I really should take the time to share some of the letters that I get more often. Like this one for example, from Amy. It arrived in my inbox shortly after the five year anniversary of Ava’s death and sometimes opening a heartfelt letter like this one is helps lift the leaden cloud that's been hovering over my head these days.
Dear Karla,
My name is Amy, and I live in Australia with my beautiful husband David and my sweet, bright and very cheeky little 10 month old girl Sarah. I don't exactly know how a series of events recently led me to your story, but I am so incredibly grateful that it did, as it has changed my life in ways that I can barely describe.
When I first gave birth to my daughter, the immense love I felt for her and overwhelmning gratitude I had for her being healthy and happy was all encompassing. We'd lost a previous pregnancy at 3 months before we were blessed with our little girl so initially that feeling of gratitude was easy to reach within me, because my loss was still fairly raw. It carried me through those ! intense first few months of no sleep and cracked nipples and hormonal meltdowns and the bumpy ride of emotions that motherhood takes you on day after day. I understood how blessed I was and this kept me smiling even in the harder times.
In recent months though, something began to change. I started to feel a lack of control in my life and increasing feelings of depression, which led to frustration, sadness and at times even resentment towards my daughter (as difficult as it is to admit!). This crept up on me slowly until it was invading my experiences with Sarah and I now realise it was affecting both my happiness and hers.
And then one day, a few weeks ago, whilst looking up something completely unrelated on the net, I came across your youtube movie "In memory of Ava". I felt like time stopped - I was frozen as everything around me kept moving. Every part of my b! eing ached in shock, disbelief and sadness for what you and your husband went through. It affected me so instantly and completely that I did not know what to do next. I just kept going over it in my mind, again and again. I then went to "untangling knots" and learnt more about what you had gone through, and the love and loss of your beautiful daughter. I knew in that moment that I was changed forever because of you. When I heard Sarah stir from her nap, my heart opened up like an endless well of love - one that I realised I had in someway closed over the preceding months. I rushed to her and picked her up and drew in her smell, her soft skin, her innocence and purity and beauty. All I knew in that moment was how incredibly grateful I was just to have her, and that nothing else matters more than that.
Over the past few weeks I have not let that feeling slip away again. If things ever get difficult I take my thoughts to you and to Ava, and I am immediately reminded o! f how much I have and what a blessing my daughter is in my life. We play more, we smile and laugh more and I care about the housework less. I am happier and more present in every moment of my life. My husband has noticed the change in me and feels like he has got his wife back ("back from where?" I asked him and he wasn't sure the answer, but it was "somewhere I couldn't reach you"). The change within not only my being but Sarah's too is amazing - she is a happier, bubblier girl that she was a month ago, and i know its because I am now truly here with her, and grateful everyday for the joy she brings. I have found my loving self again and it is making everything beautiful.
So I wanted to write to you, to let you know the amazing impact you have had in my life. I know that it has just gone 5 years since the day that Ava came into your lives, and then left again so quickly. I can only begin to i! magine how the anniversary must be for you and your family, and hope y ou are somehow doing ok in the wake of it. I'm sure that not a day goes by that you don't miss your little girl so much that it hurts. I wanted to write to you and share my story so you can know that not only is Ava's memory alive and bright within so many people but that the gifts that she has given us are immense and life changing.
Thank you for sharing your incredibly brave story. Thank you for allowing your experience to touch my life and change it forever. To you and to Ava I am eternally grateful.
With love and thanks
Amy
*This letter was published with Amy's permission and names have been changed to protect her privacy.
Today, April 14th, 2009 at 2:11 PM, she would have been four. FOUR! And yet here I am, four years later and still completely at a loss on how to describe the feeling of holding your own child skin to skin against your naked chest while she passes away.
I can hardly even imagine what life would be like with a four-year-old little girl, but when I let my mind daydream, I picture Ava being much like Nate with long, unruly curls and big blue eyes and she would have the personality of her Father; a verbose man with superb communication skills and a penchant to be messy.
I want to thank everyone for your thoughtful emails and pictures of balloons being released into the sky for Ava. It is so incredibly humbling to know her memory still lives on. We will release balloons this afternoon and even though Nate popped one of the pink ones, he very graciously offered up his blue balloon in her memory to help keep with the tradition of seven balloons for her seven short hours she was with us.
Looking back through my archives over the years, I’ve noticed that I tend to pay tribute to her, be it through words or video, but here I sit, comfortably numb with my thoughts and OK with the fact that I can't seem to muster the ability to think much of much today. Nate is in daycare, Mark is at work and I am here and life is normal and although our hearts and souls are always with Ava, life forges on. It’s all we can do, really, when we are ready, not to dwell, but to keep on living and keep on remembering and just keep on keeping on, whatever that happens to mean.
