. It's the day we brought one of our babies home for the very first time. It was magical. On the way home, I snapped about a hundred photos of Benjamin staring confused about his new surroundings that didn't involve bright lights and alarms everywhere like the NICU. Just the flash of the camera as we drove away with excitement and adrenaline fueling us.

We cried on the way home as we talked about how it felt like we were being followed home by the NICU nurses we fought so hard to release our baby. How the feeling was so surreal and bringing home one of our children was all we'd dreamed about for nearly two years.

We arrived home and fed Benjamin, swaddled him, and laid him on our bedroom floor as we took turns staring at him and switching off to feverishly tear apart the nursery that was left in shambles from when we lost Andrew. We didn't want to count our chickens that Benjamin would be coming home with us, so we had a lot to do to make things functional.

We were exhausted, but wanted to soak in every moment of this baby. He brought so much love with him and we needed it all. We need it all.

Tonight at 6:30 p.m., we celebrate. With champagne. Benjamin will celebrate with a sippy cup of milk. 

Grief Lit.

I don't know about the rest of you babyloss friends out there, but when your baby died, did tons of literature, books & articles start flooding your way?

Not that there's anything wrong with that and honestly, I think it's so encouraging that those who care most about you send not only their condolences, but anything they can that they think might keep you treading water. Because that's all we were doing for a very, very long time after Andrew died. Treading water. Sending literature, cards, plants, or whatever means you're acknowledging our loss and sadness. That it's not being trivialized. As much as I felt suffocated by the full mailbox of sad cards and flower deliveries, I felt so thankful that Andrew was recognized at all to a sea of people who had never even seen his face (which is beautiful, by the way).

We sent the plants and flowers away with a friend who works at a nursing home. The people appreciated them there and were willing to see that they were cared for. We would've just let them shrivel up and die... which felt like such a strong metaphor for how we were feeling when our son really did die. We didn't need to watch other things die around us because we were in no shape to care for them. So they went.

But the literature.

I'd venture to say that I read one of the books in the entire pile. It's a children's book and I lost my mind reading it... but felt it was such a good description of grief. Other than that, I didn't even crack open the covers. I hid them away, embarrassed that I needed to own such titles. I didn't want anyone telling me how to grieve or giving me advice on something so crippling and unforgiving. I didn't want someone telling me it would be okay eventually or that I needed to move on and this was how to do it. I did read two books, but mostly just memoirs of those who had babies die before me. I craved that literature, as I wanted to know I wasn't alone. But a psychiatrist's point of view about how to handle the worst thing conceivable? I wanted nothing to do with those words.

All I wanted to do was talk with babyloss friends, cry, and try like hell to get pregnant again so I could mask some of that sadness in the form of a sibling. While having B is much more than that now, it definitely felt like the best salve I could have to ease the pain. And it has... but just like a salve, it only masks the pain a bit. It doesn't eliminate the pain.

Yesterday during B's nap, we were cleaning the utility room in our basement. I swear those pictures are on my list, but travel and a special birthday celebration are taking precedence. I cleaned through all my teaching supplies to consolidate and eliminate some of the stuff I know will be valueless in a few years when I finally head back to the classroom. We organized our camping and hiking supplies, and made room for our tools and other things that belong in basement utility rooms... like dust-collecting tennis rackets.

I came across Andrew's bag. It's a Trader Joe's bag that our friends brought to the hospital full of snacks and goodies the day after Andrew was born. I can't bring myself to use the re-usable bag, as it most definitely feels like Andrew's bag. Yet, it's such a cheap representation of his life and value. But I just don't know where to keep his things. The things he wore in the hospital. The only things he ever wore. The trinkets people sent us and keepsakes, his footprints, certificates of sad things... and the literature. The grief literature that just seemed to pile and pile when we opened our mailbox during the weeks and months after he died.

I only now might be able to crack open the covers of some of them, but I don't know if that's healthy. I'm an experienced griever now, and I do believe my words could very well be written on those pages. I fear the words will open wounds that are salved over and maybe even present more anger than I continue to harbor about losing our perfect firstborn.

Do these books remain on my shelves? What about Andrew's things? Where do those go? They were in the nursery until Benjamin was born, and then we moved them to the basement because we didn't know where else they should go. I moved them from the basement utility room to the basement bedroom closet yesterday because it seemed like a warmer environment for the only things Andrew ever touched. I don't know that I value them a ton, but it seems like I should or at least separate them from dusty tennis rackets and the hot water heater.

...

I received an email from another babyloss mother, Sarah, over at Land of Abe. She lost her daughter Genevieve in 2011 and wrote an article about how stillbirth and grief are currently represented in our society. It was published over at the New York Times parenting blog yesterday. There are some wonderful comments of those who have both lost and acknowledge. It's a lovely read that's raw and true to what most of us parents who live beyond our babies want-- for grief to be handled better in our society and for stillbirth and {insert how your child died here} to be researched so other families might be spared from the reality of such devastating losses. Head on over there and join the discussion, if you will.

