She Brings Joy

Separation Anxiety

We are moving. Leaving the home where I carried my sweet baby Beatrix. After August first, I will never again step foot into the house where she lived.

The home we will be living in is much nicer than the one we live in now. It has tall windows that reach almost to the floors. My first thought, when viewing the house, was how precious it will be to see this new baby looking out the windows. He or she is curly headed in my imagination, and sits watching the world go by in fascination. It has a huge dining room and wood floors, and a small dressing room off of the master bedroom- where this new baby will live, if this new baby lives.

But this new house never housed my sweet Beatrix. This new house will not remember her moving in my belly as I lay in front of the wide open picture window. This new house will not have the memory of time spent in gardening with her resting safely inside of me. ( As if she were ever really safe).

This house will be alien to my grief. I don't know if I will be able to cry there.

Here, the walls were the sole witnesses to my sorrow. I could lock myself into the bathroom while I lost myself for a few moments. I don't know how well sound will travel in this new house, and I don't know if I will be capable of hiding how much my heart aches for her.

When I move to my new home, the neighbors will not know that there is someone missing unless I choose to tell them. They will not know that there should be a second child looking out of the long window at the cars going by.

In this house, I don't imagine her. She lived here, so imagining her would be redundant. But in this new house-I have already imagined her. She laughs there, and I don't know if that is o.k.

I feel in some ways, unsafe about this new house. This place is foreign. It erases the only salient portion of her life. The furniture will be different. The woods will be different. The walls will be different. None of them will have contained her.

I may eventually be lost there.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012
3 Thank You For Visiting

A Sad State of Affairs

Body Stalk Anomaly

Thursday, June 28, 2012
3 Thank You For Visiting

Remember

Baby Loss

Please remember her.

This new baby is not a replacement for the girl I lost. This new baby will not help heal the heartache I feel whenever I think about NEVER holding her again. Nothing will change, in the scope of my grief. I still want her every second of every day.

She should be here- feeling the swell of my belly, and anticipating the joy that a wee one will bring. She should be here waiting to see if this new baby will be a boy or a girl. She should be receiving a little bit more from me, in preparation for losing her place as “the baby.”

Be very aware that this new baby will not make things better for me. That while I talk with excitement about the plans I have for this new baby, she is never far from my mind. I love her. She is missing. She always will be. No matter how many babies I have I will never get over the loss of my sweet tiny girl.

I want to be clear, too, that this baby would have come to us even if Bea had lived- because every baby is a “planned” baby. God planned for this baby to come to us at this time. This baby’s existence was written into His book of life long before Bea was even a thought in my head. This baby is just as intentional as she was- this life has meaning that is separate and wholly his/her own. This baby is not a salve for my wounds. This baby is just a baby.

If this baby is a girl, please do not say to me- “you needed a girl”, or “you must be so happy to finally be having a girl.” I already have a girl. Her name is Beatrix. If this is a girl, she will be my second daughter- not the first. She will know that someone came before her.

If this baby is a boy, please do not feel sorry for me, in my houseful of men. This baby is an individual- not here to “make-up” for the loss I suffered. I already love this baby so desperately that I can’t breathe when I think of holding him/her. I don’t NEED a girl- I need a healthy baby.

Please remember her.

The greatest gift that you can give to me is to acknowledge her existence. While it may seem morbid to talk about a dead baby while a living one moves within my body- there is nothing morbid about the girl that I love. She is MY baby, not some cartoon caricature. Not a story you read about in the news. She is beautiful and I feel so tenderly towards her. Nothing speaks more to me, in the language of love, than that you remember with me.

My biggest fear is that when this baby is born, everyone will let out their captive breath- the breath that they have held ever since I lost her. They will begin to think- “Ah! Everything is back to normal now. We can pretend that that thing never happened.”

My biggest fear is that this baby will overshadow her in a way that I have no control over. That once born, this baby’s life will consume hers, until she is no more than a dusty photograph. As lifeless as the moment I last held her. Forgetting her takes away the importance of what she is. It removes her humanity and creates a void where my heart sits.

