My Story--"The Dream That You Wish Will Come True"

I always have mixed feelings about leaving the hospital.  With Whitney, I remember thinking, "They trust me to take care of such a little helpless person?"  And although going home with Whitney was exciting, I wasn't sure I was ready to be home.  Having the safety of the nurses to teach me what to do in each situation was nice and reassuring, but being on my own as a first-time mom was scary.  With Miri, I felt somewhat protected from the real world in the hospital.  It was like a little sanctuary, and once I went home, I'd have a lot of reality to face.  And being wheeled to the entrance of the hospital with no baby in my arms was such a hard thing to go through.  And, similarly this time, I still didn't really want to leave.  This had been such a happy time, I didn't want it to end.  I wasn't scared about raising a baby.  I wasn't heartbroken like last time.  I just was really enjoying all the visitors, all the time to myself to bond with Annalie, and all the sleep!  When it was time to go, I told Andy not to bring the baby carrier up to my room.  I wanted to be wheeled out, holding Annalie.  He asked why, because one way or another, she would have to get in the carrier in order to go home.  And I just told him that last time leaving empty-handed was almost more than I could take, and I really needed to have her this time during that wheelchair ride.  Just thinking about being able to leave with a happy, healthy baby girl in my arms is so wonderful.

On the car ride home, Whitney surprised me with another joyous tearful moment.  Annalie was crying in the back seat, and the amazing big sister that Whitney has become in just a few days time, thought to sing a song to soothe her.  And the song that she picked was from Cinderella, her new favorite movie.  "A dream is a wish your heart makes...".  The line that just got me to the point of tears though, was the last line of the song.  It goes "No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true."  It couldn't have been more perfect.  She is wise beyond her years and such a blessing.  That song now has such a special place in my heart and will always bring me back to that moment--going home as a family after a long, tough, yet wonderful journey.  My dream finally had come true.

My Story--Happy Birthday!

Andy and I both woke up bright and early to shower and get ready for the big day.  As Andy drove me to the hospital, I thought about what my mom had said, and just felt so relieved...I had done it.  I made it through 9 months with her and I kept her alive and healthy.  As we were driving, I realized that the sun was just rising.  It was the dawn of a new day, the dawn of my daughter's birthday, and the dawn of a new phase in my life.  This was the last dawn I would wake up anxious to feel a kick.  It was a beautiful sunrise with shades of pinks and oranges, and one that I won't ever forget.  We checked in, were taken back to a labor and delivery room, and I changed into a gown and was immediately hooked up to a fetal monitor.  I could hear her heart beats, and with that stress gone, I was enjoying seeing how strong my contractions were.  They were coming every few minutes, but they were still just Braxton Hicks, but they were three times stronger than they had been just a few days earlier.  Soon a nurse came in, set up my IV and drew blood (just 3 vials this time).  Then all that was left was watching the clock and waiting.  Andy took a nap.  My mom came around 7:30, and then soon after, it was time to go.  When the anesthesiologist came in the room, she recognized my face, and I remembered her as one of my students from years ago.  One of the nurses in the room told her that I was a math professor, and then she put two and two together, and asked me my maiden name.  When I told her, she immediately said, "I had you twice!"  My husband then got worried--twice because I flunked her, and she'd be sticking a needle in my spine!?!  But actually, that wasn't the case.  She was a good student and just breezed through two different courses of mine.  It was nice to see a happy, familiar face.  And she is one of those people who just lights up a room because of her positive personality and smile.  I was so glad she was with me throughout everything.  Whenever anyone asked me how I wanted Annalie's birthday to go, my answer throughout the whole pregnancy was that I just wanted it to be the "happiest day ever," and her being there helped to make that wish come true.

The last person to come in the room before the operation was my OB.  He asked if I had any questions, but I didn't.  This was my third time with the same surgery.  You could tell he was excited for us and invested in getting a healthy baby and a happy outcome this time.  And right before he left, I remember telling him, "I made it this far...now it's up to you."  He smiled and nodded.

At 8:00, they wheeled me into the operating room, watched me shiver uncontrollably (It was freezing in there!), gave me the spinal, and tried to warm me up while they prepped me for the surgery.  My mom and Andy came in, then my OB, and once everyone was situated, they started.  My OB took his time and was very careful at each step along the way.  It probably took at least 20 minutes to cut through each layer of tissue.  Even the nurses and anesthesiologist were telling me while I was on the table that it's harder to make the incision with scar tissue, so that was why it was taking longer.  I don't know if that is true or if he was just being extra careful, but it did take a while.  And then I was warned that there would be some pressure that would make me feel nauseous and then she would be out.  And sure enough, in just a few seconds, I heard the OB welcome Annalie into the world, and then I heard her cry.  It was the best sound in the world!  I know that every mother thinks that first cry is the best sound, but there was so much riding on this.  All the fear, all the anxiety, all the worry just lifted away in that moment and what was left was pure joy.  She was here.  Finally.  And I felt at peace.  Just a moment later, they brought her around the curtain so I could see her.  And she was perfect.  

They quickly whisked her away to do all their tests--weighing, measuring, etc., and when they announced 7 pounds 10 ounces, I was shocked.  My OB had predicted her to weigh just under 7 pounds.  But once she was cleaned off, they brought her close to me so I could see her better, but it's hard when you are laying flat on your back to see her face.  It took my OB nearly an hour to meticulously sew me back up.  He did everything he could to make sure my scar looked nice and didn't keloid this time.  Once that hour was up and I was wheeled back to the ante-partum room, I finally got to hold her and to look at her.  She looked just like my husband.  And holding her in my arms was so nice.  I had been very patient in the OR watching everyone else get to hold her, cuddle her, kiss her, and finally it was my turn.  I can't even describe how wonderful it was.  Last time, I had that sense of semi-relief when I picked up Miri's ashes and I could at least hold her in a box.  But this time, I had my baby in my arms, and she was alive and healthy, and I was so in love with her.  And it felt like I was finally able to breathe for the first time in 9 months.

I surprised myself at how much I was able to keep my emotions in check in the OR.  I had been through the scene in my mind so much, that I worked through all of it ahead of time (as seems to be my pattern), and I was able to be present in the moment and just enjoy the experience.  With Whitney, I was so drugged and exhausted from labor, that I have almost no memories of her birth, other than I remember telling myself "keep you eyes open...don't fall asleep."  And with Miri, I do remember the surgery, but there was not the happy outcome.  This time, it couldn't have gone any better.  I was awake, alert, and I remember her birth, and the best part was that the OR was filled with joy.  

My mom, on the other hand, was very emotional about her birth.  She teared up, the way I feared I would, and even though she was covered with a mask, I could see it in her eyes just how relieved and happy and excited she was.  She took a video for me, and so I can always go back and play it and hear that first cry, and on the video was her reaction...And it was priceless...All the things I had been thinking and feeling, she expressed, and it was lovely to hear.

In the ante-partum room, my dad, Whitney, and my grandmother came in.  Whitney's first reaction to seeing her sister was adorable.  She said, "Her face is so cute."  And with that, I think she fell in love too.  The nurses checked her vitals again, warmed her up, cleaned her off, gave us some skin-to-skin time, then they suggested that I try to feed her.  Since I couldn't nurse, they brought in a bottle, and Whitney asked if she could feed the baby.  As much as I wanted that "first", I let her do it, and it was so neat seeing her interact with her sister.  In that moment, I learned that no matter how much I wanted to do things, it's just as nice to let Whitney do it, because then I could watch those "first" moments through two sets of eyes--the mommy whose child is doing something new, but also the proud parent of an older sibling delighting in her baby.

With as much happiness and excitement as I was feeling, there was still some concern for Gabby, who was just undergoing her operation as well.  She was never far from my mind, and as the nurses were checking Annalie's vitals in the ante-partum room, I specifically asked them to do a pulse ox test.  Gabby's heart condition should have been detected at birth, if her hospital did that as a standard procedure.  But since it didn't, she went 4 months before it was discovered.  The nurses gladly did it for me, and told me that they'd be doing it again when the pediatrician came, but her level was 100%.  Phew!  Not that I was worried about her having a heart condition, but it was just one more thing that was going right.  Later that afternoon, I got word that Gabby made it through with flying colors, and that meant July 5th was a wonderfully happy day all around.  Both Joy and I will look back on this day remembering it started with nerves and anxiety, but that it ended with a smile on our faces.

After a couple hours in the ante-partum room, I was wheeled to my regular room and I settled in.  That first day, my cousin and her son came to visit, as did the cantor from our temple (also our neighbor).  When he came, we handed him the baby, and his eyes were flooded with tears.  He was so happy for us, that he couldn't contain himself.  And as the days in the hospital passed, we were met with that same reaction from half of our friends and family.  They couldn't help but cry tears of joy and that made the feeling in the room one of pure bliss.  And that was all I really wanted...just to have the happiest experience ever.

On Saturday morning, I was unhooked from all the machines, allowed to eat, and was feeling a whole lot better.  I posted on Facebook my room number and that I was happy to have visitors.  And that day we were flooded with friends and family.  My mom and Whitney had also planned a mini birthday party for Annalie that day.  She got a cake that said "Happy 1/365th birthday!" Whitney wanted lots of decorations, so there were balloons, party hats and necklaces, a Happy Birthday banner, princess paper plates and napkins, etc.  And, while we planned on a small gathering--just my mom, dad, Andy, Whitney, Annalie, and me--we had so many visitors, that her little party turned into a real celebration.  Both of Annalie's great grandmothers showed up.  Some of our friends were there, two of my colleagues came.  All in all, there were 12 people in my room right at her party time plus one FaceTime phonecall.  It turned out to be a wonderful party, full of happiness, laughter, and even complete with lots of baby gifts.  I couldn't stop smiling.  It was just what I had wanted to happen.  I reveled in how happy I was and how happy everyone else was too.  It couldn't have been more perfect.  I left all her decorations up for the rest of my stay just as a constant reminder of  how wonderful it was.  That impromptu party was my favorite memory from the hospital stay.

The next few days were filled with more visitors, and some down time.  Annalie was such a sleepy baby, and I didn't know what to do with her.  Whitney was so alert and fussy right from the start, that I spent most of my time trying to play with her, nurse her, and soothe her.  I didn't really have to do any of that this time.  So I just had fun with her.  I dressed her up.  I took some cute pictures.  I did an art project with her footprints and gave it as a gift to my mom and my OB.  And I did a lot of cuddling.  She was such an easy baby--easy to feed, easy to soothe--I couldn't believe how wonderful she was.  And, what surprised me the most was how calm she was after being so active inside of me.  

My Story--She's almost here...

It's July 2nd.  I am literally 2 1/2 days away from the c-section, and finally over the last two days, I've become ready.  Not just physically ready--I've been big and uncomfortable long enough--but mentally ready as well.  In the last few weeks, I've been fantasizing about the birth, the emotions, the aftermath, and I'm finally able to think about hearing her cry for the first time, seeing her for the first time, holding her, and all the other joys that go along with her birth without breaking down and crying.  I just can't wait for the day.  

I've been having contractions, and you'd think after two c-sections, I'd know what to expect and when it's time to go to the hospital.  But funny enough, I've never gone into labor on my own.  With Whitney, the Cervadil jump-started my labor, and I never started labor with Miri.  It's hard to know whether this is a really strong Braxton Hicks contraction or the real thing. Everyone says you'll know the difference...I'm waiting for that aha moment and waiting to go to the hospital.  I think I've read all the articles online about the signs of impending labor about 5 times each, hoping that it'll start soon, but still nothing.  I'm kind of surprised she's made it this long and I'm starting to wonder if my body even knows how to go into labor.  I can't dilate, so maybe this is something else that won't happen. I'm a bit torn, though...I really want her to be able to stay inside and develop as much as possible, but at the same time, I really want to get the show on the road!