Andrew's New Diggs

Yeah, that's totally morbid to write it like that. I'm aware.

For those not so savvy, here's Urban Dictionary's explanation of the word, in case you really hated my choice of a title:

1.	diggs
	home;place of residence;place of business "my bro just moved into new diggs across town."

See? Totally fitting.

I wrote a post earlier this month about visiting the funeral home and how our emotions affected the B-man. Here's the full story, for what it's worth.

The day after I delivered Andrew, our nurse came in with a paper of funeral homes we needed to call. Burial or cremation? Funeral or memorial service or not? Such questions we didn't anticipate ever having to answer and yet we were bombarded with decisions. When in a state of shock, you don't make decisions or think clearly through the tough stuff very well. And how were we to know what to do? You never anticipate having to choose where your child's final resting place will be.

Thanks to the nurses, we have professional pictures of Andrew. We would've never known about NILMDTS and yet, they were there for us in time of need. Our nurse on December 6 told us she would handle calling around to make arrangements for us because it was not something we were in a state of mind to be doing. Bless her.

We were discharged on December 7th and went over to select an urn for Andrew. The funeral home is about 2.5 miles from our home and I remember being a complete sobbing mess still swollen from being nearly 39 weeks pregnant just two days prior. I sat in a chair in a room where the walls felt they were suffocating me. We were shown some booklets and steered to select a keepsake urn for our son. I remember vaguely being told that because he was a boy and because he was a baby, that people often choose blue and this small heart urn. At the time, I didn't care much or have any clue how we could even do such a thing as pick out an urn for our son that we thought just 48 hours before, would be coming home with us in a carseat. We went with the blue urn and they told us they'd be picking up our son from the hospital.

He was cremated at a facility somewhere in Chicagoland and I guess the urn was sent to the crematorium for it to be filled.

Days later, we received a phonecall to come pick up our son from the local funeral home where we placed the order for that small, blue heart-shaped urn. We were told on the phone to come anytime. I don't remember when we picked him up, but I know it wasn't right away. We were a mess of emotions and had no real urgency, after all, he was gone.

When we arrived, they told us we could go into a room where his ashes were placed-- the room where they hold funerals. On a table would be his urn. The heart urn was wrapped in a velour black bag with a little Brother P-Touch label on the back of the urn that read, "Baby Wilson" on it. Not even his name. The box next to the heart urn also had his name, date of cremation and location of cremation, all in typewriter font. We were told his remains did not fully fit. Until just weeks ago, I had no idea how much did not fit, because I was too afraid to open that box. It turns out only half of his remains fit into that little urn and the other half were in the box. Sealed with a twist-tie.

I remember sobbing as we drove home. I was holding a heavy urn with my son's ashes, and they couldn't even put all of him inside the container. Insult to injury-- perhaps an understatement of that long-used phrase. I was surprised at how heavy that urn was-- but I know much of it was the urn itself and not my son at all. At the time, it felt like I was holding his full weight, 7lbs. 6oz.

He lived on our bookshelf in the formal living room for two years. His additional ashes were inside a basket underneath and it bothered us that he wasn't ever whole. I was frustrated that we did not receive a phonecall telling us that we should select another urn. Or that they didn't just leave his ashes in one container for us to decide later. What good is an urn with only part of our son? Our intention was never to spread his ashes. I also felt incredibly sad to obviously be an anomaly. Clearly they didn't deal much with dead babies, or they would have this all figured out by now. Lucky us. The anomaly.

For his 2nd birthday, we knew things needed to be made right. I wrote it on the whiteboard in our laundry room and we finally made the trek back to the funeral home the Saturday before Andrew's 2nd birthday. I called ahead of time to schedule an appointment and gave them all of our information. We were told we could come in later that afternoon. I received a phonecall a bit after making the arrangement to tell me they had lost our file.

Lost our file.

You read those words correctly. I can't make this stuff up. {I know my husband is considerably more understanding in this regard, but I'm not and I write this blog, so I'll be carrying on now.}

We arrived at the funeral home and sat down in that very same room, this time with Benjamin in our arms. I sat in the opposite chair I did before, but within those same 4 walls. The funeral home director plops a book down in front of us with urns to choose from. I was instructed to bring all of Andrew's ashes with us, so I brought the two containers. Despite explaining the situation on the phone since he lost our file (dead infant, too small of an urn, cremated, 2010, name, date, etc.), he didn't seem to connect the dots.

Once he saw the containers, he said he understood and started flipping through to show us our options. He sighed here and there, telling us they don't really have a size that would work for Andrew's ashes, at least not in the catalog. There are full-sized options and keepsakes-- primarily used to hold a small portion (about 2-4 cubic inches-- Andrew is about 7.5-- it's nearly a 1:1 ratio. Try Googling that for a good time) and for the rest to be spread or buried.

The he tells us that he'll jump on Google to look at some more for us.

Jump on Google.

No, sir. We know just how to jump on Google to search for urns ourselves. We were hoping to avoid that whole process, hence the middleman.

