Grant Writing... and Winning!

As summer comes to a close and school starts up soon (Benjamin tomorrow! Eeek!), I am once again reminded of how much I miss the classroom. I miss the freshness of new kids coming in, organizing, planning for instruction, and what I miss the very most, teaching. I just love watching my own kids grow everyday, but I do excitedly dream of heading back to the classroom in the future.

During my teaching years, I wrote a lot of grants. In fact, I was one of the main writers on our team to win our school the California Distinguished Schools Award for the first time. Many veteran teachers had been on the committee before and the school never won after years of trying. They said it couldn't be done. Everyone was discouraged. If you know me, you know I'm fairly determined and not willing to take no for an answer if what I want is something I'm passionate about. Well, we did it. In addition, I won a series of grants through Mobil to be the only classroom on our campus with a SmartBoard, EXPO document camera, students response systems and a variety of other teaching tools, many related to technology. I love writing grants. Maybe it's my journalism background that just gets fired up. Or maybe it's the competition of it all.

Well, it's been a few years. A month or two ago, I randomly saw a program online by JOLLY TIME Pop Corn called the Kernals of Kindess awards program. They were selecting individuals or organizations that "pop up" and make a difference in other peoples' lives. They were giving away 100 grants of $1,000 to keep doing great work in honor of JOLLY TIME's 100th anniversary (of being a 5th generation family-run company... how cool is that?). When I saw this, I immediately thought of Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep and the impact they made on us as a family, giving us the precious gift of Andrew's only photos. Those photos mean more to us than any other gift because that is all we have of our son. We're just so grateful. And we didn't pay a dime for those photos or the 1 a.m. session of that photographer coming into our hospital room and facing us at our worst time. I wanted to support this amazing non-profit and give it a go! I had nothing to lose and only about 15 minutes of my time to sacrifice-- a lot less time than that photographer spent with us that night.

I put my fingers to work and filled out the application, nominating NILMDTS. I don't remember what I wrote, but wish I remembered! I randomly checked my junk mail box last night to find an email announcing I won one of the 100 grants.

Out of 6,620 entries!

The story of NILMDTS will be featured in October and I can't wait to link you all to that when it comes around. Aside from the monetary gift, they are receiving so much publicity that is much-needed for the fantastic non-profit that they run. Conveniently, as my friend Caroline pointed out, they will be featuring the story during the Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness week in October. I don't know if that's just coincidental, but it's fantastic.

While it's just a snippet, just look up at the header of my blog to see some of the art of a fantastic NILMDTS volunteer photographer to know why I am indebted to their kindness and work on behalf of grieving families.

How Unfortunate

I'm in a little bit of a mood today (partially due to poor sleep), so I figured it was a perfect day to write about my stillborn son. Because that also makes me angry and sad. Which is a mood. And not a positive one.

The husband and I were chatting with a couple we didn't know the other day. Benjamin was off playing in the church and they asked about children. We chimed in about our 19-month old son. And then they asked if that was our only child. I told them we had a son before and he died at birth due to a cord issue.

Her response (as she held her 6-week old newborn girl, their third daughter)...

"How unfortunate."

That response caught me so off-guard that I couldn't even respond. The proper response to the tragedy of a lost life is empathy/sympathy and sadness. Something along the lines of I'm sorry or that's horrible would've been appropriate.

It's unfortunate when you leave the milk out on the counter and it spoils. Or when you get a flat tire. Or when your favorite team loses a game.

When your firstborn son dies, it's a whole lot more than unfortunate.

It makes me angry that other parents don't even see the value of human life. You're holding a newborn baby. What if someone took her away? She died in her sleep? Contracted a terminal illness?

I'd have a whole lot more to say to you than how unfortunate that would be.

Grief Revisited

The calendar pages are thinning out again. We're closer to him.

I'd be lying if I said it wasn't easier anticipating his birthday this year than it was last year. There's just something so definite about 1 year. It seems so monumental in so many ways, including personal relationships. At the 1 year point, things always started to get real. We were engaged just weeks after our first year of dating was up. Now that he's nearing the age where babies aren't referred to in terms of months but in terms of years, it feels different. But it doesn't change that he's gone. Or how much we crave to have him here, in our arms to hug, love and watch grow.

But two years? I'm not as anxious, and maybe Benjamin is in part to thank for that, but I guess I just don't know what to think anymore. We had a long talk the other night about Andrew and how we're dealing. It's not that this is a closed chapter of our lives. We'll forever be damaged and changed. We talked about how we're just worse people for losing him. That it caused us to be more guarded and scared. That we're more angry and still question why our family was crushed.

The jealousy is still harbored when we pass another family with two beautiful children in tow. When we learn of a firstborn being welcomed into someone's home. When a two-year-old boy is in our presence.

I told my husband the other night that I'm glad we're still broken. That I hope we're always broken and lack acceptance when it comes to losing Andrew. I don't want to accept that our son had to tragically die when he was supposed to be welcomed into our home at any moment. I don't want to accept that we'll forever memorialize him and speak to his sibling(s) in past tense, because they will never have a chance to meet him face-to-face. I'm sad for us, but I'm immeasurably sad for them.

We sat last week in our formal living room that doesn't have a whole lot of living in it at all. It's where Andrew's urn is and all of our tangible memories we display of him. It's also where we keep the photobook of his entire life, all in about 40 pages. It displays pictures of my entire pregnancy and how excited we were to be growing a son. Our son. Our firstborn. And now? It's so difficult to see those photos of our smug, innocent, naive selves; so difficult that we skip straight to the back for pictures of him. Just reliving the pregnancy in pictures, though wonderful as it was, makes me weak in the knees. I become nervous, sad, and angry when I see us in that state. It's like were were a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode. Every single picture framed in our home aside from the few of Benjamin were from before we became the people we are today. We were happily hopeful and lived in the world where babies didn't die. I'm jealous and frustrated looking at all of those photos. Seeing blog posts from our former selves is just so hard for me to read, because I was different and... better.

We talked through our tears about how the greater part of our lives will be lived in this broken state and world where babies and innocent people die terrible, horrible, and unfortunate deaths and it's just sad. Sure, there's beauty and will always be beauty, but it's always going to be less beautiful and less good. And that sucks. There's just no way around it.

My husband used to work for a company in LA that handled all the back-end work for professional photographers. He met some incredibly talented people there. It's LA, after all... but when you pair up photography with hip individuals and young, free spirits, you get a pretty nice mix of people. One of those amazing people shot our wedding.

In our broken state on December 5th of 2010, an equally talented and selfless person stepped into our newly broken lives and took photos of our deceased son for us as a volunteer for NILMDTS. He didn't have to come into such a vulnerable situation, find parking at a hospital in the middle of the night and meet our dead son and his broken parents. But he did. Those photos are absolutely the most valuable we have and we cherish them. This week, Ray wrote a note on the forums of his former photography company to thank and encourage those photographers who volunteer their time and resources (and emotions!) to do such good for families like us. We know it's not exactly easy. As we approach the two year mark, Ray decided to reach out again in admiration for those who humble themselves to do such remarkable deeds. They deserve all the recognition; it's because of them that we have photos of our firstborn and those just cannot be more important to us. As Ray wrote in his letter, ..."because of you, {Benjamin} will get to "meet" his older brother through the most beautiful photos..."

