Lessons, Not Resolutions

I think it’s nice to start out a new year with some resolutions. I don’t know that I’ve ever really set any official ones, and I definitely won’t be this year, but I do like the idea of January 1st being a time to reflect back and to set some intentions for the year ahead. With grief as a constant and unpredictable companion, though, resolving to do much of anything can lead to a lot of disappointment. Grief has its own ideas and it’s a skill to learn to just roll with it. Which is why I’m reflecting on the lessons I’ve learned over this holiday season and thinking about how I might do better in the year ahead with my buddy grief.

Christmas was hard. Harder than we had anticipated. I’ve said it before (and I still believe it’s true) that anticipation of a thing is often harder than the thing itself. I thought I had a plan for making Christmas feel okay, but it just didn’t go the way I had imagined it would. Somehow I thought this year (our second without Odin) would be easier than last year and it just wasn’t. In some ways it was harder.

Typically, I’m pretty good at articulating my feelings. Which usually means I can talk relatively freely about what I need. For some reason this Christmas I sort of clammed up. The plan I mentioned in my last post to light a candle and bring Kornflake for my niece and nephew to play with sort of just didn’t happen. My niece had the barfs so I didn’t want to bring Kornflake out and, for some reason, I sort of just snuck Odin’s picture and candle onto the piano when no one was looking. I didn’t say anything and I’m not even sure who noticed it was there. I have no idea why I did it that way. Maybe in part because it’s so sad to have a memorial set up when Christmas is meant to be a happy celebration? Maybe I felt guilty about bringing people down? Maybe I was hoping someone else would do the work of saying something?

The Christmas routine unfolded as per usual with the high-volume chaos that accompanies 8 grown-ups and 2 kids under 6 opening a million gifts. When it was all over I just couldn’t contain it anymore and I retreated to the bedroom to sob and spent a couple of hours avoiding brunch and feeling sadder than I had felt in a long time.

I should have said something. I should have asked for what I needed. It’s all over and we didn’t talk about Odin at all. I’m so sorry, baby boy. I miss you.

There were a couple of bright spots to the morning, though, and ones I’m grateful for. N’s brother and wife slipped him a card after the gifts were opened and I was hiding away that read, “In loving memory of Odin we’ve made a donation to the High Park Nature Centre. Love Uncle M and Auntie T”. Which was very sweet and thoughtful of them to do. Also, my other SIL had two wrapped gifts and a card for Odin (something she did for us last year that was so incredibly important for us). This year it was a little grey sweatshirt that would have fit his nearly two-year-old frame that says Odin in gold letters. (The note suggested that Baby Girl could wear it in a couple of years.) She also gave us a board book about fish that was a favourite of her kids when they were two (and is extra special in a family full of fishermen). Having this ritual of opening gifts for Odin is the saddest but most heart-warming part of my Christmas (in addition to having an Odin-ornament-only Christmas tree). The fact that he is remembered and thought of in this really tangible way helps so much. I regret, though, that we opened these gifts in private. Each year we open SIL’s gifts away from everyone else because, inevitably, we break down into crying messes thinking about how things should be so different. I think that next year I would like to open them with all the other “normal” gifts. Bearing witness to our grief — even years down the road — I think is important for our families to see and be a part of. I hope that well in advance of Christmas next year I will be able to communicate that we need to talk about Odin. That we’d like to start a ritual where we all light a candle together or that we’d like everyone to do an act of kindness in his name. Or maybe we’ll do a stocking with notes to him. Something. Anything, really. I’ll admit that I sort of resent having to tell people what to do or to ask people to be thoughtful, but I’ve realized that what to do for grieving infant loss parents is a huge blindspot for people in general. Without articulating what you need, (except in rare and very special cases) you just won’t get it.

Next Christmas, it will be even more important for us to be vocal about what we need. The routines of the holiday are already distracting enough but we will (fingers crossed, hopes high) have a nearly one-year-old who I’m sure will be keeping us busy. And the feelings of joy at having her there will be complicated by missing Odin. I can’t even imagine what that will feel like, but hopefully I’ll be able to talk and be open about it.