At dinner time on July 4th, I was in shock that I hadn't gone into labor yet, and I realized that her birthday would be tomorrow no matter what.  My mom made me a "last meal" since I knew there would be nothing to eat past midnight tonight until 8:00 on July 6th.  We made arrangements for my daughter to sleep over at their house since Andy and I would be leaving our house at 5:30 in the morning to get to the hospital on time.  The drive home that night was full of excitement and nervousness.  My mom had told me that day that I had done everything possible to make sure she was safe and healthy and had the best chance to make it.  And while hearing that was so nice, there was still trepidation...I told her that there were still 12 more hours that I was responsible for.  Having lost Miri, I knew that there was no reason why she died at 31 weeks.  It could happen at any point, and so until I heard that first cry, I would still be worried.  But she then told me that realistically, as soon as I stepped foot in the hospital, I was no longer responsible for her life--it would be the hospital's job to make sure she was still doing well.  They would be monitoring her and someone would be there right away if she was in distress.  And that knowing that made the ride to the hospital the next morning so much more relieving.

My Story--The Past Can Be The Past

Well, finally some good news came my way.  After discussing my annual evaluation with my department chair twice, I went to the Dean to discuss it with him.  I wrote a thoughtful letter with 10 reasons about why it was unfair to lower my evaluation score due to a FMLA leave.  When I explained the situation to the Dean, without even looking at my letter or past evaluations, he couldn't believe that this was the reason for a low score, told me that it was illegal for my chair to do that, confirmed the illegality with HR, and asked me to please not sue the university.  He said that he'd take care of the situation for me and not to worry.  It was a 3 minute meeting, and with none of the other reasons why I thought it was unfair, he was on my side, and more than that, he said that if it came to a lawsuit, he'd have to testify on my behalf.  I really have no intention on suing anyone.  I just wanted my evaluation to be fair, but it was nice to know that I was right--that having a stillborn should not affect my evaluation or my raise--and that he didn't need to stay neutral and hear both sides before making a decision.  I was proud that I stood up for myself and argued my case, and it felt good that my livelihood at work wouldn't be affected after all because of having a stillborn.  The past can be the past after all.

Now that the school year has ended, I get to finally focus some mental energy on this pregnancy.  July will be here before I know it, but I just have this feeling that she's going to come early.  Everything else in the pregnancy happened early, so why not the birth too?  Every time I think about actually having a baby to hold, tears come to my eyes--tears of happiness and tears of relief that she made it.  It'll be such a miracle.  There's a big part of me that is really worried that I won't be able to hold it together.  If I cry when I see her, that's fine with me.  I've been on a teary-eyed emotional roller coaster for the past year.  But I'm really afraid that it'll start on the operating table when I hear her first cry or they hold her up and I see her for the first time, and she's literally just perfect.  All the repressed anxiety will be over with, and I envision it to be just overwhelming.  And I worry that it'll come out as such a heaving, out-of-control crying that my doctor won't be able to sew me up because my stomach muscles will be moving too much.  Just thinking about seeing her and holding her makes me happy to the point of tears right now.  I don't know how I'll handle the real thing.  I'll be deliriously happy, but probably an emotional wreck at the same time.

At the end of June, I took Whitney on a hospital tour because she was seeming to get nervous about me going into the hospital.  I don't know if it was because she had a subconscious memory of last time, or if too many people in her life had been having surgery recently, and the thought of me doing it was more than she could handle.  So on our tour, they showed us where to check in, the labor and delivery room, the ante-partum room, and a hospital room.  I am so glad I am in a good place mentally dealing with the stillborn, because the labor and delivery room they showed us was the exact room I stayed in after losing Miri.  And walking back in there and seeing everything just as it had been was fine.  It didn't resurface all those awful experiences or all the grief.  I obviously remembered the room, but seeing it again was not a big deal.  I just hope I get a different room when I have Annalie.  The more things that are different, the better!  The rest of the tour was relatively uneventful.  Whitney was fascinated by the wheelchair she saw in the hallway and I explained that I would get to take a wheelchair ride when I left.  She was so excited by that.  They took us by the nursery to see some newborns, although none were in there at that particular moment, and they showed us the waiting room where she would be while I was having the c-section.  It did make her feel better about everything and she became excited to show all the places to her grandpa, who would be with her through everything.  The tour leader also gave her a sticker that read "I'm a BIG sister" to wear on the day when I had the baby.  It was definitely a really good experience for her, and now we all can look forward to our big day.

My Story--Subconscious Fears

Most days I'm incredibly happy and excited about having a baby.  It won't be long now, and I'm so looking forward to Annalie finally being here.  I know underneath it all, there's nervousness and anxiety, but I really have been trying hard not to dwell on those feelings and to put them away.  It's not healthy for me and it's not healthy for Annalie.  But it's clear after last night that I'm still working through things subconsciously with the pregnancy.  I woke up this morning at 5:00 after having a heart-wrenching dream.  It was Annalie's birthday.  I was in the operating room, having my c-section.  My OB got Annalie out, and I heard her cry.  He held her up above the curtain for me to see, and then he handed her off to a nurse so she could be cleaned and weighed.  I dreamed that the nurse took her, walked out of the room and never came back.  I asked where she went and when I could hold her, but the nurse had disappeared off the floor.  No one could find her, and I never got to hold my baby.  I sat in my room alone, without a baby, and I had to leave the hospital empty-handed yet again.  After that, I woke up and couldn't settle back to sleep.  I definitely still have fears that I need to come to grips with. 

My Story--Intertwined Again

I just learned that my life and Joy's life are going to be intertwined yet again.  She took Gabby back to California for a one year post-op check up, only to find out that Gabby's pulmonary artery has an aneurysm, and she needs another surgery soon, not in the 2 1/2 to 4 year time frame that they had thought.   And, guess when her surgery is scheduled...July 5th, the same day Annalie is going to be born!  We both might be on the operating table at the same time.  I am praying that there will be two happy outcomes and that the 5th will be a good day for both our families.   And, I told Joy that the next time something big happens to Gabby, I better not have another due date!  She's on her own next time.  It's absolutely amazing to me how our lives are so connected.  Makes me wonder if there is a bigger plan out there...

My Story--The Stillbirth Milestone

I am now 30 weeks and 3 days along in the pregnancy.  I made sure I had my 3-D ultrasound on the earlier end of the timeframe they give you (I did it at week 29), because I missed it with Miri.  We had a viability party for Annalie over the weekend, another thing that we had put on hold with Miri.  And despite how much I'm making sure I don't take things for granted and how positive I've been feeling that this time she's going to make it, today was really tough.  It was today in Miri's pregnancy that I believe I lost her while driving down the highway.  As I was driving to work this morning (down the highway), I couldn't help but get wrapped up in the emotion of it all.  I was thinking about Annalie, and how "alive" she is in my mind, even though religion tells me that life starts at a first breath.  And part of the thought that Miri wasn't technically alive was comforting a year ago, but today it hit me that she really was just as "alive" as Annalie is to me now.  Then about 15 minutes into the drive, I realized that I hadn't yet felt Annalie kick this morning.  I had been up since 6:00, and typically not an hour goes by without feeling something.  This was unusual.  I thought about going to the doctor, for a "just checking" doppler, but their office wasn't opened yet, and I didn't want to go to the emergency room.  So, just as before, I waited to see.  I started getting overwhelmed with the thoughts of what would I do if it happened again.  And the images in my mind were so real and so detailed.  I thought about what it would be like to find out that she had died in the middle of the night while I was asleep and how I would handle that news.  I had a dream that night that I gave birth to her, and that I was bleeding, so not feeling her move started to really be troublesome on top of this dream that I was no longer pregnant.  I thought about what the c-section would be like this time, and that since no matter what, this would be my last pregnancy, whether or not I would want to do things differently.  And I thought that I would.  Maybe this time, I'd want to see her and hold her, and give her a hug and a kiss.  Something that I never got to do with Miri.  After the 3-D ultrasound, I feel like I already have a good idea of what she looks like.  She's got big eyes, like her sister, a pretty smile, my husband's ears...she's got a face, and so seeing her dead wouldn't be as traumatic this time as I thought it would have been last time.  And last time it was really hard never getting to hold Miri.  I still believe it was the right decision, and I don't for one minute regret not seeing her or holding her.  This time, the thought that I'd never get to hold another one of my babies again if I didn't do it was enough to make me consider it.  I figured Andy would disagree and have the same feelings as before and so we'd have to go through her death somewhat separately this time.  I thought about how much I missed Miri, and how much I would miss Annalie too.  And while all this was going on in my head, I was praying that Annalie would just move a little.  I cried, still missing Miri, and worried that Annalie had succumbed to the same fate, for the rest of my commute to work.  Luckily, when I got out of the car, I finally felt a small nudge.  It lessened my fears about Annalie, but I was still sad about Miri.  Surprisingly, coping with this was harder for me than January 10th was, the one-year anniversary of her c-section.  I hadn't prepared myself for how difficult a day this was going to be, and I walked into work still visibly upset.

It was another reminder that there's still emotional healing left for me to do.  Then, during my day at work, things didn't get much better.  My annual evaluation came back, and I had gone from the top of the rankings to second from the bottom.  I asked my department chair why the major decrease, and he told me that it was because I was out on medical leave for part of a semester, and did not teach a full load.  So apparently, the repercussions of having a stillborn were not yet over either.  And, the evaluation score is what annual raises are based upon.  Therefore, Miri's death had affected me not only emotionally and physically, but now financially as well.  As much as I may try, it's really hard to let the past be the past.  There are constant reminders of what happened.  Now, aside from feeling sad and depressed, I also felt angry and discriminated against.  I cried the whole way home from work too.  This was one of those days when you just need a hug.

Thoughts On Raising Another Daughter

I had an interesting "ah-ha" moment the other day as I was driving home from work.  One of my colleagues who also experienced a stillbirth 30 years ago and has since had 4 children of her own (2 adopted and 2 biological) sent me an email, wondering how I was coping and giving me some advice about how even though I may wonder how I will be able to love a second child as much as the first, it'll happen automatically and that I shouldn't worry.  This is not necessarily something I had been worrying over, but it got me thinking about Annalie and how I felt about her.  For a while now, I've been daydreaming about what she'll be like, and I've been hoping that she'd have certain qualities.  I hoped she'd be as smart as Whitney, as good a baby as Whitney was, as pretty as Whitney is, as caring as Whitney, as funny as Whitney, and so on.  Then it just hit me...I was hoping for a clone of Whitney.  And that's not what I want.  I already have a Whitney, and she's wonderful, but I don't need another.  What I really hope is that Annalie is her own unique person, with her own good qualities.  I hope she's the best Annalie she can be, and that she's not ever trying to be just like her big sister.  I hope she's got the self-confidence to be happy being herself.  And those are the things I should be hoping for.  I needed to shift my thinking.  Raising Whitney has been a wonderful adventure, and while I am bound to relive a lot of those same experiences with Annalie, I need to also look forward to all the new things she'll be bringing, all the things I can't even foresee right now.  She's going to be different, and I can't wait to see what joys she'll bring, what special qualities I will love about her, and what new adventures are awaiting us.  As her mother, I've got to give her the freedom to let her be herself, and not impose any preconceived notions on her about what she should be doing (based on what Whitney was like at that same age).  I know each person has their own strengths and weaknesses, and just as I embrace Whitney's strengths and we work on the weaker areas, I'll do the same with Annalie, although they'll most definitely be different than what I have previously experienced.  Things that work well with Whitney may not with Annalie, and I can't get frustrated by those.  By embracing her differences, I'll be enriching all of our lives.  This idea is something I have to remember and hold on to for years to come.