If you're a volunteering photographer reading this, we thank you. So many of us loss families just cannot even begin to thank you enough.

Today we prepare for a playdate at our home with some families in our area that we've grown to consider as part of our own family. It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, the beer is cold, the new toys are ready, our second son is growing and learning, and we're thankful. In a good, but not ever as good as it could have been way, like it was before our worlds changed. We miss you Andrew. We miss who you were, would be now, and would be tomorrow. We miss all of the memories we'll never get to create with you. It doesn't have to be the 5th or your birthday for us to think of you or mutter those words. We think them every single day we live.

Right Where I Am - 18 months

There's a little girl I see at church every week. She's probably about 18 months. I won't ask. Part of me is burning to know, but I can't know. I just can't know. Will I be like this for the rest of my life? Will I fear asking people how old their children are in fear that they might be the age Andrew should be?

He should be 18 months. Walking, talking, eating, laughing. I can't even get into the things I know I've missed out on and the seasoned mother I would be right now in my life. He should be here and running to the park everyday. But he's not. He'll never be again. It still hurts, but not like it did in the early days of my grief. Those days were very hazy. They seemed to blend and it makes me crazy thinking about that. While I'll always miss my Andrew, I hope to never feel the way I did in those beginning days again.

This grief is different. Surely it's no different in that my son is still gone, but I think it's because I am just plain used to being a baby loss mom. I know how to do it. I'm an expert now. I'm no longer wallowing in my grief, wondering what to do and where to go from there.

B has been a part of this healing, most certainly. I can honestly say that I would feel even more sadness and defeat if I did not have B here, was not pregnant, or had just gone through another subsequent loss. The truth is, B has brought such joy to our lives and given us what we expected to feel and experience with Andrew. He is not Andrew. Let's make no mistake about that. He is no replacement and will never be allowed to be spoken as such. He's most assuredly his own little soul. But he is one thing that I desperately needed 18 months ago-- hope. He's hope in our lives and reassurance that though the sun appeared to fall out of our worlds on that very cold December day, that it does rise again. That there are more blessings to come in life that we need to appreciate in their entirety. One major beauty in having B here is that I have the opportunity to share about Andrew more often. I am constantly being asked if B is my only child-- my first. I always mention Andrew in conversation, and that allows me to keep him with me always.

We are crazy people now. We wake up in cold sweats and yell to one another bizarre phrases at 4 in the morning about whether our son is breathing or not. Whether we saw him move or felt warm air coming from his nostrils.We burst into tears at the sight of him slumped over in his carseat as we're driving somewhere and rush to the backseat to make sure he's still alive. We are the people who now own three baby monitors for one living child.

I still miss Andrew. I still honor him in my life and tell the lady at the sandwich shop who asked if B was my first that he most definitely is not-- that I lost my first son very tragically and he is my second. Still loved 100% the same, but a different child. I knew she meant to discuss if this was my first experience being woken up at all hours of the night and the answer to that is obviously yes. But I wasn't willing to deny my first son the placement and importance he has in my life. He changed everything.

This blog will remain a place to honor Andrew and carry out his legacy, because he could not. B will be a part of this and all things in between and beyond. It's the story of our lives and it all started with our beautiful Andrew. As for last year, I was in a very different place. I had miscarried our first sign of hope just days earlier. And exactly one month after I wrote that post, I found out I was pregnant again, with B. Our hope. He is still providing incredible hope in our lives.

To read all the submissions for this project, click here.

To donate to the Rasmussens, please see their donation website. To read their story, click here. 

Letters to Andrew {4}

Baby Boy,

We've come full circle now. It's officially been marked 1 year since we held your precious body and admired your perfect face. There is so much pressure that leads up to the 1 year mark of missing your child. And to make it all the more solemn, it happens every year around the holidays when it seems everyone else in the world is carrying on peacefully and joyously.

We're definitely not feeling the spirit this year. Last year was shock and numbness, and this year is outright denial and boycotting. Not a single decoration is up in our home. We try not to allow the what ifs to creep in, but man is that hard to avoid this time of year-- especially as we know quite a few other babies born around the time of your birth that are now celebrating their first year of life with cake, chubby cheeks, and first steps. A reminder of all we've missed. We had all those same hopes, dreams, and wishes for you as well. You were going to make us the luckiest people in the world and we were so honored to be your parents. While still your parents, we're still in shambles over how to handle grieving the life of a child, you,  we so desperately wanted and loved from conception. It's just not natural to say goodbye to a child and it still doesn't feel fair.

I'll never get over losing you, sweet boy. In honor of you today, so many wonderful people have done so many wonderful things. I'm overwhelmed by their love and support for you. I am in tears everytime someone shares a way your life has impacted the lives of others.

You truly are our love child. You were created and formed entirely out of love and we are so grateful to call you our son. We will miss you forever. There's just no question about it. As beautiful as can be and now only a memory. What makes this all even harder is knowing everyday is that much further away from feeling your sweet kicks and seeing your incredibly beautiful face.

Loving you and missing you beyond what our words can ever express.
xoxo
Mom & Dad

My Sentiments Exactly.

This article has been floating around the BLM circle. I am not re-posting for BLMs to read, but for those who haven't experienced this unbearable loss to read. I'll live this reality for the rest of my life. To say it's changed me as a person is an understatement. So honest, and unfortunately, so real.

Milwaukee Journal, October 6, 2011, Laura Schubert

Did you know that October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month? I'll bet not. Despite the infant mortality crisis that's been at the forefront of Milwaukee's public health news for months, the only people who have more than a cursory comprehension of what it means to lose a baby are those who've lived it.

Infant loss is nature's cruelest practical joke. It's investing all of the required time and effort into pregnancy, only to be robbed of the result. It's cradling a body that grew within your own and trying to reconcile the cold, lifeless form in your arms with your memory of the baby who turned double flips in your womb.

It's worrying that you'll forget what your child looked like and snapping an album's worth of photos that no one will ever ask to see. It's sobbing so hard you can't breathe and wondering if it's possible to cry yourself to death.

Infant loss is handing off a Moses basket to the nurse who's drawn the unfortunate duty of delivering your pride and joy to the morgue and walking out of a hospital with empty arms.

It's boxing up brand new baby clothes and buying a 24-inch casket. It's sifting through sympathy cards, willing your foolish body to stop lactating, clutching your baby's blanket to your chest in hopes of soothing the piercing ache in your heart.

It's resisting the urge to smack the clueless individuals who compare your situation to the death of their dog or who tell you you'll have another baby, as if children are somehow replaceable.

Infant loss is explaining to your 7-year-old that sometimes babies die and being stumped into silence when she asks you why. It's watching other families live out your happy ending and fighting a fresh round of grief with every milestone you miss.

It's being shut out of play groups for perpetuity. It's skipping social events with expectant and newly minted mothers because, as a walking worst-case scenario, you don't want to put a damper on the party.

It's listening to other women gripe about motherhood and realizing that you no longer relate to their petty parental complaints because, frankly, when you've buried a baby, a sleepless night with a vomiting toddler sounds something like a gift.