MYOB

I’m not sure why some people feel the need to give advice to those of us with babies on the way. I guess I know it’s just part of how our society operates but I really really want to know the why of it. Because this specific brand of advice for expectant parents is always at least a little bit the same. It’s typically some kind of warning or scare tactic to make you realize that parenting an infant is “gonna be the worst!” Does it make people feel better about how they dealt with certain aspects of raising a newborn? Are they trying to project their experiences onto me? I honestly can’t figure it out.

“Sleep now while you can!”

I’m trying, really I am. Elaborate pillow system and all. Some nights I sleep pretty well, other nights aren’t great. Being told to sleep now because I may never sleep again, surprisingly, doesn’t make sleep any easier. Weird, right?

“Insomnia is nature’s way of preparing you for the sleepless nights ahead when the baby comes!”

What is grief insomnia for then? I have a hard time believing that insomnia is for anything at all. I think it’s just an unfortunate part of our biology. We are meant to sleep and I doubt there’s any science in lack of sleep being a way to prepare for something. (Someone jump in if I’m wrong here.)

“Get ready for all hell to break loose!”

I know this was meant to be a lighthearted comment. But “hell”? Really? I know a little bit about what my own personal hell is, having lived through it, and I know that bringing baby girl home and into our lives [knocking on wood here that she’s healthy] will not be hell. It will be challenging, but it will not be hell.

“Your job is to not get divorced in the first 100 days.”

This advice was from a person we just met. She was three sheets to the wind at the time and I don’t even remember her name but we had to laugh because what do people think a baby is? If we are lucky enough to bring our daughter home, healthy and safe, I can guarantee you that no matter what kind of baby she is N and I will not be divorcing over her existence in our lives. And this can’t just be because we’ve experienced a loss. For sure N and I have a bond over losing Odin that has made our relationship stronger than anything out there, but regular people have babies all the time. Divorce? In the first 100 days? What kind of relationships do these people have? And where did the arbitrary 100 days come from?

“Having a newborn is so hard.”

Agreed. One hundred per cent a true statement and one we fully recognize (and do not really need to be reminded of). But you know what’s harder? Not having that newborn. Giving birth to your child and returning home without him and continuing to live a life that will never truly be complete . It’s a challenge for me not to remind people of that and I find myself literally biting my tongue sometimes. Most of what I’m talking about here isn’t just about PAL, it’s a general complaint about people not being able to mind their own business. (I know I’m not the only one who wishes people would quit giving unsolicited advice.) But when you factor in loss, it adds another layer. Where were these people who are worried about us getting enough sleep and divorcing when we really were going through the worst imaginable thing? Why is it now, when we’re about to meet our baby girl, that these random people want to put a negative spin on things? We are already anxious enough, thankyouverymuch. It’s such a weird thing to me. People, generally, being so willing to remind you of how “hard” things are and yet also, generally, being so unable to sit with things that are truly difficult, like grief. How and who does it help to suggest that this new chapter in our lives will be hard?

+++

“MYOB” is a thing my grade two teacher used to say to whiny students who would complain to her about other kids in the class. I’m sure it saved her a lot of time not to utter, “Mind Your Own Business” a million times a day to second-graders.

Mind Games

N and I went for a scheduled ultrasound yesterday. It wasn’t totally necessary, but my placenta was low at our 20-week anatomy scan so it was a good excuse to just check on things. I won’t bury the lede: everything is fine and normal and I do not have placenta previa (my placenta is 8 cm away from the opening of my cervix which is plenty far and nothing at all to worry about).

I’ve gotten pretty comfortable with just dropping the information bomb about our loss when we go into appointments like this. I’ve found that if we’re going to get the extra care or concern that we need, it’s best to leave the guessing out. Ultrasound technicians rarely know a patient’s background, so I just came out with it when we walked into the room: “Just so you know, we had a second-trimester loss last year so we’re always pretty nervous for these things.” The technician, Carlos, was kind, friendly, and professional. The ultrasound itself was quick, though, and I couldn’t see the screen while he was doing it. When it was over he made a point of bringing us the report in the waiting room and telling us with a smile that everything was normal.