I can only hope, that in time, the families of Thalon and Maddie feel a brief lifting of their grief, if only for a second, so they may find a small space in which to catch a deep breath or two that maybe, just maybe, might offer a fleeting moment of relief from the claustrophobic nightmare of losing a child that they are living through.
I can sense the heaviness weighing down on me as the anniversary of Ava’s death approaches. Damn it would it be nice if the Universe would just apologize for its heartless crimes of humanity, but the Universe does not acknowledge what has happened, and it does not relent. And so, I must digress and seek other means in which to cope, to remember.
Writing, of course, helps. It’s like an open tunnel in which thoughts are filtered and the drudge is siphoned off, moving it away from a saddened heart, but sometimes what works best for me is a deeply rooted need for quiet introspection and solitude.
I’m sure that’s why I relied so heavily on running during those early months after Ava died. Stillness was when the crumbling dampness crept its way into my thoughts, but running - oh running was like the dawning of a new self awareness, a place to think, a place where the steady rhythm of deep breathing and the pounding of a resilient heart helped me escape from how uncomfortable it felt to be living in the shadow of my daughter’s death.
After losing my second pregnancy, running was put on the backburner and it’s been a long and sporadically slow process finding my way back into it again after Nate was born.
Suddenly though, as I’ve been sensing this inner turmoil boiling inside of me, running is all that I can think about. And just like that, my running shoes and I are best buddies once again and I have not missed a day in weeks.
I feel good about reconnecting with a long lost passion - to have consistent 'me' time, and the only thing that would make it even better is if I had a jogging stroller.
So do tell, in your experience, does one really need a larger fixed wheel to push their kid down the streets of suburbia? Because those dual-purpose jogging strollers look pretty darn handy with their smaller swivel wheel that can unlock and plough through those tight-cornered sales racks at the mall.
It has been almost three yeas since we've said goodbye to Ava. Some days, it feels like I have lived an entire lifetime since that tragic day, and other days, it feels like it was just yesterday that I was 38 weeks pregnant and obliviously naïve to the fact that my entire Universe was about to be shifted off its axis and flipped upside down.
It’s hard to find steady ground in the nebulous trenches of grief. It is infinitely vast, hollow, and gut wrenchingly painful. I can’t even begin tell you how many times I collapsed to my knees from the intensity of the heartache and screamed until my body was not capable of screaming anymore.
For me, part of the process of healing and finding breathing space amidst the claustrophobic grip of grief was, and continues to be, from the kindness of the Internet. I know I have said this before, but I truly believe that on the tapestry of humanity, each of us represents a thread, and that we are all carefully woven and interconnected in an intricate blueprint of strength of survival. Honestly, I don’t even know where I would be today without the strength of words and the kind, empathetic well wishes of others through this unified online collective.
Friends, I have something very important to ask of you. A very dear friend of mine, Jen, has just lost her six week old baby girl, Sadie, and my heart feels crushingly heavy for her and her family. Babies are meant to be held, rocked and fiercely protected, and the sheer cruelty of this Universe is beyond anything I will ever comprehend.
Please keep her and her family in your thoughts. And maybe, just maybe, the hammer of grief will ease, even if but for a moment, so that they too can find a small pocket of air to breathe amongst our united wishes of sympathy and compassion.
I have been very much looking forward to Christmas this year. I mean, I was also looking forward to Christmas last year, the year Nate was born, but spending Christmas in a hospital under the glare of florescent lights wasn’t exactly the most relaxing of times, you know? Especially with a child confined to a heated incubator and a postdural puncture headache that felt like it was raining bricks on my head.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally grateful for my little family, and I hate to sound petty, I’m just saying I could have done without a the soggy grilled cheese that I was served for Christmas dinner that was quite obviously made with condom rubber and gremlin ass.
This year was supposed to be different though. This was supposed to finally be the year of peace, and relaxed contentment. The year where we floated merrily along on a current of laughter and the year where magic and wonder twisted through the bedecked halls of our humble home.
It kind of started that way, that feeling of awe and wonderment I mean, when we showed Nate the colourful glow Christmas lights shimmering against the red brick of our house. Watching his eyes widen and fill with towering curiosity brought a tear to my eye, it really did, because it was a one of those magical moments where everything stops, for just a second, and you get to see the world through innocent and amazed eyes once again.
I floated on that buzz for a few days, but then the lingering sadness started creeping in knowing that this year Ava would have almost been three, and quite possibly, this would have been the first year that Christmas began to mean anything to her. This would have been the year that we got to watch her excitement build and her imagination soar with visions of a magical Santa and a tree lined with vibrantly wrapped boxes delivered all the way from the North Pole, just for her.
I guess these feelings are normal, but they seem to feel more intensified and weigh more heavily on my heart this time of year. I suppose that’s because this is a season for children, really, and it’s hard not to reflect on all that has been lost in a deep void of a cold reality.