I also realize that there's going to be a new learning curve, and just as a new mom is inexperienced and needs to figure out how to raise her baby, I'll have a new learning curve and have to figure different things out.  Like this time, I may not need to be taught about what items are truly needed in a diaper bag, but instead, I'll probably need to learn how to divide my attention and handle disputes between siblings.  Annalie is going to bring so many new things to my life...I can't wait to meet her and see what she's going to be like.

My Story--I Haven't Quite Put It All Behind Me

As the third trimester is approaching, there are still signs that I haven't quite put it all behind me.    I've been doing a lot of daydreaming about what it'll be like when Annalie is born.  And just as I mentally had prepared for the hard events by playing the scenes over and over in my head--of picking up Miri's ashes and spreading them and in both cases crying so hard my knees would buckle--I'm playing the moment of Annalie's birth over and over.  I keep picturing laying on the operating table, and at the sound of her first cry, I imagine myself crying equally hard out of pure relief, and just not being able to stop.  I've even wondered, if I am that hysterical, will my OB be able to sew me back up?  I think about how it will be the same feeling as seeing that first heartbeat, but magnified because she'll actually be here, and I will have made it through the pregnancy.  I guess it's a good sign that I'm picturing things going well, but it's amazing how much nervousness there really must be deep inside, just waiting to be released.  Hopefully, like the other scenes, I will have worked through the emotion ahead of time, and it won't be how I picture it...This time, it'll be much better.

Another instance of realizing that I'm not totally over the stillbirth experience has been going on now for a few months.  My mom had mentioned the possibility of going to Hawaii (again) to visit my Aunt in mid-May.  Normally, I wouldn't care, but I'll be right around 31 weeks pregnant, and I just have this fear--I know it is completely irrational--that something will go wrong while she's gone again.  I was nervous in January when she and my dad both went to Hawaii while I was visiting Joy, but this trip in May just feels different than that one.  I didn't say a word about it to anyone, because I have the presence of mind to know that I'm being irrational, but it still bothered me.  I intuitively know she can't go earlier because she watches Whitney while I'm at work.  She can't go later, because of Whitney's birthday party, and then we'll be in the "any day now" phase of the pregnancy.  And she won't leave me immediately after a c-section, trying to raise two kids by myself while Andy's working all day.  And, as soon as I'm recovered enough to take care of both kids, it'll be Whitney's actual birthday, and then time for the semester to start again.  I understand that if she is going to go, May is the time.  But it just makes me uncomfortable.  Then, yesterday, she told me that this trip was no longer a possibility, because my aunt already had a house guest for the week she was wanting to go.  Phew!  I was so relieved.  Tears came to my eyes and a level of tension that I didn't know was there was released.  It's these little things that tell me that there are still issues I have from last year that need to be worked out.

My Story--Her "Almost" Birthday

It's March 9th, and I actually had to go to work on a Saturday.  About halfway along my 30-minute commute at 6:45 in the morning, it hit me like a ton of bricks that Miri would be just about to celebrate her 1 year birthday.  I was expecting the 14th to be a tough day, not the 9th.  I just couldn't control my tears as I drove along the highway thinking of all the milestones we've missed (especially those that would be happening about now, like watching her take those first unsteady steps) and all that we'd be looking forward to in the year ahead.  And I tried to comfort myself by thinking that if she were here, I wouldn't be pregnant now, and that Annalie wouldn't have ever had a chance to be.  I reminded myself that her life just wasn't meant to be.  But, maybe it's the pregnancy hormones, or maybe I'm still grieving more than I realize...I just needed to ride the wave and let the tears flow, because nothing I told myself made me feel better that morning.

Tomorrow is Pi Day--March 14th--what would have been Miri's 1 year-old birthday, had things gone as expected.  I know I'll probably have a moment or two throughout the day where the thoughts flow into my head, but I think I'll handle it well.  I'm in a good frame of mind.  I just realized this afternoon, though, that this is the first time since I was in high school that I'll be in a math class on Pi day without buying pies for everyone.  I just didn't even think about celebrating until today.  I've been so focused on how I'll make it through, that the thought of pies didn't even cross my mind.  So, I'm not quite there yet.  But I'm hopeful that by next year, in my mind, March 14th won't be "the birthday that wasn't", but it'll be back to Pi Day, the best math day of the year, with a little afterthought of what wasn't.

So it's Pi Day, and I was so wrapped up in myself, I didn't realize that today was the day that Joy found out about Gabby's condition until I read a post of hers on Facebook.  I thought we talked over the weekend (after a few days had passed), because I remember being at the zoo with Andy and Whitney when I got the phone call.  It's funny how March 14th is so significant to both of us now, and how our lives are both forever intertwined in yet another dramatic way.  It just solidifies the thought that people come into your life when you need them and that they'll stay until all the lessons you need to learn were learned, and Joy resurfaced years ago when I needed to see her strength and independence to give me the final push to break up with a long-term boyfriend, and she's stayed, because we needed to be there for each other through our own traumas.  She and I have this bond that very few people could ever know, and I'm so grateful that I have someone to talk to and that I can be there for her.  I am doing alright today--I had a rough go on Saturday and then again last night thinking about it, but I think I got all the emotion out ahead of time.  And it's good that I did.  The first thing a student asked me this morning, was "No pie?"  I told him that I just wasn't in the mood to celebrate this year.  And then Andy thought he'd be nice and buy me a pie for when I came home from work, but apparently Whitney vetoed pecan pie, peach pie, and cherry pie.  The store was sold out of apple.  So she suggested chocolate chip cookie pie--in other words a big cookie cake.  And that was what he bought.  I came home from work to a birthday cookie cake (and no birthday girl).  It didn't say "Happy birthday", but it was decorated in bright icing and sprinkles, as a birthday cookie would be.  I know he meant well, though.  Luckily, I wasn't too upset.  I focused on how nice he was to think to buy me a pie so I didn't miss my "holiday".  And, I did slice into it after dinner, and silently wished Miri a happy almost birthday.

My Story--"I'm Here And I'm Doing Alright."

I know this will be my last pregnancy, and one thing that I learned from Miri is that I should not take any of the milestones or joys for granted.   With Whitney, we took pictures of my growing belly every couple of weeks.  With Miri, I was busy and I kept putting it off and putting it off, and actually never got around to taking one belly picture.  And it's funny, because when I look back on all the pictures we did take over the course of those 7 months, my tummy is hidden in every single picture.  Literally...there's not one where you can actually see it.  It was either out of the frame or covered up by Whitney or a counter or a toy.  I wonder if this was another way the universe was kind to me...I have no pictures that I would want to put away or not look at.  There's nothing that will cause these difficult memories to resurface.  In any event, I have to make this pregnancy different from the last one in every way that I can.  I made sure we took pictures this time.  And every time we do, I feel a little better and a little more hopeful that it will all turn out well in the end.

It's the end of January.  I am 16 weeks along, and I had the most miraculous thing happen this evening. I was sitting in bed, talking to Andy, and all of a sudden, I felt a huge kick!  It was so hard that it made me jump and shout "Whoa!"  I looked at Andy, and I said, "She just kicked me...hard."  It was the first time I felt her move, and it wasn't a little flutter.  It was a full-fledged thump.  Having been pregnant twice before, I know that that first sign of life is usually so faint that you wonder if you really even felt it.  But not this time.  It was as if my little girl wanted to say "I'm here, and I'm doing alright...no need to worry, Mom!"  It was so wonderful to feel!

A few weeks have passed since that first kick, and I've felt her move every day since then.  She never went through that fluttery phase.  It's getting more and more frequent and stronger and stronger.  She really is a wiggle worm.  More so than either Whitney or Miri ever were.  And it's nice, because it's really just what I need to have.  I need the constant reassurance that she's doing okay.  I need to be reminded not to worry.  My mom was right...I got the child I was meant to have.

My Story--It's Been One Year

January 10 is a date I'll never be able to forget.  It has been exactly one year since I lost Miri.  I decided to spend this anniversary visiting Joy and her daughter.  My mom and dad were both in Hawaii and Andy had to work all day, and this was a day that I just really did not want to spend alone.  I knew that if I was by myself, I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about Miri, and for my sake and Whitney's sake, it would be best to be surrounded by people I love.  I woke up that morning a little sad, as you would expect, but it wasn't all-consuming.  Joy and I had actually planned a very busy day of fun for our girls, and watching them play really took my mind off things.  I had a moment here or there, when I received a text from my mom and another from a friend, but for the most part, our day of fun was just what I needed.  My memories of that day are filled with laughter and smiles.  And Joy, being the best friend that she was, didn't bring it up, and she let me spend the day not dwelling on the past, but just being present in the moment.  And I made it through what could have been a really difficult anniversary with a smile on my face.  That evening as I laid in bed, thought about how far I had come and how well I handled it, and I was very proud of myself.

My Story--The Joys of Pregnancy

It seemed like forever, but we finally went to the OB's office for that first ultrasound appointment.  I was so nervous that I hardly slept the night before.  I really hoped that we'd have good news--that there would be a baby, and not a miscarriage--but I was preparing for the worst.  I went over and over what I would do if we got to the ultrasound and saw nothing.  I imagined how I would feel and how I would handle the news.  I played it out again and again in my mind (as I tend to do) just in case.  My husband came with me, and we were both sitting in the waiting room with such anxiety  They called me back, sat me down on the table.  I lifted my shirt, felt the cool gel on my tummy, and it was time to see.  My heart was racing and I looked up at the large display screen.  When the ultrasound technician put that first image up, I could see a little blob with a pulse.  It was so early in the pregnancy, you couldn't make out the head from the body.  It was just a small pulsing round little ball of cells.  But it was there, and I couldn't hold back tears of joy.  I was so relieved, and so happy.  The last time I had an ultrasound, I could see everything...the head, the body, the ribcage, but it was just a still image.  And here we were, just 6 weeks along, and it had a heartbeat and I could see it.  I spent the next four hours not able to control the tears of relief and joy.  I didn't realize how scared I actually was until the relief set in.  A day later, I still got teary-eyed thinking about seeing its little heart in action.  

Two weeks after the initial ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy, I had my first OB appointment.  The baby was still too little to pick up its heartbeat on a Doppler, so to my surprise, my doctor actually brought an ultrasound machine into the examining room with him, because he said, "I just thought you'd like to see the heartbeat again." And did I ever.  It was still there, and now at 8 weeks, it looked much less like a blob, and more like a baby.  There was definitely a head and torso, and the heart was right where it should be and beating a steady quick pace.  It was one of the most beautiful things you can witness.