All of that seems pretty reassuring, right? It probably should be. And I thought it was until later last night. (I feel like this is a running theme for me — the discovery of my not-okayness coming later on in the day after digesting a day’s events.)

He asked me more than once about her movements. He said she was pretty relaxed in there. Something is probably wrong. I’m not feeling her move enough. I know she’s alive right now, I know I feel her moving, but something must be wrong. Why did he ask so much about her movements?

Later in the evening, I tearfully described my fears about the appointment to N who remembered things very differently than I did (and in a way that I should — and am trying — to trust). He reminded me that Carlos asked about movement before the ultrasound even started, and that the two other times I remembered him asking about movement were actually just two parts of the same comment, “When is she most active?” and after my reply, “She’s pretty relaxed in there right now.” The thing is, I wasn’t being negative or looking at the appointment judgementally. I legitimately remembered the appointment being much darker than it actually was, which is a bit scary to me.

Strangely enough, I was more anxious about this ultrasound than our anatomy scan at twenty weeks. For that one I had somehow convinced myself that if we got a bad diagnosis again and went through what we did with Odin, I could do it. I would give birth and meet my baby and it would be worth it, because I would choose Odin over and over again and go through it all again to hold him. That probably sounds pretty insane, but it got me through that stage. For this ultrasound I didn’t know how to feel. Everything has been so normal so far that I can’t help but think about all of the potentially bad things that could still happen. Being a part of the infant loss support community makes everything that is, in reality, pretty rare, seem so much more common. Lately, I have been more anxious, generally, than I’ve ever been in my life (can you tell?) and this general feeling of dread and impending doom came with me into that room yesterday, even though I didn’t recognize it at the time. The ultrasound image we got of baby girl isn’t a good one. It’s actually pretty creepy. For some reason we didn’t get to see her whole silhouette like I imagined we would. He just showed us her head and face. I imagined feeling reassured by seeing her okay in there, but it just didn’t happen the way I thought it would. But again, my memory of what we did see on the screen is much darker than what happened in reality. N reminded me that we saw her hand pop up and give a wave. And that, although she looked a bit squished, we saw her profile and her nose and it was cute. We may have even “awww’d” a bit.

Our friends have a collection of multiple images from their ultrasounds. Literally a dozen pictures of their baby before she was born. We have nothing for this baby. The hospital where we go for ultrasounds doesn’t give out images like the regular clinics. This time we took a picture on our phones of the screen but the picture is disturbing. It’s just her face and she looks like a ghost; her eyes look like black holes. What if this is all we’ll ever have?

I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this or not, but I’ve been doing a mindfulness/CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) course through the maternal mental health department at the hospital where Odin was born. It’s two hours long, once a week for 8 weeks. It’s been challenging, but helpful. I’ve gained new perspective on thought patterns and how they relate to depression and anxiety. My biggest takeaways so far have to do with self-compassion (probably the hardest part for me) and really starting to believe and remember that thoughts are not facts. I haven’t been super diligent about meditating regularly, but there was a study done recently that shows that all you need to do to gain benefits from meditation is a 9-minute practice a day, which seems pretty doable. If it seems like I’m a mess, it’s because I probably am right now. But it doesn’t mean that I’m not working hard not to be a mess. It’s just that this is hard. PAL is not for the faint-hearted. I am grateful for all the support I have and also for this forum, which helps me work through and process what I’m feeling. And maybe you’re reading this and relating to the mess. If you are, I’m glad you know you’re not alone.

Always Missing

And sometimes you can’t breathe.

How is this your life? How will you go on for the rest of it without him?

All it takes is an image, a thought, a sound, a memory, and the pain comes flooding back.

You can’t believe he’s gone. He was just a little baby in your arms. A little baby. How can this be?

Everything is tainted by the missing. A tiny him-shaped hole in everything.

All of your joys made a little bit bitter because of his absence. You know he is with you in your heart, but it’s not enough.