Infant loss is pruning from your life the friends and relatives who ignore or minimize your loss. It's recognizing that, while they may not mean to be hurtful, the fact that they don't know any better doesn't make their utter lack of empathy one whit easier to bear.

My baby girl would have been 5 years old this month. I don't know what she'd look like, what her favorite food would be. I've never had the privilege of tucking her into bed, taking her to the zoo or kissing her boo-boos. I will never watch her graduate or walk down the aisle.

Infant loss is more than an empty cradle. It's a life sentence.

Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Day

...is today.

...and his name is Andrew. Love you my boy.

Childbirth Was Easier Than This

I just finished watching Bachelor Pad. Yes, I know. It's trashy television and I might have lost brain cells. Whatevs. Y'all, I need this getaway from my real life sometimes. In the last episode, one of the competitors was talking about how scared she was to walk against a vertical wall while suspended on cables. Her quote was, "This is the scariest thing I've ever done. Childbirth was easier than this."

And then the BLM in me busts out.

Childbirth is not hard. Relative to other life experiences like losing a child and actually having to physically birth your child within hours of finding out they would never, ever be going home with you and instead is currently turning progressively more purple inside of you-- now that's hard. I remember my own mother and my MIL telling me that you forget the pain of childbirth because of how rich in love the experience is. Bringing a child into the world erases all the pain you endure. I'd like to say I understand that reality. I don't. Pain is, in many ways, mental. My dad always told me this as a child when he'd dare me to pinch him as hard as possible (or maybe I was daring myself and he didn't really want it? Hah) and that it didn't hurt because he didn't allow it to hurt. He was near bleeding at times when I'd dig my little, grimy nails into his palm so I'd somehow end victorious in causing him pain. {What a jerk! Bah.} Some of my fellow BLM friends birthed their still babies without medication. I did not choose that route, although I was just a couple hours from pushing and already 4cm dilated when I received medication. I felt the pain. It wasn't pretty, but I'd handle that pain without a thought if. Some of my friends commented on how they wanted to feel the physical pain, as they were already in the most emotional turmoil they'd ever experienced. What does it matter, anyway?

What it all boils down to is that emotional pain outweighs physical pain. I'm sure some of my readers will disagree with this sentiment, but I can say that for me, contractions were practically painless when compared to the emotional heartbreak and endless duration of this earth-shattering reality.

Childbirth is difficult. Roofing a house, difficult. Trying to find that single sock lost on laundry day, difficult.

But birthing a child who isn't alive is impossible. It's not just difficult. I hope to God it doesn't strip away the magic of childbirth for any of our future children, but it will probably be a difficult second go around from what I can imagine right this moment.

Renel posted today about this green sign and how we're achieving the impossible. Not in a summit Mt. Everest kind of way, but a get out of bed each day and choose life kind of way.

We can't do this. But we have no choice but to do it anyway. Difficult doesn't even begin to explain it.

Around the Watercooler

My job is becoming less boring. Or more productive. Basically, the principal has decided I should have more on my plate (Can I get an amen? You mean, this chick is qualified and stuff?). As usual around the ol' elementary school, I overhear conversations that strike me in one way or another that would've never even caused me to bat an eye pre-doomsday.

1. Another teacher's mom just died suddenly last Friday. At 51, they just assumed she had the flu. Her two daughters found her dead on the couch that morning. It's completely tragic. As soon as I heard the news, I felt such empathy for her and just knew that I'd give her a big hug when I saw her next. As I sat in the teacher's lounge, I listened to a few teachers question aloud what they were going to do when she returned. "How will we act around her?" they asked one another. I couldn't help but think that they must have had similar conversations about my return after losing Andrew. People want to be so deliberate of how to act, but they just don't know how in such cases. Losing Andrew did make me more aware of others and their heartbreak. I didn't once question how I would act around her, as I don't see her as an outcast. I see her as part of my posse-- bereaved, heartbroken, and pitied by others. I didn't find the comment insensitive, but more startling. They don't understand, but they want to. They care enough to want to and that is wonderful.

2. The beautiful, talented, sweet, and very pregnant art teacher finished up her job on Friday and gave birth Saturday to her little boy. Alive. DUH. And then another comment that I also found startling. "I can't believe she worked until the day before she gave birth! I could never do that!" Andrew was born on a Sunday, but I worked that Friday and only contemplated stopping because people kept voicing their surprise that I wasn't home preparing or something. Sure glad I didn't prepare too much. I would've worked that Saturday if schools were in session. I felt great and was active. But in that moment, when she voiced her opinion about the art teacher being some mother-extraordinaire, I felt forgotten. I knew that it would be too awkward to chime in with, "That was me just 9 months ago! I gave birth just 48 hours after last working, too!" Hah. Not allowed, Brandy. You have a dead baby so nobody wants to hear about your sad birthing story because they'll just make too many assumptions or disregard your participation or place on the mothership.

3. Again, setting takes place in the teacher's lounge. The woman I am long-term subbing in the place of is on leave because she's 12 weeks pregnant and uncontrollably vomiting to the point of hospitalization. Her other teacher friend is also pregnant at 14 weeks. Said pregnant chick pulled up photos of M's baby and then pulled up photos of her own baby by way of ultrasound photos. Dude, this was good times for me. I shamefully put my head down and wouldn't allow the phone to be passed to me as they all discussed awesome new technology that allows you to see so much-- as other teachers pointed out were not available to them 30 years ago. Yep, and that awesome technology was unable to detect a thing to save my child. Super-D-duper.

I'm not having a terrible time (despite boredom), but I am just sharing some of the stories that burned their way into my brain matter the last few days. Among other things, we've had a nice week over here at the Wilson residence. Ray's work picnic was on Saturday and it was fantastic. I appreciated meeting some people I hadn't met before and all of the families that make up his company. Sunday was a day with friends. I had a lovely lunch with 4 of my girlfriends and a friend of mine from LA (turned New Yorker) came to visit. In this time, we managed to squeeze in a couple hours for dessert and finally met her husband of 1.5 years! I'm looking forward to resting tonight...

I signed up to bring some items to school on Friday. I found incredible produce deals and plan to make the following: Asian Slaw, Black Bean Quinoa Salad, Broccoli Salad with vinaigrette (basically broccoli marinated in vinaigrette), a couple dips, some crackers, hummus, and some zucchini, carrot, and bell pepper strips for dipping. My teacher friend will be making dessert items. Better recipes for any of the following are welcome in the comments. ;)

A Not Always Beautiful Mess

Now 9 months gone from our arms, we're still left with his beautiful mess. I like to think of it that way; the hell being still so beautiful because of the love we have for Andrew.

But let's get real for a hot second here, mmkay?

In these 9 months, the following has occurred:

• I've collectively used more Kleenex wiping up snot and buckets of tears than I have in my entire life up until December 2010.
• I've definitely used more curse words to describe my superlative of sadness and grief and struggle with the hardships of ttc.
• I've dropped out on lots of friendships (at least for now) because I'm a completely selfish person who can't think past her own grief to ask how the heck someone else is doing in their life.
• I've spent days and days watching more TV than I've watched ever.
• I've questioned God, his existence, his love for us and all things I've ever believed in before tragedy struck.
• I've been unmotivated and drab.
• I've all but given up on my appearance most days-- taking great effort to look presentable.
• I've offended family members and probably friends with my rage and lunacy 
• I've avoided phonecalls and door knocks.
• I've lost most of my carefree personality and have definitely transformed into a downer who can't even smile when looking at the innocence of a baby-- because instead I'm oozing with jealousy. 