She is my daughter. She is as well-loved as all of my children here. She is as important to me as the sun, rising and setting on the horizon. I need her to nurture growth within me, and to warm my face when I look up to the sky. She is still part of my mothering experience- one of the most beautiful parts. Her cells still free-float in my body, her imprint was left on my heart. She is my first born daughter, the only one I will ever have.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012
4 Thank You For Visiting

Paranoia

Beatrix Elizabeth

Saturday, June 16, 2012
4 Thank You For Visiting

Send love

Bereaved Parent

Tuesday, May 01, 2012
1 Thank You For Visiting

Beatrix Elizabeth

Friday, April 27, 2012
5 Thank You For Visiting

I'm sorry

Beatrix Elizabeth

Monday, April 23, 2012
4 Thank You For Visiting

I hate my job

Anger

Friday, March 23, 2012
6 Thank You For Visiting

Time

Baby Loss

Saturday, March 17, 2012
5 Thank You For Visiting

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

Beatrix Elizabeth

Saturday, March 10, 2012
3 Thank You For Visiting

Afterdeath

Baby Loss

This is the second part of Beatrix's story.

When my daughter died I was holding her. Not many people experience the death of their child, and fewer still are holding their child when they stop breathing.

My daughter died in my arms, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I have photographs of her living in my arms, her eyes like slits and her tiny mouth open. She was so light in my arms. I couldn’t make her stay.

One hour and forty-seven minutes after she left the womb she left this world.

There were no hysterics, and it was peaceful. I think shock overcame us then.

I had not been able to get a hold of Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep for a photographer in the immediate time preceding her birth and I wasn’t thinking of it immediately after. We did take photos of her, mindful of the realization that they were the only ones we would have.

My hair was a mess, my glasses were broken, and there were wires and tubes coming out of both me and Bea. The photos that the nurses took of the three of us were blurry and messy.

Each and every photo we took is precious. I love them all.

I don’t know how long we kept her with us. A nurse kept coming in and out and I wanted her to leave us alone. My husband was grateful because he had seen me bloodied and opened and he was frightened. All that I knew was that she was interrupting my solitude.

We took our photos and unwrapped my daughter’s tiny body. Some mothers choose to keep their baby’s bodies covered because LBWC can include some horrific defects. We were at the minimal spectrum, and I wanted to see everything. I knew that I would wonder later, what her body looked like. I took a photo, because I knew, again, that I would wonder, later.

I neglected to look at her backside- at least, I don’t recall looking at her backside.

I regret it. I know that may seem strange, but in such an important moment, I can’t believe I forgot something so basic. I will never know what my sweet little baby’s behind looks like this side of Heaven.

But I guess those things won’t matter there- although the idea of her mooning me as I walk (or float?) up to the pearly gates is interesting. Who knows?

I think we may have kept her with us for only about 2 hours or so after she died. I didn’t know that I could have asked for her to go with me to my room. I didn’t know that I could have kept her with me for 10 hours, if I had wanted to.

Strike 1, against the hospital.

Before the nurse took her from me, I asked her to make sure that she brought me back her small hat and her blanket.

She walked out with my daughter in her arms, and my husband and I fell into one another and our grief.

And……

Then the nurse brought her back in.

Strike 2, against the hospital.

(I know you’re thinking- wait, strike 1 was not telling you that you could have her back, or keep her for 10 hours.

If we had known that we could have her as long as we wanted, we would have kept her longer. But once the decision was made to let her go, we had made the decision to let her go. It was extremely difficult to watch her walk out the door with my daughter.

And then walk back in.

She interrupted a private moment between my husband and I.

And I’ll tell you why.

Bea’s hands were folded, like in prayer. I had put them that way, as she was slipping away.

The nurse thought that she was just so adorable. She thought we may want a photo of her with her little hands folded. My husband took the photo. It is the only photo I have of my Bea, in which my husband or I are not touching her. Where we are not caring for her. I hate it, but I can’t get rid of it, because it’s the last one I have of my Bea.

That’s why it’s a strike 2.)

After about 5 minutes, the nurse came back in with Bea’s box of belongings. I opened it.

Her tiny locks of hair.

Her hat.

Footprints.

And a brand, spanking new receiving blanket, which was most definitely not the one my daughter was wrapped in.

Strike 3, against the hospital.

I hit the call button.

Many times.

She came rushing in. I handed her the blanket, and told her I wanted my Bea’s.