There are moments when all you feel is love and you know you were blessed he picked you. And you know you would do it all over again just to hold him.

But why couldn’t he stay?

Emotional Hangover

This past weekend was Thanksgiving in Canada so N and I headed north to my hometown to spend the weekend with my family. It was pretty low-key. The weather has been unseasonably warm for October so we were able to go for a nice walk in a conservation area. On Sunday we had a big family dinner with some extended family. It was a nice weekend. I slept a lot and I didn’t feel stressed or overwhelmed or sad the whole weekend.

Until we got home.

After some reflection, I think that spending so much time over the weekend talking about (and planning for) baby girl impacted me more than I realized while it was happening. And I don’t even know exactly what I mean by this. Everything was just so incredibly normal and maybe I need to be more mindful about how un-normal our situation is. In our own home we have reminders of Odin everywhere. It’s the place we mourn, remember, and love him freely. And not that we’re not free to talk about him with family, but it’s easy enough to slip into “normal” when you’re in a different space. I think I need to always allow our loss a little bit of space no matter what we’re doing or where we are and that will take conscious effort. While we were away from home we talked a lot about setting up the nursery. My mom gave me a bunch of clothes that she had bought for baby girl. At the big family dinner there was so much focus on me being pregnant. I was fine with all of this while it was happening but when I got home I fell apart. I couldn’t sleep. I sobbed inconsolably into the wee hours. Our reality crashed down on me and I missed Odin as if we had just said goodbye.

On the holiday Monday we went to visit our friends from support group whose baby boy was born ten days ago. They lost a son last August when my friend was 36-weeks pregnant. Given my state of mind, it maybe wasn’t the best choice to visit that day. Or maybe it was the best choice? I have no idea. Their baby boy, Leo, is perfect. I held him and cried for lots of obvious reasons but also for reasons I can’t fully articulate. It felt good to be with that little family. Seeing how they’re okay. Seeing that it’s possible to have room in your heart for two babies, even if one isn’t here to hold. They miss the son they lost and they are overjoyed at the presence of their new little one. Maybe that sounds incredibly obvious but it was something I needed to see and feel with my whole heart. Holding that tiny baby boy was both a high and a devastation that I can’t explain. I feel like an addict who has had a taste and now I want more. But I want that more to be Odin, and it can’t be. If it sounds impossibly complicated, it’s because it is. Holding Leo was a reminder of what we’ve lost, but also a reminder of what hope and joy feel like. My heart swelled and shattered in a giant wreck.

I wrote this on Tuesday (I think I’ve mentioned I hate Tuesdays at the best of times) and I couldn’t care or focus at work. I was on edge. Grumpy. My heart and my mind are so full and I can’t seem to snap out of it. (*Pause here to email therapist to set up appointment.) I know I won’t always feel as bad as I do right now because healing is not linear and grief doesn’t follow any rules. Holidays are always hard and they likely always will be. There will always be a missing piece.

Are You Expecting?

Someone asked me this for the first time a couple of days ago. I guess at 24-weeks even baggy clothes aren’t hiding the fact that pregnant very well anymore. The thing is, that statement is so weird to me. If there’s anything I’m not, it’s “expecting”. 

Generally, I feel like I’ve been doing pretty well lately, all things considered. I’ve had a bit of an emotional week which was instigated by some bad dreams on Sunday night (I’m laying in a hospital bed and a doctor says in a very matter of fact way, “Yes, of course. Your baby is dead.”) The dreams weren’t even what I would call nightmares (I’ve definitely had worse), but I woke up on Monday morning anxious and completely unsettled. And then, because I couldn’t feel her moving, I was convinced that baby girl was dead. And then I was drowning in deep grief, which is just something that happens sometimes. When a few tears fall, sometimes it leads to a flood.

My placenta is anterior, which is relatively common and not at all a cause for concern. The thing is, it means that I don’t feel bbg move very much. So it’s easy to panic that something is wrong. I’m sure women who haven’t experienced a loss also find having placenta anterior stressful, but in PAL it can be devastating. Since Monday, I’ve felt her bopping around a bit more consistently, which is something I’m grateful for.