Thank God I'm married to my soulmate because I'm a pretty attractive beast these days and would be hard-pressed to find someone who was attracted to such ugly qualities. 

So it's not all pretty over here. It's beautiful that our son has spurred so much love inside of us that's passionate and fierce, but I was kind of hoping that passion and ferocity would be used to say, potty train him or something. Turns out all milestones are a wash and our sadness lives on through the ebbs and flows that it is. It's a brutal beast that gets the best of us. But it's out of love. How love can translate through all of this madness and ugliness is beyond my comprehension.

Loving our little boy just as much today as we ever did. Nine months little man. Can't even believe it. And I really don't want to.

Mind Vomit

I'm being lame. Like most bloggers around, I've been in a blogging rut-- that, and I've been working every day and it's really not something I've been used to since late May. So I'm tired. By the time I get home, I have no desire to make dinner, grocery shop, or blog. I'm reading most, but even my reader has more saved than read each day.

I miss my son. So much. Unspeakable amounts.

I'm working and attempting to make money that will hopefully be used to take us on vacations... like the trip we planned to D.C. in October and our escape from the frickin' holidays trip to South Padre Island, TX conveniently over Christmas. Waterfront. Seventy degrees. Pool. Relaxation. I can't wait. Texas is on the list of states I've never visited and I'm excited to spend time in the warm weather during Chicago's coldest time of year. Can anyone help me figure out how to cancel the entire months of November-January please? Because they're coming and I'm so not ready. I may be lucky enough to meet my good blogger friend Brooke around Thanksgiving as we both attempt to pass the holidays like they aren't even happening around us. The -er months have started, folks. Holy. Holy. Crap. I'm not ready.

Kind of freaks me out to think we're 3/4 of a year back around the circle to the worst day of my life. I've been thinking about how to celebrate Andrew's life, but parties aren't really my thing. Well, for my live 1-year old they'd probably be, but I'd still be subdued since early ages need nothing more than a cake face celebration. But celebrating the life of a now dead child. My child? We'll probably go out to dinner and eat dessert. Because it's a birthday and we're celebrating. It's what we do for our own birthdays, so why not Andrew's? I guess it's not so toddler-like, but my baby is practically a teenager in my mind now since I've never experienced a day as his mama. He's living in heaven and probably so wise. And he'd probably choose crab cakes over corndogs just like his mama. So we celebrate in style.

My mind is a million places. And most of those thoughts are on repeat. I miss him. I love him. I want him here.

Infertility & Baby Loss, Comments Addressed

Again, thank you to those who commented on my Infertility & Baby Loss post. I truly do want to understand. I have found the parallels between IF and baby loss to be strikingly similar and enjoyed the responses. My writing below is jumbled and unorganized. They're each separate thoughts as I tried to touch on your comments. It makes for one mess of a blog post, but hopefully connects us better in thought.

First, I hope that none of you were offended by my words. My intention was only to piece through my own thoughts after reading countless amounts of infertility blogs and understand them better. I guess because I find myself so familiar with the many thoughts women who struggle with IF express on their blogs, I wanted to open it up to conversation.

Never would I think that women who struggled with IF for years and will struggle with it for the rest of their lives (even if they don't want children/more children, they still live with IF and the knowledge that conception is not a natural option) will carry on and forget about how hard that time in their lives was for them. To learn from many of you that it's painful just knowing that you cannot ever become pregnant with your husbands the old-fashioned way made it very real for me. There's something very special about knowing conception can occur in the company of your home and not a sterile doctor's office. That's something I do not take for granted. That is definitely something to grieve, I understand. I firmly support IVF and all fertility treatments that help women who suffer from IF achieve their ultimate goal of motherhood. I know that if my struggle (since we all have them) were IF, I would do whatever it took to see that our dream was fulfilled by IVF, FET, IUI, or adoption.

The grief of lost time and money is not lost to my ears eyes.

My heart swells for those who have never been fortunate to carry a child at all. It's such a special experience that I grieve for you. I don't have any clue what it feels like to hold my living child in my arms, but I am familiar with pregnancy and that joy. It should be a gift given to every responsible woman. Any time we have with our children is precious-- no matter if that means in utero alone, as a newborn, a toddler, or their entire lives. Ideally, we'd conceive and keep them for eternity. I love how Tiffany put it by saying, "...I feel like just having the opportunity to have them (even for a few weeks in utero) is a win." It's something I don't think of nearly enough and give thanks for nearly as often as I should. The greed of wanting it all overcomes me and I feel entitled too often because 99% of others carry on without baby loss grief. Being thankful for the small victories and blessings is not a pill I can easily swallow.

I notice that many who are successful in their IF treatments and complete their family wish go on to have blogs that almost don't resemble their past. As if those IF girls bring them down and they want to graduate from this issue. That's where the whole graduation thought came from. I see it with baby loss blogs, too. Your past always affects your present and future, at least in my life. I do not think that dwelling on your past daily is important either. We all carry on from grief in our own way. Merely an observation and not a judgment. I don't blame anyone for just wanting to be normal. I'd give just about anything to rewind time and have that happy, bubbly pregnancy blog about a living child and all that crap. I don't want to be a baby-loss-mom. None of us do. I want to be a stupidly smug mom of a chubby boy. I wish I could "graduate" to that level but know it's not possible. I do hope that it becomes less of a scab and more of a scar as time presses forward, but nothing is guaranteed.

The jealously many of you mention in seeing families who seem to become pregnant by drinking the same water is understandable. No matter how many children we have, I'll always be jealous of others, too. For me the jealously is seeing that they got to keep all their babies and for those who struggle with IF, it's seeing that obviously pregnancy wasn't a struggle for them.

The flippant conversations of "We weren't even trying", or "I've was even on birth control!" or "This is our last one, I swear" makes me seethe is anger and jealously, too. It seems like those babies never end in miscarriage or stillbirth, either. To have an oops baby. Hah.

Not feeling like you belong in any community after birthing live children seems similar to baby loss as well. I know that when I was fresh into my grief journey, I wanted to find those who experienced their loss at the same time and under similar circumstances as myself. I wanted to know that others were brokenhearted and not parenting other children. Baby loss is not selective. I lost my firstborn but have friends who lost their second, third child. I have felt those feelings of injustice that they carry on being an active parent but I'm still stuck in a zone of not even being acknowledged for ever birthing my child. On the outside, no one can tell that we were ever pregnant or have a fully decorated nursery just bursting at the seams. I was jealous of those who had living children despite losing others because they still had a child/children to hang onto. I am carrying on better about things right now, but I still long for what it's like to actually witness my own live birth. After I have another child, I will probably feel the same way-- still wanting my foot in the baby loss world, but also wanting to be a part of parenting in real life outside of my grief. That's a post for another day. So many thoughts loom through my head about that one.