The one that was colored with birthing fluid, the blood from IV pokes. With my daughter’s epithelial cells all over it .

The one that served as the only clothing that she would wear while she was living.

She had to dig it out of the garbage.

Strike 4, against the hospital.

(Two separate strikes- one for trying to foist some false item on me, and one for throwing away anything that had touched my daughter’s body so intimately. Anything that had held her while I held her.)

So, back to the rest of what happened after.

She left. Again.

I was unbelievably calm.

A man came and wheeled me out of the recovery room, and into a private room. I was placed on a floor for women whose babies were in the NICU. Or were stillborn. Or were only alive for an hour and forty seven minutes.

My husband eventually left to care for the living. I stayed in my hospital bed.

I stayed in the hospital for almost a week. Drs. and social workers and food people all came in and out. I didn’t cry. I almost did once, but a nurse walked in. I couldn’t cry in front of strangers.

They brought Bea home the day before I left.

My husband made arrangements for her to be taken care of. While he was sitting with the funeral director, he explained the story of our situation. The funeral director asked him,

“And you never thought of abortion?”

My husband said he almost left, but answered him, “no.”

The man got up and hugged my husband, and told him that 8 months before we lost our Bea, that he had lost a daughter. He and his wife had made the choice to carry to term a pregnancy in which the baby had been diagnosed with a severe case of Spina Bifida. I can’t post the name of someone else’s child here, but I will say that her middle name was Joy- it’s interesting- many carried to term babies have a name that references Joy.

For the first time since our pregnancy ordeal had begun, we finally had someone who knew exactly what we were going through. It was the right thing, at the right time.

The funeral home that she went to is on the corner of my road. I have to pass by it every time I leave my house. I think of the quietness of the room where we sat with her. I think of my youngest son holding her so sweetly. I think of saying goodbye to her. I think of how I was the last person to touch her, after everyone had gone. I think of her hat that was too big, and her small fur-lined pink boots. Her dress had a cupcake on the front. It was so sweet and tiny.

As far as the birth and death story- that is basically all. There are small details that I could continue with, things I have missed, that I could add later. But right now, there is no more involved in the story of her life.

I am left here only to keep my grief now.

I miss her so.

Thursday, March 01, 2012
6 Thank You For Visiting

Name

Baby Loss

Tuesday, February 28, 2012
2 Thank You For Visiting

Afterbirth

Baby Loss

Friday, February 24, 2012
2 Thank You For Visiting

Small

Baby Loss

Thursday, February 23, 2012
2 Thank You For Visiting

Stunted Growth, and a New Tomorrow

Beatrix Elizabeth

Spring is coming here. It's one if those things you can just feel. Like the trees are stretching themselves out after a long nap. I feel like I've worn a tight skin for months, and the need to shrug it off has become almost manic.

Last year, I planted a garden for Beatrix. It was pathetic, really. It went untended in my sadness, and in a shady spot. The flowers perked up when I put them in the soil but refused to get any bigger than they were when I had bought them. They were stunted, and most of them died.

This is what I am manic to try again- we had a fall wind storm that felled many of the trees in our yard. The spot where Bea's garden is, lost the most tree coverage. I am hoping that the sun will reach it now.

I am hoping that the sun will reach me. That all of what's stunted in my growth from lack of nurturing will somehow spring to life.

Part of "recovering" from grief is wanting to, I think. It is very comfortable to sit in my dark hole. No one expects anything....."she's grieving," they say.

Grief is addicting. It relieves you of responsibility for your actions. You can claim- "the grief made me do it." When you hit send on that nasty email, hang up the phone and decided that you're not going to speak to someone again. When you behave poorly in public.

In the beginning, when my grief was so raw, I found these were honest responses. But now, I find myself, more and more, using my grief as a block from unpleasant situations.

I just don't want to any longer. Callous people are part of life- they don't just suddenly appear when you lose a child. Staying in this place cheapens my daughter- it makes her nothing more than a crutch.... nothing more than an excuse.

My daughter is much more than an excuse.

Tomorrow, when I wake up, there will be a difference. A change. An owning up to responsibility and a conscious effort to make my daughter more than an excuse for being angry at the world.

I am making an effort to grow. I am making an effort to throw off my stunted skin and stretch toward the sun.