I’ve decided this week to reactivate my Facebook account after many months away. I’ve realized that while I find most of what happens on that platform depleting, I miss the support and nourishment of the women in the online communities there — specifically a group calling Ending a Wanted Pregnancy. It’s a private group that you have to apply to get into, which makes it a very safe space. The admins are kind, intelligent, and thoughtful women whom I am grateful for. I’m glad to be back there, supporting other women and leaning on them with the things I know most people can’t relate to. It’s something I needed this week.

I’ve spoken before about the support of the loss community, both online and in-person. It’s incredible to me how many resources are actually out there; how much truly beautiful and insightful writing there is. There is a loss mom I follow on Instagram who posts often about her baby girl, Maeve, who died on June 10th, 2015. She and her husband have a YouTube channel and are very vocal about their loss and subsequent infertility. Joan is a gifted writer and I always appreciate what she shares. Earlier this week she posted a lengthy poem/letter about how sometimes her daydreams about Maeve feel like memories. I’ve gone back and read and reread it many times. I read a lot of emotional writing about infant loss, but I don’t typically cry over much of it anymore. I find it soothing to relate to what I read, but it doesn’t usually impact my ability to function. But Joan’s post affected me. I think it’s in part because I haven’t had the emotional strength to write/speak to Odin (something that still bothers me, but I know I will work towards) and she has clearly put so much thought into the life that she wanted to have with Maeve. The most thoughtful and impactful part of what she wrote, for me, was when she talked about the boy (or girl) who would marry the wrong person because Maeve is not here. (I’m tearing up just thinking about that again.) I sent Joan a message thanking her for her post and lamenting all of the things I will miss with my son. Her reply was short, simple, and beautiful. I won’t ever forget what she said and I think it might inspire and shape certain aspects of my grief journey going forward.

Her reply was, simply: “His whole life in your heart.”

Twenty-one and Six

On this day of my first pregnancy (21 weeks, 6 days) Odin was born. When you’re living in the dark timeline, the one that begins when your child’s life ends and yours continues, it’s hard to ignore these types of landmarks and dates. They’re the ones that remind you, despite the happiness or contentment you’re now capable of feeling, that your life is not exactly what it should be. Last year at this stage of my pregnancy I was admitted to the hospital and, 36 hours and 7 doses of misoprostol later, Odin was in our arms; his perfect (but tiny) outside disguising the fatal flaws within. Perfect chin, perfect nose, the littlest toes, fingers as delicate as thread. Our son.

From this point on, everything about pregnancy will be new to me. I know I will continue to balance missing Odin with the excitement and anticipation of meeting our baby girl (with a side of anxiety for good measure). I also know that grief and joy can live together and some days one wins out over the other, which is okay. It’s the price of great love when that love has nowhere to go.

Back in February I ordered a Molly Bear. Molly Bears is a company founded by a woman who lost her baby girl, Molly Christine, in 2010. Seven years and 26 volunteers later, they have produced over 11,000 bears and have shipped to 35 countries. Each Molly Bear is handmade and weighs exactly what your baby weighed. Initially, I had mixed feelings about ordering one, but decided to go for it after reading that other loss parents had found comfort in these bears. Ours arrived a few weeks ago and it’s so hard to describe how that bear makes me feel. At first glance, it’s very cute. It’s scruffy and brown like we had requested and has a red felt heart on its chest with “Odin” embroidered in it. And it weighs his exact 470 grams (which is just slightly over a pound).

When you hold your baby in your arms and you know it will be the first and last time, you do your best to try to remember everything. Aside from the endless and all-consuming love you’ll feel for your child for the rest of your life, these few moments are all you’ll have. You live a lifetime of loving and shared experiences in whatever short time you have with your baby before saying goodbye. And you don’t even know at the time that that’s what you’re doing. It’s impossible to prepare for that. Sometimes I try to go back and remember every excruciating moment just so I won’t forget. But forgetting is inevitable. The memories become less sharp and the images become blurred. I try. I try so hard to keep it all but I can’t, it’s just not possible. I read a quote from a poem called Grief by Stephen Dobyns a while ago that describes it so perfectly:

“Trying to remember you
is like carrying water
in my hands a long distance
across sand.”