Truthfully, I didn’t expect to feel so much heaviness now that Nate is here, safe and alive in my arms.
I guess I just need to accept my emotional limitations and give myself permission to feel what I feel, deep love for my son, deep hurt, and all. What’s hard though, is trying to separate my feelings of absolute joy for my Nate and the lingering sadness in my heart my Ava.
I just wish that there wasn’t this massive cloud of emotional extremes hanging over my head, and that the piece of me that died with my child didn’t hurt so badly.
Almost two and half years after watching my baby girl die, there are still days where it feels like I am holding a broken dream in my hand. Days where the floodgates of sorrow that my daughter isn’t with me burn and smoulder under a fire of anguished sadness.
Sometimes the touch of grief is so unimaginably intense that it consumes me. I feel a damp heaviness simmering in the pit of stomach until it boils over in pulsating waves and surges through my entire body in a heavy uneasiness of "what if’s" and unsettling emptiness.
Enduring the emotional rollercoaster of grief is such an incredibly slow process, and like a fine wine or cheese, it is just not something that can be forced or rushed. I have come to learn that it is something that must be savoured slowly to fully appreciate where I have been and how far I have come.
And just when it feels like the Armageddon skies are closing in on me from all directions, someone will write to me and offer their sincere blessings and words of encouragement. I draw a lot of strength from this compassion. It’s like the collective words of kindness from a stranger turned friend swoop down in a parachute of grace to soften the fall.
Recently, I received such a letter from Nicki Black, a beautiful and talented singer/songwriter, who wrote and dedicated a song to my sweet Ava.
my eyes have cried a thousand tears in your name my knees have seen the fire and the flame my heart breaks into a shattered refrain holy spirit come, holy spirit come
the night that i see has no ending for me like roots that go down to the earth from the trees you're a star that exists, but one i can't see holy spirit come, holy spirit come
the walls that surround me are hollow inside and the glass house i live in is cloudy and dry there's no color or light, only wings that can't fly holy spirit come, holy spirit come
i'd climb all the mountains, i'd swim all the seas i'll do anything just to have you with me this life is a prison, i want to be free holy spirit come, holy spirit come
i dream of the day when the winds softly blow and tell me the things that i struggle to know drifting away, my thoughts overflow holy spirit come, holy spirit come
dance again, here i am, silent and small i'm making it through this each hour after all i made you a promise i'd try not to fall holy spirit come, holy spirit come
i linger and touch you once more in my dreams i know what the smile on your lips sweetly means the goodbye we say is temporary holy spirit come, holy spirit come
I have never mentioned this before, but I do a lot of writing for various grief publications.
I haven’t mentioned it because I am rather new to the whole freelance market and part of me is nervous about putting a label on something that I enjoy doing so much because that means that I am actually expected to be good at it.
There is something very satisfying about being published in a glossy magazine and I am always completely awestruck when someone takes the time to write to me to share their intimate and painful memories, but because of the nature of the work that has been published, there is also something very heart wrenching about being so aware of the depths of someone’s pain.
I think of my own story of infant loss and miscarriage and often seethe in anger at the wretchedness of the Universe and what an unfair hand I have been dealt, but then I will receive an eye opening email like the one I received from a woman who gave birth to, and lost, three full term babies. She has no living children and her pain immediately put a frame on my perspective.
Just the other day I received an email from someone who has underwent years of fertility treatments and miscarriages before finally conceiving a child only to lose her sweet baby girl after carrying her and in her womb for 38 weeks. And when she finally mustered up the courage to try again, the Universe decided she had not endured enough and she had another miscarriage. After reading her story I sat on the floor cradling Nate and cried for a very long time.
It makes me wonder how much devastation one human could possibly handle.
Surely there is only so much bending that one can do before they break? And yet, each and every piece of mail that I read is a true testament to the brilliant resilience of humanity and the power of hope.
I know I have said this before, but I truly believe that hope is what binds the tapestry of humanity and each of us represents a thread carefully woven and interconnected in an intricate blueprint of strength and survival.
So to everyone who has reached out and shared with me your journey of loss, thank you so much for touching my heart and sharing with me the memory of your children, your husbands, your fathers, your mothers and your siblings. The imprints that their memories have left on my heart are deep and the impact that you have had on me and how much I appreciate life is profound.
The other night I had a dream. It was the kind of dream that you awake from with a palpitating heart and your core stricken with anxiety from the sheer realness of it all.
I was in a hospital and was about to have another baby. Like Ava’s birth, I was whisked away for an emergency surgery where there was no time to prep me for it and another breathing tube was placed in my throat to keep me alive while my body slept through another c-section. Only this time, despite being under the spell of a gaseous blackness, I was aware.
Completely, totally aware of the horror of what was happening.