Due to all the uncertainty of the stillbirth, we decided to have genetic testing done at 11 weeks, just to make sure everything was on pace for a healthy pregnancy.  One of the perks is that you get to find out the gender while still in the first trimester.  I really thought right after my c-section that I was done having girls.  I was pretty certain that the next child would be a boy.  But, then as the months went on, and everyone who I met or knew that was pregnant was having a girl, I started thinking that maybe it was to numb me to the trauma of a girl pregnancy. Maybe I would be blessed 3 times in a row.  About a week after they drew my blood, I got a phone call from the lab.  They said that all the genetic markers came back negative.  Whew!  I confirmed that what she said meant that the baby was healthy, and she said yes, asked if I had any other questions, and I said "Can you tell me the gender?"  She repeated, "Everything came back negative, including the y-chromosome."  It's a girl!  I ran downstairs to give Andy the good news about her health, and then I told him with a smirk, "I told you when we got married, that you were destined to only have girls".  He smiled, and said "Okay."  I could tell he was excited too.  I'm so thrilled that Whitney will get the baby sister she wanted, and I can't actually believe how blessed we are.  I'm so happy that I'm going to get a second chance to raise sisters!

9 1/2 weeks after finding out that we were expecting a girl, Andy ands I had both made up lists of names, and we each vetoed the others favorites.  It's really hard coming up with girl names for the third time that we both love.  Andy really likes Natalie Ann, but I just wasn't sold on it.  It's a fine name, but there was just something holding me back from saying yes.  Then on a Wednesday morning, I woke up with the name Annalie stuck in my head.  I don't know any Annalies and I actually never even heard of that name before dreaming about it.  But that was what I woke up thinking about.  Maybe it was my subconscious combining Natalie and Ann together in one name, or maybe it was pure inspiration.  I'll never know.  So, the first thing I did after turning off my alarm was to roll over and look it up on my iPad.  (Yes, I sleep with my iPad right next to me.)  The way I was spelling it, it's Finnish and means "God has favored me".  And immediately, I knew that this was what I wanted for her name.  It couldn't have been a more perfect meaning for a post-stillborn baby.  I did a little more research on the name, and there's a more common spelling, Annalee, which is Scandinavian and means "grace".  I thought that this could be a nice tribute to Miri since Grace was her middle name.  Either way, I loved it.  And, it's incredibly unpopular, something that was somewhat important to both of us.  (Having grown up in the 70s and 80s, it seemed like every other person I met was a Jenny.  I wanted a name that I could call on a playground and only one kid would turn around to answer.)  After some research, there were only 48 people born with that name in the US last year, but I thought that it doesn't sound weird or seem too out of the ordinary.  I texted Andy since he was still sleeping, and told him not to tell me yes or no, but to just think it over for a couple days and then we'd discuss it.  I didn't want to hear another veto for such a perfect name.  I told my mom, and she thought it was pretty.  I also asked Joy, because I wanted to know if I was crazy for loving it, since it is so unpopular.  If it was as pretty as I thought, wouldn't more people think so too?  But she promised that she'd give me the truth, and in 10 seconds, she agreed that I wasn't crazy and that she thought it was pretty too.  On Sunday afternoon, Andy and I talked about it, and he told me he didn't like the meaning of "grace".  So I said, we could spell it the other way, and then it wouldn't mean that.  I also told him that if he agreed to this first name, then he could choose the middle name, as long as it didn't sound silly (like Annalie Natalie).  A few days later, he told me that he liked Annalie Claire, Annalie Hope, and one more that he couldn't think of off the top of his head.  He agreed!  We have a first name, and it's just perfect!  

My Story--Success!

Well, 4 months met with success...I'm pregnant again, and very excited yet very cautious.  I want this pregnancy to go perfectly, and I don't want to deal with another loss.  But, as nervous as I am, I definitely don't want to wait to announce my pregnancy.  I found out early--I'm only 3 1/2 weeks along--but if anything happens to go wrong, I know I'm going to need all the sympathy and support I can get.  I don't know how I'd find the strength to deal with losing a second baby.  So there's no use hiding the fact that we're expecting.  Everyone should know so everyone can be understanding if things don't work out.

My Story--The Ups and Downs of Trying Again

I just left for a 2 week trip to Hawaii to visit my aunt and destress from a tough year.  And, fingers crossed, timing couldn't be better.  We're due to arrive back on July 10th (6 month anniversary), and that is when our waiting time is up.  We'll be able to start trying to have another baby, and I believe this month's timing couldn't be more perfect...I am so excited and so hopeful that things will happen this month or the next.  If they do, I'll have a built-in maternity leave with summer vacation and I won't lose any of my salary.  I feel like I can be in charge of my own destiny now, and I'm looking to the future with such hopeful eyes.

It's October.  We've been trying for 3 months with no success, and not due to a lack of timing.  I'm starting to feel sad and frustrated.  Each month, I've been so optimistic, thinking "This is going to be the month!", but with each month comes a little more disappointment, and it's getting harder and harder to take.  I'm still thinking about probability, though...odds are, one of these months, it's going to work out for us.  But, I'm starting to wonder if there were unknown complications from the c-section.  I'm headed to my OB for a visit in 3 weeks, and I am really looking forward to seeing what he has to say.  I've wondered for the past 9 months if there was something not quite right with the c-section--it hurt much worse than the first time.  Maybe there will be some tests he can do to see if I have scar tissue or something that is preventing a pregnancy.  My mom keeps telling me that I'll get the child I was meant to have.  I hope she's right.  Waiting for him/her is tough!

My Story--Still Getting Caught Off Guard

There are days when I'm laying in bed at night, watching tv, and I feel something, like a gentle kick or a rolling over, and I get caught off guard.  Obviously it must be gas, or my dinner digesting, but it does make me stop for a moment.  I wonder if this is similar to amputees, who tend to feel their limbs after they've been removed.  I never had these moments after Whitney, but I do now, and it just reminds me that I miss her.

Whitney and I were watching the movie Annie, as we had many times before, but this time was different.  I am still getting emotional surprises from time to time, and today, as we were watching the film, I had to turn away from her as tears were streaming down my cheeks.  It was the part of the movie where Miss Hannigan, Rooster, and Lily kidnapped Annie from Mr. Warbucks.  They sang a song and when Mr. Warbucks sang, "And maybe I'll forget how much she meant to me...and how she was almost my baby...Maybe." I just lost it.

It's now been nearly 5 months, and everyone who was pregnant or has become pregnant in that time has had a girl.  At first this was really hard to deal with, because I was supposed to have one too.  And every time I heard about a girl, it was a reminder that I was missing one.  For months, I kept wishing boys on all my friends (but it didn't work).  Luckily, I'm at the point now where it's not so bad to hear.  I have convinced myself that this is the way the universe is being kind to me...the more it happens, the more numb I am getting and the less it bothers me.  And, I am hopeful that I'll have the opportunity to have another girl in the upcoming months.

I was watching Dr. Phil the other day, and he said something that struck a chord with me..."We remember the days that changed who we are."  And that's very true.  As I am writing this, with a few months' perspective, a lot of what happened has grown fuzzy.  But certain parts are vivid...like they happened yesterday.  And those really are the moments that forever changed me, for better or worse.  Those are the moments that broke me and the moments where I learned or grew.  They changed the way I viewed myself and my world.

I am just two days shy of the 5 month mark.  I have been feeling really good and really positive for a while.  I am able to talk about my experiences and tell people what happened much easier now.  But just when you think that you're alright, something will happen and remind you that emotionally you're still frail.  Tonight, I got a phone call from one of my best friends to tell me that she was moving to Texas.  She got offered a job and the opportunity was too good to pass up, so in 3 weeks, she'd be leaving.  We've been friends for more than half of our lives and in all that time never lived more than a few miles away, except while she was in law school.  We were roommates in college, and we bought houses within walking distance of each other.  We were each other's maids of honor.  And tonight, when she told me her news, I was truly happy for her, but sad for me.  I was fine throughout most of our conversation, but then when we hung up, I started feeling like I wanted to cry.  About 10 minutes later, after thinking, "Jenny...she's your friend.  It's not like she's your spouse or child.  Your schedules haven't meshed in a while and you  hardly hang out with her anymore, so nothing is really going to be changing on a day-to-day basis.  What's with all this emotion?"  And then all of a sudden, it hit me...It's just another person I love that was being taken out of my life.  And that was it.  Even though we don't see each other a lot, even though our kids are different ages and don't play together, even though we live different lives, she is my one friends that I can always count on to be there, to support me, and to drop whatever she is doing at a moment's notice if I needed her to.  She is the closest thing I have to a sister.  She was the one person I called when I was in the hospital to come keep me company at night.  And, although she had worked a full day and had two kids to take care of, she found the time to come sit with me when I needed someone.  And even though she'll be just a phone call away, it won't be the same, and I'm going to miss her.  I told Andy the news and how upset I was, and he tried to console me.  And I told him that I mentally know things are going to be fine, but I'm just having an emotional over-reaction to it, and it's coming from dealing with another loss.  It's such a strange thing when you cannot control your reactions.  There is a split between my mind and my heart that still hasn't healed, and it's times like these that I know I still have healing left to do.

I went to Kansas City for an annual trip I make with one of my part-time jobs, and the people I ran into there either didn't know me or hadn't seen me in a year.  One year ago, I wasn't even pregnant yet.  And in 5 days time, I felt the need to explain my situation to 10 or more people.  (I lost count.) Getting to know people or just in catching up, I talked about my almost 3 year-old daughter, and I heard a lot of, "It's about time for another one" or "Have you thought about having more kids?" and "When's the next one coming?" And I just told them that I have one more month before I can start trying.  The funny look on their faces begged me to explain that I was pregnant, had a stillbirth, and my doctor asked me to wait 6 months before getting pregnant again.  I am so glad that I'm in such a state of acceptance and peace, and glad that I can talk and explain about what happened without the tears.  I'm in a place of being able to remember, but not needing to relive the emotions.  Sometimes I elaborated and gave more details and sometimes not, but they are kind of awkward questions to answer.  This experience is just one more way in which I can see that stillbirths are very much not private matters.  And that's okay.

Miscarriages vs Stillbirths

A miscarriage is different from a stillbirth.  And unless you are so unfortunate as to go through a stillbirth, the two might seem pretty similar.  With a miscarriage, it happens early on in the pregnancy.  Often, you're still wearing your normal clothes, and the pregnancy feels more like a rumor than a fact since you never got to feel the baby move inside you.  In reality, 1 out of every 5 pregnancies are miscarriages.  It is frequent, common, and somewhat expected.  I don't mean to minimize the loss of a miscarriage.  It is tragic.  And it really hurts.  And you wish it hadn't happened.  And there is that loss of a dream for the future.  But the difference is that it happens early on, before it becomes noticeable to others.  And every woman is aware of the risk of a miscarriage during the beginning of a pregnancy and feels a sense of relief once that risky period is over.  And, women who miscarry have the option of keeping it private.  But someone who experiences a still birth has a much different experience.  It's not just a dream for the future that was lost, it was a nearly certain future.  They knew their baby's gender, they picked out a name, there were registries, nurseries, maybe even showers.  There was feeling life inside of you and then feeling nothing.  There was a fully-formed person who didn't make it.  There may have been the telling of the other children and explaining death to them and the question-answering that followed.  There are the changes in your body both during and after--the large stomach and stretched out muscles, the sleepless nights from constantly going to the bathroom, the milk coming in but no one to feed, the major hormone shifts, the post-partum depression (which gets really depressing), the  not wanting to wear maternity clothes because you're not pregnant and you don't have a baby but not having enough stretchy regular clothes that fit--that are completely out of your control.  It's not something you can hide from, even if you want to.  In my case, there is a new scar from the surgery that will be forever present, forever reminding me of the loss.  Stillbirths mean that you cannot grieve privately, even if that's what you need.  People will come up and ask you questions which you may or may not be prepared to answer.  And when you do answer them, watching their reaction is hard.  Miscarriages and stillbirths are just different.  And this is important for people to realize, especially if you are ever trying to comfort a friend who has just lost their baby.  Saying, "I know how you are feeling, because I too had a miscarriage" really explains that you don't know.  It's different.