One of you spoke about how at the end of an infertility treatment, a healthy child is the coveted outcome. While that "new" child will bring you great amounts of joy, it doesn't erase the sadness and past wounds of struggle over the years. Perhaps the scabs will fade a bit, but they always leave a light scar from years of abuse to your body, and soul. I bet that's how us BLMs feel once we have a "rainbow" baby. I'm not much a fan of the term... just not my style. But I acknowledge the meaning of that beauty and calm after the storm. While the storm existed and will always be a part of us, the rainbow brightens the future. This may be the triumph for us all. But I bet we'd all give up the fight to have boring conceptions, pregnancies, and births. I know I would.

Thanks for your thoughts and sharing your hearts. I wish you all the best and of course, babies. :)

Infertility & Baby Loss

I have a pretty fantastic friend I met in undergrad. We worked at the same hole of a restaurant together and maybe ate hundreds of these together. She graduated, then I graduated. She married, then I married. She moved and bought a house, then we moved and bought a house. It was all progressing very nicely.

Then she became pregnant. Multiple times. Each ending in miscarriage. It wasn't an easy road. She's part of the infertile crowd. She endured countless IUIs and IVFs and all the lovely injections and drugs in between, but still kept her eyes on the prize.

In the midst of still trying for years, I became pregnant. I'll admit, it was a little awkward coming out to her about the whole we got pregnant on the first try(!) business. I knew there was nothing more in the world that she wanted than what I had. In the correct order of things, she should have gone first. I cut her in line. But being the incredibly selfless friend that she is, we still talked on the phone every now and again until December. We all know what happened next.

I suppose I can now add this to our story: She endured baby loss, and I endured baby loss.

From that moment on, we talked on the phone nonstop. There's more I could insert here about what we talked about and the highs and lows we both experienced in the months that followed (and still continue), but I'll save that. It's personal. She understood what it was like to not only lose babies, but she knew what it was like to lose hope, time and time again. The process of ebb and flow that you just want to come to an abrupt halt with a live baby crying in your arms. She got me. She gets me.

There is some happiness to this story and an internal conversation that follows. She's now pregnant and awaiting the arrival of twins (boy and girl, jackpot!) in October. She deserves this. She's going to be a fantastic mom that understands that every minute is meant to be cherished and will never take one moment of that for granted. For most people/pregnancies, a process goes through my head of if they're lucky, and nothing is certain, and it's only an estimated date of delivery. But with her, I just know this is her time for happiness. Of all the struggle and want and loss and desperation, she's finally creeping toward that finish line.

Now for the internal conversation.

I read infertility blogs every now and again. We carry that common understanding of babies being an enormous gift that don't come without great sacrifice, grief, sadness, and longing. We share the understanding of seeing a BFN (big fat negative) on a pregnancy test and the massive excitement of seeing a BFP as well. We know what loss feels like, as many of those who struggle with infertility inevitably lose through miscarriage or stillbirth as well. We feel that jealously that's sharp and uncomfortable around those who never endured a struggle in starting a family.

But there are also differences. For example, I was once part of that blissfully pregnant crowd. I thoroughly enjoyed my pregnancy with Andrew and never really carried much concern. Of course he'd be born alive. It wasn't even a thought that crossed my mind. Those with infertility cherish every moment in pregnancy but know that the struggle it took to get there leaves them in fear during every moment. At least that's what my friend (above) tells me.

I never had to shoot myself up with medications to make myself ovulate, undergo massive amounts of ultrasounds, experience IVF or an IUI. Pregnancy is not the issue I have. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure what my issue really even is. Keeping babies alive, I guess. Not sure how that can be remedied.

But there is one major difference, I think. Once infertility is "overcome" and that baby is finally in their arms, there is likely a sense of graduation. I could be completely wrong here and wouldn't mind the comments from those who experience IF. Perhaps the way women feel after successfully fighting and beating breast cancer. With child loss, I'll never really feel like more babies will provide me that ability to graduate. Andrew is one of my babies. My first. He'll be missing in every photo I'll ever take for the rest of my life. I'll never graduate. I'll never feel accomplished or proud to overcome the struggle it took us to start a family. I'll be proud to be a mother, but I'll always feel a longing for Andrew. Bittersweet.

And don't think I'm leaving out the crowd who has endured both, child loss and struggle with infertility. It's cruel. Falling in love and longing to share that love and life with a child should be an allowance given to every responsible family. When that ability is stripped away from you, it's beyond unfair. Those babies aren't forgotten and shall never be. I personally feel lucky to have carried Andrew for those months. Those who struggle with IF and loss likely feel the same-- thankful for those moments of pregnancy or infancy they want so badly to breathe in and remember for eternity. But a graduation for them, I doubt it.

I'm hoping that sometime soon I can finish our story from above with: She had beautiful babies that lived, and I had beautiful babies that lived. And maybe throw in there a trip or two to Disney World, why not?

Lose-Lose Situation

There's a whole laundry list of taboo comments or actions I can't handle. They get under my skin or anger me. I used to be one of the easiest people to talk to (as in, no one ever used to offend me) and now I've become the most fragile person in the room.

Maybe my hypersensitivity and constant thought processing of losing Andrew forces me to develop this assumption that all people are uncomfortable or nervous around me. They might be. They might not be. Either way, I feel like a buzzkill most of the time in social settings. I used to be fun, social, and interested in all the details. Now I feel like my interest and attention span has dropped exponentially.

Here's the tricky part. People still live their lives and, shockingly, still get pregnant and have babies after I did. After Andrew was conceived, grown, born, died. People all around me are experiencing their first pregnancies and the births of their first babies. Babies they get to keep. What a novel concept.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel people were cutting me in line. It may be juvenile, but that's exactly how it feels. I should've gone through all those firsts before them and I should be holding my almost 8-month son right now. The void is excruciating. But the truth is, no matter how many people have babies from here until my death, I'll still feel like I should've been first. Like I was slighted. And no matter how many babies I have (please?), I'll still miss my firstborn. We will never be a complete family. That's pretty hard to swallow. Family photos will be bittersweet. I'll witness milestones of future Wilson babies and wonder what if at the same time.

Once I'm finally at that place again, I still don't think I'll ever feel like being a part of those smug "mommy and me" groups because I just don't think parenting after a loss is the same as parenting without loss. The approach has to be different. The discipline. The priorities. I could be wrong, but I have no idea.

I receive emails with, "There isn't really any easy way to tell you this... but I'm pregnant" and I hate them. But I'd be offended if I didn't know ahead of time. Being caught off-guard is worse. I think. There really is no easy way.

I read this excerpt on another blog and changed it a bit... totally how I feel:

This is one of the things that I hate most about baby loss. It robs you of the ability to fully participate in someone else’s joy. You can’t control the grief when you are faced with the announcement of someone else’s pregnancy. I hate, hate, hate it. I hate how she must have been nervous to tell me.

I get invited to events but know that I won't go if there are babies present. I don't even really like being around pregnant women or other parents, honestly. I wish this wasn't the truth, but it is. I avoid appointments and parties and dinners because I know that if babies/pregnant women are present, I'll just spend the whole time in a sad void. I may be there, but I'm not really happy and I'm probably counting the minutes until I can leave and sob in the car.

It's sort of a lose-lose situation I'm in. Be antisocial, risk being a hermit crab the rest of my life-- or at least until I learn to manage this better. Be social, risk feeling sad and jealous the entire time. I've been choosing the former. I think it's what's best for me right now.