As I watched the events of the birth unfold, everything began to move in slow motion - like someone had pushed a button on the TV set of life - and I could do nothing but watch as the bustling urgency of the operating room dissolved into a heavy atmosphere of deliberately drawn out voices and lethargic movements while the awful truth slowly loaded before my eyes.
For the third time in my life, a baby was going to die. And there was not a single thing I could do but watch.
The gravity of the situation left me paralyzed and numb and I slipped into a shadowy void and never woke up.
:::
Although that was only a dream, that was often how I felt after Ava died. Like I was watching a movie of my own life unload before my eyes and none of it was real because at any time I could hit the stop button and everything would return to normal.
And when reality began to set in, I would recoil to the crushingly empty place in my mind where the walls were thick and the air was thin.
When I eventually had to resurface to catch my breath, I would leave my body again to watch the horror unfold from a distance. The movie camera of my life would pan in for the close up because real life was too excruciatingly painful to handle.
I wasn't until I had this dream that I realized I had emotionally detached myself from my physical body in order to cope after Ava died. It has got me wondering if I do this often without knowing it.
Has something like this ever happened to you before where your body did what it needed to do to help you cope and shifted into autopilot mode?
I subscribe to a local news feed and over the past couple of weeks I have been receiving far too many emails about children plunging to their death off of a high rise balcony or an open window. This is so sad, and yet it happens every year when the weather gets warm and people yearn to flush away the staleness of winter and feel the freshness of a summer breeze twist through their hair.
And yet that simple act of opening a window has had the most dire of consequences. A child is gone forever, and the guilt the parents are feeling right now must be so entirely overwhelming. It is something that will loom over them, forever trembling in the branches of the trees above their heads and following them wherever they go.
I understand this guilt. My daughter died in a different way, but not a day goes by that I don’t play the What If game. I will never know if we could have done something differently to change the outcome of her birth and now I have to live with that each and every day. It takes the might of an elephant to to keep my thoughts from swirling like a tornado in my head.
It’s like being at war with your own mind on an island of flat concrete and not being able to see the flag of truce waving over the hills across the horizon.
I shudder to think how shattered those poor families are at the moment and I wish them much strength for the long battle ahead of them.
Since Nate has been sleeping through the night, I have been sleeping through the night. Which means that I have been feeling much less tired. Invigorated in fact. So invigorated, that the old familiar itch to get out and run (as in, run more often than when the moon is blue) has been yearning to get scratched.
I’ve been thinking about when I started training for my first 10km run after Ava died. Having never run before in my life, I embarked on a training mission like nothing I had ever done before. Me - Mrs. Wimpy Wimp of all Unathletic and Sedentary Wimps - started running almost every single day. Truthfully, I think that is how I coped. I ran to chase away my anger. I ran so that I could feel life pulsating through my deadened spirit once again. I ran because it felt good to be pounding away at something, even if it was only my feet against the concrete. And I ran to escape the overwhelming feeling that the Universe was collapsing and I was falling into a black hole of claustrophobic grief.
I also ran because I wanted Ava to know that her mom was capable of anything. It was truly a victorious moment for me when I crossed the finish line, alive and in one piece, on the day of the 10km charity run in her honour. I felt vibrantly alive. More complete. Strong. The precious memories of my baby girl had inspired me to push the limits of my strength and test the boundaries of my will and it awoke in me an inner vitality that I never knew I had.
I miss those feelings of abounding exuberance. And although I am slowly starting to feel that familiar zest once again, some days I have to literally carry my own two legs out of the door and spend a good part of the run grudgingly putting one foot in front of the other while I persevere through laboured breathing and will my body to delve deep for the inner tenacity that I once had. But once I get going and my feet find a comfortable rhythm with the pavement and the beat of the music in my ears, I can’t stop thinking about how darn good it feels to be fit and healthy for my family.
Because my health is one of the greatest gifts I can give to Nate.
And for Mark, he gets an ass that is not half bad after two full term pregnancies. No warranty is being made however, expressed or implied, about the state of my breasts once I’m done nursing. Last I heard, even cardio couldn’t save them from the inevitable post-nursing pancake syndrome.
Today marks the one year anniversary that my second pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. Our second chance at hope, building a family and moving on after we lost sweet precious Ava came crashing down on us like a thunderous hammer of hate.
I remember sitting in the emergency room crying while trying to understand what I must have done in my life to deserve carrying such a heavy burden of death, heartache and tragedy when suddenly, a woman came up to me, opened my hands and delicately draped a pink rosary between my fingers. Holding my hands in hers, she looked me right in the eye and told me that one day I would have many many children, and then folded my hands around her prayer beads and left.