My Story--Mother's Day

Tomorrow is going to be Mother's Day, and I am feeling a bit melancholy.  I'm not sad enough to cry--I've definitely accepted the way things are--but realizing that I'm celebrating with one daughter instead of two has just set me in a down mood.  I've been thinking about how precious every child is, and how fortunate we are to have them in our lives.  And this Mother's Day, I'll focus on the joy that Whitney brings me and how lucky I am to be her mom.  And I'll think of Miri, and I'll be grateful for the short time that I was able to be a mother to her.  But I'll still wish that things would have been different.  I'll hold Whitney, and she'll hug me back.  We'll exchange "I love you's" and give each other kisses, and I'll lavish every minute of it.  And deep on the inside, I'll be wishing that Miri and I could do the same.  

My story--Sympathy and Empathy

It's been nearly 4 months now, and I'm still dealing with people asking me how the baby is.  And that's hard.  I wasn't really prepared for what I heard on what was a very ordinary lunch outing on a very ordinary Monday.  The general manager of our local Einstein's shared her family's misfortune with us.  Her son and daughter-in-law lost their baby 5 days before her scheduled delivery date.  9 months pregnant with their first baby.  I can't even imagine how devastated they are.  Losing my baby with 2 months to go was hard, but I was so fortunate that I had Whitney already.  I knew that I didn't do anything differently this time, and it was just bad luck for me.  I know that next time I get pregnant, I'll approach it the same way, and odds are that I'll have a healthy baby.  It's one thing to mentally know it, but another to truly believe it.  This couple hasn't had a successful pregnancy to keep them grounded.  And worse than that, their nursery was ready.  Their registries were completed.  Probably the clothes were all washed and put away.  And when they came home, they had an emptiness in their nursery that I didn't have to deal with.  And, with a first pregnancy, you get so excited and that's all you talk about.  And I'm sure it was announced to everyone in her world.  I told more people about my pregnancy with Whitney than I did with Miri, and I showed belly pictures, had showers, and kept people updated with every new event with Whitney, but not with Miri.  Whitney even had her own website in utero.  She's probably got so many people to tell.  My heart literally aches for them.  As horrible as I had it, they have it worse.  I gave the manager my phone number in case her daughter-in-law wanted to talk to someone who had recently been through a stillbirth, but I wished there was something I could do to take away their pain.  This is a pain no one should ever have to feel, and learning of their loss saddened me in a way I hadn't expected.  In retrospect, I suppose this is the difference between feeling sympathy and empathy.  Never before has the difference been so pronounced for me.

My Story--I Think Differently Now

I almost just wrote, "Miri should have been 1 month old", and then I caught myself.  Miri would have been 1 month old.  There's a difference, and it's an important one...Would have means "if it were not for the unfortunate circumstances", but "should have" means a little more--that something isn't quite right and it was supposed to be differently.  And part of being at peace with the situation means realizing that this is the way it was meant to be.  It shouldn't be different than it is.  This is it, and as much as I sometimes wish otherwise, I was meant to have lost her.  She was not meant to be 1 month old.  

In any event, Miri would have been 1 month old, and although I feel happy, confident, and peaceful, there are still plenty of moments that catch me off guard.  The obvious ones--people who hadn't seen me in a long time saying "Congratulations"--although, these don't nearly cause the same anxiety-filled reaction as some of the others.  It's more the people who ask, "How's the baby?", wanting to know how my almost 3 year-old daughter is, because in their eyes she still is a baby.  And my heart races, I think to myself, "Don't they know I lost the baby?  How can I explain it without making them feel ill-at-ease?"  It took a few times of someone else saying, "Whitney is fine." before I realized the intent of the question.  And there are the other moments that force me to do a double-take.  Friends, cousins, etc who are pregnant, and as proud and excited as a new mom should be.  I'm not jealous, I'm not sad, it doesn't bring me back to that dark place I was in so many weeks ago, but there are moments that give me pause.  My cousin had posts on Facebook,  "3rd Trimester already!"  "2 months to go!"  "Can't believe the baby will be here in 3 more weeks!"  Those sort of things, while very innocent on her part and something we all do as first time moms, now give me a very different reaction.  While I used to share in the excitement of the moment, now when I hear those comments, one word and one word alone always pops into my head...Maybe.  Maybe she'll be here soon.  Maybe you really have 3 weeks left.  Maybe if you are not one of the unlucky ones.  I feel awful that I can't get as excited as I once would have, but this is now my experience.  It gives me a new perspective on the old adage, "Don't count your chickens before they hatch."  I always knew what it meant, but it's visceral now.  Even today, when I heard another cousin announce "It's a girl!", my gut gave me an overwhelming feeling of "I hope she makes it."  I really can't count on a baby being born alive until it is.  That sigh of relief at viability day, when they tell you if something goes wrong and we have to take the baby, it'll have a 95% or higher chance of survival, still is no real sigh of relief.  Had I been able to predict what happened over the weekend, I could have had a c-section on Saturday and a 95% chance or higher that Miri would be alive and healthy today.  It's dumbfounding sometimes.  

One thing that a good friend of mine taught me is that in the Jewish faith, when a woman is pregnant, you never offer her congratulations.  Instead of Mazel Tov, you say, "B'sha-ah Tova", meaning, "all in good time."  And having gone through a stillbirth, I can now see the wisdom in it.  Congratulations is for things which have already happened, not for things you anticipate will happen.  All in good time...how true.

One of the tasks that I saved until I was better able to deal with my emotions was returning the gifts that were meant for Miri.  My grandmother had purchased matching outfits for her and Whitney for the spring, and I couldn't keep either of them.  I didn't need anything newborn sized, and putting Whitney in it would just be another reminder that Miri isn't here anymore.  So I called my grandmother and asked for the receipt, then went to the mall.  When the sales lady asked me what my reason was for the return, I figured I should be honest...not many stores will allow a return that is more than 3 months old.  I cried a bit while telling her, but she was sympathetic and went ahead with a merchandise credit for me.  It wasn't fun, but one more task checked off the list and one more element of closure.

My Story--Saying Goodbye

On the day before my due date, the hospital called to remind me about the pre-op instructions for the next day.  I was driving down the highway when I received the phone call and I had to kindly tell them that I wasn't coming in because I had had a stillborn 2 months earlier. Apparently my OB had forgotten to cancel that appointment.  That was another one of those caught off-guard moments on what was already a tough day for me.

It was tough due to anticipation of how I was going to handle saying goodbye, but also tough because I was trying to decide how the day was going to play out.  We had already decided that Whitney would not be allowed to go.  There would be too many questions that I didn't think she was ready to have truthful answers to, and both Andy and I wanted to have the freedom to break down emotionally if we needed to.  Neither one of us wanted to have to be strong in that moment.  Andy wanted it to be private, as in just the two of us, but I wanted my parents there as well.  After all, it was their granddaughter too, and my mom had been my emotional support for the past two months.  He had agreed the night before that they could come, but only if they would stand in the background and not be with us when we spread her ashes.

Right before I received that phone call from the hospital, I was at our temple, meeting with my rabbi to try to find something appropriate and meaningful to say.  I knew the mourner's Kaddish wasn't right, because she technically was never alive.  I wanted something that was looking ahead with promise and looking back but not in a mournful, grief-stricken way.  My rabbi found a few passages and prayers from a modern reformed book specifically written to address stillbirths and miscarriages.  He made photocopies for me to take home.  He even offered to come and say a few words during our final goodbye, but I declined.  I knew Andy really wanted privacy, but more than that, I wanted Miri's goodbye to come from me.  This was the last loving act I could do, and I wanted to be the one to do it.  He also asked me if I had decided where we were going to spread her ashes.  It was going to be on the temple grounds, but I hadn't yet found the perfect place.  He offered a suggestion that that we spread her ashes at the center of their new labyrinth, right at the base of a tree that had been planted for him when he became our head rabbi.  He showed me where it was from his office window, and I said that I'd think about it.  At the end of our conversation, he asked me if I had ever seen ashes before (which I hadn't).  And he warned me that sometimes there are still remnants and pieces of bone mixed in with the ashes.  He did say that in her case she was so young and her bones were so much cartilage that he didn't think there would be many pieces, but he wanted to warn me ahead of time so it wasn't one extra bit of unexpected stress.  I thanked him for that and I left his office very emotional from thinking about what was coming up tomorrow.  I walked around the entire temple, and the spot that I had been thinking of ended up not being as great or as private as I had imagined.  I found another place that was nice, and I checked out the labyrinth.  I couldn't decide between the two, so I figured I'd give Andy some ownership in the "where".

Later that evening, after I put Whitney to bed, I went through the passages and came to the conclusion that none of what these progressive male rabbis wrote was what I was feeling.  Their words seemed empty and the solemn tone seemed as if they were imagining what it felt like rather than knowing what it felt like.  And when I thought about it, of course they didn't know...they were men.  They can't experience the loss in the same way.  They can't feel the responsibility or the sense of letting your child down.  So, I decided to just write my own letter to her, expressing what I felt and telling her what she meant to me.  I wrote and thought for a long time and I hit on this idea that made everything okay...I found purpose and meaning to her little life and I summed it all up in this short letter:

Miri,
I believe that people come in and out of your life to teach you lessons, and they stay until all the lessons they were meant to teach you have been learned.   You have taught me about deep sorrow, compassion, strength, and courage.  You taught me that I can do things I never thought I would be able to do.  You showed me how much love and support I have in friends and family that I didn't know was there.   You also taught me not to take a healthy pregnancy for granted, and that a second child's milestones should be just as exciting as they were for the first child.  You brought new friends into my life.  And you did all that for me in just 7 months.  And so your life, even without a taking a breath, had meaning and served a purpose.  And for that I will always be grateful.  As painful as it is, knowing you and losing you has enriched my life in so many ways.

I could have elaborated so much and described each point, but I knew that I wanted to read this letter to her, and I knew that it would be one of the hardest things I'd ever have to do, and I didn't know if I would be able to find enough of a voice among the tears to even get through one sentence.  Short and to the point was what I needed, but the thoughts behind each statement would be forever in my heart.  And upon the realization that her life had a meaning and that I am forever changed for the better somehow made it all okay.  That was the moment that I turned my grief into gratitude.  I felt better about how the next day was going to go, and it was late at night, so I settled in and went to bed.

The next morning, I was met with a wave of anxiety as I knew what the day would entail.  Andy and I showered and got dressed.  We both decided to wear something nice, a rarety in our house.  I printed the letter I had written and placed it next to the box containing her ashes.  My grandmother came over to watch Whitney, and Andy and I gathered our courage, the letter, and Miri's ashes, and we headed out the door.  We still hadn't decided with certainty where we were going to do it.  There were two spots I had in mind, but when we arrived at the temple, there were gardeners tending the plants at one of the spots.  I didn't want to ask them to stop, so by default we had chosen our spot.  It was going to be in the labyrinth, under our rabbi's tree.

