Thursday, October 27, 2011

Wow..

Milwaukee Journal, October 6, 2011, Laura Schubert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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







I read this today and I was beyond moved. The woman who wrote this has this down to a science. I think these thoughts on a daily basis. I just want you to know that you're most certainly loved and missed and that you are always on my mind. 


All my love
-Mom

Monday, October 24, 2011

Two "letters" today, son.

Today I will be writing two "letters" to you. The second will actually be a story that I need to get out and the first is an actual letter.

Dad heard from Chris on Thursday night. We will be headed up to Nebraska the weekend of November 11th to determine whether or not we move. Dad is going to play worship on Sunday and practice with the band on Saturday and I am just crossing my fingers and praying to God that we like what we see and so do they. It will be wonderful to get away from here. I won't have to drive past the hospital where you were born every time I want to go to the movies, or Walmart, or out to eat sushi. Your sister won't have to put up with her father and all of the drama and frustration that would ensue if she had a life where she was constantly let down. I just really, really want this for our family. I'm praying my knees off, honey. Could you put in a good word for us with the big man?

I love you.
-Mom

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

We're waving

Your sister wanted to say hello to you. Love you, honey!

Hold on tight, honey!

So much has happened since my last letter. I'm going to try to stay as organized, and in sequential order as possible.

Roughly two weeks ago, your dad heard from a pastor in Nebraska. His name is Chris and he is Arjay's older brother. Apparently they are looking for a full time worship pastor. They have been talking back and forth to one another and on Sunday, your dad had me proof-read his "religious-views" questionnaire before he sent the email. Last night after your sister went to bed, Chris called and they stayed on the phone with each other for over an hour. Chris asked dad some questions and allowed dad to ask him some questions as well. It seems like your dad got the job. Chris is supposed to call us on Friday and set up a time for us to go up there to see if we like the town/church and after that there is really nothing standing in our way. Moving away from our families is going to be extremely difficult, but starting over would be so good for the two of us. No more fake friendships. No more ex-bf drama. It'll be nice to not be reminded of you in unpleasant ways. I won't have to drive past the hospital where you passed on the way to the movie theater. People who don't understand will stop asking what happened to my baby and telling me "sorry about your loss" or "I thought you were pregnant". As long as I have known your father, all he's talked about is being a full time worship pastor and he is so close to his dream! I am so inexpressibly proud of him. It would be an almost 10k raise per year and your dad said he would send me back to school if we move up there.This is all happening so fast but we are beyond excited! Of course, your trunk will be preserved and handled with supreme care if we do end up moving. I'll keep you filled in as this development progresses.

Your sister turned three on Saturday! We had her party the same day. It was crazy son. I feel like I just recovered from it yesterday. She had a Rapunzel themed party, of course. And she wore her Rapunzel shirt and a purple tutu. So Presley. We rented her a princess bouncy castle and that is what all of the kids wanted to do. They only left for cake and ice cream time and presents. When everyone got there we just had kind of a laid back time for adults while the kids bounced. After bouncing it was present opening time and then we had the cake. It was a pretty good turnout! The kids had a blast! Bobby broke the pinata open and of course he had to hulk hit it. It flew all over David and Presley... good lord. After the party Mark and I took Presley to Chick-fil-a and Meemaw, Pappaw, and Mimi met us up there. All in all, it was one exhausting day.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

May 22, 2011

My journal's pages are literally beginning to fall down so I am copying this letter here so it is not lost forever.

My Dearest Eli,

There is not a day that goes by that I don't think of you. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I'm happy, sometimes I'm angry, but I always feel so cheated. I miss you, my son. Holding you for those few brief moments will last forever, and at the same moment, they weren't near long enough. I have never wanted anything as much as I wanted you. I held on to you for as long as I could. When the doctors gave me their diagnosis and asked if I wanted to terminate, I refused. I knew that every second spent with you would be completely worth it. And I was right. I can't help but feel so alone. I want to hold my son. To kiss you. To feel your warm skin in my hands. To watch you grow up. To see your smile and hear your laughter just one time. To see your eyes. To hear your voice. I feel so cheated to be robbed of so many things. You father has been nothing but sweet and supportive and still all I do is continue to feel alone. I cry alone. Crave being by myself. When you left, you left a huge hole inside of me. No mother should have to lose their child. For the rest of my long life, I will have an nonrefillable void. I don't want to try again becaise I don't want you or anyone else to think that I am trying to replace you. Presley doesn't understand pregnancy and she doesn't realize that you are gone, but the day will come when I have to explain that to her and I just have no idea what I will say.