When I held our Molly Bear I couldn’t believe the weight. I spent a lot of time checking my math and second-guessing that I had sent the right information. The bear felt so heavy to me. Eventually, I realized that the things I had been holding in my arms since Odin died (the stuffed bear from the hospital, his clothes, the blanket he was wrapped in) were all empty; nearly weightless. I had forgotten the weight of him. And I crumbled. I couldn’t believe that while Odin’s presence in our lives symbolically weighs so much, the reality of his physical weight had slipped away from me. I try so hard to keep it all but I can’t.

The bear is on Odin’s special shelf now, keeping safe guard of his ashes in the tiny brass urn. I haven’t picked it up since the day it arrived in the mail, but I am comforted to know that I can hold it and be reminded of what I try so hard to keep.

Sun vs. Moon

At work today I had Nasa’s live stream of the eclipse on in the background while I worked. In the days leading up to this event I didn’t really think I was interested in it. But watching on the screen as the dark moon passed in front of the blazing sun, I couldn’t help but see the eclipse as a metaphor.

Sometimes the mind forgets what the heart remembers. I’ve definitely experienced this many times on my grief journey. And here, in my eighteenth week of (what we’re assuming so far) is a healthy pregnancy, I can feel it in my bones. That subtle shift; my heart remembering how close we are in this pregnancy to where it all ended with Odin.

At this point in my pregnancy with Odin I was still naively unaware of all of the bad things that can happen on the road to parenthood. I still assumed that getting pregnant meant bringing home a living baby. And, at this point in that pregnancy, everything was also medically normal. For this pregnancy, we got pretty good news a couple of weeks ago and, although I’ve been feeling sad for Odin and missing him a lot, I’ve also been feeling relieved and hopeful for this baby girl. Maybe too hopeful. When I think about our upcoming 19-week scan next week, that same scan that told us that Odin would die last April, I realize that the dark moon of anxiety is slowly creeping out in front of the blazing sun of hope. When I think about next week’s appointment, my palms get sweaty. What if we hoped too much? There is still a chance that the echocardiogram will uncover a heart defect. For many babies that do not live past birth, it is one undetected heart condition that seals their fate. It’s also possible that the part of our baby’s brain that was not yet developed enough two weeks ago could be fatally flawed.

Maybe we hoped too much. Maybe we talked about cribs and strollers too many times. Maybe our list of baby girl names is too long. Maybe we will lose another baby. We wouldn’t be the first people to lose a second baby and we wouldn’t be the last. It’s not that I think my thoughts are that powerful, it’s actually that I know they are not. Hoping does not mean that this baby will die just as much as worrying does not mean that she will live. We can’t know what the outcome will be, but we can do our best not to be blindsided. Somehow between our loss and what comes next we have to find a balance between hope and worry.

It might sound like I’m being negative. It might sound like I’m a mess. I’m actually not either of those things. I’m still in the world, a high-functioning griever going through a rough patch, poker-faced and not showing my cards. This is just what happens in the mind of a mother who is missing a baby and is bravely trying again; wading through the darkness of possibility and risking her heart again. Pregnancy after loss is incredibly complicated. More complicated than I ever imagined. There aren’t nearly as many resources out there for PAL as there are for infant loss and grieving, but I have found the Pregnancy After Loss Support website helpful. Here are just a couple of facts about PAL from that site:

“Women who are pregnant again after a loss are at an increased risk for postpartum anxiety and depression, even after having a subsequent successful pregnancy and birth.”

“Psychological distress during a subsequent pregnancy increases the risk of chances of preterm labor and low birth weight, as well as having a difficult time bonding with the baby born after loss.”

“A new pregnancy after a loss can activate a new layer of grief.”

We’re up against some heavy heavy things. But it’s helpful to know that there are other people out there who are sharing their experiences and that, again, we won’t be alone.