A few minutes later my parents arrived, and just as we requested, they stayed back and watched from the entrance of the labyrinth as Andy and I walked toward the center.  We took a deep breath, with tears in our eyes, and we knelt down at a spot right next to a rock big enough to sit on.  I opened the box, with a bit of trepidation, not knowing exactly what the ashes would look like.  They were light gray, and very fine.  No bits or pieces, like I was worried about.  And very matter-of-factly, I asked Andy if he was ready because once we did it, she would be gone, and he nodded, so we both held the bag and sprinkled them in a small clearing we had made in the ground cover.  I tried to mix her in with the dirt and mulch, because I didn't want the gardeners to move her when doing their maintenance.  My hands were dirty, my eyes were filled with tears, some had streaked down my face, but I didn't care.  I got out my letter, and I read it.  The tears were coming out so fast, that the words looked blurry on the page, and at one point, I couldn't even read what I had written.  It didn't matter, though.  I knew it by heart, as the sentiments came directly from my heart.   I managed to speak every word out loud, and I told her I loved her.  Andy cried.  He said that it just wasn't fair.  He told her that he loved her, and we hugged, held hands, and walked back.  I put the letter that I had written in the box where her ashes were, and I held it.  It was lighter and empty, and part of me was sad that we let her go out of our hands forever, but most of me knew that it was the best thing we could have done.  It was the final step in achieving closure.  My parents gave us a hug, and a remarkable thing happened as we walked to greet them.  All of a sudden, my dark haze that I had been living in lifted.  Just like that.  It was over, and I felt happy.  It was the first time in months, and I felt like I was going to have a good day.  My mom asked how I was, and I said, "Good.  I'm really good."  I told them that if they wanted to go and pay their respects, they could.  And they did.  I could tell that it was really hard for them too, but they did it.  I took a deep breath, enjoyed the warm fresh air, looked up at the beautiful blue sky, and I knew that I was going to be okay.

Over the 9 weeks I had just lived through, I did a lot of thinking, feeling, and introspection, and this was the first day for me to move on with my life.  I needed to get back to a normal routine.  I needed to be a mom to Whitney and take care of her.  And I had a few months ahead of no stressing about a baby.  My life could be mine again.  And it was a relief in a weird way.  I no longer had to worry whether or not I would make it through spreading her ashes.  I no longer had to play the scene over and over in my head, where I just fell apart, where my legs buckled underneath me and Andy had to catch me because I just couldn't handle it, where I cried so hard I could barely breathe.  I did it.  I made it through.  I had a voice, and I used it.  I said goodbye, and I was proud of myself for finding that strength.  You wouldn't think that the day you say goodbye would be such a happy day, but I couldn't stop smiling.  I forgot how good it felt to feel happy, and it just felt so good.

Andy and I decided to take the rest of the day and spend it together as a family.  We took Whitney to the zoo and were having a lovely afternoon.  As we were walking to see the hippos, Whitney's favorite animal, I got a phonecall from Joy, wanting to know how everything went.  And I told her all about it with no tears or anything.  I was really relieved and really happy.  It was a good day.  Then her news once again rocked my world...Gabby was taken by ambulance from her pediatrician's office to the hospital.  They didn't know for sure what was wrong, but her blood oxygen was only 68%, and Joy was so distraught.  As it turned out, after a day or two of tests, Gabby was missing her pulmonary artery and a valve in her heart, and she had a hole between her ventricles.  Officially, she has Tetralogy of Fallot with MAPCAS.  And she needed to have open heart surgery as soon as she could.  After I got off the phone with her, I told Andy, and we were both in shock.  She was living through one of our, "It would be worse if" scenarios.  

My story--The Psychological Struggles and Little Victories

At home, I was met with a very happy daughter.  And I told her, "Look Whitney!  Mommy is getting better.  I'm well enough to come home today."  I gave her a gentle hug then headed upstairs, slowly, as climbing stairs was difficult, and gently crawled into bed and rested.  Later that evening, my dad carried in dinner, and we all ate together.  At the dinner table, Whitney was so happy to have her life more normal and have everyone over that my mom said, "Isn't this nice...we're one whole, big, happy family!"  And with those words, I immediately burst into tears.  We weren't one big happy family.  One of us was missing, and she'd never be there, and I didn't think we'd ever feel completely whole again.

I looked up and saw this look on my mom's face that I hadn't ever seen before.  She felt so bad for saying something so innocent.  She apologized profusely.  And I knew there was no malice behind it, and I told her it was okay.  I needed to get used to the things people say, and I knew that I needed to get a bit more thick skinned when it came to things.  But it was still hard to hear.  Everything was still so new, and I still was learning about what I could handle and what I couldn't.  I composed myself again, sat back down, and picked at the rest of my dinner.  I still had no appetite.

I was very fortunate once I was home.  My mom came over every day to help watch Whitney, clean my house, and take care of me.  I was so energyless when I returned home.  In the beginning, I spent just an hour or two out of my room for an entire day.  If you know me, you know that I'm a goer and a doer.  I go stir-crazy very easily.  It was so obvious that I was depressed and needed time to grieve.  And thank goodness all the adults in my life recognized that and didn't push me.  

One thing that my husband did was that he liked to try to "protect" me.  There were condolence cards that had arrived in the mail, and he hid them from me when I got home.  He wanted to spare me the pain of reading through them and reliving how much her death hurt.  But, fortunately for me, my mom had convinced him otherwise.  She explained that I needed to know that people were thinking of us, and that he shouldn't deny me those sympathies.  And she was right.  While I couldn't read them all at once, and I had to gear up each time I read one, it was nice to know that we were being though of.  I had just enough strength to read two a day in the beginning.  I couldn't cry, and so I had to limit myself as to how much pain I could handle.  But, while difficult to read, it really was the support of friends and family that helped me through. I needed to read them in order to help heal.  And, with each card I read, the situation became more real and not just a bad dream that I had been having.  It was important to have the option to see them.

One other thing that was completely out of my control was that I had diarrhea.  I would get a stomachache after every meal and spend time in the bathroom.  I could barely eat a whole meal even when I was hungry.  At first, I assumed it was from the anxiety.  And I didn't think too much about it.  Then after a few days, I thought maybe it was a residual effect of the anesthesia, but typically they drugs are constipating.  However, they did give me ketorolac, which can cause digestive problems, so I figured that was it.  After I was home for about 5 days, I decided to stop taking my prescriptions to see if that would help.  I had become so weak from the loss of fluids that climbing the stairs in my house made me out of breath.  But stopping the ketorolac didn't help.  This was just my body's response to all the stress, emotions, trauma, hormone shifts, and mental anguish I was going through.  And finally about 3 weeks later, I started to get back to (a new) normal.

I had to visit my doctor's office on Monday so that my stitches could be removed.  When I called to make the appointment, my OB was booked for the day, and they told me I'd have to see the nurse practitioner.  I was somewhat frustrated, but I didn't have a choice.  Getting stitches out was scary enough, and I didn't really want to deal with anyone but my doctor.  It was going to be hard enough sitting in the waiting room with a bunch of pregnant women.  There are 4 or 5 OBs in that office and the waiting room is always full and the doctors always run late.  I never had an appointment where I waited for less than 30 minutes past my scheduled time.  Just sitting there watching all the other women for that long was not going to be fun.  Andy offered to take me and he said that he and Whitney could wait with me, but I didn't want to get the stitches out by myself, and I surely didn't want Whitney to watch...if it pulled or hurt, she didn't need to see me cry.  This ordeal had been hard enough on her already.  And she didn't need the extra trauma of seeing that her mommy was crying, but not knowing why.  So, I just asked my mom to take me.  (I couldn't go alone yet, as I was still on driving restrictions).  And, when we arrived, I was pleasantly surprised...for the first time ever, they got me in at my scheduled appointment time, and my OB had rearranged his schedule so that he could take out the stitches for me and answer any questions that I had.  What a relief!  The stitches weren't bad.  He made two long running stitches all the way across my abdomen, so it was two tugs and that was it.  Tender, but not painful.  He didn't even tear off the tape holding my skin together.  He suggested I keep it on until Wednesday, and then slowly take them off until Saturday, when they should all be removed.  It was easier than I thought, and I even did well holding myself together in the waiting room.  It's the little victories that really help when your whole world is spinning out of control.

When I got home that evening, I finally allowed Whitney to see my new scar.  She had been asking for a few days, but I didn't want her to see the stitches, because I didn't want her to get too scared.  With them removed, I figured "why not?"  So, I laid down in bed, and sat her next to me.  I told her that she wasn't allowed to touch, because it was a boo-boo and still hurt.  Then I tried to describe it so that she would know what to expect.  The scar wasn't exactly in a straight line.  It dipped down in the middle and the skin was still red, so I told her that the scar looked like a smiley face.  The pieces of white tape, perpendicular to the scar, I told her were like the teeth.  So, it looked like a smiley face with teeth.  Not a scary image, and she was fascinated.  Every night we went through the routine of looking at it, and every night, I gave her the same image before showing her.  Then as the "teeth" were removed, she had a visual cue that I really was healing each day.  I am so glad that I was able to show her and be truthful with her about the whole medical procedure.  I think that level of honesty was good for both of us.

Now, I just had one more day left before what I feared was my biggest challenge--picking up Miri's ashes.  The cremation center called me on Monday, letting me know that her ashes were going to be delivered to their west county location and that I could pick them up on Tuesday anytime before 3:00.  I spent so many hours from Friday (when they picked her up) to Tuesday (when I got her remains) imagining how it would go and how heartbroken I would feel.  I still couldn't cry because of the surgery, but I went through the pain over and over in my mind, preparing myself.  I pictured myself crying so hard that my knees would buckle under me.  I imagined crying so hard that I ran out of breath.  I pictured needing my mom to hold me upright.  And these were all the things that I really was feeling, but couldn't act out because I was still too sore from the surgery to cry.  I was forced to stuff it all in.  

On Tuesday, I asked my grandmother to come over and watch Whitney so that my mom could drive me to pick up Miri's ashes.  Andy went back to work that day and so he couldn't go, and I was still under doctor's orders to not drive.  Even if I could have done it alone, this was one of those things that I knew I needed support to get through.  My mom had suggested that I take an extra percoset that day to help with my discomfort, and I agreed, because 9 times out of 10, she knows exactly what the right thing for me to do is.  So my grandmother arrived, I had a "sundae", took a deep breath, and got in the car.  It was a 15 minute drive, but it felt like an eternity.  On the way, my mom had offered again that she could do this for me if I didn't think I could handle it or didn't want to.  But for me, that wasn't an option.  I had such an overwhelming need to handle everything myself.  I had to cancel my registries, I had to call the funeral homes, I had to take care of the paperwork.  And this was no different.  I just had to be strong enough to do it.  When we opened the door, the director was talking to a couple about their services.  He asked if he could help me, and I said "I need to pick up my daughter's ashes."  My eyes welled up, but I held it together.  He quickly excused himself from the couple and took me to a table at the back of the store.  He presented me with a small cardboard box, probably 3 inches tall by 8 inches wide by 3 inches deep.  There was a small label that said St. Louis Cremation and Miriam Grace Shrensker underneath.  He expressed his condolences and had me sign a piece of paper.  I didn't read it--I don't think I could have with my eyes as teary as they were--but I signed it, and I assumed that it confirmed that I picked her up.  He said how sorry he was for our loss, and then we left.  I held the box so closely.  And I was so surprised...I didn't feel like I thought I would.  I was sad, but not overwhelmingly so.  I actually felt really happy, in a strange way.  For a week, I had been missing holding my baby.  I felt so empty and I just wanted to hold her.  I thought about getting a teddy bear as a substitute, but really, there is no substitute that could fill that void.  But finally, for the first time, I got to hold her.  Granted, it wasn't the way I wanted it to have been and it she didn't look like a baby anymore, but she was back with me again, and I needed that so badly.  I cradled the box in my arms, and I loved her.