We decide on an urn he checked online to see that they had the middle, rare size that would still be far too big for Andrew's ashes. I was sobbing at this point and ready to leave. Benjamin wanted to crawl around and I was not having any of that.

We hurriedly ordered and walked out and I sobbed while holding Benjamin in the parking lot. We left Andrew inside. He wouldn't be with us on December 5th.

Before we got in the car, Ray headed back in because he just couldn't leave Andrew's ashes there on his birthday. He went in to retrieve him and we sat in the car, sobbing some more. We were no more than 2 blocks away before he asked me if I wanted to cancel the order. I hated the urn we chose, again, and really didn't think this was a good solution. But Ray knew that without me saying a word.

He called and canceled everything, stating that we weren't pleased with our options and that we would be handling things on our own from now on. We arrived home and Benjamin wouldn't sleep. He was feeling our grief.

Once he was down to sleep, we researched urns online. Nothing like having a website called "urn shopp.er" show up in your dropdown menu when typing websites in daily. Note to self: delete history. We found one that was perfect. As perfect as one can be anyway. LuciaUrns is an Etsy shop started by a potter in Massachusetts. People loved her pots so much, that they often asked her if she made urns for their loved ones-- as the current options on the market are not personal, warm and artist-made. Dealing with a rare size issue, it was fitting that she created urns that would meet the needs of any size, including babies.

We selected the smallest size, suitable for 10 cubic inches. Ordered, shipped and to our home the day after his birthday. I spent the rest of that day during naps figuring out what we would do about his ashes. I knew we'd pour them ourselves, but I was scared. I don't know of what, but I guess the idea of staring down the ashes of your deceased child doesn't exactly warm your heart. I opened his old urn, the heart, with a flathead screwdriver and there was residue. I didn't take the bag out of the urn because it was jam-packed in there and looked quite difficult to handle. But the ashes? They were more coarse than I imagined.

Once Ray came home, he took the additional container, the old urn, and the new urn into the laundry room and performed the switch. With some tears, our firstborn had a final place in our home where he would be whole again. The bag from the old urn with its very own twist-tie (like on your garbage) along with the urn itself, the screws, the "baby wilson" label, and the additional box were placed in the garbage along with dirty diapers and food scraps.

Just another example of the heartbreak of baby loss. The paradox of life and death.

While this post is terribly dark and sad, I do want to update that we are so pleased with the new urn, its beauty, and the daintiness of it. We're thrilled Andrew has a perfectly chosen piece of art as his very own. As sad as it is to have such a thing, we are pleased and feel more at peace with things ever since that package arrived on our doorstep. {I waited to post this on a day that there were no birthdays, to my knowledge. It needed to be in Andrew's birth month.}

We're finally done with that forsaken funeral home.

Old Grief

What will grief look like when we're 60?

Currently, we're celebrating Christmas with Andrew in our presence. He has a stocking hanging near the tree, where his ashes are on the bookshelf. I bought him an ornament last year and this year and intend to buy one every year forevermore. Of course, that makes me wonder if by my 60th year, he'll have 32 ornaments? What will I do with them all, and how healthy will that be?

I know my grief will change. But I don't ever want it to change so drastically that Andrew is a distant memory. It's already hard enough admitting that he sort of is that distant memory.

I struggle with thinking about how eventually this mourning might become old hat. Andrew used to be the first person I woke up thinking about. Now, that's not the case. I guess it's healthy that he's not, but I still think of him many times each day.

December is just his month. It's hard for me not to think about him often. It's hard for me to hang decorations and walk by them all day long without thinking about being pregnant with him. After all, it was the last time Christmas decorations were seen in and around our home.

I can't imagine blogging about grief from age 28 until I'm elderly. Or maybe I can? I do love to write and I did start this blog far before Andrew died... so maybe I can keep writing. Will I write about him every year? I'm scared of the answer, honestly. I want to know his memory is alive to me and I fear that this grief will get "old" in some ways.

What about you guys? Ever think about how grief will change over the course of your lifetime?

Letters to Andrew {5}

Dear Andrew,

I sat down with your little brother and opened your photo book today. It shocks me still just how beautiful you were. We've had a rough week around here celebrating what should've been your 2nd birthday. We had dinner at a place we think you would've loved and made sure to enjoy some bakery treats that evening. Your little brother even enjoyed a bit of a gingerbread cookie in your honor.

I didn't ask friends or family to take photos or send me anything this year like we did last year. I guess I just wanted the day to go by as fast as possible. But wasn't I surprised to receive emails and text messages and phonecalls and pictures of all the wonderful things people did for you and ways they celebrated your life. So many delicious desserts (complete with #2 candles and your name!), random acts of kindness, and kind words, all for a boy we love and miss so much. {Thank you so much, all of you.}

It's impossible to think about the road ahead and how many more years of our lives we'll spend missing you.

But in the meantime, we're trying to make you proud.

Loving You Always,

Mom, Dad & Benjamin