The first emotion that coursed through my body as I stared down at the decades of Aves in my hands was anger that a complete stranger tried to push her religion onto me while I was feeling so weak and vulnerable because for me, the vibrations of the universe that fulfill my spiritual need do not fit into a neat and tidy box that can be labeled Christianity, or Hinduism, or Taoism, or what have you. My definition of spirituality is one that is constantly changing and evolving as I grow and change with the various experiences life tosses my way. It is a personal journey that I am able to mold, analyze, reshape, define and follow in a way that feeds my soul with the things that fulfill me without being bound by the teachings of one particular religion. I couldn’t help but feel like I should be on the defensive when it seemed that the way I chose to lead my life brought me nothing but empty arms and sadness.
I realize now that her intentions were pure, and she was only trying to help me during a time of crisis. It still eludes me to this day how she knew I was miscarrying though. I wasn’t far enough along in the pregnancy to show the world a gloriously rotund belly signaling life inside of me. Even though I am far from the praying kind, the experience of her hands clasped around mine, while she shared with me a piece of her, and something that brings her meaning and hope in life has not been forgotten. To this day, I carry that pink rosary with me everywhere I go, like it has a strange magical power that keeps my third chance at life, my little Nate, safe from the evil perils that swooped down and tore my life to pieces when I was without it.
Superstitious, perhaps, but with it Nate has survived long along to exhibit male pattern baldness and this:
When I was pregnant with Ava, I spent countless hours shopping and preparing for her arrival. The world of baby accouterments was new and exciting and the range of products to pick from felt impressively endless. I mean, it got to the point where if I wasn’t eating or sleeping, my entire brain activity was dedicated to trying to decide whether I should buy a Babybjörn or a sling. Sure I moaned and grudgingly complained about the cost of having a baby, but secretly, I loved every single minute of it and felt not a speck of guilt about some of my more lavish or indulgent purchases.
This time around though, preparing for the baby is very different. For starters, we have everything we need, so all the big ticket items like the crib and the car seat are taken care of. I don’t have a problem reusing the stuff we bought for Ava for this baby and I think that is partially because Ava never actually had a chance to use any of it. For me, there isn’t any significant association of her with them. The things that I do have attachment to are the things she actually wore or items that hold sentimental value like the tiny casts we have of her feet and hands and my gold locket where I keep a tiny lock of her hair. The most precious item of all is the little hat she wore after she was born. The only other items of clothing that carry any significant value to me is the blanket she was wrapped in after she was born and the tiny pink overalls we dressed her in after we bathed her. Sadly, those items never found their way back to me.
Not having to plan and shop for Nate like we did for Ava has admittedly been a huge disappointment, but on the other hand, there is the benefit of not having the enormous upfront costs of preparing for a baby.
That being said, it was still abysmally glum the day we took all of our unused baby gear out of storage. It felt like I was picking the scab off of an old wound and I had to keep reminding myself that it was just “stuff”, and besides, isn’t exposing your wounds to fresh air supposed to be good for them?
The nursery isn’t exactly a product of completion. When Ava died, her room quickly became labeled the Yellow Room. After the doctors confirmed that my second pregnancy was not viable, I just wanted to shrivel up and wilt. I remember waking up the morning after we learned the heartbreaking news and despite my pain and bleeding, went and bought white paint to cover up the bright sunshine hue in that room. I felt so far removed and hopeless that all I wanted to do was reflect those feelings in the form colourless clinical despair in a room where so many hopes and dreams have been crushed and left in limbo. Today, the room remains white and I have no intention on changing it for now.
Most of Ava’s clothes, despite my stubborn adamancy for gender neutral yellows and greens, somehow all ended up as various shades of pink. There really wasn’t much that I could reuse for this baby, so addressing the clothing situation was something I had to face. My mom has kindly helped pimp up the masculinity of Nate’s wardrobe and bless her soul for doing so because it was getting to the point where this child would have been wrapped like a ragamuffin in various shades of blue from my husband’s underwear drawer because I couldn’t bring myself to go shopping and I so would have wrapped him up like a little Caucasian monk with a pair boxer briefs before parading him around in pink.
My neurosis about buying stuff is slowly getting better. Just the other day I managed to go into a Babies”R”Us for the first time in over a year and half, and I think, maybe, just maybe, a tiny scintilla of that baby shopping bug is starting to kick in. My first hint was when the sales associate noticed me snapping pictures of diapers with my cell phone and suggested I use the registry gun to keep track of items I wanted. I was too embarrassed to tell her that I was actually planning on using the photos to comparison shop diapers costs.
I don’t talk about my miscarriage a lot. It’s not because I don’t want to face the pain or because I find it uncomfortable to talk about, it’s because I’m afraid to come across as a dreadfully insensitive human being when I say it’s a totally different experience than losing full term newborn.
I do grieve Bubs loss. There was a life inside of me and although it was short lived, it still hurts knowing it failed. Only, it’s a different sort of hurt.