We then went to my mom's house, because Andy couldn't handle having her ashes at our house.  So my mom offered to keep them safe at her house until the day came when we were ready for them.  It was a quick 3 or 4 minute drive, and then I had to hand over the box.  I stayed in the car while she found a spot for her granddaughter.  And in a minute or two, she returned and started driving back to my house.  She asked if I was okay, and I was.  I felt really good, better than I had felt in a while.  Relieved that it was over.  Proud that I found the courage to do it, and happy that I got to be with her.  "I did it," I said.  And then the extra dose of percoset started messing with me.  I started feeling woozy and a bit over-drugged, and I just needed some time for it to wear off.  When we got home, I headed straight to bed and laid down for a couple hours.

I was so proud of myself for doing it.  I needed that little victory.  And it was another piece of the closure puzzle that I was glad I experienced.  If I had let my mom or someone else do this for me, I think my healing would have suffered.  With each challenge that I overcame and each task that was difficult, I gained confidence, closure, and pride.  I learned about my own strength.  And these are such valuable lessons, and ones that I will carry with me through the rest of my life.

Every Monday, my grandmother takes us to lunch at Einstein's.  Finally, I was recovered enough from the c-section to go.  And, as we walked up to place our order, Andy looked at me and said, "Are you excited...you get to eat lox again."  Lox is my favorite sandwich from there, and with each pregnancy, I had been avoiding it along with sushi, carpaccio, and other raw or under-cooked meats.  I know he meant to cheer me up, but really, he just made me feel miserable.  It was a blatant in-your-face reminder that I wasn't pregnant, and I still should have been.  I started to get teary-eyed, and I just couldn't bring myself to eat it.  Eating lox now meant that Miri was dead.  I wasn't 100% ready to accept that I was no longer pregnant nor was I ready for that "perk" of having a stillborn.  Having those "first time since I got pregnant" moments should be met with joy, and I wasn't ready to handle them yet.  I ordered a turkey sandwich even though it wasn't what I really wanted.

About two weeks after I returned home, my mother-in-law came in town and stayed with us, as she always did.  This trip had been planned a couple months earlier when Andy decided he wasn't going home over Christmas.  Both Andy and Judy double-checked that I was okay with that, and I said that it was okay as long as Judy understood that I wasn't going to be very entertaining.  Her visits normally go like this:  arrive on Friday early evening, stay Saturday, leave Sunday after lunch--quick weekend trip.  And Andy typically works Friday night until 10:30-11:00, and then again on Saturday from 10:30 am to 11:00 pm.  He's off Sundays, so Sunday before lunch is his only time to visit with his mom, and I entertain her the rest of the time.  However, this time she decided to stay an extra day to have time to be with Andy, which I was totally okay with.  I would like him to get to spend time with his mother.  That just meant that my mother, my safety blanket, wouldn't be around.

So she arrived Friday afternoon, and when she got there, my mom left.  We went out to dinner, and I heard all about how hard it is when someone you love dies--her husband had passed away 8 years earlier and she still cries every time she thinks about him.  And I know she meant well, but a child is different than a husband.  It's a totally different feeling. I was supposed to be her caregiver, her protector.  I was supposed to keep her safe.  And I let her down in the worst possible way.  Not intentionally, not that it was even in my control...but it was within my body and that somehow made me feel responsible.  

After dinner, I started having some of the worst thoughts I had ever had.  I knew in my head that it had been bad luck.  I knew I couldn't have stopped it.  I knew I couldn't have prevented it.  But I started feeling responsible.  And I kept apologizing to Miri over and over.  "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you.  I'm so sorry the safest place on earth was what killed you.  I'm so sorry I couldn't help you."  And then the thoughts turned to what it must have been like for her...I kept wondering, "What must it have felt like to strangle yourself?  Was she panicked?  Did she know to move or wiggle the cord?  Did she struggle to free herself?"  And those were so overwhelming.  And those were things I couldn't share with my mother-in-law.  I just thought and thought.  And the analytic part of me knew that an oxygen-deprived brain would go to sleep and die peacefully.  But what about right before?  It was mental torture and I couldn't stop it.  And I kept everything to myself for a couple days.  And that was really hard.  So, I decided that the best way to ease my worries was to learn more about stillbirths.  Perhaps there would be an article about what happens to the baby.  So I took out my iPad before bed and I googled "stillbirth 31 weeks".  And I was grossly underprepared for what came up.  Three websites, and then the link for images with pictures already displayed on the screen.  I had such an adrenaline kick when images of stillborn babies surfaced all over the bottom of the screen--that was not what I wanted to see.  I didn't even hit the image tab and they were there in plain view.  I couldn't look and I immediately shut off the iPad, and tried to get those pictures out of my head.  There really should be some sort of warning for that.  It took me about another month before I was ready to go online again to learn more.  It was just horrific to me at the time.  It was too fresh and my wounds were too raw for that.

I had Andy, Whitney, and Judy all go out together on Sunday, and I stayed behind, because I really needed to talk and get those dark thoughts out.  The longer I kept them in, the more they just festered, and the worse it got.  I started visualizing her inside me strangling herself and being scared, alone, and in the dark, and I needed to talk to get those visions out.  And once I started telling my mom about my dark thoughts, she told me not to go down that road, and that she was sure everything happened easily, peacefully, and painlessly to Miri, and she hugged me.  And I needed that--the reassurance and the love.  And while the thoughts didn't exactly go away, they became less all-encompassing to my mind.

It had been a couple weeks since I returned home from the hospital, and I had heard my grandmother and my mom talk about going to my cousin's baby shower.  I knew it was coming up, and just the week before, I made a comment to my mom that I was so happy I didn't get an invitation, because I didn't think I would be able to emotionally handle watching her prepare for the arrival of her daughter, seeing her as pregnant as I was when I lost Miri, and more than that, I didn't want to take any attention away from her if I suddenly burst out in tears.  What I didn't know was that I really did get an invitation and it was delivered in the mail on the day I returned from the hospital.  Andy had told my mom that he threw it away, because he didn't want me to have to deal with it and he didn't think that I'd be capable of going.  My mom RSVP'd for me that I wouldn't be coming, but she felt somewhat uneasy about hiding it from me.  There was a part of her that wanted to let me know, but because I had commented just a week earlier that I was glad I didn't even get an invitation, she and Andy felt that my not attending was probably what I would have chosen anyway.  But with a few weeks of perspective, I started feeling differently, and my mom decided to tell me about what they had done.  I was a little frustrated that they had hidden it from me, but I completely understood why.  After losing your baby, it's kind of hard to be in the mood to celebrate someone else's.  But when she told me, I decided that I needed to go for my own sake.  I was still nervous about how I would handle it.  Things kept catching me off guard and it was hard to predict if I was going to be having a depressing day or not.  So I decided to plan on going, but I told them that if they saw me get up and leave in the middle of the shower to not take it personally.  It would just be more than I could handle and I would try to discretely make an exit.  The hostess (the to-be grandmother) was very understanding and told me that I could either show up or not at the last minute with or without Whitney, and it would be fine.  She understood that this would be hard, but they would love to have me if I was up for it.  So, with one week to go, I had to find a gift.  I had purchased some cloth diapers that I was going to turn into burp cloths for myself by sewing some pretty ribbons on them, and since I now wouldn't need them, it couldn't hurt to give them to her.  I started sewing and finished the project in two days, and then I also gave her my jumbo box of newborn diapers that I had purchased already.  Clearly we wouldn't need those either.

Right around the 4 week mark, a few days before the shower, I was anxiously awaiting the news from the genetic testing.  There were no definitive answers as to why this happened, and I couldn't wait to find out or rule out something.  When the doctor's office called, I spoke with the nurse, and she unknowingly put me in a tailspin for the day.  She called to tell me that the lab results were inconclusive.  What did that mean?  She explained that the tissue samples are sent to the lab, and they grow and culture them until there are more cells to do the testing on.  She explained that they could not get Miri's cells to grow, and therefore, they were unable to do any testing.  And a few thoughts raced through my head...the first one, looking back is somewhat humorous, but during the time was a really hard thought to deal with.  The movie, The Princess Bride, had a scene where the miracle worker was describing the difference between someone who was dead and someone who was only mostly dead.  And I thought, "I knew on that Tuesday she was dead, but she wasn't even mostly dead...she was really all dead." And it was hard knowing that not even science could bring any of her cells back in a petri dish.  And I don't know why the difference between all dead and all but a few cells in a petri dish made a difference to me, but it really did, and I mourned her all over again.  And since she had been cremated 3 1/2 weeks earlier, there was nothing else that could be done.  There were no do-overs no second chances.  I would be forever left in the dark and I had to make peace with not knowing a thing.

My cousin's shower was February 11th.  I woke up and felt anxious but ready to face my challenge.  If I could make it through, it would be one more feeling of empowerment, one more victory, one more way I could know the amount of strength and courage that I had inside.  I got dressed and got Whitney ready, and I had my mom and my grandmother come with us for support.  I didn't want to walk into the shower before anyone else I knew was there.  I still looked somewhat pregnant, and I didn't want to worry about questions from strangers.  And, I didn't want all the I'm sorry's to start without having a safety net, just in case it was going to be overwhelming.  And, if I needed to leave because I was so distressed, I didn't want to have to drive home that upset.  When we arrived, I settled in, grabbed some courage to go up to my cousin and congratulate her and ask how she was doing.  And I made it through the chit chat, hiding myself around Whitney and my mom and grandma.  I made it through the lunch.  There were a few people who expressed their condolences, but I had prepared myself for more than I had to face, and so it was okay.  And then I made it through the massive pile of gifts, and the shower was over.  I did it.  And I felt so proud of myself for being able to stay, being composed, and being able watch her enjoy her moment without dwelling on me not having mine.  It was a great feeling of accomplishment, and I was so glad I was able to tuck that experience away and get a sense that I was starting to heal.  I celebrated by indulging in a chocolate chip cookie that night.

With that shower victory behind me, I was ready to open the memory box. The next day, I went over to my mom's house, and she pulled it out.  It was a nice sized box, covered in a soft purple fabric with two ribbons that tied it shut.  When I opened it, there was a blanket, the one that she had been wrapped in.  And the primal instinct in me immediately tried to smell it, to see if there was any of her left behind, but when I brought it to my nose, it just smelled like a blanket.  I found a card signed by the hospital staff and my OB with small notes of sympathy.  They had cut a lock of her hair and placed it in the box as well.  Miri had long (for a baby), dark (almost black) hair.  They had taken hand- and footprints of her, and placed those in the box as well.  It's nice to have those artifacts.  It means that she really was here.  She was "alive".  She did exist, and this wasn't just a bad dream.  Opening the box was emotional, but I was so glad to be strong enough to do it.  Now I know that whenever I feel like I need to see something or hold something of hers, I can.  It's there, ready for me, if I need it.  And that is comforting.