I read blogs from women further in this journey. They have subsequent children and sort of find a way to live life again and breathe a bit easier. But, they still admit that the thought of their deceased child is never far from reach. When they see a child around the same age, engage in conversation with those parents about milestones, etc. It doesn't get better, but it does get easier.

It doesn't get better, but it does get easier. I'm just wondering how long it's going to take. Because these announcements and babies and births and parties and everything are still really difficult to manage. I think they might even be harder to manage now, nearly 8 months out, than they were before. Months ago, people knew I'd be sensitive and topics were avoided. People knew that a few short months prior, I said goodbye to the very most important person to me on Earth besides my husband. They were careful. They figured I was just making excuses and accepted that. But I'm still making excuses. Because it's not better.

Maybe I should buy this.

 You think it'll work miracles?

Support Like No Other

Last month I jumped on the bandwagon of baby-loss bloggers to compose my own reflection of where I stood at 6 months, 1 day from losing our Andrew. I was angry that day. Circumstances that surrounded that day led me to feel defeated. Not that I don't still feel the rage, because everyday it comes at least for a moment. But mostly, I am surviving. I was reading over at Still Life with Circles, who started this project that yielded over 160 participants, and she posted something incredible. That's right. 160 participants mean that all 160 of those people who participated have been in the same situation as myself. They sat in a hospital feeling complete despair. They probably have a grave to visit or an urn on display. They outlived their babies, too.

A baby loss father, Jack, lost his second child in March. He read every single entry to this project and created a beautiful piece of art. It connects all of the participants with a short excerpt from each piece of writing. Even more special, he included the names of our children on the very bottom.

Funny, I know myself too well. I knew the very piece he selected from my own reflection out of all 160 excerpts included. Here is his incredible artwork (click twice to enlarge to a readable font):

And what Jack posted on his own blog about this project he created:
This piece is dedicated to the 160 babyloss parents who took part in Angie's epic Right Where I Am project as of July 18 and to all of our babies that were lost. It is also dedicated to the thousands of faceless parents around the world that lose babies every year (some 30,000 in America alone). I originally joined the project because I wanted to soak up as much as I could from everyone who has gone before us. And as I feel Margot slipping away from me as the days without her trudge on, I felt like this was a way for me to be close to her and to honor her death. So, I read and read and read, all the way up to last night, when I read and filed away the 160th post in the project.

I just want to say a huge thank-you to all of the babyloss parents who participated. Words cannot describe the gratitude I feel for each one of you, whether you are years out from your loss or just a few weeks or months. Each and every post, whether heart breaking or hopeful or a blend of the two, was so meaningful and raw and beautiful in it's own right. There is solace in this beautiful mess of a community we have formed since all of our losses. I titled this piece Right Where We Are because in some strange and mysterious way, no matter how many miles separate us, we are in this TOGETHER. There is strength in numbers and I pull from your strength every day.

If you'd like a larger view of the project, visit Jack's blog for details. It truly is a wonderful memoir for our babies.

Thanks, Jack.

Regret

I expected to write about lighthearted nonsense in this post. But last night triggered some thoughts I can't seem to discard from my brain activity.

I have regrets. Never live with regrets, you say? Well then you must not have lost a child. While I understand that statement is meant to read, "You can't change the past so there is no use in dwelling on what could have been", I insist on regretting as I wish. I try not to dwell daily, but sometimes the regrets peek out.

And I'm not talking about ones from college or anything like that. Although I'm not discounting those. I'm just not focusing on them right now. It's funny how certain events in your life trump anything and everything else you went through that was thought to be monumental and devastating.

High school breakups? Not so devastating. My 3-year relationship to a deadbeat, barely a drop in the hat.

Losing my son, absolutely crushing. There's just not a whole lot that could personally happen to me that would top that.

My regrets are all related to things I wish I had taken the opportunity to do while my son was bodily with me in that hospital for those 3 hours. They're personal, but real. I'll always wish things were different and it breaks me thinking of such things. For better or worse, you all get to read these completely personal regrets. If you aren't a BLM, I'd appreciate if you abstained from commenting on them or bringing them up-- not because I fear a breakdown, but because they are personal pieces of myself that I'll never be able to change. And also, a breakdown would be imminent.

• Not taking a lock of my son's hair
• Not seeing his body naked
• Not physically kissing him
• Not taking his handprints
• Not seeing his eyes
• Not taking a photo of Ray holding his son

When in shock, the last thing you can be is rational. I couldn't see a day forward and wasn't able to logically know what I would want once we finally got home emptyhanded. Over seven months later.

I read someone's blog and read the comments about having locks of hair. It struck me in that moment that I don't have Andrew's hair and I want it. And if I did, I didn't know where it was. That spurred a trip to the nursery where I saw bags full of things that went untouched. That look identical to how they looked December 5th. It's like a time capsule in there. A great, big, baby time capsule of what could have been and what used to be my {hopeful but damned} reality. I rummaged through plastic bags of haphazardly strewn bottles and pacifiers my husband quickly emptied from shelves in our kitchen to de-baby the house before my entrance back into our lonely home.

I found the bag given to me by the hospital staff. It included pamphlets on grief, small booklets about losing a child, Andrew's footprints, crematorium paperwork, and 3 boxes of mementos. One box is from a woman who lost here baby. It was obviously her project to honor her daughter. There was a label attached to the box that read something to the effect of "Mommy to Hadley, born into heaven on March 21, 2009". In that box were various angel items. Pins, candles, etc. The next box held Andrew's little beanie hat (melt), baptism outfit, a pair of booties, pants, and a blue top that said something about heaven on it. I didn't buy the outfit. These were all supplied by the hospital clearly for dead babies. As a matter of fact, I didn't even have a hospital bag with me. It was all in the car and Ray was too afraid to leave me to go get it. And it was about 0 degrees outside. But mostly because I was an unpredictable basketcase of mess. The final box holds the blanket he was wrapped in, an envelope of the mysteriously strange (and eerie) gold ring they took photos of him with and some beads on little safety pins. One of them has a bead with the letter A for his name. I didn't understand these things, but I figured they were just standard procedure or small mementos given by other BLMs. Now that I live in the baby loss world, I am starting to piece together why we were given these items. Since Andrew was our firstborn baby, I couldn't compare normalcy to my experiences then. That was all I knew. And finally, the little card they put on those beds with the birthdate, baby's name, mother's name and all the measurements. His card was placed in the box. That probably hurts more than anything-- he wasn't a baby bed candidate and I'll never have one of those cutesy photos of him with his stats in that plastic hospital bed.

Heavy post. I've mostly stopped crying, but just couldn't let go of these thoughts and needed them documented. I'm sure as time progresses I'll add to the list of regrets. And while they will forever be regrets, I will try to live knowing that I did the very best I could in that moment of grief. I know I did. I don't dwell on it daily and I don't beat myself up over it. But it doesn't mean I can't wish circumstances were different. There hasn't been a whole lot I didn't want different in the last 7+ months actually.

Right. I'll work on that.

Letters to Andrew {3}

Dear Andrew,

Seven months my son. Seven. It seems impossible in so many ways still. This entire weekend was so bittersweet. We rode bikes, used our new grill for the first time, watched another country concert, and above all, wished you were there for every single second of it. It just doesn't get easier knowing that all my life experiences will be spent without you in my arms. You are always in my heart though. Always.