I would love nothing more than to pull out all of the self-care tricks I’ve got and put them into place until our appointment next week. I think an art project or making a belated Day of Hope flag might be helpful. But we have a big family wedding this weekend and that’s just the way life goes. (I actually just realized that it’s at the same place we visited just before Odin’s anatomy scan, which is a really weird coincidence that I’ll try not to be superstitious about.) I’m anxious about the wedding, though. We’ll be away from home for four days and N will have lots of inescapable obligations. I’m worried about the isolation of being surrounded by happy people, much like I felt in the early days after Odin died. And that becomes increasingly difficult as people find out (or notice) that I’m pregnant. It’s hard to navigate people’s “Congratulations!” with my instinct to say, “Yes, but. . .” (An instinct I bury beneath polite thank yous.) I’m horrible with smalltalk when I’m feeling overwhelmed like this (it makes my skin crawl?) so I’m hoping I can carve out some alone time to recharge. I know it’s going to wipe me out to be social for four days but maybe there will be some time for relaxing and enjoying a bit of what’s left of summer.

PS. I have therapy tomorrow morning.

 

Hello Grieving My Old Friend

Before I bury the lede: our ultrasound went well. It was an emotional day, for sure, and a long one. We were at the hospital for four hours and saw two technicians and our genetic specialist. I used every tool I’ve got to just get through the waiting around and wondering and I know N was pretty anxious even though he hid it pretty well. I’m sure it’s just as hard to go through the ultrasound as it is to sit (for 45 minutes) wondering what’s happening in the other room. When he was finally allowed to come in and see the screen for himself he looked pretty destroyed.

The technician I saw was actually the same woman who did our anatomy scan for Odin. (The follow-up one we had after we were flagged for issues.) She remembered me and I was both grateful and terrified to be in that room again, with the first person who knew that our lives were about to change in an unimaginable way. She was kind, but professional. She explained right away that we’d have to wait to talk to the doctor about the results but that she could tell us about the heartbeat and the sex. The baby was very active and it felt like it was taking a really long time. I did my best not to cry and to keep breathing. About halfway through she caught me fidgeting and asked if I was okay. And I said, “it’s just really hard not to try and read your face.” She was as reassuring as she could be and said, “for an early scan like this the baby is still very small so things are hard to see. I just have to look hard. I can’t tell you much but I will say this: things are very different this time.” And she said it in a way that let me read between the lines for her positive message. I relaxed just a little bit.

Eventually N was allowed to come in and the technician told us with a fair amount of confidence, given that the baby is still very small: it’s a girl. Once again we were able to see her moving around, legs crossed, bum view, profile (mouth opening and closing), hands waving and it was incredible. The technician purposely left her image on the screen and left the room so that we could take pictures in the cell-phone-free zone.

And then we waited.

And then we had another ultrasound done by a radiologist who said, “don’t worry! We just want some more pictures. Everything is okay.” I felt reassured, N looked worried.

And then we waited some more.

We eventually saw our genetic specialist (who is an angel on earth) and he walked us through the results. We both wish he had opened with “everything is okay!” but he eventually did get around to that after a bunch of clinical descriptions. It looks like our baby girl is okay. We will have another scan and an echocardiogram in a few weeks (Odin had a complex heart condition so they want to check on this baby’s heart) but so far everything looks normal.

Since that day I’ve run the gamut of emotions from relief and joy to extreme grief and sadness. It’s like all of the anxiety and worry that was taking up space in our hearts about this pregnancy has been released (or at least abated) and now my heart is full of sadness and I’m missing my boy so much. It’s been like the early days all over again. I’m back to thinking about his body and the weight of it in my arms. I’m back to crying when I look at his picture (beside my bed; I look at it every night before I go to sleep), I’m back to feeling overwhelmed by the idea of missing him until I die. Which leads to feeling guilty for not feeling grateful to have a healthy pregnancy, which leads to feeling guilty that I’m not my best self for this baby and for work and for my family and friends. Which leads to feeling isolated because of the complicated feelings. And then I worry about this baby and if I’ll resent her for not being Odin. Or that I’ll be able to love her like I love Odin. Basically, it’s a lot. It’s confusing and it’s sad. Now that people are finding out that we’re expecting a baby we’re getting lots of congratulations messages and inquiries about how we’re doing. And it’s so hard to reply sometimes. The feelings we feel are all over the place. We are happy and we are sad. I just have to go easy on myself and hope that people will understand (or at least accept) that they may not hear from us.