At the end of February, my best friend, Joy, came in town to be with me for a while.  She brought her 4 month old daughter, Gabby, with her who I was very excited to finally meet.  Her visit, while difficult in some ways, was really good for me.  It forced me to get out of the house and back to doing fun things with Whitney.  We toured St. Louis, and did something different everyday.  We took pictures, we gave Gabby a lot of "firsts" and it was fun to be there for that.  After all, I wasn't going to have any of those "firsts" with Miri.  Joy is the kind of friend that no matter how many months or years pass, we pick up right where we left off.  We've been best friends since the age of two, and there's something special about our relationship.  For as close as we are, it took me until the third day of her visit to finally open up and talk about what really had been happening and how hard this was emotionally.  We sat in my bed for a couple hours after Whitney was asleep, and we talked, and I cried, and so did she, and we hugged.

About two weeks before my due date, while Joy was still in town, another bout of reality hit, and I started struggling with wondering what Miri looked like.  There was just something inside of me that was so curious.  Was she pretty?  Did she look like me?  Did she look like Andy?  I knew she had long, dark hair from the memory box, but that was all.  What were her other features like?  These thoughts started to be obsessive, and I just couldn't put them away.  I knew there were pictures at the hospital, but I didn't want to see them while I was there, and I still didn't want to see them.  She would have been 9 weeks premature, and she probably didn't look like a normal full-term baby.  What if I took one look, and was horrified.  Some of the pictures on google shocked me so badly a few weeks earlier that I didn't want to risk another shock.  And this time it might be worse because she was my daughter.  I didn't want that kind of image stuck in my head forever, because right now, the Miri that I was picturing was beautiful.  But I just had this huge need to know what she really looked like.  After talking with Joy, she suggested that I get the pictures.  I didn't have to look at them if I didn't want to, but if I felt like I was ready, they would be there.  And that made sense.  So I called the social worker at the hospital, and after a tearful conversation about how I was doing, she happily mailed them to me.  Two days later they came, and I was afraid to open the envelope.  Luckily, Joy was there, and she opened it for me.  The photos were in a second envelope, so even if I were the one to open it, I wouldn't have seen them right away.  Joy asked me if I wanted to see them, and I said no.  I was too nervous about what I would find.  She, being the best friend that she could be, offered to look for me and just describe them.  From what she said, Miri had big eyes like Whitney, she had a rosy complexion, not ashen as I would have expected.  There was possibly a birthmark, but the camera angle wasn't great to know for sure.  They dressed her in a nightgown.  And there was one shot of just her feet.  That one didn't scare me to see...I already saw her footprints, and everyone's feet kind of look the same anyway.  So that one I glanced at, and I cried a little.  I was glad Joy was there to give me that brief description.  And after a couple days, I had almost worked up the courage to look for myself.  I didn't though.  I decided that it would be better for me psychologically not to see them.

A few days later, I took the pictures over to my mom's house to keep them in the memory box.  She actually wanted to see them so that she could put a face with a name.  We had a conversation about how I didn't want to but how she did.  And what I realized was that without seeing her, I already knew her.  I felt her move inside me.  I knew she was a live.  And I loved her.  For my mom, the pictures were like the only evidence that she had been here.  She didn't feel her.  She didn't go through all the bodily changes.  And while she saw my belly expand, she never got to feel her kicking.  Having the photos was her link to Miri.  When she looked at them, the first thing she told me was that she could tell that she would have been a pretty baby.  She thought she had my eyes and Andy's nose.  She gave me a bit more of a description than Joy did. After that, I knew I made the right choice.  My need to know what she looked like was over, and I didn't have to be stuck with any vision that might not be 100% pleasant or beautiful.  My mom put the pictures back in the envelope. I had her put the foot picture on top, just in case anyone ever accidentally opened it and I happened to be there, I could glance away in time.  Then we put the envelope in the memory box, and that is where they have been ever since.

The rest of Joy's visit went quickly.  The day she left, I drove her to the airport, and I started to cry on the way there.  In my head, I thought that this was a bit silly.  We hadn't lived in the same city since we were 4 years old, and pretty much my whole life, we had to say goodbye.  But this time it was different.  It was pretty overwhelming.  As I drove home, I couldn't hold it together.  And if there's one thing that I learned these past couple months, it's much better to get the emotions out than to let them fester inside.  At one point, the tears were coming down so hard, I could barely see the road.  When I got home, Andy needed me to take care of Whitney, but I was in no shape to do that.  I ended up calling my mom to have her come over, because I was losing control.  I could feel it.  It's such an odd feeling to know that you are being completely irrational and over-reacting, but you can't help it or stop it or even lessen it a little.  I even thought that maybe this is what it felt like to have a mental breakdown.  I started to talk to my mom, and then it hit me why I was reacting like this.  The words just came out of my mouth, "Another baby that I love was just taken out of my life again."  It wasn't all about Joy...it was also about Gabby leaving, and it just resurfaced so many raw emotions, and I could barely deal with it.  

After they returned home, I had a bit of news that was really hard to take, involving my job.  Apparently, I have to return to work by the 8 week mark, or I'll end up losing my pay.  Originally, I had worked out a deal with my department chair in which I'd be working for the first 3 weeks of the semester, overseeing other instructors and coordinating courses, writing quizzes, exams, and a final, but not teaching any classes of my own.  It wouldn't have been fair to the students to have a professor for 3 weeks and a sub for the remaining 12 weeks of the semester.  However, once the HR department found out that I had a stillborn, and not a baby, they informed me that I was no longer entitled to maternity leave (12 weeks of paid leave), but that all I could take now was medical leave for the c-section surgery (8 weeks of paid leave).  This meant my original deal with my chair was invalidated, since my work only amounted to three weeks, not the 7 that were needed, and there is a policy at my university that if you miss more than 8 weeks due to medical leave, you cannot receive your salary for the additional time.  So, if I did not figure out how to teach for the last 8 weeks of the semester, I would be losing 1/4 of my annual salary.  My department chair was incredibly sympathetic, and at the last minute, he created a class for me to teach and pushed its approval through the proper channels quickly, and additionally asked the dean to approve of allowing me to serve as his associate chair.  (The associate chair has a course load reduction to accommodate all the extra duties they are expected to be performing).  He told me that he would still take care of most of the associate chair duties himself, although there were a few things that he would be asking me to do.  This was more than fair.  The math department almost never has classes which last 8 weeks, and since he could not get enough students to enroll in two of these courses,  he creatively found a solution so that I could still get paid.  I was so grateful for that, but really upset at the no maternity leave policy when your baby dies. Apparently, when you don't have a baby to care for, you don't have a reason to be at home.  But, I really could have used the extra time to grieve and physically heal.  Whoever wrote the policy obviously does not understand what it is like to have a stillborn.  And, to add insult to injury, I also was informed by HR, that because maternity leave is part of Family-Medical Leave, and I had taken two weeks off when Whitney was born--a mistake that HR made, informing me that I got 8 weeks from the date of delivery, not 12 weeks as needed due to a change in family status--that I had now used up all my paid leaves for the next three years.  Employees are entitled to at most 2 leaves in a 6 year period.  I took one for Whitney, although I should have had 10 more weeks off, and now I was taking my second leave for Miri, although I should have had 4 more weeks for her.  That means that if I do ever decide to try to have another baby, I won't be able to get any paid time off.  So unless the stars align, and I happen to get pregnant at a time when the baby will be born over summer vacation, I'll be losing between $10,000-$20,000 from taking the time off to recover from a third c-section.  So of 24 weeks of potential maternity leave, I will have taken only 10, and not entitled to any more until I am 37 years old...kind of late for having another child.  I brought this point up to my chair, and asked if there was any way that the university might agree to give me one additional family leave, and he agreed that the way things worked out didn't seem fair to him either.  He spoke with the dean on my behalf, who also agreed that it wasn't right.  They both wrote a letter, and upon presenting it to the HR director, she asked that it be approved by the provost before implemented.  So, the Dean, in turn, spoke with the provost, who stuck to her guns, and said that the rules are the rules, and she would not make any exceptions.  So that's it...I'm out of maternity leaves, and I should expect a loss of salary if I get pregnant again.  I know I shouldn't worry now, but it's something I'm sure I'll be thinking about in the future, if/when we decided to get pregnant again.  It's just one more frustration to deal with at an already difficult time.

With about one week left until my due date, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer to have the dreaded conversation with Andy about what we were going to do with Miri's ashes.  Andy can be really stubborn and he likes things done his way, whether it makes sense to me or not, and this was an important decision for both of us.  I really wanted her to be at our temple, and as time passed, that need grew stronger and stronger.  I couldn't imagine having her out of town.  I needed to be close to her and have the option of visiting when I needed to.  I knew that our temple was his last choice, because he would find it difficult to go to temple if we did it there.  He really wanted to spread her ashes in Kentucky, on top of his father's grave so he could be with one of his grandchildren.  He died just a few months after his first grandchild was born, and a small argument within the family meant that he never got the chance to meet a grandchild.  I completely understand his wishes and his reasoning.  If we spread her in Kentucky, that would mean that we'd almost never get to see her--we only visit his family once a year, if that.  And, Andy has never visited his father in all the years that I've known him.  So for me, following his wishes would be like abandoning her.  I couldn't live with that.  So, I sat him down after Whitney went to bed, and explained that I needed her close.  I needed the opportunity to visit at a moment's notice.  I needed her to be somewhere that I felt at ease with, for my own mental and emotional well-being.  He was somewhat frustrated that I automatically eliminated everywhere he had thought of with that statement, but I think he understood that I couldn't feel like I had abandoned her.  I told him that "once we spread her ashes, she'll be gone forever" and I could barely handle that concept, let alone spreading her somewhere so far away that she really would be "all gone".  So reluctantly he agreed to the temple.  I did ask him if he had any other ideas besides temple that would be better for him, but he didn't.  He told me that this option wasn't going to be easy for him, and I said that I knew.  I reminded him that although it might not be easy, temple is a place I visit every two weeks, and so I could see her as often as I wanted.  And, the more you go, the easier it gets.  I told him that when my grandfather died, I couldn't visit his grave without tears, but now I can.  I've gone enough, and eventually with time you get used to it and the pain isn't so new and intense.  And, with all the friends we have in the congregation, I told him that even if we broke down in the middle of services, there would be more shoulders for us to lean on than tears that we have in our eyes.  We'd be putting her with "family", in a place of love and support for us.  I couldn't imagine a better place or one that would be easier for us.  I know he didn't fully agree, but the tears in my eyes spoke volumes to him, and he said "okay".  It was just what I needed, and I love him for being able to give me that.

The first day of classes (halfway through a regular semester) started.  I wasn't really ready to be back.  All day long, people asked me how the baby was.  I hate explaining that she died.  It makes me feel so awful to say it, and then to see the looks in their eyes after hearing my news is just dreadful as well.  No one knows what to say back, besides "I'm sorry." And, it's hard to escape from the emotions of the ordeal when you are being reminded about it constantly.  But at the start of my class, I decided to tell my students what happened, really because I wanted to have March 14th to grieve and to say goodbye, and I didn't want to be bothered with student issues on that day.  So I went through the syllabus, and then explained that I will be available every day via email, with the exception of one.  "I was pregnant, and I was supposed to have the semester off due to maternity leave.  But my daughter was stillborn, and I had to come back to work.  March 14th would have been my due date.  So I hope you all understand that I would really appreciate no emails or phone calls on Wednesday, as I really don't want to think about math on that day.  I will answer your questions on Tuesday or Thursday, but please give me that one day to myself, to grieve, and to be with my family." I explained.  And you should have seen their faces.  My eyes were filled with tears as I asked for that courtesy, and some of them teared up too.  But I did it.  And then, I took a deep breath, and started in on the first day's lesson.