I never met the baby I miscarried. Unlike my experience with Ava, I never felt their soft warmth against my chest, never stroked the smooth innocence of their cheeks, never had a chance to sing them a lullaby, was never able to gaze in awe at their cherubium angelic face, caress a tiny foot or run my fingers through ringlets of feathery fine hair.
Losing Ava crippled me with bittersweet sadness and anger. I was bitter she never opened her eyes, I was bitter that as new parents we were forced to make the decision to take her off life support, I was bitter she never cried, I was bitter that my breasts were full of milk and I had no baby to nurse, I was bitter that my body went into labour so hard and fast that Ava wasn’t able to cope, I was bitter for the c-section, I was bitter I was put under a general anesthesia, I was bitter that my body failed Ava and I was bitter that the universe failed me in a way that I have never fully been able to understand.
When the miscarriage happened, I just didn’t have the same intensity of experiences to draw upon to be bitter and sad about. It’s not that it didn’t hurt; it hurt a lot, it was just a different kind of wound that required a different kind of healing.
I remember when the anniversary of Ava’s birth was approaching and how difficult that was. Not only were we mourning her loss, but also in the back of my mind, there was the loss of our second baby too.
I think as Bubs due date approaches that maybe, just maybe, the reason all this wretchedness feels bearable is because I am pregnant again, and the hopeful anticipation of meeting this baby has helped lift the despair lurking in the shadowy corners of my spirit.
How ironic that the life inside of me helps me endure through this process we call living.
In 1988, President Reagan proclaimed October as “Pregnancy and Infant Loss Month” in the USA. Today however, many cities across North America hold a Walk to Remember to memorialize the brief, but significant lives of our babies.
On Sunday, my husband and I attended such a walk. The skies fittingly obliged to the atmosphere of heavily somber emotions by opening the floodgates and unleashing an overflow of tears from above.
We stood amidst the breezy chill of October rain and watched as four delicate porcelain white baskets of doves were set free in a fleeting symbol of peace, gentleness and purity.
I’m glad we went and I’m grateful for my memories of Ava.
Last Friday I received quite possibly the saddest and most heart wrenching email I have ever read. It was a blatant reminder why I harbour such guarded emotions when it comes to pregnancy and babies and makes me want to hug my stomach tight and somehow guard my own baby against the harsh realities of the Universe.
A woman who I do not know in person, but share an intimate empathetic connection with, is currently pregnant with a precious baby boy named Ian. Although he is not ill, he will not survive after he is born. His brain stopped growing two months ago, and while she waits for labour to begin, she is forced to come to terms with birthing a child who has no chance of survival outside her body and the only reasonable option for her is palliative care.
As a mother who had no choice but to remove her own baby from life support, I can empathize and understand her agony. What I can’t even begin to understand is what it must be like spending the last few weeks of pregnancy planning a funeral for a baby still kicking and squirming in utero. My heart is heavy and throbbing and I wish her nothing but strength and courage as she embarks down the painful road ahead of her.
This Sunday I will be attending a very special Dove Release to remember and cherish the gentle cherubium babies who are no longer with us. I’ll be reading a poem called She Soars that I wrote for Ava shortly after she died. So many woman and families who have lost babies will be in my thoughts this weekend, but today especially, my heart weighs heavily for Heather and her sweet little boy Matthew who tiptoed in into this world silently six years ago today.
This weekend arrived, came and went with a cyclone force that’s left my six and half month state of pregnant rotundity feeling haggard and a weary.
Early Friday morning we were awakened to the sound of the phone ringing. Instinctively I knew the early morning wake up call was news announcing the arrival of Mark’s Sister-in-Law’s baby. With shameful sordidness and selfishness, I buried my head under the covers and remained in my safe shell of blankets and disgusting pouty selfishness that other people can birth babies that survive longer than seven hours outside the confines of their uterine abode while Mark received the gleeful news of baby Clark’s arrival.
On Friday night, with much excitement and a sleep deprived purple twinge of bleariness under my eyes, I dined with Kristin from Debaucherous and Dishevelled. Every bit as charming and witty in person, her effortless charisma and eloquence made for a great evening of blogging camaraderie. As an added bonus, I got to meet a blogger I did not know, Ashley from Looking out the Window, who is so incredibly sweet and darling and has a fashion sense that put me to shame with her dazzling earrings and adorable shoes.
Saturday, Mark and I headed to our hometown of Penetanguishene to lunch with mom. My dad planned a surprise party for her 50th birthday, but unfortunately, my anal state of pregnancy protectiveness kicked in and I didn’t go because there would be people smoking and too many studies have proven time and time again the harmful effects of smoke (even second hand smoke) on babies and their development all the way into toddlerhood.
Later in the afternoon we visited baby Clark. As graceful as possible, I avoided holding him and distracted away tears and (hopefully) any offense taken by excitedly talking to his mom about her birth, the great drugs she was on, and how wickedly swollen the human body gets after a c-section.