Rationally I realize that this, too, will pass. We have wonderful (personal and professional) support and I know I’ll work through this phase. It’s just so hard to see outside of a dark cloud when you’re this deep in it. I think part of what might help me is more journalling and maybe some kind of project for Odin. Something that I can focus on and feel like I’m doing for him. August 19th is The Day of Hope and last year I made a flag for Odin. I don’t know if I’ll have time to complete one this year, but maybe I’ll try. It’ll be a journey figuring out how to parent him and fit him into this new baby’s life but thinking about that is another way for us to include him in our lives, which I’m glad for.

I used ink stamps and fabric

I painted fabric and cute out blossom shapes

I sewed on the blossoms

Ink-stamped Odin’s name and sewed this together

The finished flag

Forgiveness, duh

I just wrote a few days ago, but I’ve been thinking more about why I’ve been feeling a little more at peace these days. Time, sure, is a part of it. But I think an even bigger part of feeling peace is letting go of (or loosening the grip on) some of the negative feelings (anger, especially). Slowly I’ve had this massive and seemingly obvious realization that people outside of this loss are never ever going to understand what this feels like. I’ve always known this, just as anyone who has held their baby and said goodbye knows it, too. But it feels a bit different now —  it’s less like a hopeless burden that no one will ever understand me and more of a this-is-a-fact epiphany.

For a long long time I would get so angry when people didn’t seem to understand me and would say or do the wrong things. There are many blog posts in the community about this. Hell, I’ve written them. When the grief is so raw and you’re so vulnerable — a gaping, bleeding wound — any wrong words or actions hurt so badly. It’s like I’ve said: Anger is easy. Being angry is so much easier than dealing with the complicated feelings that constantly bombard you when you’re trying to be a part of a world that has continued on, unfazed, after you’ve lived through an unimaginable hell. And when you’re bone-tired just from the effort of living it’s so easy to be let down. All you want is to be understood and it’s an impossible and vicious cycle of letdown.

On the other side of the letdown, presumably, is a person who is simultaneously dreading saying the wrong thing, wanting to comfort you, and trying to help. I am understanding and/or accepting this more and more now. I don’t want to make excuses for the people who’ve stuck their foot in their mouths because sometimes people legitimately say really really dumb things. (“It wasn’t meant to be.” “You’ll have another baby.”) But I know loss moms who returned to work by choice two weeks after the death of their baby while others only return after many months leave. I have seen women get pregnant a couple of months after their loss and others wait a year before trying. I know someone whose baby died many years ago and she refuses to this day to speak of it but I also know moms who want desperately to talk about their babies even if they died decades ago. Guessing what an individual might want or need is no easy task and I accept more and more that for most people trying is half the battle. And empathy is incredibly rare. I’m still having a hard time with the people who say nothing at all — who haven’t acknowledged our loss, but maybe that will come someday. I guess for now I just want to try and forgive myself for being so hard on people, and I also want to forgive people who have let me down. I want to use that energy and space for something else.

(Totally relevant sidebar: if you know someone who is going through something awful and you’re feeling stuck, or if you just want to do better for your friends and family, please read this book: “There is No Good Card for This: What to Say and Do When Life is Scary, Awful, and Unfair to People You Love” by Kelsey Crowe and Emily McDowell. I wish I knew how to make it part of every school’s curriculum.)

I still and always will treasure those people who always seem to have the right thing to say. The ones who have consistently provided comfort; remembered dates; said Odin’s name. These people are a gift and they have shown me how to be a better friend, daughter, wife, and mother. But more and more I’m able to just forgive the wrong words and actions. It’s so much easier to let it go than to hold onto it. I know people (for the most part) are trying and they mean well. It just takes a while to accept that.

xo