The print I ordered from Etsy arrived. It now sits amongst our family photos in the family room. Because you're family, baby. Your dad and I miss you so so so much.

Love,
Mom

Top 10 Crappy Things People Say

My BlogHer ad on the right? Underneath it are titles from other blog posts in the BlogHer network. Most are strangers and often unrelated to my personal situation, but I like clicking on them every now and again. They're enticing. One title was Ten Things Not to Say to Baby Loss Parents. Not that I haven't visited some of these isolated topics before, but let's revisit, shall we?

I'm currently nearing 7 months post loss and still plenty of angry and sad about all things related. Sure, I cry less. But my heart, none the better. These comments are said by wonderful and well-meaning people who just don't know what to say to us. So without further adieu, a revisit with commentary. Because commentary is fun.

1. Your child is in a better place. 
So... shouldn't we all just be in that better place, then? I mean, if it's so wonderful, why do we bother living? If that better place is heaven, then why do we even bother having children if bringing them to Earth would be a terrible place to exist? I suppose I understand the suffering part of that whole thought process and how they are no longer suffering in heaven. But really? 

2. At least he wasn't older/younger.
You're right. Because losing my child at 8 days, 4.5 months, 9 months, 2 years, 10 years... make it any harder? I understand that our lives did not have Andrew in them as a daily routine. I never woke up for feedings, juggled putting baby crap in the car while dealing with a crying baby... none of that. But it doesn't mean we hadn't already planned out his entire life of excitement. I could see him playing soccer and us sitting on the sidelines cheering him on. And in many ways, I'd like to argue that losing a child later would be better because at the very least, you got to see your child breathe, smile, accomplish, love, laugh, live. I got none of those things. Who is better? Not at the place to compare, really. All I have are pictures of a dead baby. Never a live one.

3. You're not the same.
Bahahaha. If you'd like old Brandy back, forget it. I'd be able to promise diamonds falling from the sky before I can promise I'd ever return to old Brandy. It's just not humanly possible. Andrew will forever be with me and this sadness will never go away. We don't appreciate being reminded that we are a little crappier now. We know. We know part of us died with those babies. Sucks to be you for having a lame friend? How about it sucks to be US. Get over your selfishness of high expectations for that perfect friend.

4. God needed him/an angel.
This is one of the worst for me. Because I am Christian and have friends who also are, they just go on assuming that I'm okay that Andrew is in heaven. And they think I believe God needed another angel? I might be the anomaly in the baby loss world, but I don't picture my baby with wings. Yes, I read Heaven is for Real and I struggled with it. Sure, I loved the idea of knowing my baby is there and will be there when I die, but I hardly believe Andrew had to carry all the way to full term and then God decided he needed him. Why not sooner? Later? Please. God doesn't need more angels. If He is that powerful, he sure doesn't need my baby to "help" him or anything stupid like that. Stop trying to play God by explaining God's moves. And by the way, that is also implying that God killed my child to take him to heaven. And that is something I will NEVER subscribe to. Because how can I believe and love a God who kills babies? Not God's doing.

5. He's no longer suffering.
Nope, but I will for the rest of my life. And as far as we know, he was never suffering. Sure, at some point his heart stopped beating. I can't imagine that was pleasant, but he was so small and so active. I just don't buy this argument one bit. Considering we have no answers and are treated like an in-utero SIDS case, we have no proof he was ever suffering in the first place.

6. It's time to move on.
Um, see #3. I will never move on. I might move forward and hopefully have more babies, but I will never move past or beyond losing Andrew. That's my child. Dead, yes. But he is and will always be my child and firstborn. If you want me to move on, I'd probably advise you to move on to new friends. I grieve at my own pace and refuse to accept that nonsense from anyone.

7. Are you trying again/planning to have more children?
Again... it sounds like you think I'll be okay as long as I have more kids. Like somehow Andrew will be erased or the 1, 2, 3 more kids will even out the loss factor. Nope, I'll always still be missing one. I also think that unless you're a baby loss parent, you should probably never ask a person that question. It's none of your business. I also love the idea of "planning" to have children as if it's some guarantee. It's not. My attempts at this point have ended in disaster, so my planning is out the window. I also have friends who struggle with infertility for years and are silent grievers of something out of their control. We lost babies and many of them have too-- either that or they mourn the hopes, dreams, and plans they also had placed in starting a family of their own. If a woman is of childbearing age, it's probably best to avoid asking because you have no idea what they might be going through. And if you're the type who get knocked up with "oops babies" or have never even taken a pregnancy test on repeat or OPKs to track your ovulation, you especially have no right to be asking such questions.

With that said, there is something to say between the differences of grieving with hope of a future child (aka while pregnant) and grieving without hope of a future child (aka not pregnant). I'm still dealing with the latter. Sigh.

8. I know what you're going through.
This pain is unique to child loss. There's just about nothing else you can compare it to. I realize everyone has their struggles, but losing a child is so very personal. Something about babies dying that really rocks the core in people. Unless you're one of us, you don't understand. And that's okay that you don't. We don't want you to experience this. But we do wish everyone understood.   

9. My pet died.
I've actually been given this shpeal. I couldn't believe it when I heard it either. And to make matters worse, the person told me they lost their CAT. I friggin' hate cats. I hardly believe that losing an animal is close to losing a child. Especially since I actually formed that child inside of me. That cat... not of your species. Seriously offensive to compare my child to a stupid cat. Don't hate on me animal activist peeps. Just keepin' it real.

10. Everything happens for the reason.
Top used and highly offensive response to losing a child. I. hate. this. one. People... do not try and give me some BS explanation for why my child died. You're not God and you aren't all-knowing. And for the record, I'll repeat that God. did. not. kill. my. child. There's never going to be a good way of explaining to people that my life is not better because Andrew died. It will always be a fraction worse and that sucks. But it's real and true and not for a reason. I wasn't being punished. I didn't deserve this (because I can name so many more people who kept their babies but were rotten individuals...) and I don't want to hear this crap. It makes us feel worse hearing that, like we deserved this fate or something.

Now you're probably wondering... well the what the hell can I say to console this chick?

There's just about one thing you can say that would matter at all...

I'm so sorry. You can also tag on something like I'm praying for peace or I'm thinking of you.

Other than that, please just keep it simple. We do appreciate well wishes and wonderful, heartfelt thoughts. But please don't try to place a simple explanation on the loss of a child. I've said it before and I'll say it again... we do love talking about our babies. You are welcome to ask questions, but never offer explanations. None of us are wise enough to have those answers.

Just a friendly PSA for the day. You can probably tell I'm a little bitter... but also just saw that other post and wanted to write my own commentary after reading hers.

I'll be picking up my friend from the airport in a few hours. Our plans this weekend include: eating, drinking, and laying around in a lazy river. Apparently Chicago weather didn't get the memo on my plans. 65 degrees and rainy is no place for inner tubes and cool beverages. Have a nice weekend, y'all. {talked to my friend Molly on g-chat the other day. Now I'm all Southern and stuff.}

Emotional State of Shock

Recently a friend asked me if I felt losing Andrew caused me to feel like I lost part of my womanhood. Or at least feel robbed of it. My answer, "absolutely."