Sunday was officially the birthday of both my mom and me. I turned 27 yesterday, and even though my mom turned 50, I swear up, down, left right and center that although she may be chronologically older than me, her biological age is that of a free spirit teeny bopper not afraid to dance on tables, sing off key karaoke and pass the afternoons away shaking booty and swinging her hips to the latest hip hop vibes. Like the old maid that I am, I spent my birthday enrolling the mucking futt in more training classes, walking four miles on the treadmill, and making a health conscious birthday pizza with whole wheat crust sprinkled with baby building protein packed wheat germ.
I’ve spent a lot of time this weekend pondering the shameless jealousy I am feeling surrounding Clark’s birth. I do not understand why I remain so hurt and cautiously guarded of my emotions over a new bundle of joy that remains so entirely innocent and purely free of pain and sadness. He deserves nothing but genuine wholehearted happiness surrounding him and welcoming him into this world, but my heart remains so gingerly delicate and fragile and I’m afraid it will shatter into a million little pieces if I don’t build barriers around it. The last baby I held took her last breath in my arms and I can’t help but feel emotionally overwhelmed as thoughts of Ava’s final minutes swirl frantically in my mind.
For reasons I do not understand, my mind is set making sure the next baby I hold is my own.
On July 5th, while visiting my OB’s office, I received information that has left me in a state of confused anguish.
Since my regular OB was away, I saw a stand in. He was actually really kind and compassionate. Of course, being new to my file, he asked a lot of questions about my history, what happened to Ava, the subsequent miscarriage, how this pregnancy is progressing, etc.
When I explained what happened to Ava, (precipitous labour, aspirated meconium, small structural defect that may have made it difficult for her to cope with the quick progression of labour where contractions where literally on top of one another), he basically delivered a blow that I wasn’t expecting.
He indicated that this supposed “structural defect” was so insignificant there was no way he could see how it would impact her during labour. Basically, he was shocked it was even added as a “possible” contributing factor.
To take a step back, the issue with her heart was originally explained as something very minor that you or I may even have without knowing it. It was also explained that it may or may not have been a contributing factor to her death because the thought was that she very well could have led a completely normal life and never have known about what the autopsy called “Prominent Endocardial Blood Vessels in the Region of the Limbus of the Foremen Ovale”. This still begs the questions however, why this new OB felt compelled to completely dismiss it.
I’ve tried googling the heart issue many a times. Not being the least bit knowledgeable about the intricacies of a heart, I have never fully understood exactly what it means.
So now, I feel like a complete jackass because a) the closure we thought we had has been completely shattered. If her heart couldn't have been a factor, then basically her death is unexplained and b) I never did get a second opinion on the matter.
I never got a second opinion because in Canada, without sounding like I an arrogant snob here, the hospitals I was dealing with are among the best in the country. Ava’s autopsy was performed at The Hospital for Sick Children. I believe this is one of the top six pediatric centres in the world, certainly the best in Canada. I delivered at Mount Sinai hospital, which has the largest obstetrical program in this country, as well as the finest high-risk birth centres and Neonatal Intensive Care Units in this country. Even a book entitled “The Best Hospitals in America” acclaims this teaching hospital as “the best all-around hospital in the country”. If I am dealing with the best of the best (and I am grateful I live in Toronto for that reason), there really wasn’t anywhere to go for a second opinion. Besides, I never once believed I was in the midst of anything that could be considered malpractice, negligent or wrong doing.
So what do I do? Revisiting and opening up such an emotional issue right now when it’s so important for me to stay calm and stress free during this pregnancy seems like such a bad idea. On the same hand, I feel like this new information is important to pursue because that closure I once felt is gone, and the hole left behind feels large and ominous.
I’m just so confused. This news was a big shock on top of my already fragile mindset.
I’m finally considering seeking professional help. I think it’s time. I never sought any help or support, either professionally or from family after Ava died, and I suddenly feel like I am crumbling. Nightmares have started creeping into my daily thoughts and I can’t stop reliving the trauma of the day Ava was born and died and I can't seem to stop replaying over and over the day I collapsed by her tiny little lambskin coffin wishing she would miraculously come back to me. I feel like I am reliving those terrible days following her death where the second I had a moment to myself to think, flashback memories caused my heart to pound and made breathing difficult. To cope I did mindless other things to keep my mind busy until I literally crashed from sheer exhaustion.
I knew being pregnant again wouldn’t be a cure-all, but I never expected it to reopen the wounds I thought had long ago begun to heal. And I certainly never expected to have to reconsider why my first baby is dead.
I really miss blogging these days, but I’m struggling with trying to find an inner balance of a need for solitude and privacy as I try and quell the growing fear in my heart of something going wrong with this pregnancy, and a need to share my experiences with such a compelling and insightful group of bloggers who have nothing but words of support and encouragement to offer.