The truth is, your passing has made me question everything in this life: my marriage to your father, my past and future, my faith, my ability to be a mother, my sanity, all of my relationships... every thing. I know it is ridiculous to write a letter that you will never read, but I have to feel like I still have you in some way: other than sitting in a trunk in my bedroom. No mother imagines bringing home her son in a manila envelope.
I've said all I can say for now, Eli. Any more digging and I think I might just lose my mind. I love you, always and forever. 
-Your mother

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Hey babe

Today was the OU/TX game so of course we just had to watch that. It was, however, the first time that I saw a newborn without wanting to cry or punch something. I won't lie to you, I didn't hold her. Or go anywhere near her for that matter. But, it was one of the first times that being around a small baby didn't absolutely tear me apart. I'm celebrating every small victory that I can.

Love you, son.
-Mom

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Just rambling today, honey.

This is the only photo in existence of the two of us together, son. Excuse your mommy's nappy hair, I had just given birth, after all. 


Today is a strange day for me. I've been thinking of you all day long. And I'm not even going to attempt to say that these thoughts flow in an order that would make sense to a normal person so I'm just going to itemize these thoughts instead.
  • There will only ever be one picture of the two of us together. How am I supposed to walk around knowing that those moments in the hospital will be my only memories of you?
  • Your dad and I went to Wholly Grounds last week (a coffee shop) and I ordered a small, frozen coffee. A small coffee is 12 oz. It was strange for me to think that the treat I was holding in my hand weighed more than you did when you were born. When I tossed it into the trash can I remember feeling like I had lost you once again. Hopefully my Molly Bear won't really take a year to get here. I think if it does, I will just make a bear of my own. 
  • Sometimes(especially now that Jamie brought it up to me) I feel like writing a book about loss. I'm sure no one but my family and a few friends would ever see it. But then I start to think that no matter what I wrote or painted or sang or expressed in any way I could think of really; no one will ever truly understand this pain unless it is something they've been through. I don't want to take others to where I am. Don't get me wrong baby, most of the time I am doing very well.. But I will always grieve over you. There will always be dark moments and sad thoughts and I know that will never change because you will never be walking this earth with me.
  • In one of my letters to you, I told you I'm too afraid to try to have another child. And that is extremely true. I'm still having nightmares. Another reason I don't want to keep trying; I could never replace you. I don't want anyone to even think that I'm trying. I know that if I ever were to have another child, people would refer to them as my 2nd. But they would really be my third. Technically, they would be my fifth but I was never able to hold your siblings in my hands like I did you. The pain with you is so much more real than with the others. I  held you. I carried you inside of me for months on end. I saw your beautiful face.



    With you, there were many hard decisions that had to be made.
  • Do we 'terminate' this pregnancy? When we found out things would ultimately be devastating. This one obviously wasn't a hard decision. I'd take all of the pain all over again. Seeing you was worth the wait.
  • Do I check myself into the hospital early and let them take you when I know your chances of survival are even less than the already doomed odds? Nope. I wanted to cherish every possible second that we had together.
  • Do we hold you once you arrive? Do we let them bring you to our already haunted room?
    At first the answer to these questions were no. But after going through labor, I just knew I had to see you.
  • Perhaps the hardest decision(in my mind, anyway) was whether or not to let the nurse take you from me.
    After I held you twice and your father held you once, I just knew in my mind that if I didn't let you go, it would be that much harder. In those mere moments that we had with you, I fell in love with you. It didn't take words. I didn't have to hear your cries or watch you breathe. You were so very perfect, my son. I knew that the longer I held you, the harder it would be for me to let you go.

  • Sometimes when my arms feel empty, I hold your ashes. I will lay on the bed with that manila envelope  and feel the weightlessness of you on my chest. At night when I can't sleep I curl up in front of your chest with your teddy bear in my lap and I go through your photo album by cell phone light. Though I know you're not physically with me, I can always feel your presence there. I promise son, I will always find time to spend with you.

    And I will never cease to write you letters.
    -Mom.

Lilypie Angel and Memorial tickers

Lilypie Angel and Memorial tickers