Even if we made the decision to live without children, I still feel it is my right as a woman to make that choice. We were made for this. At least, all women were supposed to be. We all know that doesn't always work out for those who are infertile or cases like stillbirth, our bodies denying us that complete right.

When I heard those six terrible words from the doctor that day, my body went into a state of emotional shock. To my knowledge, I'd never experienced this feeling before. It's an unpleasant, euphoric wave that carries you through something life-altering. Though I was given impossible news, I still had a job to do. My body knew that I was laboring and realized that although my emotional pain was completely destructive, I still had to act physically to birth my baby.

That brings me to the next FAQ (maybe this should belong to a FAQ post, Q&A sesh about stillbirth?). I've been asked many times (by mostly those who don't read the blog) if I still had to give birth since Andrew wasn't alive. Well, of course. I couldn't just wish that my 7lb.6oz. child vanished from my womb and walk untouched from the hospital. The same contractions, labor, pain, pushing, and recovery were all experienced. The breastmilk came in with a vengeance. The only thing that was different in our case was the heart monitoring (we needed no fetal heart monitor as there was no heartbeat) and the end result. All of that was different, obviously. No pain was spared because of our unfortunate and devastating circumstance.

I knew I was in shock. I also knew when I was hyperventilating. I remember once he was delivered just shaking uncontrollably. My entire body was rocking. My teeth chattered and my limbs were impossible to hold down. I was unable to cry or really mourn at this time-- I was dazed and although not entirely confused, I was disjointed from the reality of the situation. I remember being wheeled from the triage room to the delivery room immediately upon learning of Andrew's demise with the world zooming around me a millions shades of color and at millions of miles an hour-- except I was stationary. It's that state of disbelief and paralysis that numbed my emotions enough to get the job done. I am not sure when the state of shock ended, but I do know the moment that shock started. I think the shock continued on for at least a few days because I remember vividly joking and laughing with friends as they came to visit our dreary room the next day. I told them we were going to be fragile, sad, emotional, unpredictable. I knew all of these things by text but did not understand the severity or intensity they'd hit. It was almost like I was talking about someone else and how they should proceed with caution. But I was talking about us.

Doctors call the emotional state of shock Acute Stress Reaction and the symptoms include: numbing, detachment, derealization, depersonalization or disassociative amnesia, continued re-experiencing of the event by ways of flashback, thoughts, dreams; avoidance of any stimulation that reminds (me) of the event, anxiety, and/or impairment of at least one essential area of functioning. Symptoms last for a minimum of 2 days and a maximum of 4 weeks, anytime within 4 weeks of the traumatic event.

I'd say I experienced all of these symptoms and still experience some of them daily. While I wouldn't consider it shock now, I'd associate it entirely with the trauma of that day. Perhaps it's the same thing that soldiers experience upon returning home-- though fully comprehending the severity of the situation, they experience PTSD. Perhaps, on some levels, that's what I am experiencing in small doses.

No expected take away here, just a post I've been thinking about for some time related to bodily defense in the midst of tragedy. Maybe I educated someone or provided more insight to understand. Or maybe it just felt good to write about.

Where I'm at: 6 months, 1 day

Exhausted. Emotional leads to physical exhaustion and I'm spent. Never did I think life would be this difficult. Loss is a brutal, brutal enemy.

This month marked 1/2 of a year from Andrew's birth/death and 6 months from when I used to be normal. To make matters worse as 6 months feels like quite the milestone (in the life of a live baby), the days occurred on the same days they did in December. December 4 was the day we went in for our final doctor visit--Saturday. We heard Andrew's heartbeat and left thinking we'd be giving birth any time! Sometime between December 4 and December 5, our son died. The next day, Sunday, I woke up and began feeling sharp pains in my abdomen. I was in labor and didn't know it until hours later when the contractions became unbearable. Hours later, we found out our son passed away. Today is a Monday and Monday was the first day without Andrew with us. In my body, in our arms. He was gone. GONE.

On the facebook front, I often want to announce this but realize those who should read it won't have access: If you have an infant, are blissfully pregnant and have never experienced a loss, or feel the need to talk about babies nonstop, I probably will not accept your friend request. I make no apologies.

It doesn't particularly help that this negative post is being written on a day just after a would-be milestone where our {large, empty} house was filled with lots of crying. I should've probably waited to write because I've got nothing positive to say. But this is where I am at today.

When I was on that hospital bed about to deliver my deceased child, I thought about wanting to immediately start over. I wanted to become pregnant as soon as possible. I wanted more children. I wanted to experience their bodies growing and kicking inside of mine and to know parenthood would not be too far ahead in our future. I was certain that a half of a year later, I'd be pregnant. I'm sitting here typing right now, at 6 months and 1 day without a child. Not pregnant and still at the exact same point I've been at for 6 months-- aside from not needing to be peeled off the couch from sobbing all day. I still do that quite regularly, but at least the blinds aren't closed. Of course when I see another person with a stroller walk by, I wonder why the blinds are still open and wish them closed again.

I'm feeling like my entire life in the last 6 months has been a waste of time and stagnant in nature. We've been distracting ourselves and managed to book up most of our summer weekends on distraction trips. Sometimes that makes matters better, and sometimes worse. We are out of our house and experiencing new things, but know that we'd rather be with Andrew. We'd rather be doing anything with Andrew over all these "fun" things we planned instead. We went for a nature walk yesterday and all I could think about was how wonderful it would've been to carry Andrew in the Bjorn or push him in a jogger. We would've taken photos and talked to him about all the animals, flowers, and trees. Instead, we just commented about how much we're missing out on.

I'm still distant from friends and my entire old life. I don't think that old life will ever be back and I guess in many ways I am okay with that. Because Andrew changed me. He changed us. Our house is looking more beautiful than ever but I could care less about any of that. I'd give it all up in an instant to just have Andrew here. A lot of people have said a lot of stupid things to me recently as 6 months marks a milestone. Many expect you to move on from here or to at least have a hope of new pregnancy. They are hoping we get pregnant, too, so I can be "fixed" and move on. So the old Brandy will come back. That's not how losing your child works. New babies, albeit wonderful, will never fill that gaping hole that Andrew fits.

I'm still very much devastated by losing my son. I still can't look at Parents magazines and still turn my head when I see babies on the street. I still avert my eyes at pregnant bellies and still refuse to attend baby showers. Being around newborns is nearly impossible. Seeing 6-month old babies is painful also, but since I only have one image of Andrew to remember, it's hard to even grasp what having a growing child would look like.

In some ways I feel like I was in a better place a few months ago and am now back in a slump. I was exercising and occupied and withholding sweets (which got me back into my size 2's and made me more health conscious). I'm thankful for my baby loss friends who literally get me through the days in knowing that what I feel is completely normal and acceptable. Knowing that I'm allowed to still cry and feel crushed by this pain. The only thing I am completely thankful for in this sadness is that my marriage is better than it's ever been (though it's always been pretty fantastic).

At 6 months and 1 day, I'm still surviving. Not sure about thriving, still, but getting myself out of bed every morning. Sorry for the downer, but it's right where I'm at in this moment.