I’ve had a lot to say, but could never find the words to say it. When I miscarried, I was devastated and frightfully angry. To add salt to my wounds, my husband’s brother and his wife are expecting and we actually shared the same due date week. I suppose being pregnant again has eased some of the pain, but not entirely. I still have a hard time seeing a pregnant belly, and as selfish as it sounds, I know I won’t be attending her shower. I can already sense the disapproval I will meet with that decision. But, attending in duress while someone fusses over a pregnant belly when all I can think about is everything that can go wrong and how easy it is for a baby to die will not help matters. I’m very happy for them of course; I’m just cynical and sad that my own tragedy has cast such a giant shadow on everything, especially during their time of joy.
So sue me, I’m a jaded bitch.
I can’t even look at pregnancy books or magazine or watch a pregnancy TV show without reliving the day I gave birth to, and watched Ava die. Frou-frou articles about the beautiful baby I will soon be holding in my arms and dilemmas over what colour to paint the nursery seem so naïve, nonchalant and senselessly foolish.
I know my bitterness is not helping matters, but it’s hard to keep it in check when events like the one that happened last week transpire.
While visiting my Perinatologist they discovered, while listening to my heart, that it is irregular. I now have to go for my own echocardiogram to rule out an arrhythmia and the possibility that Ava’s (supposedly not genetic heart issue of prominent endocardial blood vessels in the region of the limbus of the foremen ovale) is in fact, not genetic.
I remember with my first pregnancy I complained to my first OB that my heart often felt like it fluttered or “skipped a beat”. When it happened, I would feel extremely anxious for the momentary flurry, and then all returned to normal. She brushed it off and I never thought about it until now. I know your heart works harder during pregnancy, and your blood volume increases dramatically, but has anyone else who has been pregnant experienced this heart fluttering? Is this really nothing to be concerned about?
It’s hard not to feel like a big fat failure right now. And it breaks my heart even more considering the possibility that I wasn’t able to give my baby girl and little bubs everything they needed to thrive.
On Sunday I held a stunningly sleepy Monarch butterfly in my hands. I stood in a crowd of hundreds of people who understood what it is like to lose a baby. I stood with my husband in my arms, and we released two beautiful butterflies for the two tiny lives that we never had a chance to know.
I was expecting a large cloud of graceful fluttering when we released our butterflies, but instead, we were all charmed and amazed as our tiny little symbols of ephemeral physical existence danced and drifted merrily around us, some even bravely pausing on a shoulder or in the palm of our hands. As a creature that can be torn apart from a hard rain, their brief lingering felt like an acknowledgement of our loss and understanding of the fragility of life.
As I watched my little butterfly flutter off to destinations unknown, I couldn’t help but wonder if death is not something like the dormant cocoon that a caterpillar makes before emerging as something more beautiful and grand.
I like to think Ava’s spirit is lingering on in a place where we’ll meet again someday.
I like to think that my darling little butterfly is waiting patiently to share with me the joyous wonders and beauty of her transformation into an existence I just can’t even begin to understand.
With much joy and profound hope, Mark and I would like to announce that we are expecting once again.
The decision to try again after losing Ava was nothing short of difficult and experiencing a miscarriage 10 months later put our fears and sadness to the ultimate test. Unanswered questions, inability for the medical profession to guarantee and healthy outcome and personal feelings of defeat and trepidation meant finding a courage we never we knew we had to embark on a pregnancy journey that we now know all too well, might result in the loss of another child. After the initial shock of our recent miscarriage, the heaviness weighing down our hearts started to lift and the decision became clear. The end result, a beautiful child to love and nurture, far outweighed everything else.
This pregnancy has already been a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Gone is the innocence and naivety of pregnancy. Ramped is the fear and anxiety we feel with every waking moment. Although we are elated that we have been blessed with another child so quickly, it’s hard not too have some contradictory emotions as the sadness and grief from losing Ava is still very raw and still very strong. Yet, we do remain hopeful.
Knowing Ava will never meet her new little brother or sister tugs deeply at our hearts. Ava was a presence in our life that can never be replaced or forgotten and if we have learned one important lesson from losing Ava, it is how frail and precious life is. I truly enjoyed my first pregnancy, and treasure the bond that was undeniably formed while Ava grew, wiggled and squirmed her way into my heart during the nine months she was inside of me. It is those happy memories and that special connection that will see us through and keep our spirits in high hopes while waiting for the arrival of our baby this Christmas.
Under most circumstances, we would welcome the warm congratulations that generally follow when a couple announces they are pregnant, but right now, we feel far too vulnerable for joyous celebrations and bubbly anticipation. We do welcome any positive thoughts of encouragement and support during this emotional time.
